After sitting home for the past 2 weeks, I think I've finally found my true calling and what to do for a career. It took a lot of soul searching, but I think I have to follow my heart on this one. I know people, I know, I know I've had this revelation before, but this is something I need to do. Here it is; I'm going to travel the country with an orangutan that knows obscene finger gestures, and make my living bare knuckle fighting in rusty old car lots. I'm going to wear skin tight t-shirts and call myself Filo. If anyone can find a flaw in this plan, I'd be more than happy to entertain any thoughts on the subject.
Obviously people, I've had a lot of time to think about just about anything and everything during my time off. It's amazing the stuff that goes through your mind just sitting home. Stuff like, maybe I should buy a house, maybe it's time to get married, maybe I should head South and not deal with the amazingly lousy winters of Upstate NY, or maybe I should add another olive to this martini. How many olives are too many, by the way?
The thinking last night was a result of something that my sister sent me in a text message. It was something to the effect of how it kind of sucks that our mom is getting married for the second time and we haven't had a chance yet. To be perfectly honest, I thought that was kind of bullshit... for a couple reasons. Reason one is that I did have a chance to get married. I was actually engaged... obviously that didn't pan out because I'm not writing an alimony check every month. Reason two is that I think that any one of us has a chance every day. The trick is not to settle (no, I don't think that my mom is settling by any stretch of the imagination). People, the fact that I'm not married has absolutely nothing to do with my happiness. So I'm not married and maybe I never will be. Three words... big fucking deal. I don't need that to validate my life or who I am. Would it be nice to have someone to share my life with? Sure it would. However, it's not something that's going to keep me up at night. I have a great group of friends, and I like to think that I, more or less, share my life with them. Granted I'm not sleeping with them, well, most of them, but you get the idea.
Why she (my sister) is so bummed about this is beyond me. Maybe it's different for girls. Maybe somewhere in the evolutionary ladder there was some point where if a female Neanderthal wasn't married (or clubbed over the head and dragged by her hair) by a certain age, all the other Neanderthals pointed and giggled. Quick sidebar here... I'm not sure if that would have actually happened because of the opposable thumb and forefinger that we currently have, and I don't know when that happened in the evolution of the species. Or maybe earlier in the evolutionary process if a chimp didn't breed or take a mate by a certain age, then they weren't able to attend any of the monkey bridal showers or monkey bachelorette parties. I know it doesn't seem like a big deal now, because you're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking... how much fun could a monkey bachelor/bachelorette party be? What with the ridiculous pricing on monkey flights to Vegas, monkey strippers, monkey wet t-shirt contests, monkey mud wrestling... you know what I mean. Not to mention what a pain in the ass it has to be to find a monkey limo driver. It's just not the same.
I will tell you this, though. It's just not that big a deal for guys. Well, I should say it's not that big a deal for most guys. When you're a guy (such as I am), you can be 40 years old and single and nobody will give it a second thought. We just don't care. Well, I shouldn't say that. It's not that we don't care, it's simply that it's not a priority. People ask me this all the time when I tell them my age; don't you want to get married? My standard answer is, "I don't know." Really, think about it... there's so much to consider in that question. It's not like, "don't you want some ice cream?" That's an easy one. I don't have to consider if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with that ice cream. Simply because it'll either pass through my digestive system or melt and eventually evaporate. It's a little different with a life altering decision. I guess it would be an easier answer if there were a different set of circumstances in my life right now. Am I ready to get married today? No. Tomorrow? Probably not. Next week? Next month? Next year? Again, I don't know, but as long as Blogger will keep hosting my page, I promise I'll keep you updated.
As far as my dear sister goes... she'll be fine. I lived with her for 14 years under my parent's roof, and if that's any indication, I'm sure she's not the easiest person in the world to date. I'm sure I'm not either... but I think I'm getting better. Once I get this bare-knuckled fighting thing off the ground, I'm sure I'll be a better spousal match for just about anyone.
Regardless, I do have to get going. It's almost 7:30 and time for Seinfeld, and besides, my phone's been ringing off the hook with text messages, and I feel guilty ignoring whoever is on the sending end of this wonder of modern wireless technology. Hence, in order to clear my conscience, I must sign off... wonder if "The Bachelor" is on tonight.
Until next time...
R
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Again with the thumb...
So get this... if you're a loyal reader of my stuff, you know the deal about the thumb and who broke it and how and me passing out and yada, yada, yada. Anyway, as I was watching my beloved Yankees last night, who comes up to bat but... you guessed it, Mark Bellhorn in a Yankees uniform. What are the odds? Last I knew, this clown was playing for my arch rivals, the Boston Red Sox and I hated him because he broke my thumb, and now he's in pinstripes and I pretty much have to like him. Irony. Bitter, bitter irony.
I think it must be a sign; a Red Sox scumbag breaks my thumb, and now he's playing for my favorite team in all of sport. It's a sign. I'm sold... might as well chalk up world championship number 27.
In other news, while on the thumb topic, after the injury, I got a call from Dan Mason, GM of the Rochester Red Wings. All I can say is, what a guy. He said that he was really sorry about the injury, and that next time I wanted to come to a game, he'd take care of me. I told him that he need not apologize... I go to a bunch of games and I know this sort of thing happens every now and again. I complimented him on the professionalism of the emergency staff and thanked him for the phone call. What a nice guy... completely unnecessary, but he did it anyway. That's good stuff. Anyway, I called him today and asked if I could take him up on his offer. He said, "absolutely," and told me that there'll be 2 tickets waiting for me at will call tomorrow night. He also offered to have some of the players sign a ball for me, but I told him that he'd done more than enough already. I gotta say, I am totally impressed with this guy.
This brings up an interesting point. Think about other businesses and what happens when they screw up (not to say that the Rochester Red Wings screwed up at all... I made a lousy attempt at fielding the stupid ball). The answer is, pretty much nothing. Say your cable goes out for a few hours. Does Time Warner call you up and say, "hey, we're going to pro-rate your bill for this month because the service that you over-pay for every month sucked."? I think not. The day that happens is the same day that Tara Reid finally starts returning my phone calls.
More good news... my buddy in Charlotte called me up with the news that he has a bunch of tickets to see the great Jimmy Buffett in, of all places, fabulous Las Vegas on Saturday, October 29th. Can I go? Uh, yeah. I'm all in. Great thing is... non-stop flights from Buffalo are only like $200. I'll be gone Friday through Sunday night. Yeah, you could say I'm excited.
I think it must be a sign; a Red Sox scumbag breaks my thumb, and now he's playing for my favorite team in all of sport. It's a sign. I'm sold... might as well chalk up world championship number 27.
