Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part Three... The Final Chapter.

Hmmm... where was I? Ah, yes. I had placed my bet on the Preakness and headed over to Harrah's. Now I remember. Yes, I did have to go back and see what the hell I wrote about yesterday. I think four and a half days of drinking and no sleep are finally catching up to me. Anyway, onward and upward.

After a couple cocktails at Harrah's, it struck me that The Preakness was on, and I had some cash riding on that thing. Luckily, there are four flat panels right over the bar for your viewing pleasure. I'm thinking, once again that this is a no brainer. This horse has never lost, right? Right... relax... you're going to win.

As the horses come to the gate, I light up. Daddy needs a little stress reliever for this bad boy. Here we go... silence... and... false start. Goddammit. Let's get it right you freaking midgets. O.K.... let's try that again. Silence, and then... the gate opens and the horses break. Normally, I wouldn't mean that in a literal sense. For those of you that watched that stupid miscarriage of justice and mockery of a sporting event, you know what I mean. For those of you that don't, here it is; the f'ing horse that I bet on, the one that had never lost, the one that was a sure thing, the one that was a no-brainer broke his fucking leg about ten feet out of the gate. You should have seen the bar. It was like a well choreographed dance routine. About fifty people pulled their racing tickets out of their pocket, tore them in half, cast them skyward, and made the same gesture that my grandfather makes when he thinks something is bullshit. Un-fucking-believable. That stupid fucking nag lost me $170. End of the world? No. But I do hope that pony is a baseball glove by the end of the week.

Anyway... happier and brighter thoughts.... ok... I'm better now. Another round... on me. MIght as well drown my sorrows and curse that stupid horse with a nice buzz. Amazing how so many girls get very photogenic and proud of what their plastic surgeon did after a few cocktails... here's the pics to prove it.

Well... I absolutely have to put these pics up or I'll just hate myself. Here's the other two California girls. They're a lot of fun if you ever make it out West.

Don't worry... I've got more, and you'll see them.

Anyway, after a few rounds at Harrah's, we were due for a change of scenery. Well, Margaritaville is two doors down... yeah, I'm in.

Margaritaville, as always, was cool. We walked in, and who is just walking out? You guessed it; my new friends from Canadia (yes, I know it's Canada, without the "i," but it's way more fun to say Canadia. Go ahead and try it... I'll wait. Done? Good. Yes, I know I'm right). Turns out they're going to be the same place as me and the rest of the Rochester contingent. Cool. I like them. Regardless... a quick margarita and a body shot or two of Patron, and it's upstairs time... which was cool because I've never sat on the roof of my church.

The upstairs outside bar of Margaritaville is cool. Nice, clean, breezy, and a great view of the strip. Oh yeah, the company was outstanding too. That always helps. Sooo... why stop now? Fire up the blender and get daddy and the blondes some of that frozen concoction that helps me hang on (hang on, hang on, hang on). If you didn't get that Buffett reference, I'm sorry. Now go listen to the "Songs You Know By Heart" or "Feeding Frenzy" album and come back. I promise I won't go anywhere.

Wow... back already? That was quick. Nice job.

The unique thing about Vegas is that you meet a bunch of people from all over the place, and they're all there for the same reason (more or less)... to have a good time. We met a couple from Cincinnatti that was very cool. I bought them a round, and they sent one back... although I think I was driving the girl nuts because I kept asking to bum her matches. Nobody has a lighter in that freaking town. Anyway, as I promised them... here they are. I think the guy is an electrical contractor, so if you're in the Cinci area and doing some building or remodeling, give him a shout. He's cool.

Well, after a few more rounds, Jen (one of the Cali girls) made a very bold statement. She said that she wasn't going to get on that plane and leave Vegas without making out with some guy. Well, I'm sure you know what happened. Who am I to deprive a girl of her parting wish? Like I said before, I'm a team player. God, I love this town.

How remiss would I be if I didn't include a group shot of, ya know what... I'm going to stop referring to them as "the Cali girls." I did go to the trouble of actually learning their names. So, here's the group shot of me, Mel, Jen and Frisky. Yes, my shirt says "dork" on it.

Well, it was getting to be about that time. They had to get on a plane, I gave a girl her departing wish, and I still needed some food and a nap before we hit the town. We said our tearful goodbyes, traded hugs, kisses and emails, and off they went. Always hard to say goodbye... especially to a certain one of them. But she knows that too, and it's cool.

Sorry to bring the room down there for a minute. I'm back.

Night 4... Body English at The Hard Rock. I love this club. I love it for a couple reasons; one is that when about a thousand people are waiting in line, we get escorted right by, into an elevator, and over to the VIP room. Again, it's times like these that I could kiss Russ. The other reason is that the VIP room is just that; a room. It's actually walled off from the rest of the club. Which is nice because I can only tolerate so many drunken, over-gelled assholes in silk shirts at one time. Yes, I'm one of them (except for the silk shirt... I'm a cotton kind of guy), but I'm not nearly as obnoxious and I can handle my alcohol. There's leather couches and tables galore, and they must have one hell of an exhaust system because with all the people smoking, you'd think it'd be a gas chamber in there... but it's not.

Well, as the vodka started flowing and the mouths started running and the looks started streaming from my eyes, somebody was able to locate our new friends from the Great White North. I'm talking, of course, about Peru. Again, I'm kidding. I'll stop that. No, not really. Anyway, the Canadian girls showed up... nothing but good vibes from that crew.

As I was hanging out (or oot, in Canadian), drinking, chatting, smoking, etc... a girl walked by that caught my eye and I had to talk to her. She had a spiky kind of mohawk thing going on with her hair, and was the textbook "girl all the bad guys want." I needed to talk to her. I did, for at least a little while, and had the presence of mind to snap a picture of her and her friend with my phone.

She had an awesome personality and was really easy to talk to... I thought I was in love. Another endearing quality that she posessed was... hmmm... how can I say this delicately so as not to offend? I got it; the biggest fucking rack I have ever seen in my entire life. There... tough to find just the right words sometimes. You know what I mean. And, yes, I did have the presence of mind to snap that picture too, but decorum prohibits me from posting it here. No, really, I can't. No, seriously... it'd be rude. No. Uh, no. Really, I'm not comfortable. Promise not to tell? Seriously, now? O.K. Here you go.

Uh, yeah... she was pretty proud of them. Wouldn't you be? Jesus. Again... I love this town.

I can't really remember what happened next, but I found myself in a limo headed back to the Flamingo with Todd and the Canadians from Canadia (yes, I know).

As we walked through the lobby for our last night there, we decided it would be a good idea to play a little blackjack. O.K.... a lot of blackjack. I think I did well. I didn't cash in my plane ticket, so that's always a good sign. Anyway, after a couple hours of that nonsense, we went back up to the room and, say it with me... nothing happened.

Well, the last day... departure day. I haven't used my camera nearly enough, so I'll try and make some use out of it. We had until 3:00 to get to the lobby, so obviously it's time to throw some cards and kill some time. Nick, Phil and I got some lunch, planned the strategy and headed to the tables. For some reason, I wasn't feeling it, and started walking around. Hmmm... what can one do in a casino to kill time? You guessed it... slots. I threw a twenty into one of the zillion machines, and three pulls later...

Holy balls! That worked out well. I cashed out, and tried to figure out something else to do to kill some more time. Well, there's a couple other slots in the casino, I think. Let's take a whack at one of them. Another twenty... I hit it for $160. This is retarded. Nobody wins on slots. There's no thinking involved. O.K.... maybe one more machine. Another twenty... I hit it for $130. RiGoddamndiculous. Just as I cashed that puppy out, Todd called, telling me that we've got to get our asses down to VIP to check out. Bummer... I felt a streak starting.

Over to the elevators and up to the room. A couple people didn't have the greatest luck in the world on the felt this trip. I told you I wouldn't say who won or who lost, but here's a shot of Nick with what's left of his bankroll.

Yeah... he's had better trips to the LV. Anybody catch the look on his face? Priceless. I will tell you though, even though they didn't do as well as they'd hoped, Nick and Phil still had the gangsta lean. Ya gotta love this town.

Unfortunately, it was time to say our last goodbyes to suite 25169 at the fabulous Flamingo Hotel and Casino... but not without a couple shots of the boys in the room. I couldn't pass that up.

It was time... we had to go. The Flamingo was nice enough to comp everything. In the immortal words of Russ, "they sure as fuck better."

We headed out front to the awaiting limos, loaded our gear, and headed off to the airport. As much as I hate to do it... here are the last shots from the Vegas '06 trip.

Wait, wait, wait... I have to get in this one. Excuse me, miss? Miss? Would you mind taking a picture of us? Great. Thanks.

Oh shit... wait. I don't think we were ready on that one. Would you mind taking another? Yes, Noah will kiss you if you'll take just one more. Deal? Great. Thanks again.

Thanks. Noah... give her a kiss. Thanks again. Enjoy your stay.

O.K.... that's done. Off to the airport. One problem... the second limo isn't here yet. The driver of the first one assured us that it would be inside of five minutes, so we didn't panic. It did eventually get there, but we pretty much were wishing for Superman to fly backwards around the Earth really fast and freeze time so that we wouldn't miss our flight. Turns out that wasn't the case... read on.

As we ran to the check-in line, I got the call from Russ. "Hey, don't bother hurrying... you've got some time. Our flight's been delayed three hours." Fabulous. I just love killing 3 extra hours in an airport. Oh well, at least we won't miss our flight.

Well, after clearing security, we met up, got some food, and still had about two and a half hours to kill. I don't know if you know this, but there are slot machines in the Vegas airport. That's right... they get you as soon as you get off the plane. However... not today. Not on my watch.

I sit down at a dollar machine and win $50 on the first pull. I go to another one and hit $110 on the third pull. I hit another one and pop that sucker for $150. O.K... need a break. Let's go have a smoke. Guess what? There are slot machines in the smoking lounge. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. During the course of one cigarette, I hit another one for $65. Uh, yeah... you could say I was hot... and I don't just mean my chisled upper body. Yes, it's O.K. to laugh now.

Well, we finally got on the plane and got into Buffalo around 2:30AM. It was exactly 5:03 when I finally fell into my own bed. I slept for an hour and a half, woke up, got showered and dressed, and actually made it to work by 9:00 AM. I know you're impressed.