In other news, while on the thumb topic, after the injury, I got a call from Dan Mason, GM of the Rochester Red Wings. All I can say is, what a guy. He said that he was really sorry about the injury, and that next time I wanted to come to a game, he'd take care of me. I told him that he need not apologize... I go to a bunch of games and I know this sort of thing happens every now and again. I complimented him on the professionalism of the emergency staff and thanked him for the phone call. What a nice guy... completely unnecessary, but he did it anyway. That's good stuff. Anyway, I called him today and asked if I could take him up on his offer. He said, "absolutely," and told me that there'll be 2 tickets waiting for me at will call tomorrow night. He also offered to have some of the players sign a ball for me, but I told him that he'd done more than enough already. I gotta say, I am totally impressed with this guy.
This brings up an interesting point. Think about other businesses and what happens when they screw up (not to say that the Rochester Red Wings screwed up at all... I made a lousy attempt at fielding the stupid ball). The answer is, pretty much nothing. Say your cable goes out for a few hours. Does Time Warner call you up and say, "hey, we're going to pro-rate your bill for this month because the service that you over-pay for every month sucked."? I think not. The day that happens is the same day that Tara Reid finally starts returning my phone calls.
More good news... my buddy in Charlotte called me up with the news that he has a bunch of tickets to see the great Jimmy Buffett in, of all places, fabulous Las Vegas on Saturday, October 29th. Can I go? Uh, yeah. I'm all in. Great thing is... non-stop flights from Buffalo are only like $200. I'll be gone Friday through Sunday night. Yeah, you could say I'm excited.
Anyway, again, I must apologize for this post. I know they're usually a little more philosophical than this, but I'm really tired and I don't think the creative juices have managed to surface yet.
By the way, if you haven't been there yet, you simply must give this place a try. It's pretty much my favorite watering hole in Rochester. It's busy, but not so much so that you have to fight for a drink. He always has great bands, and after about your 3rd time in there, he'll start calling you by name. It's called Johnny's Irish Pub, and it's on Culver & Merchants toward Irondequoit. You can pretty much find me there every Friday night... although not this Friday... I have plans... a bunch of us are going out for my buddy's birthday. Happy Birthday, Russ. I know it was Monday the 29th, but Happy Birthday anyway. I'll buy you a shot or 5 on Friday.
On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta go play a chess match between my thumb and my heart. OK, Bellhorn, you won this round.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Poker, Saddam & Writer's Block
So here's the latest. I've really been getting into poker lately... to a fault. So much so that I've actually learned all the slang for different pocket hands, and here they are... thought it was kind of cool. By the way, if anyone wants to play me, my ID on partypoker.com is, you guessed it... Rychkid.
A-A: Bullets or Rockets
A-K: Big Slick
K-K: Cowboys
K-J: Kojack
K-9: Old Yeller
Q-Q: Ladies
J-A: Jackass
J-Q: Oedipus
J-J: Fishhooks
J-5: Motown
8-8: Snowmen
7-7: Walking Sticks
6-6: Route 66
5-5: Speed Limit
4-4: Sailboats
3-3: Crabs
2-2: Ducks
Can you tell I haven't been sleeping a whole hell of a lot lately? I have no idea what time I went to bed last night... all I know is that it was freaking late, or early, depending on your perspective. Good God, I need this f'ing thumb to hurry up and heal... I really need to get back to work at least for my own sanity. This sitting around the house, drinking martinis at night, playing poker and sleeping until noon thing is getting really old really quick. Oddly enough, I was actually serious about that last statement.
Once again, I think I have what's classically referred to as writer's block. From what I understand, that's supposed to be a good sign. Maybe my creative juices are just swarming so feverishly that not a one of the little boogers can find it's way to the surface. Maybe there's just so much going on in my life and the world that I don't have a good point of origin. Maybe my thumb injury has done something to the part of my brain that creativity spawns from, or maybe I've had 2 Diet Vanilla Pepsis, 5 cigarettes and I've typed 3 whole paragraphs. I think the buzz from staring at this monitor is giving me brain damage.
Here's something random; when is this Saddam Hussein trial supposed to start, and are they going to broadcast it on Court TV? That's something I would tune in for. Wouldn't it be funny if they went through the whole trial process and a jury found him not guilty? That might be a little awkward. "Yeah, uh... sorry about that whole invasion thing. You just seemed like such a dick from a distance." I would pay green money to see Dubya and his aides tap dance around that one. However, you and I know that my little scenario will unfortunately never come to pass. Bummer.
I think at this point, it's just time to call it quits for today. Whatever trash I write is going to be an exercise in literary masturbation. This is not good writing. I know this and I apologize. Hopefully something will happen later today or tonight and I can over-analyze it and write all about it later tonight or tomorrow.
Until then, I gotta get going... there's a $5/$1 sit-n-go tournament starting.
Until next time...
R
A-A: Bullets or Rockets
A-K: Big Slick
K-K: Cowboys
K-J: Kojack
K-9: Old Yeller
Q-Q: Ladies
J-A: Jackass
J-Q: Oedipus
J-J: Fishhooks
J-5: Motown
8-8: Snowmen
7-7: Walking Sticks
6-6: Route 66
5-5: Speed Limit
4-4: Sailboats
3-3: Crabs
2-2: Ducks
Can you tell I haven't been sleeping a whole hell of a lot lately? I have no idea what time I went to bed last night... all I know is that it was freaking late, or early, depending on your perspective. Good God, I need this f'ing thumb to hurry up and heal... I really need to get back to work at least for my own sanity. This sitting around the house, drinking martinis at night, playing poker and sleeping until noon thing is getting really old really quick. Oddly enough, I was actually serious about that last statement.
Once again, I think I have what's classically referred to as writer's block. From what I understand, that's supposed to be a good sign. Maybe my creative juices are just swarming so feverishly that not a one of the little boogers can find it's way to the surface. Maybe there's just so much going on in my life and the world that I don't have a good point of origin. Maybe my thumb injury has done something to the part of my brain that creativity spawns from, or maybe I've had 2 Diet Vanilla Pepsis, 5 cigarettes and I've typed 3 whole paragraphs. I think the buzz from staring at this monitor is giving me brain damage.
Here's something random; when is this Saddam Hussein trial supposed to start, and are they going to broadcast it on Court TV? That's something I would tune in for. Wouldn't it be funny if they went through the whole trial process and a jury found him not guilty? That might be a little awkward. "Yeah, uh... sorry about that whole invasion thing. You just seemed like such a dick from a distance." I would pay green money to see Dubya and his aides tap dance around that one. However, you and I know that my little scenario will unfortunately never come to pass. Bummer.
I think at this point, it's just time to call it quits for today. Whatever trash I write is going to be an exercise in literary masturbation. This is not good writing. I know this and I apologize. Hopefully something will happen later today or tonight and I can over-analyze it and write all about it later tonight or tomorrow.
Until then, I gotta get going... there's a $5/$1 sit-n-go tournament starting.
Until next time...
R
It's just about time...
Think I need a new look... or, a facelift rather. Thanks J, for the idea.
Couple new things... I put a sitemeter hit counter on the bottom to replace the old one. It was only on for about a week, so no biggie, but I did have 650 hits... not bad. Anyway, hope you like the new look, and I'll try to write some crap later today.
Couple new things... I put a sitemeter hit counter on the bottom to replace the old one. It was only on for about a week, so no biggie, but I did have 650 hits... not bad. Anyway, hope you like the new look, and I'll try to write some crap later today.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
That's right, people... I said 5
So here we are... another delicious Thursday afternoon in sunny Rochester. Literally, it is sunny, so I'm not my typical cynical and sarcastic self. The weather is beautiful... wish you were here.
Anyway, on with my rant...
Today I had to go to the hand specialist again to pick up the paperwork that he had to fill out for my company. I got all the way to the car before I decided to flip through and make sure that it was all filled out and, sure enough, there was one page incomplete. Bummer. I did, however, have a sparkling realization while I was headed back up to this guy's office, and here it is; when people ask him what he does for a living, he can honestly say, "I have a hand job." What a great line of work. Next time I'm in there I'm going to ask him how I can get a hand job. Now there's a career path I may have overlooked. Yes, I did make myself laugh out loud in the elevator. I am the funniest person I know.
So anyway, while I'm now into my second week of disability leave with my gimpy thumb, I've gotten fairly used to getting up, brushing my teeth, and logging on to CNN.com. There is a story on there today, and I couldn't make this shit up. Whoever the crack journalist is that wrote this headline should be given the fucking Pulitzer. The headline was; "Wal-Mart Shooting Suspect Mentally Disturbed." Really? No shit? I would have thought that this guy was completely mentally stable. Typically when I read about some asshole that goes on a shooting rampage in the parking lot of a high volume deep discount retailer with geriatric patients in navy blue vests and name tags with smiley-face stickers greeting me when I go in the store, I actually say to myself in my best game show host voice, "wow... this guy's really got his shit together!" Again, for those of you who are new to my literary endeavors, I was expressing sarcasm.
It's stupid shit like this that makes me think that I could write for CNN. Granted, I may not have the political insight as say a Tucker Carlson (he's a dick, by the way), but I think I could throw together better slop than the rubbish that I read today. I think the only problem that I would have with that would be if they made me travel to the Middle East where tall, blonde haired, blue eyed geeks like me typically wind up minus a head. That would just suck, and I don't think I'd be able to be out on disability for an injury like that... otherwise, sign me up.
The funny thing about that story is every time they catch some sicko on the news, every one of his neighbors says something to the effect of, "yeah, he seemed like a really nice, normal guy... he nurtured orchids and raised hamsters... I never saw this coming." You never see the neighbors coming out and saying, "oh yeah... saw this one a mile away, it was just a matter of time before this guy snapped... he used to sit out on the porch with a shotgun, Mein Kampf, and a turtle named Timmy that he would take orders from." I digress. This Wal-Mart jackass apparently was a state mental patient. Way to take care of your own, Arizona.
Ladies and gentlemen, I've been through five, that's right, five shrinks in my life. I don't mean shrinks or shrinkage in the Seinfeld sense of the word... I mean therapists. They were all worthless, or, on second thought, maybe they were really good but I was just too fucked up to even deal with them. Either way, the point that I'm making here is that after all five of those quacks, you're still not going to find me in a parking lot waving a gun around... well, at least not at Wal-Mart.
Regardless, my apologies for the short post this evening. I've been up entirely too late recently and I think it's affecting my creativity and literary prowess. Either that or the Vicodin is turning me into a complete moron. My money's on the former.
So that's it for this evening, kids... gotta run to Wegman's and pray that there's a space close. There damn well better be... but don't worry, I don't own a firearm.
Until next time...
R
Anyway, on with my rant...
Today I had to go to the hand specialist again to pick up the paperwork that he had to fill out for my company. I got all the way to the car before I decided to flip through and make sure that it was all filled out and, sure enough, there was one page incomplete. Bummer. I did, however, have a sparkling realization while I was headed back up to this guy's office, and here it is; when people ask him what he does for a living, he can honestly say, "I have a hand job." What a great line of work. Next time I'm in there I'm going to ask him how I can get a hand job. Now there's a career path I may have overlooked. Yes, I did make myself laugh out loud in the elevator. I am the funniest person I know.
So anyway, while I'm now into my second week of disability leave with my gimpy thumb, I've gotten fairly used to getting up, brushing my teeth, and logging on to CNN.com. There is a story on there today, and I couldn't make this shit up. Whoever the crack journalist is that wrote this headline should be given the fucking Pulitzer. The headline was; "Wal-Mart Shooting Suspect Mentally Disturbed." Really? No shit? I would have thought that this guy was completely mentally stable. Typically when I read about some asshole that goes on a shooting rampage in the parking lot of a high volume deep discount retailer with geriatric patients in navy blue vests and name tags with smiley-face stickers greeting me when I go in the store, I actually say to myself in my best game show host voice, "wow... this guy's really got his shit together!" Again, for those of you who are new to my literary endeavors, I was expressing sarcasm.
It's stupid shit like this that makes me think that I could write for CNN. Granted, I may not have the political insight as say a Tucker Carlson (he's a dick, by the way), but I think I could throw together better slop than the rubbish that I read today. I think the only problem that I would have with that would be if they made me travel to the Middle East where tall, blonde haired, blue eyed geeks like me typically wind up minus a head. That would just suck, and I don't think I'd be able to be out on disability for an injury like that... otherwise, sign me up.
The funny thing about that story is every time they catch some sicko on the news, every one of his neighbors says something to the effect of, "yeah, he seemed like a really nice, normal guy... he nurtured orchids and raised hamsters... I never saw this coming." You never see the neighbors coming out and saying, "oh yeah... saw this one a mile away, it was just a matter of time before this guy snapped... he used to sit out on the porch with a shotgun, Mein Kampf, and a turtle named Timmy that he would take orders from." I digress. This Wal-Mart jackass apparently was a state mental patient. Way to take care of your own, Arizona.
Ladies and gentlemen, I've been through five, that's right, five shrinks in my life. I don't mean shrinks or shrinkage in the Seinfeld sense of the word... I mean therapists. They were all worthless, or, on second thought, maybe they were really good but I was just too fucked up to even deal with them. Either way, the point that I'm making here is that after all five of those quacks, you're still not going to find me in a parking lot waving a gun around... well, at least not at Wal-Mart.