So that's it. Such is the close of the Vegas '06 trip. If you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed stirring up all those memories and writing about it, then my work here was not in vain.

There is more... there's Tommy's tirade that he threw after losing $1,600 on a single hand of blackjack, there's the best gummi worm shot of all time that I executed, there's... well, let's just say there's a lot more... but this should do it for your Friday morning at work entertainment before a long weekend.

I gotta get going... I've got a serious Jones for some back bacon, maple syrup and a tall, ice cold Molson.

Until next time...

R

Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part Two

Well folks, it's 7:09 PM on Wednesday, and I have a softball game at 9:45... but since I'm a team player in every sense of the word, I'll do my best to finish this thing up. No promises, however.

Let's see... where were we? Ah, yes... just leaving the pool. One thing I did neglect to write about were some very cool people from North of the border during the day at the pool. Oddly enough, they live about an hour and a half from those of us in sunny Rah-cha-cha (that's Rochester for you non-native New Yorkers). Lots of fun drinking with those lovely ladies, and they were kind enough to give me a cigarette or two after the child from hell soaked mine into a soggy pile of tobacco mush. Little fucker.

Anyway, you have to love the Canadian ladies. How can you not love them when the legal drinking age is 19 up there? I remember countless breaks during college when we'd head North of the border for booze and ballet. If you don't know what I mean by ballet... oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Suffice it to say that they were cool and a lot of fun to hang out with. They're only about an hour and a half away, so maybe someday our paths will cross again. I'd like that.

Another thing that I neglected to write was the fact that I had minimal sunscreen on during this whole 5 hour poolside escapade. Now, that does not bode well for a person with skin similar to that of Casper the Friendly Ghost. What's the best way to put this... hmmm. I got it. I got fucking cooked. My shoulders, neck, forehead, nose and top of my head resembled something like an overcooked piece of bacon. I didn't realize the full effect until later, after my nap... read on.

Well, after my nap, it was once again time to hit the showers, get prettied up and head to the club. The shower was a new experience in pain. It was like someone took a big vat of bacon grease and dumped it over my head at close range. The shower was reminiscent of being 13 years old, living at my parent's house, and having my sister flush the toilet in one of the other bathrooms... only this time I couldn't kick her ass after I got out. Every time I tried to step into the stream of water, it was just miserable. But I digress. You'll hear more about that later. Or, since I believe that a couple of our Canadian friends may be reading this, I'll say, "you'll hear more aboot that later."

Tonight the target was Rain at The Palms. We caught the limo around 10:30, and then it was go time.

We had about 20 minutes or so to kill before we were actually slated to go into the club. Apparently it doesn't open until 11. While we were standing around the entrance, this woman sitting at a slot machine just started a conversation out of nowhere with Dave and me. Her opening line was, get this... "me and my friend just had dinner with Robin Leach. She's just picking up a couple things for him and she'll be right back." Uh huh. No, seriously, I believe you. As we stood listening to her mindless bullshit, it becomes all to obvious to this writer that this woman is what Nevada is famous for; bright lights. No, wait... I mean she was a hooker. I kind of pull Dave aside and say, "dude... this broad is a fucking hooker." "Really? Are you sure?" he asks. My response is one that doesn't take him long to figure out. "Have you ever done this well with a woman in your life?" That question is followed up by a look from Dave that says, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." I say, "it's been a pleasure" and start to walk away. Without missing a beat, she grabs Dave's shirt, gives him her number and says, "if you guys want me to tuck you in, give me a call... just don't make it too late because I have a few places I need to be." Uh, yeah, Dave... I'm sure she's a hooker.

On a lighter note, we rolled into Rain about 11:00, walking right past a line of about a thousand people that had obviously been waiting there for a couple hours at least. It's times like these when I could kiss Russ. Thanks to him, we don't do lines, and we don't wait for service. God bless Russ.

Rain is pretty cool. When we walked in, there was this fog-like thing going on. You couldn't really see clearly to the other side of the club. The light show was absolutely ridiculous, and bursts of flame shot from the ceiling. Sounds pretty fucking cool, right? Yeah, not so much when everything from your shoulders up is burned beyond recognition and you're standing below a blast from that flame cannon or whatever the hell you want to call it. I found that out the hard way. Note to self; when sun burned beyond belief, don't stand below something that shoots giant flames directly over your head within 5 feet. It really, really, really hurts. For the remainder of the evening, I will stay securely within the safe confines of the VIP area. You run into fewer assholes that way anyway.

Regardless, a little while later, the California girls and the Canadian girls showed up. Cool... friendly faces without access to flamethrowers; always a welcome addition to any party. At some point during the night... guessing it was somewhere between the second and third bottle of vodka, I remembered that I can dance. The previous life strikes again. Amazing what a whole lot of booze can do towards forgetting the excruciating pain of a Nevada desert sunburn.

Now, the bad part about dancing with a whole lot of booze and a drink in your hand is that you obviously become prone to dropping the aforementioned drink in your hand. I dropped one, the girl I was dancing with dropped one or two... but you should see what happens when you drop a drink in the VIP section. About three bouncers come in and surround the mess, then one radios to some guy with a mop, and they clean the whole thing up in about 15 seconds. The bad thing is that you're pretty much expected to tip the guy that's taking care of your table each time you fuck up and drop a glass. Needless to say, at $20 a shot, I was a whole bunch more careful with my beverages going forward.

I think we wound up leaving around 2:00 or somewhere in there, and we caught another limo back to the Flamingo. Now, I can't tell you exactly what happened in that limo, but I can tell you that I engaged in some rather racy and unscrupulous behavior with all the windows down and a car full of people while rolling down Las Vegas Boulevard at about 2:15 AM Pacific Standard Time. Let's just say that fantasy #784 has since been crossed off my list.

Anyway, to close the night, we made it back up to the suite again with a bunch of girls... and nothing happened.

On to day 4... if you've stayed with me this long, I give you a lot of credit. None of my first three wives did. Kidding... it's actually 5. Freaking alimony is killing me.

I woke up Saturday, again right about the crack of noon, and awoke to find this on the couch out in the suite. Poor Dave... there's only three beds in the rooms adjoining the suite. Dave was #4, and it was his first trip... for the duration of the trip, these are his sleeping quarters. Well, for at least most of the trip.

The main room of the suite was in general disarray... guess that's what happens when you have some people back. Luckily, I had the presence of mind to grab a quick picture of the evidence.

I'm sure that the housekeeping staff just loved us. We were on the 25th floor, so I also felt compelled to grab a couple of shots of the view. They didn't turn out as well as I had hoped, but you get the idea.

Did I mention that I'm afraid of heights? No? Well, I am. For the duration of the trip, I had to stay a couple feet back or I got that feeling that you get when you tip back in a chair but just at the last second you catch yourself. When I'm this high up, I get that feeling all the time.

Well, Saturday... day 4. Today was the day that the California girls were boarding a plane and heading back to the land of fake boobs and made for TV movies. Yeah, I'm jealous. Anyway, I got the call after I roused myself from my alcohol induced slumber, and agreed to meet the three of them over at Harrah's Carnival Court. I got a quick and painful shower, and headed down in the elevator when it dawned on me... the Preakness is today. I gotta get a bet in. That horse Barbaro has never lost, and there are two other strong favorites. My bet is a no-brainer, right? Yeah, that's what I thought too. I bet a $120 trifecta, and bet $50 on Barbaro to win. No brainer. Got that done... off to Harrah's.

I love Harrah's. The bartenders there are about the best in the world. Well, the best that I've ever seen at least. These guys are throwing bottles and doing tricks that make those two clowns in Cocktail look like the average schmuck you see behind three feet of mahogany in your favorite dive bar. If you haven't seen it, here's a couple shots... I mean pictures.

Yes, that is a flying bottle of tequila that he's about to catch... it's not a picture on the wall. Pretty cool.

The other reason why I love Harrah's is that they always have great bands. Today, they had an 80's cover band. A ton of great songs, and the band certainly looked the part. I got a couple shots of them too. Here you go.

Anyway, I'm going to try to hustle here. I've got about 15 minutes before I have to go try to act like an athlete.

Actually, instead of rushing this and writing mindless dribble, I'll finish it up tomorrow. I think I owe you, my loyal readers, that much.

Tomorrow I'll finish up the day at Harrah's & Margaritaville, the night at Body English in the Hard Rock, and a bunch more pics. Yes, I've saved the best for last, but for now... gotta run.

Until next time...

R

Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part One

Well kids, here it is... the post you've been waiting for all year, and the post that I've been waiting to bless your eager eyes with all year. Your favorite and mine; the annual Vegas post. For those of you that aren't loyal readers or haven't had the God damn common courtesy to stop over and at the very least bookmark me, the Vegas post is the one that I have the pleasure of writing every year at about this time that chronicles the adventure that my closest friends and I take to the Sin City... the happiest place on the entire freaking planet... the bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire... my favorite and yours... fabulous Beckley, West Virginia. Wait, no... that's not right. I'm talking about Vegas baby... Vegas!

Hence, without further adieu, let's dive in head first, and get started. Strap in... this may be a long one.

Let's start out with the bad news. As we got to the airport in Buffalo, Russ got the call that Dave missed his flight out of Rochester, and that he wouldn't get into Vegas until around midnight that night (Wednesday). Not a big deal... things don't really get rolling until around that time anyway, right? Right. Fine. Either way, the rest of us successfully boarded the flight, and got to Vegas right around 4:00PM, which left us time to hit the buffett, play a little blackjack, shower, and get ready to hit the town on night one of our four night, five day excursion. While I'm on the subject of the flight... funny thing; that long ass ride out there is about the longest and loudest flight ever. Everyone's talking about where to go, what games they play, how they play them, and how to recover from a long night of drinking and well, you know. That flight back is just the opposite... very quiet, somber. So much so that you don't even have to turn the volume all the way up on your portable DVD player to hear what the hell is being said during the movie. Wonder why.

Anyway, I should say this before I go any further; I won't divulge who or how much anyone won or lost except myself. Couple reasons; one, if someone won big, you can ask them about it. Two, if someone lost big, I'm not going to be the one to make them re-live it. Losing sucks. Believe me when I tell you.