Regardless, my apologies for the short post this evening. I've been up entirely too late recently and I think it's affecting my creativity and literary prowess. Either that or the Vicodin is turning me into a complete moron. My money's on the former.
So that's it for this evening, kids... gotta run to Wegman's and pray that there's a space close. There damn well better be... but don't worry, I don't own a firearm.
Until next time...
R
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Just an update
Well, folks... here's the latest.
Again, as I type with one hand... ahem... I went to see the hand specialist today, who informed me that I have one of the most painful injuries you can possibly have.
He gave me another script for Vicadin, along with a note keeping me out of work for three frickin weeks. This is really starting to suck. I really, really, really hate the Red Sox.
That's all for now... one handed typing really, really sucks.
Until next time...
R
Again, as I type with one hand... ahem... I went to see the hand specialist today, who informed me that I have one of the most painful injuries you can possibly have.
He gave me another script for Vicadin, along with a note keeping me out of work for three frickin weeks. This is really starting to suck. I really, really, really hate the Red Sox.
That's all for now... one handed typing really, really sucks.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Honestly, I never thought it would be possible for me to find or need another reason to hate the Boston Red Sox, but as I sit here and try to type with just my right hand, I do have yet another. Last week, Mark Bellhorn, 2nd baseman for the loathesome Boston Red Sox, was sent to Boston's AAA affiliate, the Pawtucket Red Sox on a 20 day rehab assignment due to a spraigned thumb. Well, last night, those same Pawtucket Red Sox were in Rochester playing against our own Rochester Red Wings. In the third inning of the second game of the double-header, Bellhorn ripped a foul ball right at me. I stood up, assumed the correct position to properly field the ball, when this rocket of a hit took a wierd hop, jumped up, and hit my left thumb on the very tip. The ball either ripped the nail backwards or pushed it back, and... BOOM... blood everywhere. I ran to the first aid station, got cleaned up, and promptly passed out on the gurney. When I finally came to, they wheeled me out of the stadium on the gurney, as people watched in horror at my terrible disfigurement. They rushed me to the hospital, where x-rays revealed that the ball had broken the tip of the bone OFF!!! Anyway, they casted me up, gave me a tetanus shot, and sent me home with a Vicatin prescription. I look like Mickey frickin' Mouse with this thing on. However, because typing with one hand is a world class pain in the ass, I'll write some more at a later date. Damn you Mark Bellhorn, and damn that team full of hippies for which you play. Thanks for getting me out of work for a couple of days at least. Until next time... R
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Are you gonna live your life wonderin’ standing in the back lookin’ around?
Are you gonna waste your time thinkin' how you’ve grown up or how you missed out?
Things are never gonna be the way you want.
Where's it gonna get you acting serious?
Things are never gonna be quite what you want.
Or even at 25, you gotta start sometime.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Are you gonna live your life standing in the back looking around?
Are you gonna waste your time?
Gotta make a move or you'll miss out.
Someone's gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Stick around nostalgia won't let you down.
Someone's gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Whatcha gonna have to say for yourself?
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Our house in the middle of the street, why did we ever meet?
Started my rock 'n roll fantasy.
Don't don't, don't let's start, why did we ever part?
Kick start my rock 'n rollen heart.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
So come on Davey, sing me somethin’ that I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Here tonight.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
-Jimmy Eat World
I wanna fall in love tonight.
-Rychkid
Are you gonna waste your time thinkin' how you’ve grown up or how you missed out?
Things are never gonna be the way you want.
Where's it gonna get you acting serious?
Things are never gonna be quite what you want.
Or even at 25, you gotta start sometime.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Are you gonna live your life standing in the back looking around?
Are you gonna waste your time?
Gotta make a move or you'll miss out.
Someone's gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Stick around nostalgia won't let you down.
Someone's gonna ask you what it’s all about.
Whatcha gonna have to say for yourself?
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Our house in the middle of the street, why did we ever meet?
Started my rock 'n roll fantasy.
Don't don't, don't let's start, why did we ever part?
Kick start my rock 'n rollen heart.
I’m on my feet, I’m on the floor, I’m good to go.
So come on Davey, sing me somethin’ that I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Here tonight.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
-Jimmy Eat World
I wanna fall in love tonight.
-Rychkid
How I know I'm home
I happened to be looking through my digital camera and found this pic from a couple days after I got it. I love this picture becase this is how I know I'm home. Coming in on 490 to the great city of Rochester and seeing that skyline gives me that homey feeling that I don't get anywhere else. Yeah, I know it's not the greatest city in the world, but after 24 years of living in a virtual armpit, it's a place that I love and a place that I call home.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
College, the Bills, and my roof
Well, people... I believe that I have what's known in the biz as writer's block. Not that I really consider myself a writer in the literary sense of the word, but more of a writer in the figurative. Insomuch as Yoko Ono was a singer, I am a writer. Granted I was never involved with a Beatle, but you get the idea. Anyway, my goal here is just to ramble on and maybe something will come to me.
Hmmm... nothing yet.
Hmmm... oh yeah, did you ever notice that... scratch that... never mind.
Still nothing.
Nope, still drawing a blank.
Ok... here's something; a couple of weeks ago, I went to Kirkville, NY to attend my cousin's high school graduation party. It was really nice; got to see my aunt and uncle that I never get to see, got to (obviously) see my cousin whom I haven't seen in like four years, and got to spend a little time with my mom and her soon-to-be husband. They did a really nice job with the party; catered, lawn games, a big tent, citronella candles, the whole nine. All of this to congratulate my cousin, Joey, on his graduation from high school, and to wish him well for the next (hopefully) four years at George Washington University. For those of you that don't know, it's in Washington, D.C., about a (guessing here) 7 hour drive from Syracuse. The reason that the origin of that journey and the drive time is significant is this; his girlfriend of 3 years will be attending Syracuse University.
Toward the evening's close, I was getting ready to leave, Joey retreated to the basement with his friends for a few games of Texas Hold 'Em, and the aforementioned girlfriend was sitting in the kitchen, chatting with my mom and aunt. I felt compelled to sit in on this conversation, simply because I thought I knew where it was going, and wanted to either confirm or disprove my suspicions.
Sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed... I think it may have been the rose-colored glasses that this little bright-eyed high school grad was wearing just a second before I came in, but as sure as the Pope wears a goofy hat, there it was; "well, I'm sure once we get settled, he'll be up to visit me, I'll head down there to visit him... yada, yada, yada." Well, honey... I got some news for ya.