On to the good stuff. We started off not too far from our hotel at Harrah's outside bar called Carnival Court. It's one of my favorite places. It's outside and 90* at 10:00 at night. It's got some of the best bartenders I've ever seen, and the bands are always fantastic. From there, we had to meet our VIP host at the club, which was also right up the road. On Wednesday night in Vegas, believe it or not, there is pretty much only one good club to go to; Tangerine at Treasure Island. Not my favorite club in Vegas but, hey, it's Wednesday. To be honest, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot from that club. For some reason, they had the outside deck closed... I didn't get that. In Rochester, if there's no snow on the ground (and sometimes even if there is), if a bar has a deck, it's open. We're in Vegas, it's ninety something degrees out, and you can smoke indoors... open the freaking deck.

Well, having said that I don't remember a lot of what happened in that club somehow doesn't prevent me from knowing exactly what happened after we left. Only because you are my readers and you know I love you all, I'll share.

Phil and I headed back to the Flamingo with a couple female friends whom we had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. We get back to the room, fire up the iPod and speaker system, crack a couple of beers, and at this point, I look at Phil and say, "you wanna throw some cards?" His answer? "Fuck yeah." Out the door, around the corner, and to the elevators we go. As we descend to the casino floor in the elevator, it hits me. "Did we just leave two girls from the club in the room to go play cards?" Without missing a beat, Phil says, "yeah, we kinda did." My response? "Huh." And it wasn't "huh" in the interogative sense of the word as in "huh?" It was more of the "ain't that something" sense of the word. Amazing what that Vegas air can do to you.

Off to the tables we go. We sit down at a $25 table, and let the games begin. Well, it seemed like they just began when we each lost $250 in a span of about 8 minutes. I can't remember the exact amount of time, but I can tell you that the dealer's name was Larry and he absolutely kicked our asses. Phil looks at me and says, "get up, we're out." I can do nothing but whole heartedly agree.

For the next 10 minutes or so, we wandered aimlessly through the casino, trying to get a feeling somewhere. Remember that... it's important. I got bored of walking and stopped Phil. "Give me a twenty... got a feeling." Phil hands me a twenty and I shove it into a slot machine along with a twenty of my own. Three spins later, the thing hits for $174. We are now back in the game, give or take. It's funny what one good mindless win can do for you.

I cashed out, gave Phil his half, and back to the tables we went. Not to Larry's table however... screw him that rat bastard.

Regardless, we find a table where everyone knows what they're doing, and everyone is winning... up until the Prince of Pennsylvania sat down. This f'ing guy... that's all I can say. I call him the Prince of Pennsylvania because he took great pleasure in announcing to everyone at the table that he was from Altoona, Pennsylvania. This moron sits down, drunk off his ass, and starts to play. Well, I take that back. What my friends and I do at the blackjack table is playing cards. What this moron was doing was gambling. Gambling in the sense that he was throwing his money on the table, guessing at what to do, hoping for the best, and losing. Losing, and in the process, playing like a retard and costing every other person at the table a bunch of money. He's hitting16s against a dealer's 5 and hitting 12s against the dealer's 6. Killing us.

As we sit there pretty much giving our money away, this idiot is putting his head down on the table and catching a few z's during shuffles. The pit boss came over after he did this for the third or fourth time. I yell over, "can you call my friend here a cab?" He says, "sure, where's he going?" "Altoona, Pennsylvania." The dealer chuckled and walked away. Little did he know that I would have gladly slipped him a c-note, along with whatever the fare was to take this knucklehead to Altoona, Pennsylvania by cab. I probably could have made that much back just by having this asshole leave my table and continuing to play. Nevertheless, he eventually lost all his money, left, and we all made some money back. I headed up to the room around 6:00AM or so. I was up drinking for about 25 hours, so I figured it was time for a little nap.

And then there was day 2.

I awoke around the crack of noon, once again found my liver sitting next to me having a cup of coffee saying, "thanks a lot, asshole," told him to shut his yap, and headed to the pool. Sure enough I was able to find Russ and Noah poolside, and the first thing that Russ says to me is, "hey, last night I heard the door slam, walked out to the bar in the suite, and saw two very confused girls sitting there. You have anything to do with that?" "Uh, yeah... here's the story..." Anyway, after about an hour or so at the pool, I simply couldn't deal. It was way too hot and I could feel the booze just seeping out of my pores, so it was buffet time. I left them to soak up some rays and went to gorge myself on the fabulous Flamingo's mid afternoon offering, where my liver and I sat in solace, eating prime rib and pasta, and drinking about eleven diet Pepsis. I would have had a few more, but the waitress didn't have a catheter and/or any type of intra-veinous device handy. Bummer.

After that, it was nap time... a short one. I awoke to the sound of the door slamming, and the sight and sound of Dave materializing from his second missed flight from Rochester. "What the fuck happened to you?" I ask. Dave says, "I'm an idiot." I leave it at that. I have neither the presence of mind for any witty reparte', nor the focus to really comprehend his story of staying up all night and missing two consecutive cross-country flights.

Well, after a stream of about 9 different people coming in and out of the suite, I decide to head down to Margaritaville and meet a few friends that I haven't seen in a while. Maybe a couple margaritas in my hero's bar will straighten me out a little bit. I'm in luck. It does. After a couple of those bad boys and a few Buffett tunes on the sound system, I'm back in the game. I'm The Richie once again. Thank God. I missed him. He's a fun one.

Yes, I've been there several times before, but I felt compelled to take a picture. It makes me feel good. So there.

Well, a bunch of laughs and a few margaritas later, it's nap time for real. I have to get a little bit of rest before another long Las Vegas night has it's way with me. I made my way back up to the room, and luckily, this time I can actually sleep. I woke up around 5, just in time to catch my second round of the buffet with the boys, get prettied up, and catch the limo to take us over to Tryst at the Wynn.

Tryst, ladies and gentlemen, is gorgeous. It's a regular club that sits on a man-made lake, with 100 foot cliffs and waterfalls in the background. If you look up, you can see the clear Nevada sky. I wonder how many people have cast their eyes skyward and prayed that they would have better luck at the tables the next day, right before throwing a quarter into the lake. I'm guessing it's a lot. The VIP section isn't as big as I would have liked. It's kind of small, but very nice nonetheless. Everything is white and clean... well, everything was white and clean. That is until the girl that was hanging out with Nick decided to puke at our table. To her credit, it was the most ladylike vomit episode I have seen in a VIP section of a really expensive Las Vegas night club. There was not a big splash, there wasn't a smell, and from what I remember, it was clear. The only un-ladylike thing was hanging off the side of the couch with my friend holding your hair away from your face. Other than that... all class. Anybody catch the sarcasm there?

Anyway, while "puke fest '06" was going on, I had a couple beautiful blondes from California dancing all over my area of the couch. Yes, I do have pictures on my phone. No, I'm not going to post them here. Nope... sorry. Oh, O.K. No, I can't. Besides, they're on my phone and the resolution sucks. Say please. Thank you. Here you go. Before you look at these, just so you know, you might have to angle your head and use your imagination just a little bit. Having said that, enjoy.

Again... these are from my phone, use your imagination and tilt your head. Yes, I could rotate them, but that wouldn't give you the idea of the angle of my phone when I took them. You're welcome, again.

Well, after we wrapped up things at Tryst, we all went back to the suite and nothing happened.

Day 3... this is where it got messy.

I awoke day three, this time around the crack of 11:00. Apparently I'm getting better as the jet lag wares off. Once again, my liver was sitting next to me, but this time he had substituted a Red Bull and vodka for the coffee. Guess he figured that "hair of the dog" thing might pan out a little better. Also, once again, I headed, sans shower, down to the pool to meet the boys. This time, everyone was there; Nick, Todd, Russ, Noah, Dave... and lo and behold, before my eyes were those same blonde California girls. Hmmm... I hadn't seen them in like 4 hours now... but that's a different post all together. Email me and I'll give you the scoop... or at least make up something really good.

We were lucky enough to score a couple of beds poolside. No, I don't mean those lounge chairs that you see at every backyard pool in the country... I mean beds. Literally, two queen size beds with canopies over them. And, much to my surprise, the beer was already flowing. I jumped in with both feet, cracked a beer, and joined in the festivities. We were right next to the basketball hoop, which afforded me to show off my amazing 25 foot jump shot. However, that wasn't really what I wanted to showcase. As I am 6'1" and white, I can't dunk. That day, it was a different story. I couldn't help myself. I threw down a couple of reverses and a couple alley-oops. For just a couple fleeting moments there, I was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in the 1986 playoffs against the Celtics. Yeah, it felt really, really good. Yes, I'm 34 years old.

Anyway, I eventually grew tired of basketball, but luckily there was a Nerf football floating around. This, my loyal readers, is difficult for me to write. I met a child there that couldn't have been more than 6 years old that asked if she could play catch with us. Let me say this before I continue this story. I hated this kid. It didn't start out that way, but the fun little game of catch that about six of us were playing quickly transformed into "watch the little fat girl splash, kick and spit on the tall, skinny 34 year old guy from Rochester, NY." I swear to you, if it wasn't for the sunburn, you could have seen a "666" on her forehead. This little brat would simply not leave me the hell alone. By this time, I've had somewhere in the neighborhood of a six-pack, I'm just getting over my hangover, and I'm slipping back into that alcoholic haze that anyone who has ever been to Vegas is all too farmiliar with. No matter where in that pool I went, this little brat followed, and felt compelled to just annoy the living shit out of me. She would lunge at me with those big, meaty, baby-fat laden arms and spray as much water as she could on me. She would get as close as she could and, hand to God, fill her mouth with pool water and spit it in my general direction. My only satisfying thought was that about a zillion other little 6 year old brats had peed in the pool and she got that mess in her mouth. Now that I think about it, I guess the joke is on me because even if she got it in her mouth, she expelled that mess on to me.

Well, having said that, I had endured enough. When she got close enough, I splashed back... once. Nothing violent, nothing mean, but I wanted to let this little miscreant know that I wasn't going to be her whipping boy any more. From about 5 feet away, I splashed her back, and at which point, she let out a blood curdling scream and held her hands over her eyes like I had just lit them on fire. Immediately, I was the one that felt like an asshole. Believe me, it wasn't a feeling that lasted very long. Let me tell you why.