As much as you probably don't want to hear this, and as much as you're not going to believe this; your little idea of "high school sweetheart goes off to the big city for school has a great time but we wind up together in the end" isn't going to happen. Unfortunately, this is reality, and none of us live on the WB Network (as nice as that sounds... I think I could get used to being called Pacy... no, wait... no I couldn't... he's such a wuss and Pacy is a retarded name). It just doesn't work that way. I'd love to be able to tell you different, but just about the same time you're downing your 9th Jell-O shot at Sigma Delta Whatever and some dreamy senior named T.J., B.J. or Steve is just about to take you back to his room to show you his bottle cap collection, guess what Mr. High School Sweetheart is doing about 500 miles away from you. If your answer is, "he's in his dorm room enjoying a Diet Vanilla Pepsi and diligently typing me an email as he shops online for engagement rings," in short, you're wrong.
Now, before you go and tell me to go F myself and that I don't know what I'm talking about and I'm just bitter and jaded... well on those two notes you're probably right, but hear me out. Just answer me one simple question, and I'll back off. Here it is; when was the last time you got exactly what you wanted from something that you haven't experienced? How about this; do you like to eat eel? You know, the sushi or sashimi or whatever. I'm guessing that your answer is that you don't know, simply because you've never tried it. My point here is this; until you try something, you don't know the outcome. Now don't get me wrong, any time I get a new Playstation 2 game and my former roommate comes over, I'm 90% sure that I'm going to whoop his ass, however there is that 10% chance that he'll punk me around like a little bitch... but the odds aren't good. Yes, I know going away to college and staying with your HS boyfriend who's 500 miles away and trying sushi are a far cry from one another, but I hope you get my point. And as much as I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, there's one thing I know... after 9 Jell-O shots, T.J., B.J., or Steve is going to look like Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Albert Einstein all rolled into one... he's kind of going to look like me... kind of. The good news is that 500 miles away, your boyfriend is doing the same thing, although instead of a guy named B.J., he's, well, insert collegiate sex joke here.
Here's some more good news, my dear. It won't take long for you to recover. Trust the Rychkid... he knows whereof he speaks. Everything will be rough for a while... you know, feelings of guilt, regret, that empty feeling you get when you feel like you'll never meet anyone like the one you lost... believe me, again, I know. You will, however, survive, and tomorrow, the sun will rise. It's painful to think about, I know, and I'm not a pessimist, I'm simply a realist, and while I really do enjoy your naivete, it's not in a negative way. It's not in a "point and laugh" kind of way. In reality, it's nice to see that kind of blind hope, the kind that Buffalo Bills fans have, the kind that made my friend Kevan move to Florida with who he believes to be the love of his life, and the kind that ultimately keeps me from throwing myself off the roof of my building every night. It's the belief that despite the odds, things will work out... that he is, in fact, in that dorm room with a cold beverage yearning for the time when you will be by his side again... the belief that the rookie J.P. Losman will lead our team to the promised land... the belief that at 36 years old moving to Florida with that girl is absolutely the right thing to do, and the belief that I am destined for a higher purpose and that my soulmate is out there somewhere.
Let me close with this, and I'm not going to tell you to prove me wrong... that would go against all I believe in when it comes to human nature. I'm just going to tell you go with it... and by that I mean experience all that college has to offer. It's going to be the best (hopefully) four years of your life... believe me on this one. Also, believe me that you can't go back, and if you restrain yourself, you're going to regret it. There's nothing sadder than regret... it just sucks. Also, I wish you the best and wish that I could just be in your shoes about 6 months from now... it's going to be a blast.
Anyway, the Rychkid has to be going... gotta update my fantasy football picks for the upcoming draft. I wonder if there's a good rookie quarterback available.
Until next time...
R
Hmmm... nothing yet.
Hmmm... oh yeah, did you ever notice that... scratch that... never mind.
Still nothing.
Nope, still drawing a blank.
Ok... here's something; a couple of weeks ago, I went to Kirkville, NY to attend my cousin's high school graduation party. It was really nice; got to see my aunt and uncle that I never get to see, got to (obviously) see my cousin whom I haven't seen in like four years, and got to spend a little time with my mom and her soon-to-be husband. They did a really nice job with the party; catered, lawn games, a big tent, citronella candles, the whole nine. All of this to congratulate my cousin, Joey, on his graduation from high school, and to wish him well for the next (hopefully) four years at George Washington University. For those of you that don't know, it's in Washington, D.C., about a (guessing here) 7 hour drive from Syracuse. The reason that the origin of that journey and the drive time is significant is this; his girlfriend of 3 years will be attending Syracuse University.
Toward the evening's close, I was getting ready to leave, Joey retreated to the basement with his friends for a few games of Texas Hold 'Em, and the aforementioned girlfriend was sitting in the kitchen, chatting with my mom and aunt. I felt compelled to sit in on this conversation, simply because I thought I knew where it was going, and wanted to either confirm or disprove my suspicions.
Sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed... I think it may have been the rose-colored glasses that this little bright-eyed high school grad was wearing just a second before I came in, but as sure as the Pope wears a goofy hat, there it was; "well, I'm sure once we get settled, he'll be up to visit me, I'll head down there to visit him... yada, yada, yada." Well, honey... I got some news for ya.
As much as you probably don't want to hear this, and as much as you're not going to believe this; your little idea of "high school sweetheart goes off to the big city for school has a great time but we wind up together in the end" isn't going to happen. Unfortunately, this is reality, and none of us live on the WB Network (as nice as that sounds... I think I could get used to being called Pacy... no, wait... no I couldn't... he's such a wuss and Pacy is a retarded name). It just doesn't work that way. I'd love to be able to tell you different, but just about the same time you're downing your 9th Jell-O shot at Sigma Delta Whatever and some dreamy senior named T.J., B.J. or Steve is just about to take you back to his room to show you his bottle cap collection, guess what Mr. High School Sweetheart is doing about 500 miles away from you. If your answer is, "he's in his dorm room enjoying a Diet Vanilla Pepsi and diligently typing me an email as he shops online for engagement rings," in short, you're wrong.
Now, before you go and tell me to go F myself and that I don't know what I'm talking about and I'm just bitter and jaded... well on those two notes you're probably right, but hear me out. Just answer me one simple question, and I'll back off. Here it is; when was the last time you got exactly what you wanted from something that you haven't experienced? How about this; do you like to eat eel? You know, the sushi or sashimi or whatever. I'm guessing that your answer is that you don't know, simply because you've never tried it. My point here is this; until you try something, you don't know the outcome. Now don't get me wrong, any time I get a new Playstation 2 game and my former roommate comes over, I'm 90% sure that I'm going to whoop his ass, however there is that 10% chance that he'll punk me around like a little bitch... but the odds aren't good. Yes, I know going away to college and staying with your HS boyfriend who's 500 miles away and trying sushi are a far cry from one another, but I hope you get my point. And as much as I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, there's one thing I know... after 9 Jell-O shots, T.J., B.J., or Steve is going to look like Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Albert Einstein all rolled into one... he's kind of going to look like me... kind of. The good news is that 500 miles away, your boyfriend is doing the same thing, although instead of a guy named B.J., he's, well, insert collegiate sex joke here.
Here's some more good news, my dear. It won't take long for you to recover. Trust the Rychkid... he knows whereof he speaks. Everything will be rough for a while... you know, feelings of guilt, regret, that empty feeling you get when you feel like you'll never meet anyone like the one you lost... believe me, again, I know. You will, however, survive, and tomorrow, the sun will rise. It's painful to think about, I know, and I'm not a pessimist, I'm simply a realist, and while I really do enjoy your naivete, it's not in a negative way. It's not in a "point and laugh" kind of way. In reality, it's nice to see that kind of blind hope, the kind that Buffalo Bills fans have, the kind that made my friend Kevan move to Florida with who he believes to be the love of his life, and the kind that ultimately keeps me from throwing myself off the roof of my building every night. It's the belief that despite the odds, things will work out... that he is, in fact, in that dorm room with a cold beverage yearning for the time when you will be by his side again... the belief that the rookie J.P. Losman will lead our team to the promised land... the belief that at 36 years old moving to Florida with that girl is absolutely the right thing to do, and the belief that I am destined for a higher purpose and that my soulmate is out there somewhere.
Let me close with this, and I'm not going to tell you to prove me wrong... that would go against all I believe in when it comes to human nature. I'm just going to tell you go with it... and by that I mean experience all that college has to offer. It's going to be the best (hopefully) four years of your life... believe me on this one. Also, believe me that you can't go back, and if you restrain yourself, you're going to regret it. There's nothing sadder than regret... it just sucks. Also, I wish you the best and wish that I could just be in your shoes about 6 months from now... it's going to be a blast.
Anyway, the Rychkid has to be going... gotta update my fantasy football picks for the upcoming draft. I wonder if there's a good rookie quarterback available.
Until next time...
R
The illustrious Berkeley Apartments... home of: the corner apartment. That's me on the right side of the pic, right in the middle, and the one to the right of that, which makes up my posh New York two bedroom brownstone apartment. I know, I know... looks pretty ritzy, and as soon as I find enough pop cans, I'll have enough for last month's rent.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The self serving post
Well, seeing as I haven't posted in a while, at the request of my loyal readers, here is the newest post. Enjoy.
It's the end of Park Ave. Fest 2005, and I got my obligatory poster from this year's festival, but rather than go on and on about the weekend's festivities, this is what I've decided to do and the reason why. I met a bunch of people this weekend, and when you get into those "new person" conversations, they're pretty much all the same; what do you do, where are you from, how long have you lived here... yada, yada, yada. So, in order to dispense with all the redundancies, I'm just going to refer people to my blog and tell them to read (get ready) "100 things about me." Having said that, here goes, and they are in no particular order, so strap in and read on.
1. I am (yikes) 34 years old.
2. I am single.
3. I have never been married.
4. I have no kids (that I know of).
5. My middle name is Louis.
6. I am right handed.
7. Although I have many gay friends, I am straight.
8. I'm smarter than you.
9. People think I'm funny, but I think I use humor as a defense mechanism.
10. My shoe size is 10.5.
11. I smoke Marlboro Lights.
12. I have a really big TV.
13. My favorite singer/band/performer/whatever is Jimmy Buffett, and his birthday is on Christmas (in case you were wondering).
14. When I was 10 years old I won $50 in a church raffle, and bought Asteroids for my Atari system with the money.
15. My favorite food is cheeseburgers. The best ones on the planet are at the Earle Street Grill in Ormond Beach, Florida.
16. My two best friends are married and live in St. Petersburg, FL, and Charlotte, NC, respectively. A lot of times I wonder what my life would be like if I moved South.
17. I am afraid of needles and I pass out whenever I have to have blood drawn.
18. I'm really good at NHL Hockey by EA Sports for PS2.
19. I can roll my tongue.
20. I do a great Al Pacino impression, but my Christopher Walken needs work.
21. I went through 5 different therapists from age 13 to age 22. My parents made me go to them because they thought I was unhappy. They (my parents) couldn't figure out the simple truth that they are the ones that fucked me all up. Every one of those therapists sucked. Know what therapy is? It's guessing at $150 an hour. Psychology is bullshit. Period. I have a BA in Psychology.
22. I love the New York Yankees.
23. I hate the Boston Red Sox.
24. My high game in bowling is 269.
25. I have never traveled outside of the U.S. except for Canada. I don't really count Canada as leaving the country because it's an hour away. I don't think you should be able to say you have left the country unless you had to get on a plane and fly over a large body of water to do it.
26. I do not agree with the war in Iraq.
27. I do not believe that NASCAR is a sport. It's driving.
28. My parents are divorced.
29. I can hit a golf ball 300+ yards.
30. My favorite hockey player is Mike Modano.
31. I once inadvertently stole 2 oranges from Wegmans. Long story.
32. I believe in God and that he (or she) does not hate me.
33. I have 19 pens and an X-Acto knife in a cup on my desk.
34. I once dated a Miss America contestant.
35. I am afraid of heights, but flying doesn't bother me.
36. The love of my life got married a couple of weeks ago, and it absolutely crushed me. I cried for 2 days. She broke my heart 12 years ago, and not a day goes by that I don't think about her. Sorry for the downer.
37. I am strangely attracted to Carrie Fisher. Maybe it was the metal bikini thing she wore in Return of the Jedi. I don't know.
38. I have a chicken pox scar on the right side of my rib cage.
39. I no longer have tonsils.
40. I know a lot of stupid bar tricks.
41. The combination to my locker in junior high school was 26-36-6.
42. My favorite movie is True Romance.
43. I am a 3rd Degree Master Mason.
44. I once accepted a shitty job just so that I could quit the shitty job that I already had.
45. A girl once saved my life with a phone call. To this day she has no idea about this.
46. Sometimes when I'm bored, I go up to the top of my building and spit down on to the sidewalk below. However, I won't look over the edge (remember, afraid of heights) to see if it hit anyone. I'll just wait to hear the expletive "what the fuck???" from below. Then, I go back into my apartment and watch my really big TV.
47. My favorite television show ever is Seinfeld. It's brilliant.
48. I think it would be cool to have sex with a midget.
49. I do not collect anything.
50. I pray every day that my father finds happiness.
51. I have a spider living in my bathroom and I refuse to kill him. I call him Al. Whenever I happen to find any type of insect in my apartment (fly, ant, whatever) I grab it and throw it into Al's web so that he can eat. I secretly fear that he will get enormous and be able to kill me, but he won't because I fed him.