My friends and I all gathered around this little shit with choruses of, "are you O.K?" and "what's wrong?" This little porker immediately dropped her hands, stopped crying like someone just muted the stereo, looked at me, and proceeded to splash, spit and kick like she was going to the gas chamber. My open beer that was in my hand is now half full of urine-laden pool water, I'm pissed at myself for feeling like an asshole, and I'm thoroughly annoyed that I actually felt sorry for this little bitch. Yes, I know she's 6. Anyway, as I climbed out of the pool, I had the last laugh. I peed right next to her. No, I'm kidding. I didn't. I did, however, yell, "you're adopted and your parents don't even love you." Litte pool rat... I hope you fall off your bike and your eyes wind up crossed. Yes, again... I know she's 6. Sue me.

Well, after the pool incident, another nap was definitely in order... seeing as it was now 4:00 and I'd been in the pool, drinking and getting way too much sun since 11:00. Quick trip to the buffet and off to the room.

Well, it's 11:30PM right now, and I've written a whole bunch, so I'm going to call it quits for tonight. Still need to catch up on a bunch of sleep. I will, however, finish this up in the next day or two. I know you can't wait.

Next... Vegas, night 3, day 4, night 4, and the departure. Plus, as an added bonus... a bunch of pics for your viewing pleasure.

Until next time...

R

Hello my loyal readers. Yes, I know it's been a couple weeks and you're probably tired of reading about the lady that died 15 feet below my head, but the good news is... I've been in Vegas since Wednesday. I know... sorry excuse.

I'll have something up over the next couple days complete with the pics and the stories that I know you all adore so much.

I'd write something now, but I didn't get home until 5AM this morning, and then got up for work at 7. Think I need a little nap right now.

Until next time...

R

The Record Store, Al, and Homage to Mary

Well, kids... here's the latest. And you know what? As I write this, I'm going to also put in parentheses what song I'm listening to on my iPod... just so you can live vicariously through me and enhance your reading experience... or something like that.

(Photograph by Nickleback)

Yesterday, I exited the corner apartment (or the upstairs apartment, or whatever the hell you want to call it) to head over to the liquor store down the street by way of the record store down the street. It was a beautiful day on Park Avenue. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and beautiful women were jogging by my domicile about once every 6.784 seconds... not that I timed it or anything, and not like I sat on my porch for about three hours watching this beautiful scenery or anything like that. (Tipsy by J-Kwon) As I was walking out, the guy that lives below me was just coming in. We chatted for a minute or so, which was pretty much me asking him if my music was ever too loud and him telling me no. Regardless, as he walked in, and I began to walk away, he yelled over to me, "hey, have you seen Mary today?" Mary is the woman that lives in the other apartment in the house. "No... haven't seen her in a couple weeks." She's older and doesn't get around very well, so she pretty much never came out... this was not unusual. Every now and then she'd ask me to go up to Wilson Farms and get her cigarettes, but her friend that took her shopping usually took care of that. She's kind of the textbook "little old lady that lives downstairs." Really nice. "Oh... her friend called and said that she hadn't heard from her all day. Just wondering."

Anyway, I thought nothing of it, and headed over to the record store to look for the new Buckcherry CD. I got into them about a week ago and I'm f'ing hooked. Yes, I know that I can get it all off of Limewire, but there's something satisfying about walking around a record store. There's something that makes you feel good about it... especially a used record store. I'm not talking like FYE or Media Play... I'm talking like Record Archive or The World Famous House of Guitars here in Rochester. Look around... you'll find one. Go in and walk around... it'll make you feel good. Why? I don't know. It just does. Ever just lie down and look at the ceiling and think, if even for a minute, that everything's OK... that at that particular point in time, everything is taken care of and everything is where it's supposed to be? That feeling when all your bills, mortgage, rent, cell phone bill, porn DVD club membership, beer of the month club, and Hustler membership are all paid and there's still some money left over for strippers... that's the feeling. But I digress.

(Long Way Down by The Goo Goo Dolls)

Well, I didn't wind up actually buying music at the record store that I so adore. I wandered back to the corner apartment (again, or whatever you want to call it), hopped in the car, and headed out shopping. (Without You by MxPx) I need to get some new clothes for the upcoming Vegas trip. Two weeks from today, baby... oh yeah. I hit a couple stores, and the only thing that I wound up buying were a couple packages of floating candles, and about 9 bottles of wine from a different liquor store than the aforementioned one on my beloved Park Avenue. Yes, I'm a decor whore. No, I'm not gay. Yes, I am drinking a martini right now. (Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash) Again, no, I'm not gay.

I headed up to the corner apartment (whatever) because in about half an hour my beloved Yankees were playing my much hated Boston Red Sox. Did I mention that I hate them? If not, I do. Well, just as I got the last bottle into the wine rack (Gasolina by Daddy Yankee), I saw a bunch of flashing lights reflecting off my walls. I went to the window to see if one of those asshole kids with a $5,000 stereo system finally got pulled over for violation of some noise ordinance, when I noticed a couple of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars parked right outside of... you guessed it... the corner apartment (shut up). Immediately I thought that there must be a problem after the earlier conversation with the guy from downstairs. Needless to say, I headed downstairs to see what was going on.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, there was Doug (the guy from downstairs) talking to my landlord, and about a zillion firemen going in and out of my entranceway. (My United States of Whatever by Liam Lynch) I assumed the worst. I figured she fell and broke a hip or something horrible like that. I was at the doorway and said to Doug, "is she ok?" He said, "no, she's dead." The look on his face was something I can't quite describe. It was kind of a surprised and can-you-fucking-believe-this kind of look. (Intergalactic by The Beastie Boys) That kind of look that you see on somebody's face after they double down on three consecutive hands of blackjack and the dealer is sitting on 15 and pulls a 6. That kind of "are you fucking kidding me" look. My response to his statement was pretty much in that vein... "she's fuckin' dead?!?!?!?" I know, I know... that's probably not the most appropriate thing to say, given the fact that I wasn't sure who was around, and given that it's not really terribly respectful of the recently deceased, and given that I had no idea what had happened aside from the fact that there was a dead person in my house, but forgive me... it was a gut reaction.

(I Write Sins Not Tragedies by Panic! At The Disco)

So now, here I am. It's the third inning of Yankees/Red Sox. I have an open beer in my hand. There's somewhere between 4 and 187 cops on my porch. There's 2 fire trucks. There's 2 ambulances. There's my landlord, and there's me... shocked.

Now, before I go on, let me say this; I am not trying to under-state this person's death at all. I'm simply saying that it's going to affect me. (Coast of Carolina by Jimmy Buffett) I'm probably one of the people that this event is going to have a lesser effect upon, however, it did happen about 15 feet below the bed that I sleep in. It's terrible and it's a major bummer... she was only 62 from what I could gather. (Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind) What really sucks is that she had 2 sons that live in California and Italy. My landlord had the displeasure of making that phone call. That's gotta be a tough one to be on the ringing end of. My most sincere and heartfelt condolences go out to them. If it ever comes my way, I don't know what I'd do. I am dreading that day.

(Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous by Good Charlotte)

Ya know, I've been asked this question before, and my answer has been standard for a while now. The question is, "when do you think you're going to retire?" You can ask anyone that's ever posed this question to me. My answer is invariably, "as soon as my parents die." No, my loyal readers, I don't want my parents to die. There were a couple times around ages 12-18 when I would have volunteered a different answer, but no, I don't want that. (Time Heals by The Gear Daddies) I hope my parents die very old, in their sleep... kind of like my grandfather... not screaming like the people that were passengers in his car when it happened.

Well, after a very brief interview with a couple of Rochester's finest... giving my name, age and phone number, I headed up to Wilson Farms for a pack of smokes. I know... ironic, right? (Jane Says by Jane's Addiction) I gave my mom the courtesy of a call and told her about today's events. She asked me if I was creeped out and wanted to stay at her place, given that some woman had just died right below my bedroom. Uh, no... it would take a hell of a lot more for me to be creeped out enough to go sleep on her couch. Don't get me wrong... I love my mother and her husband is a nice guy, but I'm not about to go camp at their place. Besides, the woman that died was a really nice lady, and I don't think that she'd haunt me or my house enough to make me lose sleep. Also, I have enough alcohol here to let me sleep through an invasion of gay, tambourine playing, shotgun wielding, Nazi hypochondriacs with Tourette's syndrome. I think I'll be fine. (I Don't Wanna Be by Gavin DeGraw)

After sitting out in front of my place with the landlord and Doug shooting the breeze, lo and behold, who shows up but Josh. That's right, the little weirdo potter guy that used to live across the hall in the former corner apartment (enough, already). He shows up and the medical examiner's truck is in my driveway. He doesn't see me right away, and the look on his face was priceless. It was something between seeing Niagara Falls for the first time and getting your first bill from your wireless provider after you signed up for the $29.95 plan and talked for 1,972 minutes. You know what I'm talking about. You've done it, and so have I. (Numb by Linkin Park) When he finally saw me, the first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Jesus, dude... I thought one of your ex's finally snapped and put a bullet in your head." Yeah... thanks for that vote of confidence. Although, I will say that I have had a girl raise a butcher knife above her head in a very threatening manner while screaming, "I love you!!!" Yeah, not sure if that image and that dialogue quite mesh. We don't date anymore.

(Border Town by The Gathering Field)

Nevertheless, after confirming with the officers that they didn't need anything more from me, Josh and I headed upstairs to the corner apartment (f'ing knock it off) to catch the end of the Yanks game. Sadly, they lost to those Boston punks. Every now and again it will happen. Bummer.

Luckily, my beer of the month selection had just come in, so the game didn't seem like as big a deal as it was twenty minutes before my fourth beer. (Buddy Holly by Weezer) I was still kind of at a loss for words because, well, someone f'ing died in my house. As I walked out into my kitchen for another round for Josh and me, I looked out the window and they were just wheeling her lifeless body out of her corner apartment. Suddenly, the game, the beer, and Josh weren't really that significant. Yes, they were things going on in my life at that moment, but it was like time froze for just a second. As cliche as it sounds, it makes you think about your own mortality and how your part in this world will come to a close.

(A Praise Chorus by Jimmy Eat World)

As much as we think that we'll end up in our beds, surrounded by grandkids and great grandkids, with flowers and family pictures on the wall, nobody really knows. I'm fairly certain when Mary thought about this, if ever, that she would be alone in her apartment, with her landlord calling her kids 3,000 miles away and telling them that their mother just passed away. (Again by Lenny Kravitz) Then again, maybe she did. I guess the best thing that I, you, and we can hope for is that she did, and it was peaceful, and that she's in a better place, and she's looking down on her kids saying, "don't worry, it's cool, I'm fine and I love you" and looking down on her last dwelling saying, "hey Rich, thanks for going to the store and getting cigarettes for me, and have a kick-ass party during Park Ave. Fest... you're an alright guy."

(Geek In The Pink by Jason Mraz)

I guess that I've said enough to pay homage to Mary. I'm going to miss her. She was a real nice lady. Again, to her kids (if they ever read this... however doubtful, but it's the thought that counts), I am truly sorry for your loss. I can't possibly imagine. I remember when my two best friend's parent's passed away and I could see it in their eyes the pain that they were feeling. If they miss them half as much as I do, then it's gotta be tough... but I wrote about Al a long time ago.

(Get Back by Buckcherry)

Funny I just mentioned Al. Again, to this very day, I still talk about him and tell "Al stories." That's what I want. For a long, long, long time after I'm gone, I want people to tell "Rich stories," and remember a good time or a goofy, stupid thing that I did and smile. However, more than likely, one of the goofy, stupid things that I do will result in my death and that's how the story will live on. Let's hope not. By the way, if you don't know who Al is, you're one, not a loyal reader, or two, you should go back into the archives and find out. I still miss him. If you didn't know him (and most people that read this didn't), you missed out. Actually, another thing that I can hope for Mary is that she meets Al in the great beyond. He'll take care of her and tell her dirty jokes until she smiles. I would defy anyone in the afterlife to not laugh with, at, or alongside Al. I feel better now.

(Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard)

(Fat Lip by Sum 41)

Writer's block.

(You Don't Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce)

(All Star by Smash Mouth)

Well, seeing as I still have writer's block and it's been two songs now, I'm going to sign off. It's late and I got stuff to do tomorrow... like softball. I haven't swung a bat since the close of the season last year. Hopefully I can pull off a performance better than Johnny Damon did last night... 0 for 4 at his first time in Fenway as a Yankee. Ugh. I'm almost grateful that the game got rained out tonight. However, the rain out gave me free time to watch my Sabres win in Philly tonight to advance to the second round of the playoffs. There's that silver lining thing again.

(Friday Afternoon by The Floating Men)

(She Hates Me by Puddle of Mudd)

Can you tell I'm trying to think of how to wrap this up?

(Basket Case by Green Day)

(Drift Away by Uncle Kracker)

(Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects)

(Alright Guy by Todd Snider)

(The Geeks Get The Girls by American Hi-Fi)

Well, I'll just sign off by saying that it's late, my martini is empty, and I have shit to do tomorrow. I think a new record store opened up in Irondequoit.

Until next time...

R

I know, I know.

Yeah, yeah, I know I haven't posted in a while. There's been a ton of shit going on. I'll get something up this week I promise. Until then, Happy Easter.

Hope this tides you over, Sylvia.

Until next time...

R

Sorry... hope this amuses.

Well, my loyal readers, I know it's been a while since my last post, and for that I apologize. It's not really a good time in Rychkid world, but I won't get into that right now. I'll save it for another time when I'm feeling really jaded. Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I'll write something.

Turns out I've been officially blown off, so in the last few weeks I've compiled a short list, and made it into a top 10. So, now, for the first time in the corner apartment, here is the premiere. And yes, before I get the slew of emails, these have all happened.

Top Ten Signs You're Not Doing Well With A Girl In A Bar:

10. You ask her to dance and she says that she's allergic.
9. You ask if you can buy her a drink, and she says, "no, but I'll buy you one... how about a nice glass of 'get the fuck away from me?'"
8. You say that you'd like to take her to dinner sometime and she says, "sorry, my doctor has put me on a 'no-annoying-drunken-asshole diet.'" (That one hurt.)
7. You tell her that she looks great and she says, "thanks, but this thong really hurts my balls."
6. She asks you if you have any cuter, more interesting friends.
5. She asks you to turn around because she wants to check her makeup and the glare from the back of your head provides great reflective properties.
4. She hands you her phone number on a folded up napkin. You leave the bar, open it up, and the number is 585-FUCK-YOU.
3. You overhear her say to her friends, "watch this" as she proceeds to inadvertently dump a beer, glass of red wine, Long Island Iced Tea and entire dish of cherries onto your lap, and follow it up with an, "oops, my bad. Sorry."
2. She tells you that your breath smells like you just went down on a water buffalo with a skin condition, and that she's going to invest in Altoids stock after she calls the company and gives them your phone number and physical description.
1. She asks for your number, you give it to her, and then she hands it to the drag queen that's been checking you out all night. (We're not dating anymore.)

Well, that's going to be it for now. I've got bigger fish to fry, and more pickup lines to polish. Going to try to be cuter and more interesting tonight.

In case you were wondering, she didn't call.

Until next time...

R

Maybe...

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I've done it. I've pulled the trigger. By the time you read this, I'll be... uploading more stuff on to my new 2GB black iPod Nano. Bet for a second there you thought that I was going to say something mildly moving like some sort of post-mortem, but blog-friendly suicide note. Nah, not this time. It'd give the people that hate me too much satisfaction. Any time I think about offing myself, even for a second, I think about the mindless dickheads in the insurance office that I worked in immediately following college, along with the loser that punched me in the face in high school while I was sitting in my parked Plymouth Horizon, and a few other choice douchebags in my checkered past, and there's no way that I would let them think for a second that they actually got to me. In case you haven't had that first few sips of liquid eye-opener that I like to call coffee, what I'm getting at here is that I bought an iPod. Yeah, it's one of the coolest things I own, and, as a matter of fact, I'm listening to it now. It took me a couple marathon sessions in front of the computer... but it's done. Every song that I want to listen to is on this thing. All that shit's really cool, but what's also great is that it matches my apartment... crucial, simply because I actually spend the majority of my day holding up random things in my apartment and deciding whether or not they match my decor. It was a pain in the ass when I had a roommate. He was a lot heavier than I expected, and it was a nightmare to see if he matched my four-foot vertical "Arts of Reform and Persuasion" print. His eyes were the wrong color anyway.

So, I once again digress into the portal that is the corner apartment. As I sit here at 10:18 PM on a Tuesday, listening to my newly acquired iPod, sipping a perfectly concocted Tangueray 10 martini (thanks, Darren) complete with blue cheese stuffed olives and taking a long, slow drag on a Marlboro Light from the Indian reservation just 40 short miles away (thanks again, Pataki), I write with a quiet contentment and subtle happiness. From where is my happiness derived, you may ask? Well, one of my best friends from my much maligned hometown of Jamestown, NY, Steve, called me this afternoon and told me that his lovely wife, Susan, gave birth to their second son, last night, around 3:30 AM. Steve had been up for about 18 hours, and they named him Noah. Perfect. If name is any indication of development, this kid is going to be a lady killer. For those of you that don't know, one of my best friends here in sunny Rochester, is named Noah. Yeah, I'll tell you right now, and I'm sure that Noah will thank me later... women love him. Again, he's my hero.

Sorry for that quick sidebar, but another one of my best friends is now married with 2 kids. While I was on the phone with Steve, going back and forth with the congratulations and all that stuff, he said something very poignant. He said, "can you believe I'm married with 2 kids?" My response was this; "uh, no... I never thought you'd make it past 30." Honestly, I didn't. I didn't think either of us would ascertain that life landmark. We were both a couple of rednecks from a redneck town in redneck Southwestern NY. We were hard-drinking, womanizing, getting-in-bar-fights-and-blaming-the-other-guy rednecks. I gotta say... Steve has turned into the family guy. No, I don't mean the TV show... I mean the wife, 2 kids, and stable job family guy. Kinda like my old man.

After hanging up the phone, I couldn't help but think that when my dad was my age, he was juggling a mortgage, 2 car payments, coaching my 13 year-old baseball team, paying for my sister's tap dance lessons, a wife, and a law practice. I'm 34. I can't juggle a job and a bowling league. Did I mention I shot a 300?

Regardless, I'll get this out of the way early in this post. Congratulations Steve and Susan, and welcome to the world Noah. Done.

Having said that, I'll get into the obligatory what-I-did-this-weekend post. Sorry, Chicago girls, it's not really that blog worthy... but I'll do it anyway. It leads me to another point. I'll get into that later.

So, there I was, Friday. I worked with the boss (which was less than a spectacular showing for the Rychkid, by the way), finished up around 3, and called Pat. After the standard, "what's going on?", I got a shocker. "Wanna go to the hockey game tonight?" I haven't hung out with Pat in about 2 months sans girlfriend. "Fuck yeah I do!" I was floored. He's been so wrapped up in hanging out with the girlfriend that we haven't had a beer together, much less been to a hockey game, in, well... let me just say that I had a lot more hair the last time we hung out. Kidding... I had a little more hair the last time we hung out.

Now, I know that Pat reads this thing, so I'll say this... and I say this with a staunch record of unblemished heterosexuality; I missed Pat. There. I think he'll be OK with that. Pat, along with Noah, are the two straightest guys that I know. They'd rather be circumcised by Stevie Wonder than see Brokeback Mountain. Moving on.

I got the tickets. Pat picked me up. We went to the game. Here's the good news; I got to wear my belt that has a flask for a belt buckle, and I did what anyone who owns a belt with a flask with a belt buckle would do; I filled it with Makers Mark. Pat made a good point; he said that most people would go into a store and see that belt and say, "that's pretty cool." I'm the only one that would actually buy it. I'm OK with that, and living by that type of virtue has served me well. So far, at least.

Well, three periods of hockey, a four minute overtime, a shootout, and three 16 ounce Budweiser plastic bottles later, we headed to our old stand-by; Johnny's. Again, for those of you that are not my loyal readers (damn you), it's about my favorite bar on the planet... Vegas bars excluded, of course. Regardless... decent band, but that's not what was great about heading there. I got to see a few people I haven't seen in a while... good stuff. Nancy... great to see you. You're hot. Bummer that we missed Meg.

After a few choice cocktails there, once again the move was to head to the Park Bench... on my beloved Park Avenue. By the way, I'll live here until I die... rent control and employment permitting. I do love that bar, mainly because it's a good cross-section of the populous of Rochester... young, old... whatever. I kind of hate like hell to go downtown because I'm at that stage in life when I look at a girl in the "hip" bars that are down there now, I can't help but think that one of these girls is the baby that my high school girlfriend gave up about a hundred years ago.