52. I believe in Karma.
53. Every year I go to the movies by myself on my birthday.
54. My dream job is to be the lead singer in a nationally successful band.
55. I had sex with a married woman because she said she was going through a divorce. She lied.
56. When I was 11 years old and playing little league, I was batting and the pitcher hit me in the head. It cracked the helmet from one side to the other. That sucked.
57. Once when I was 10, my mom asked me to go to the store for a loaf of Italian bread. So I stuck my fat friend on the back of my bike and subsequently wiped out. I broke my front right tooth and scraped my face along the pavement. So now I have a plastic tooth.
58. I cannot judge a fly ball in softball, so I have to play infield.
59. I honestly believe that I could have been a professional athlete if I would have worked harder at any of the sports I played.
60. The first time I was on ice skates I fell face first into the ice and got a concussion and a black eye.
61. I like to flirt with other guy's girlfriends, but I get insanely jealous if the girl I'm out with flirts with someone else.
62. I hate people that use that walkie-talkie feature on their phone while in public or in a crowd. That really pisses me off.
63. I think the words "tuna melt" are funny and I laugh when I hear someone order it.
64. My pant size is 33-34.
65. I have a lot of ties and I hate to wear any of them.
66. My Christmas is going to suck this year.
67. I have an autographed jersey from Miroslav Satan and an autographed stick from Jean-Luc Grand-Pierre.
68. I think I'm jealous of my friend's girlfriend because now she gets more of his time than I do. It bothers me that I feel that way.
69. The song that I would like to have played at my funeral is "Lovely Cruise" by Jimmy Buffett.
70. I am extremely loyal to my friends.
71. I think that the people that wrote "He's Just Not Into You" and "The Rules" are completely full of shit.
72. I have an overwhelming desire to go on vacation by myself.
73. I have a cream-colored leather sectional couch.
74. My mother is re-marrying in October. I don't know how I feel about that.
75. I do not believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.
76. I once got drunk and made out with a fat girl in the middle of a club. Not just fat, really fat.
77. I am 6'1" and weigh 163 lbs.
78. Samantha was the best dog ever.
79. I can't do a hand stand.
80. Once I ordered a chicken sandwich at Wendy's and I bit into a big gross blue slimy thing in the middle of the sandwich. I threw up, and haven't set foot in a Wendy's since.
81. I am really good at taping up a hockey stick.
82. I have a really high alcohol tolerance.
83. I like to say "niner" instead of just saying nine.
84. I think I turned out OK despite my lousy childhood.
85. I think the most attractive feature on a woman is a brain, although a nice body doesn't hurt.
86. I am a good typist.
87. I could never solve Rubik's Cube.
88. My favorite color is red.
89. When I was 16, I got into a car accident within 2 weeks of getting my license.
90. The dentist I used to go to sucked. Her name is Dr. Susan Bracker and she sucks.
91. I took Viagra once and really liked it.
92. I lost my virginity on December 17, 1988. I remember this because it was my sister's birthday.
93. I have pictures of jazz musicians on the wall in my office, but I don't own any jazz music.
94. My favorite sports teams are the New York Yankees, the Buffalo Bills, the Buffalo Sabres and the Syracuse University Orange.
95. I think that Jim Rome is the best sports talk show host ever.
96. A lesbian once punched me in the face and gave me a black eye because I slept with her ex-girlfriend. I didn't hit her back.
97. I was a bartender for 3 years.
98. I threw up at King's Island in Cincinnati after going on the teacup ride because my cousin made it spin too fast.
99. I graduated from St. Bonaventure University.
100. I like believing in the idea that I have a soulmate somewhere out there.
Well, that's it. If anyone would like more information, please don't hesitate to contact me. Until then, I'm just going to head back out to the corner apartment and watch my really big TV on my cream-colored leather sectional couch.
As always...
R
It's the end of Park Ave. Fest 2005, and I got my obligatory poster from this year's festival, but rather than go on and on about the weekend's festivities, this is what I've decided to do and the reason why. I met a bunch of people this weekend, and when you get into those "new person" conversations, they're pretty much all the same; what do you do, where are you from, how long have you lived here... yada, yada, yada. So, in order to dispense with all the redundancies, I'm just going to refer people to my blog and tell them to read (get ready) "100 things about me." Having said that, here goes, and they are in no particular order, so strap in and read on.
1. I am (yikes) 34 years old.
2. I am single.
3. I have never been married.
4. I have no kids (that I know of).
5. My middle name is Louis.
6. I am right handed.
7. Although I have many gay friends, I am straight.
8. I'm smarter than you.
9. People think I'm funny, but I think I use humor as a defense mechanism.
10. My shoe size is 10.5.
11. I smoke Marlboro Lights.
12. I have a really big TV.
13. My favorite singer/band/performer/whatever is Jimmy Buffett, and his birthday is on Christmas (in case you were wondering).
14. When I was 10 years old I won $50 in a church raffle, and bought Asteroids for my Atari system with the money.
15. My favorite food is cheeseburgers. The best ones on the planet are at the Earle Street Grill in Ormond Beach, Florida.
16. My two best friends are married and live in St. Petersburg, FL, and Charlotte, NC, respectively. A lot of times I wonder what my life would be like if I moved South.
17. I am afraid of needles and I pass out whenever I have to have blood drawn.
18. I'm really good at NHL Hockey by EA Sports for PS2.
19. I can roll my tongue.
20. I do a great Al Pacino impression, but my Christopher Walken needs work.
21. I went through 5 different therapists from age 13 to age 22. My parents made me go to them because they thought I was unhappy. They (my parents) couldn't figure out the simple truth that they are the ones that fucked me all up. Every one of those therapists sucked. Know what therapy is? It's guessing at $150 an hour. Psychology is bullshit. Period. I have a BA in Psychology.
22. I love the New York Yankees.
23. I hate the Boston Red Sox.
24. My high game in bowling is 269.
25. I have never traveled outside of the U.S. except for Canada. I don't really count Canada as leaving the country because it's an hour away. I don't think you should be able to say you have left the country unless you had to get on a plane and fly over a large body of water to do it.
26. I do not agree with the war in Iraq.
27. I do not believe that NASCAR is a sport. It's driving.
28. My parents are divorced.
29. I can hit a golf ball 300+ yards.
30. My favorite hockey player is Mike Modano.
31. I once inadvertently stole 2 oranges from Wegmans. Long story.
32. I believe in God and that he (or she) does not hate me.
33. I have 19 pens and an X-Acto knife in a cup on my desk.
34. I once dated a Miss America contestant.
35. I am afraid of heights, but flying doesn't bother me.
36. The love of my life got married a couple of weeks ago, and it absolutely crushed me. I cried for 2 days. She broke my heart 12 years ago, and not a day goes by that I don't think about her. Sorry for the downer.