Here's a question for you; at what point do you just become too old to do the downtown bar scene? I'll tell you right now; I get annoyed really quickly in that whole area. I get bumped into about every other second, and invariably, one of my friends will return to our circle of friends with some girl that, one, needs a tanning intervention (it's Rochester, NY and the dead of winter for the love of God... you're not supposed to look like you're in the Bahamas), two, has the barest grasp of the English language, and three, although she may be well-versed in the intricacies of finding the perfect shade of lipstick that happens to be the same shade as her overly-tanned face, and how to be-dazzle a jean jacket, I'm looking for just a touch more intellectual stimulation. That's a great backpack, by the way.

Don't get me wrong... I don't think that 34 is old by any stretch of the imagination... it's really just a matter of being too old for that area. You don't want to be that "old guy" in the club. You know the guy that I'm talking about... not old, just a little too old to be in club. If I start wearing a Member's Only jacket, just tap me on the shoulder... I'll know what you mean, and I'll know what to do. I'll quietly leave, gather up the keys to my Camaro (or if it's winter, my Fiero), and take myself home to my single's gated community. I'll then throw a Tony's Pizza For One in the toaster oven, and sit down to finish reading "Dating for One" by Ted Kaczinski. It's a quick read.

Anyway, having said all that... my Saturday and Sunday were pretty uneventful... sorry to disappoint. Saturday I watched TV, and Sunday I watched the Super Bowl by myself. It was great. That's really all I've got at this point.

Am I wrong to think that I'm not at the place I should be in my life? Should I think about my friends being married and having 2 kids and think, "hey, maybe I need to settle down"? Maybe. Maybe I should be trying to settle down and having kids. Maybe I should go back to school and obtain a degree that would be worth a shitload of money to someone. Maybe I should shave my head. Maybe I should quit smoking. Maybe I should put that new David Powter song on my iPod. Maybe I should throw out the rest of this martini.

Nah... on all counts. Not just yet, at least.

Well, I've now been writing for over an hour... time flies when you know you really need to get some sleep. Funny... that made a lot more sense in my head than when I put it in print.

Having said that, I'm going to log off and get some sleep. My thoughts are all getting in the way of each other. Maybe I'm schizophrenic.

Regardless, I'm actually going to log off now. Gotta get some sleep before I go shopping for baby gifts and a new Member's Only jacket.

Maybe she'll call.

Until next time...

R

Papi Chulo and that freaking 6

Well, it just wouldn't be Monday if I didn't put together a good "here's-what-I-did-this-weekend" post, so in the interests of consistency; here you go.

Just as I sat down to write a little something other than what I'm about to write, I got the call from the 5 Dog. The first words out of his mouth were, "big money... can you believe that fucking 6?" The funny thing is I told this story once today to Janell, but again, in the interest of consistency, yada, yada, yada.

This past Saturday, I found myself in a limo with Noah and a few other friends. Now, I have to elaborate on the "few other friends" part of that. The limo was supposed to take me, Noah, and a few other guys up to Niagara Falls to the casino, and see the world renowned Canadian ballet. For those of you that aren't familiar with the ballet, ask someone. Actually, ask someone that was single when you met them, and then got married and hasn't left the house since. You'll soon see their eyes light up with the fond memories of glitter, neon, and eight dollar beers. You'll see them go back in time with their mind, and rewind that mental camcorder that we all store back in that place where our significant others dare not dwell. You'll see them cast their eyes skyward and think about their bachelor party with a limo full of drunken friends (at least one of whom vomited outside the amphitheatre of the aforementioned ballet), and being called upon to enter the stage themselves and revel in their last night of freedom. If you could crawl into that little space of cerebral consciousness and look over the valley that is, in fact, their life, you would be able to see where the wave finally broke, and then eased back into the dark reality of mowing the lawn, bringing your lunch to work instead of the afternoon matinee at Hooters, and Saturday trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond. They may even shed a little tear and say, "yeah (sniffle), I've been there... a long, long time ago." After that little interlude, you'll see them slowly turn, walk away, and wallow in a dark, shallow pond that is their life. But I digress.

Anyway, as we piled in the limo, I found myself surrounded by Noah, a couple other people I knew, and 5 other guys that were friends of a friend, to whom English was a second language. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. For one, I don't know these guys. For two, I don't know what they're saying. And thirdly, because I don't know what they're saying, the suburban Park Avenue white boy is automatically thinking that they're talking about me and where no one will find my body. I must admit, and probably for the first time on this blog; I was dead wrong. There, I said it. Happy? Me too. Let's move on.

These guys were some of the nicest guys I have met in a while. Even though I was a total outsider, they completely accepted me, and embraced the Rychkid as one of their own. As a matter of fact, by the end of the night, they were jokingly calling me, "Papi Chulo." Which, as I understand it; Papi is daddy or big daddy, and chulo is the equivalent of if you were to call someone "big guy." Good stuff.

Anyway, after a couple hours at Niagara Falls's finest ballet, it was time to go. You're probably not going to believe what you read here, but I do not particularly enjoy the ballet. When I go out with my friends, it's for the camaraderie and the fact that I enjoy their company. The ballet is a little annoying in that you can't talk, you're constantly pestered by dancers that want to give you a dance to the tune of $20, and drink prices are outrageous. Anyway, as we were leaving, there was a minor altercation outside the club; not with me or any of my new amigos, but with a couple clowns outside that apparently were disgruntled with the doorman service. Wanna know how I found this out? Lemme tell ya. Let me preface this with the fact that I was wearing distressed DKNY jeans, HD biker boots, a white tab collar tuxedo shirt, and a black Hugo Boss blazer. The emphasis on that previous sentence should be "white tuxedo shirt." One, they're really white. Two, they're really expensive. Having said that; paragraph.

I walked out of the ballet and found myself face to face with some dude that just got popped square in the nose at a point-blank distance of about six inches. Now, bear in mind that I didn't go seek this dude out; I must have been looking elsewhere. Niagara Falls has beautiful scenery as I'm sure you know. Regardless, this poor guy's face looked like something that you would see in one of those post-mortem pictures on CSI. One of the bouncers had punched him in the face... hard. So here I stand, six inches from this guy, and my caring nature magically surfaces. I immediately find myself in my BA in Psychology mode. "Jesus, are you OK?" Now, here's where the really white and really expensive tuxedo shirt comes into play. "Yeah," he says. "One of these assholes just punched me in the face for no reason." He says this statement with emphasis on the word, "punched." Quick sidebar here; before you read on, take a big sip of that coffee or bottled water that you have sitting beside your monitor, leave a little on your lips, and say the word, "punched." Yeah, that's right. This clown's outstanding diction and my giving a shit about this random fine art fan resulted in a spewing of blood all over the front of my really white, really expensive tuxedo shirt. All I could do was look down, say, "ah shit," and slump my way back to the safe confines of the limo. I think I care too much. What a swell guy I am. My parents should be proud.

Well, after that little episode, off to the casino. Apparently we were in desperate need to hemorrhage additional money that night. Well, at least some of us. While Noah and I and a couple other guys headed in to play a little blackjack, the remainder of our party took a well-deserved nap in the aforementioned limo. In their state of mind, it was probably for the best. Besides the alcoholic influence that had overcome them, I don't think the pit boss would have let them sit at a table while they were as "aroused" as they were. Again, it's probably for the best that they stayed in the car. Sorry to paint that rather obscure mental image, but again, it's my blog, and I'll write what I want. So there.

Anyway, because neither Noah nor myself are independently wealthy (at least not until that rich, unknown billionaire relative dies and leaves me with a cattle ranch or oil rig somewhere), we went in search of a $15 blackjack table. We wound up finding one after we sat down at a $25 table, each lost the first hand, then asked the pit boss if they had any lower stakes tables open. Luckily, he pointed us toward a few, and we found one and sat down. Concentrate now, here's where the phone call comes in.

We played a few hands, and because there was an empty seat next to Noah, he was playing two hands at once. He wasn't doing badly at all. He and I pretty much know what we're doing on the felt, and we usually come out ahead... at least a little. Well, as we keep playing, the 5 Dog gets dealt the dream hand. The dealer has a 6 showing, and Noah has a 10 on one hand, and a pair of eights on the other. He doubles the 10 and gets a 6 (I think). Good there. He splits the eights. Good move. He gets 18 on one hand, and I can't remember what he got on the other... I think it was 17, but at that point the cards were getting a little blurry. So now, he's in good shape. One hand doubled with a 16, one hand with an 18, and one hand with a 17. The dealer has a 5 showing. He couldn't have played the hand more perfectly.

Let's remember here that blackjack is a game of odds and a game of chance. It is, however, the only game in the casino where a smart player has a mathematical advantage over the house of about 2%. The odds are definitely in his favor. The dealer complimented him on his play as she turned over her down card. Queen of diamonds. That I remember clearly, because at the moment of truth on that table, you become extremely focused... regardless of the 17 Budweisers you may have consumed at a ballet recital an hour prior. Back to the story. All we need is a 7 or higher and everyone at the table wins. My hero, the 5 Dog, at this point has $90 stacked up in $5 chips just drooling because he knows that he played it right and he's about to clean up on this one hand. I don't think that I even need to write another word to tell you what card came up and fucked us all. That's right... a 9, and we all won. I'm joking, you knuckleheads. If you didn't know that dealer pulled a 6 after the amount of buildup for that story, go find someone, anyone, and ask them to give you a good smack in the chops. A freaking 6. What are the odds. Well, I'll tell you. The odds of that are 13:1. Doesn't that just suck? Don't answer that. Yes, it does suck. That was rhetorical. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we hate to see our heroes fall. It was like watching Superman find a hotter Lois Lane than Margot Kidder and finding out that she has kryptonite fillings in her teeth... or something like that. Needless to say, we were personally offended and left the table. Well, actually, I played the next hand and won, and then left the table, but it was a bummer nonetheless. Another sidebar here... I wound up +$100 for the night... but I didn't feel good about it. Sorry, that was a lie. Thank God, I won some money.

Anyway, we piled back into the limo, and headed for sunny Rochester. We got back around 4:30 A.M., and after a quick stop to pick up a garbage plate at Gitsi's, I hopped in my minivan and headed for my beloved Park Avenue. As much fun as it was, it's always nice to come home to a couch that has my name written all over it. Thank God that there's a dry cleaner right up the street. My blazer smelled like stripper. "Yeah, uh, can you guys get this stripper smell out?" They assured me that they could. Again, it's not that I did, in fact, get a private dance from one of these entertainers... it's the fact that every freaking one of them had to come over and put their arm around me or sit on my lap and tell me how cute I am and that it's only $20 for a dance. Uh, yeah... I'm going to pass... and I'm sure you never, ever tell anyone else how cute they are. Next time I go to one of those joints, I'm going to not shower, dress and smell like a hippie, and chew garlic for the entire ride up there. Still think I'm cute, Destiny? I love stripper names. By the way, if you're with child, and you're kicking around names for your newborn (providing it's female, of course), I'd encourage you to stay away from Destiny, Diamond, Jade, Fantasy or Sweetness. Odds are that they're going to wind up wearing a g-sting with a few dollars crammed up the business side of that thing. But again, I digress.

I think that it goes without saying that I spent the majority of Sunday on the couch. After waking up around the crack of 2 P.M. and pretty much resigning myself to a prone position for the rest of the day, I finally roused myself just in time to check and respond to some emails and catch The Simpsons and Family Guy... two of the best shows on television. If you don't watch either, you're missing out. Just make sure that you change the channel after The Simpsons. Fox's new show, The War at Home, is about the worst thing on network television.

On that note, I hope you heed my advice and I'm going to log off. To be honest, there's a couple other things that I wanted to write about tonight... like how I've been blown off by someone, and at what point is the juice worth the squeeze, but those will both have to wait for another night. For now I'm going to log off. I've got some brushing up on my Spanish that I have to do. Anyone know what cerveza means?

Until next time...

R

Martinis, KISS, and the art of leverage.

Well, friends and neighbors, this weekend I was in the city that never sleeps. The city so nice they named it twice. The big apple. I'm talking, of course, about Omaha, Nebraska. Kidding, folks... I was actually in NYC. I don't know if you know this, but when it rains, New York makes it's own gravy. It's true. Very, very cool. Got some shopping done, went to the legendary CBGB, (for those of you that are unaware, it's the home of underground rock... The Ramones started there, Madonna, Talking heads, etc...), saw a fight that was over with in about four seconds, went to a bar that you need to have an appointment to get into, and had just about the best martini I've ever had in my life... although the martini wasn't at the bar.

I went down to see a couple friends of mine; Darren and Amy. These two are two of my favorite people in the world. Now that we're done with that, let me tell you about Saturday night.

We started out at CBGB... those two were nice enough to bring me down there just so that I could get a picture of the legendary awning. Very f'ing cool. Just think... Joey Ramone probably stood outside and smoked a cigarette (or something) here. Actually, don't bother thinking about that. When The Ramones played there, you could still smoke inside in New York State. Thanks, Pataki.

Regardless, after a four drink and $27 round, we headed off down the street looking for the next place to refresh ourselves with a delicious libation (that's "get a drink" for you non-literary types out there). We grabbed a cab, went a few blocks, and headed out. Wait a minute... I almost forgot. One of the bartenders at CBGB had a very interesting tattoo (among others), and I just had to ask her about it, and, yes, I did get a picture of it. Long story short, after a quick conversation... the nuts and bolts of it were that she said, "Kiss changed my life in 1982," after I asked her about one, well, two of her many body art indulgences, I asked her if she would mind if I snapped a quick picture. She approved. You have to appreciate the commitment and the fact that she's still really enthusiastic about the whole thing. I've got a Jimmy Buffett tattoo that I wish I could get rid of, to be honest. I still love Jimmy and he'll always be my fav, but I just wish that I didn't have the ink that I do. Regardless, you have to see this. Wait no longer... here you go.

Yes, the tattoos on her triceps are "Kiss," and "this." Again, you gotta respect the commitment. If you're ever at CBGB in NYC, check her out. She's very cool. Moving on... once again.

We got out on 3rd Avenue. Wanna know how I know that it was 3rd Avenue? Lemme tell ya. Read on.

After walking a couple blocks from where the cab let us off, we went into some bar that served liters of beer. Well, it was pretty packed and there was no place to sit, so we walked right back out and headed up the street. After walking about 20 yards, I heard the voice. What voice, you ask? The voice of drunk-black blazer-and-backward-baseball-hat-wearing-over-zealous-beer-muscle-boy... henceforth to be known, in the interest of brevity, drunk boy.

Drunk boy yelled, "sir... sir," so we all turned around to realize that he was, in fact, addressing us. He then yelled, "don't ever bump into me again!" We all pretty much said, "whatever," and turned around to continue our quest for a cocktail. Now, I can't remember exactly what was said by drunk boy next, but I distinctly remember Amy yelling something to the tune of "fuck you." Again, I don't recall the exact verbiage. Amy's not really one to keep her mouth shut in cases such as this.

Regardless, drunk boy took particular offense to this. After a little more verbal volleyball, drunk boy began aggressively walking towards us, shouting that he was going to, quote, "break you in half on 3rd Avenue," this statement being directed at Amy. Yeah, I know, real tough guy... gonna start a fight with a girl. Never mind the fact that Amy's about 100 lbs. soaking wet. Well, when this event starts to unfold, I'm not really sure that drunk boy weighed his options. It's him against a girl, but Darren and I are standing right there, and we're both sober. If the name didn't give it away, drunk boy had a couple cocktails in him. Now, granted, you know that I'm not the most physically imposing specimen in the world, but there's still two of me when you count the other guy that I was with, and I'm pretty sure he had my back. As luck would have it, the situation didn't really get that far. Read on.

Again, as you know, and as I've said many a time on this blog including the last paragraph, I'm not the most physically imposing individual on the planet. Darren isn't either, but he's bigger than me. I'm a little taller, but he's got about 25 lbs. on me. Together, we're a fighting machine. Well, I guess if you could somehow glue us together we'd be a fighting machine or something like that. Anyway, it didn't matter just then.

As I was saying, drunk boy was aggressively walking toward us, and Darren stepped in front of him and locked arms. I'll try my best to paint this mental picture for you. The two of them, Darren and drunk boy, were facing each other, and each had his hands under the other's arms. At this point, I was thinking that all Darren had to do was head-butt this clown, but I found out later why he did not, in fact, take this course of action. By the way, I'm to Darren's right at this point, and I'm hoping that I don't have to dot this guy's eye for him. I'd hate like hell to mess up my ring with some dude's incisor. Regardless, Darren put his foot on the outside of drunk boy's foot, and there's no other way to say this, tossed drunk boy sideways about 984 feet. To be honest, it was literally about 5 or 6 feet, but drunk boy caught a bunch of air and it looked like 984 feet. I will admit that 984 is just an estimate. I had unfortunately left my tape measure at CBGB for reasons that I cannot discuss on this blog. Suffice it to say that it's in the bathroom. Moving on.

Short story long, drunk boy landed on the pavement and stayed there... for about 15 seconds or so. We started walking, again in search of libations (see above). Drunk boy mustered the gumption to make it to his feet and commence to yelling, "come back here," and "we're gonna go!!!" We turned around again, saw drunk boy start to run toward us, and (lucky for him) a couple random people grabbed him and ceased the inevitable melee that would undoubtedly have ended in our favor. I'm pretty sure that a drunken four-year old with a lazy eye and bad case of narcolepsy could have KO'd this clown in a matter of seconds. Anyway, we continued our walk, and that was the end of the NYC drunk boy encounter. I think that the next morning when he woke up with pavement scars and bruises that Darren so eloquently administered with a simple knowledge of leverage was enough to curb his liquor-fueled-start-a-fight-with-a-bigger-guy's-wife-penchant for a while. If not, see you next time I'm in the city, loser.

Anyway, after we got liquored up at this place that you need to have an appointment for (I'm not sure if I'm supposed to talk about this or not, so I won't), we headed back to their apartment, at which point began the martini... the best one I've ever had. It was a martini with Tangueray 10, vermouth (obviously), and olives stuffed with blue cheese. Yeah, I know... it doesn't sound too appetizing, but it was awesome. I don't know if it was the perfect blend of top shelf gin and just the right amount of vermouth, but it was awesome. You ever get a drink where you think, "Jesus, if I could make this at home I'd never go out... all I need is to know how to make it"? Yeah? Me too. It was one of those drinks. You and I both know... we'd both still go out. Trust me. As a single guy in upstate NY, I don't really have a choice. Women don't arbitrarily just come to my apartment to see what I've done with two year's worth of wine corks. If they did, I'd either be married or single and really happy. As neither of those is the case, I'll continue to frequent the bar scene.

So that's my story for the weekend. I guess for now I'll log off. It feels like I've written a whole bunch. Whether or not I have done that... I guess I'll find out in the comments section or my email tomorrow. I must get to bed, though. I'm thinking about wandering Park Avenue and trying to bump into someone. I could use some work on my leverage and punching bag skills.

Until next time...

R

Welcome to NY, Johnny. Here's your T-shirt.

I gotta be honest here. When I first heard that the Yanks got Johnny Damon, I was a little skeptical. I mean, I've hated the guy for the last 3 or 4 years... how can I just turn my feelings on and off like that... especially about my beloved Yankees? Well, I guess the only thing to do is welcome Johnny with open arms. After all, he cut that mop of a haircut, shaved off that beard, and actually looks like a professional ball player. He's making the effort, so I guess I can too. As a matter of fact, I found a t-shirt that I just purchased in Johnny's honor. You can get yours here.

Ahhh... feel that? Just another way to stick it in and break it off, Red Sox fans. Good luck with that whole filling in the gaps in your lineup thing. As it stands now, the schlep roaming center field for the Red Sox is Adam Stern. Here's some quick stats on Mr. Stern. He was a standout player at the University of Nebraska, was 2nd team All-Big 12 in 2000, and Academic All-Big 12 in 2001. He hit .321 in 20 games on rehab assignment for Triple A Pawtucket. Sounds like some good stuff, right? By the way, he hit .133 for the Red Sox last year. Best wishes, kid.

Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I like Johnny Damon in the Yanks lineup. He seems like a good clubhouse guy. He's the one that came out and said, "hey, we're just a bunch of idiots." He's one of the best leadoff hitters in the game, and his addition certainly makes the Yanks the team to beat in the AL East.