37. I am strangely attracted to Carrie Fisher. Maybe it was the metal bikini thing she wore in Return of the Jedi. I don't know.
38. I have a chicken pox scar on the right side of my rib cage.
39. I no longer have tonsils.
40. I know a lot of stupid bar tricks.
41. The combination to my locker in junior high school was 26-36-6.
42. My favorite movie is True Romance.
43. I am a 3rd Degree Master Mason.
44. I once accepted a shitty job just so that I could quit the shitty job that I already had.
45. A girl once saved my life with a phone call. To this day she has no idea about this.
46. Sometimes when I'm bored, I go up to the top of my building and spit down on to the sidewalk below. However, I won't look over the edge (remember, afraid of heights) to see if it hit anyone. I'll just wait to hear the expletive "what the fuck???" from below. Then, I go back into my apartment and watch my really big TV.
47. My favorite television show ever is Seinfeld. It's brilliant.
48. I think it would be cool to have sex with a midget.
49. I do not collect anything.
50. I pray every day that my father finds happiness.
51. I have a spider living in my bathroom and I refuse to kill him. I call him Al. Whenever I happen to find any type of insect in my apartment (fly, ant, whatever) I grab it and throw it into Al's web so that he can eat. I secretly fear that he will get enormous and be able to kill me, but he won't because I fed him.
52. I believe in Karma.
53. Every year I go to the movies by myself on my birthday.
54. My dream job is to be the lead singer in a nationally successful band.
55. I had sex with a married woman because she said she was going through a divorce. She lied.
56. When I was 11 years old and playing little league, I was batting and the pitcher hit me in the head. It cracked the helmet from one side to the other. That sucked.
57. Once when I was 10, my mom asked me to go to the store for a loaf of Italian bread. So I stuck my fat friend on the back of my bike and subsequently wiped out. I broke my front right tooth and scraped my face along the pavement. So now I have a plastic tooth.
58. I cannot judge a fly ball in softball, so I have to play infield.
59. I honestly believe that I could have been a professional athlete if I would have worked harder at any of the sports I played.
60. The first time I was on ice skates I fell face first into the ice and got a concussion and a black eye.
61. I like to flirt with other guy's girlfriends, but I get insanely jealous if the girl I'm out with flirts with someone else.
62. I hate people that use that walkie-talkie feature on their phone while in public or in a crowd. That really pisses me off.
63. I think the words "tuna melt" are funny and I laugh when I hear someone order it.
64. My pant size is 33-34.
65. I have a lot of ties and I hate to wear any of them.
66. My Christmas is going to suck this year.
67. I have an autographed jersey from Miroslav Satan and an autographed stick from Jean-Luc Grand-Pierre.
68. I think I'm jealous of my friend's girlfriend because now she gets more of his time than I do. It bothers me that I feel that way.
69. The song that I would like to have played at my funeral is "Lovely Cruise" by Jimmy Buffett.
70. I am extremely loyal to my friends.
71. I think that the people that wrote "He's Just Not Into You" and "The Rules" are completely full of shit.
72. I have an overwhelming desire to go on vacation by myself.
73. I have a cream-colored leather sectional couch.
74. My mother is re-marrying in October. I don't know how I feel about that.
75. I do not believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.
76. I once got drunk and made out with a fat girl in the middle of a club. Not just fat, really fat.
77. I am 6'1" and weigh 163 lbs.
78. Samantha was the best dog ever.
79. I can't do a hand stand.
80. Once I ordered a chicken sandwich at Wendy's and I bit into a big gross blue slimy thing in the middle of the sandwich. I threw up, and haven't set foot in a Wendy's since.
81. I am really good at taping up a hockey stick.
82. I have a really high alcohol tolerance.
83. I like to say "niner" instead of just saying nine.
84. I think I turned out OK despite my lousy childhood.
85. I think the most attractive feature on a woman is a brain, although a nice body doesn't hurt.
86. I am a good typist.
87. I could never solve Rubik's Cube.
88. My favorite color is red.
89. When I was 16, I got into a car accident within 2 weeks of getting my license.
90. The dentist I used to go to sucked. Her name is Dr. Susan Bracker and she sucks.
91. I took Viagra once and really liked it.
92. I lost my virginity on December 17, 1988. I remember this because it was my sister's birthday.
93. I have pictures of jazz musicians on the wall in my office, but I don't own any jazz music.
94. My favorite sports teams are the New York Yankees, the Buffalo Bills, the Buffalo Sabres and the Syracuse University Orange.
95. I think that Jim Rome is the best sports talk show host ever.
96. A lesbian once punched me in the face and gave me a black eye because I slept with her ex-girlfriend. I didn't hit her back.
97. I was a bartender for 3 years.
98. I threw up at King's Island in Cincinnati after going on the teacup ride because my cousin made it spin too fast.
99. I graduated from St. Bonaventure University.
100. I like believing in the idea that I have a soulmate somewhere out there.
Well, that's it. If anyone would like more information, please don't hesitate to contact me. Until then, I'm just going to head back out to the corner apartment and watch my really big TV on my cream-colored leather sectional couch.
As always...
R
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Winning
One day I was on the ground
When I needed a hand
Then it couldn't be found
I was so far down that I couldn't get up
You know and one day I was one of life's losers
Even my friends were my accusers
In my head I lost before I began
I had a dream but it turned to dust
And what I thought was love that must have been lust
I was living in style when the walls fell in
And when I played my hand I looked like a joker
Turned around, fate must have woke her
Cause lady luck she was waiting outside the door
I'm winning
I'm winning
I'm winning
I'm winning and I don't intend losing again
Too bad it belonged to me
It was the wrong time and not meant to be
It took a long time and I'm new born now
I can see the day that I bleed for
If it's agreed that there's a need to play the game and to win again
When I needed a hand
Then it couldn't be found
I was so far down that I couldn't get up
You know and one day I was one of life's losers
Even my friends were my accusers
In my head I lost before I began
I had a dream but it turned to dust
And what I thought was love that must have been lust
I was living in style when the walls fell in
And when I played my hand I looked like a joker
Turned around, fate must have woke her
Cause lady luck she was waiting outside the door
I'm winning
I'm winning
I'm winning
I'm winning and I don't intend losing again
Too bad it belonged to me
It was the wrong time and not meant to be
It took a long time and I'm new born now
I can see the day that I bleed for
If it's agreed that there's a need to play the game and to win again
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Happy World No Tobacco Day! Now smoke if you got 'em.
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
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
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
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