Again, welcome to New York, Johnny. The new hairdo looks great.

Until next time...

R

Oh My God... It's Chocolatey!

Well, my loyal readers, tonight is going to be a very short post. One, I'm tired. Two, it's late. Three, I have to get up and re-write a bunch of freaking contracts tomorrow, so Daddy needs his sleep.

The thing that I'm really annoyed about today is the jerkoff mayor of New Orleans, The Honorable (I use that term loosely) Mayor Ray Nagin. Mayor Ray (as I like to call him... we're close) addressed New Orleans yesterday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. He had a stunning address laced with racial epithets and prophesized as if he were the second coming. This jackass had the audacity to say that New Orleans will be a "chocolate" city again, and that the city will remain predominantly African-American because (get this) that's what God wants.

The beauty of this statement is that when he was done with his moronic rant, a CNN reporter got a chance to question him regarding his comments. You could tell that this reporter was absolutely drooling to get this jackass's response. Regardless, when he asked what the mayor meant by "chocolate" city, his honor responded with, "if you mix dark chocolate with white milk, you get a delicious drink." Yeah, O.K.... I'm sure that's exactly what you meant when you said that it would be a "chocolate" city and predominantly African-American. I know that every time I walk into a convenience store and buy a chocolate bar, I'm thinking that it's a wonderful blend of dark chocolate and white milk, that used to be a delicious drink, but has now been pasteurized and chemically enhanced to make chocolate. Yeah, and by the way, I have a bridge right on scenic 490 that I'd love to sell you. What an ass. It's funny that this jackass had to come up with something to say on national television, when he knew the minute that he stepped off the podium that he was coming off as a world class ass. Congratulations... mission accomplished.

Here's my big problem with this whole thing; Pat Robertson (another jackass that's now selling age-defying pancakes... honestly... look it up if you don't believe me) said that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres, an openly gay person, danced there. Now, bear in mind, this is the same jackass that recently said that God is punishing Prime Minister Sharon with a brain hemorrhage. I'm just waiting for the day when good 'ol Pat's colostomy bag explodes on live television, and some other lunchbox says that God is punishing him for saying that God is punishing everyone else. I'll tell you this much... God is laughing his ass off at both of these elitist assholes.

Now, my question is this; which one of these jackasses has God on speed dial? You see, you can't have it both ways. Either God wants New Orleans to be predominantly African-American, or God is punishing New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres danced there. The thing here, jackasses, is that you can't have it both ways. The funny thing is this; which one is right? Who's to say that the jackass bigot of a mayor doesn't have God's personal cell phone number, and who's to say that Pat Robertson doesn't grab a quick 18 holes with The Almighty on Sundays before football? The answer is this; neither. Neither one of you assholes knows what God wants, and that's the beauty of religion and belief. It's called blind faith. The catch here is that if you believe that God is a vengeful God, then how long is it before he lays his vengeance upon thee, you jackasses. I'm sure that there's something that you've done that would piss God off. The whole "love thy neighbor" thing is pretty apparent to me right about now.

The trick here is that you have to be a little careful when you start throwing around accusations like, "God is punishing you for, insert whatever you'd like here." The reason that you have to be careful about that shit is that you simply do not know. Unless you've sat down and had a face to face with your maker, the rest is simply speculation. You may have your beliefs, and that's fine. As a matter of fact, that's wonderful... you should. But to go around saying shit like that is just blasphemous. Shame on both of you jackasses.

On that note, I have to get to bed. Like I said, there's way too much to do tomorrow, I need way too much sleep, and it's way too late. Therefore, I think I'd better get to bed. Maybe a nice cup of warm milk will do the trick... I hear it's good with dark chocolate.

Until next time...

R

The Goose, The Rose, and The Hall

Well, my loyal readers, tonight I must pose a question. Now that the holidays are finally behind us, who gave every retail store and shopping mall on the planet the green light to go ahead and start putting up Valentine's Day crap? For crying out loud, every store I've walked into since January 2nd is packed to the gills with red hearts, pounds of chocolate and cutesy little stuffed animals that make me want to start a shooting spree. Good God, people... give us a chance to unwind from the gala pageantry and festive lights that plagued us for the last two months of shopping in retail hell. Did Valentine's Day become part of the "holiday season?" If so, I must have missed a meeting somewhere. What a shame.

It's a shame because if there's any holiday that should be included in the "holiday season," it's St. Patrick's Day. The day in history when Saint Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. My God, what a Freudian dream that was. Regardless, whenever there's a holiday that makes it the norm, rather the expected, to get hammered, I can get on board with that.

Anyway, the reason for the post today is that they announced the men that are going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame today, and the lone inductee is Bruce Sutter. Rich "Goose" Gossage just missed, and I'm bummed about that. The Goose was pretty much the first closer in the history of baseball. He was the man. Back when closers had to get 3, 6, or 9 outs, the Goose was unhittable. Not to take anything away from the closers of today, like Mariano Rivera, but when the Goose got picked up in that Yankee golf cart and driven to the mound, just his sheer presence was enough to make the toughest hitters in the game piss their pants. Granted, he (and Mariano) was a Yankee, and I'm a little biased, but his becoming enshrined into the hall should be a no-brainer, and he's been eligible for 12 years now. But I digress.

The one thing that I found interesting is that Pete Rose, the all time hit leader, got 10 write-in votes. I have mixed feelings about this, and here's why.

One of my fondest childhood memories is sitting in the living room of our first house in Jamestown, NY, on an ottoman, next to my father, sitting in his recliner, drinking a Budweiser, and smoking Terryton cigarettes. It was the middle of summer on a Saturday, and the Yanks had a matinee game against the hated Boston Red Sox. I'm guessing it was 1978, because Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry was on the hill, and in 1978 he was 25-3. Pretty ridiculous. Regardless, I remember my mother coming into the room and asking who was winning. My answer was "we are, 6-2." I can tell you pretty much the entire lineup from that year. Not so much that I watched the Yankees every possible minute, but when I was a kid, I never really had a lot of time with the old man. Hence, when the Yanks had a Saturday game, there I was, and I paid such close attention to the game that I can tell you every player at every position. Just for laughs, let's give it a shot. Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry were starting pitchers. Goose Gossage was the closer. I won't go through the whole lineup, but with names like Mickey Rivers, Chris Chambliss, Thurman Munson, Roy White, Lou Pinella, and the hero of 1978 that virtually ended the Red Sox season that year, Bucky Dent... or as he's known in Boston, Bucky F'ing Dent, you'd be hard pressed to find a lineup to compare. Suck on that one, Boston.

No matter what was going on in our lives at the time, there was always baseball. It was a perfect game with perfect players on a perfect Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, back to the Pete Rose thing. A couple of years later, we had moved, and one summer my whole family took a trip to Cincinnati to see the relatives on my mom's side. By that time I was playing Little League, and was simply enamored of the game. My uncle had scored us tickets to the Reds/Astros game, so I wouldn't have to sit around with my two female cousins... one of whom used to beat the shit out of me, so I was glad to avoid the beatings for a few hours. Although our seats were in the nose bleeds, this was the era of Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tom Seaver. Seaver actually pitched the first inning and a half, but didn't have his stuff that day and got yanked. By the way, Seaver holds the record for most votes to be inducted into the hall of fame with 90%... just thought you'd like to know. The Reds went on to lose the game (I want to say 7-3, but I'm really not sure), but I remember that Johnny Bench was up in the bottom of the 9th, bases jammed, down 4, and struck out. Sorry Cinci.

For those of you that have been living under a rock for the last 15 or so years, the reason that Pete Rose isn't, and most likely won't be, in the hall is this; he bet on the game. He did the one thing that you can't do in professional baseball. It was a time when steroids weren't illegal, and Barry Bonds's head wasn't the size of a beach ball. As long as you went to practice, played your position, didn't kill anybody or bet on the game, you were going to stay in the show. Pete gambled, and lost in more than one way. Although you can go to the hall and see some of his memorabilia and the big poster of him getting his 3,000th hit, you can't go see his plaque; and that's the one that matters.

On the one hand, I get it. He bet. You're not allowed to bet. You don't get in the hall. I get it. I'm not stupid. On the other hand, it's always been my belief that what gets you into the hall is what you do between the lines. It's playing your hardest and using the gift that God gave you to be the best you can be. It's sacrificing your body. It's hours of BP and shagging fly balls. It's fielding hot ground balls that can take an unexpected hop and break your thumb. And lastly, but not least, it's going in head first to home plate for that much needed run, and it's earning the nickname, "Charlie Hustle."

Now, the fact that he bet is crucial here. The people that vote on who gets in are sports writers. They're pencil pushing geeks like me that love the game, but never had the gift to get in the show. They just don't get the game. They don't understand how anyone can just live and breathe the very essence of the game, and that's what's sad. If you've never played, there's no way I can explain it to you. It's something that gets in you, and you just can't shake it. Ask someone who played, and they'll tell you the same thing. However, some hack that was a guest on a local sports talk show said that it's not just based on what you do on the field. He said that it's now based on character, integrity, and essentially how you're viewed as a person. I think that's about the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. If that were the case, Ty Cobb would never set foot in Cooperstown, and Barry Bonds will be bagging groceries in 3 years. Those two are about the biggest assholes that have ever picked up a bat, but Cobb is in, and that jerk Bonds will most likely be in on the first ballot. Can Bonds play the game? Absolutely. He's unbelievably talented. Is Cobb one of the best hitters ever? You bet. Are they assholes? Certainly.

Having said that, I have to believe that Pete Rose should be in the hall. It's called the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's not called the Baseball and Non-Betting Great Guys With Outstanding Character Hall of Super Nice Guys. If it was, I'd be in, and you could go pay $13 to see a plaque of my ugly mug in Cooperstown. On second thought, maybe not. I have been known to go to Vegas and place the occasional wager and drink the occasional beer and get thrown over the occasional table and occasionally dance with a beautiful blonde from California... so maybe I'm not the ideal candidate for the hall.

In short, if Pete Rose doesn't ever get into the hall, I'll just choose to remember his play as if I was still sitting on that ottoman, inhaling second-hand smoke and asking the old man if I can try a sip of his beer... with a perfect game and perfect players.

Anyway, I must be off. Gotta head out shopping and avoid the ultra-red glare of whatever the hell holiday is coming up in a couple of months. Maybe I'll buy a rose.

Until next time...

R