San Franciscans have been through it before: scouring craigslist for a place to live and then showing up at an open-house with about 50 other desperate individuals who are ready, willing and eager to sign their lives away to spend one awful calendar year in a makeshift abode.
They clench copies of credit reports, bank statements, letters of recommendation, proofs of employment, proofs of citizenship, birth certificates, social-security cards and so on and so forth. If this is your first open-house experience, you poor sap, you are likely holding none of these documents, and you certainly do not end up living in said place. Onward and upward.
My two most favorite apartment-hunting stories both involve death, which is pretty cool if you ask me.
First, I knew something wasn't quite right when the building manager came across as being incredibly nervous. Building managers, clad in sweat pants or dirty jeans, care little about their personal appearances. Using this logic, individuals who care little about something as basic as their own face will not have much concern for other things. But can you really blame them? Why try to impress throngs of people when they will clamor over any apartment, regardless of its condition? It's just too easy.
Anyway, he was hiding something. Then he came out with it.
"Um, so, yeah... It's been newly repainted, has clean hardwood floors and... likeImentionedtheprevioustenantdiedherebecauseofaheartattack. The front room also gets great sunlight in the afternoon."
"Whoa, whoa! Did you just say this place is vacant because someone died here?"
"Huh?! Oh, that? Well, I mean, yeah, technically... I think we have to tell you that, you know? Like, obligated or something. But yeah. Yes."
"Bye."
For the second story, I beg of you to remember this: do not tour, consider living in or live in apartments that are next to, across the street from, above, in or part of transvestite strip clubs. These are usually not the safest areas in town.
The building manager wore coke-bottle glasses and was cross-eyed to the point where he could carefully examine the pimples on his nose. Unlike the man in the first story, this guy was not nervous at all, but instead was just a really creepy person.
"Just repainted the entire thing. New paint all over. We don't require a security deposit. Or a credit report. Or a background check."
***WARNING!*** If you ever, ever, ever hear these words, turn and leave immediately. Start screaming and running and pay the transvestite strippers and hookers on the corner no mind as you make your way home to safety.
I did not heed such advice, primarily because I had never received such advice. Bummer. So I went up to see the room, and when I say the place was a murder scene, I mean the place was a murder scene. The "new paint" was haphazardly thrown on walls, minus the one wall that surely needed it most - a wall with a huge blood spray on it. A freaking blood spray. The spray was strewn in an arc that led up to the ceiling, and then I noticed the chandelier also had blood flecks covering it, inside and out.
"Fresh paint, huh? What the hell is this then?"
"Oh. Well I'll be... That there must be wine. Yup, gotta be the vino."
"Bye."
Never Ever Sleep With Candles
In the summer of 2006, my younger brother and I decided to drive the 600 miles from Detroit to Manchester, Tenn., for the Bonnaroo Music Festival.
We may as well have not packed clothes (God knows we wouldn't have been the only ones), for Tennessee is not all that chilly in June. With little more than a van, a tent, some crackers and select beverages, we prepared for something we were so very unprepared for.
For those who have been, you know Bonnaroo is quite a ridiculous scene. You are all too familiar with 21st-century hippies, stark-white/translucent nudists covered in mud, overflowing port-a-potties and the sheer visual calamity of drug-addled masses. But in those four hazy, dirty, downright filthy days, you also probably saw and heard some great musical performances, which, after all, is what brought you to a 700-acre farm in Tennessee, right?
After setting up our tent the wrong way (and deciding not to do it over again correctly), Drew and I found out just how muggy, sweltering and disgusting Tennessee, or any place for that matter, can get. That evening, behemoth mosquitoes came out of the fields and forests with rebel force.
All Drew and I had to protect and defend ourselves was our poorly constructed tent and two citronella candles, which we at first wielded, which we then swung around like light sabers, which ultimately failed us quite miserably. We were being consumed.
So what would have been the next logical solution? Sleep in the car or a port-a-potty, perhaps? Barter with nearby hippie hoards for mosquito repellent? Smear mud all over ourselves as a cloaking agent?
Unfortunately we didn't consider a single one of these. No, instead we chose to zip ourselves in our tent with the citronella candles. Smart!
Sometime around 4 a.m. Drew and I completely passed out, exhausted, tattered with bites and probably a couple quarts shy of the average or preferred human-blood level. The blood feast was one that would have made the Red Cross jealous, and we later felt the itchy repercussions.
I was the first to come to, and I immediately noticed the remnants of the citronella candles lying next to me, smoldering in a black pile of ashes. Those candles had burned like cannon fire all night, and had completely torched themselves into oblivion... all within the confines of our tent. How the entire thing didn't burn to the ground is beyond my comprehension.
When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I noticed a thick black film on my fingers. And then I saw poor Drew and his face. Oh, his face!
I soon realized we had slept in a smoke incubator throughout night. Drew's face was just absolutely tarnished, completely covered in soot. He looked like he was wearing one of those mud masks you get at a spa, or had been up all night sweeping Tennessee's chimneys, or had been mining for coal deep within the bowels of the earth, or was some sort of human phoenix birthed from the ashes of his former fiery self.
He awoke, and the whites of his eyes had the most magnificent contrast with the sheer blackness of his soiled face. And then he saw me! I had the same thing going on! We thought this was hilarious, but then were dismayed at how stupid we were/are. We started coughing and blowing our noses and discovered the soot was not just on us, but in us as well. Our noses, our throats, our lungs, our eyes, our ears, under our nails.
Since there is little to no water at Bonnaroo, we washed ourselves with Budweiser, which made even less sense, and only attracted other creepy-crawly things in the coming days.
We may as well have not packed clothes (God knows we wouldn't have been the only ones), for Tennessee is not all that chilly in June. With little more than a van, a tent, some crackers and select beverages, we prepared for something we were so very unprepared for.
For those who have been, you know Bonnaroo is quite a ridiculous scene. You are all too familiar with 21st-century hippies, stark-white/translucent nudists covered in mud, overflowing port-a-potties and the sheer visual calamity of drug-addled masses. But in those four hazy, dirty, downright filthy days, you also probably saw and heard some great musical performances, which, after all, is what brought you to a 700-acre farm in Tennessee, right?
After setting up our tent the wrong way (and deciding not to do it over again correctly), Drew and I found out just how muggy, sweltering and disgusting Tennessee, or any place for that matter, can get. That evening, behemoth mosquitoes came out of the fields and forests with rebel force.
All Drew and I had to protect and defend ourselves was our poorly constructed tent and two citronella candles, which we at first wielded, which we then swung around like light sabers, which ultimately failed us quite miserably. We were being consumed.
So what would have been the next logical solution? Sleep in the car or a port-a-potty, perhaps? Barter with nearby hippie hoards for mosquito repellent? Smear mud all over ourselves as a cloaking agent?
Unfortunately we didn't consider a single one of these. No, instead we chose to zip ourselves in our tent with the citronella candles. Smart!
Sometime around 4 a.m. Drew and I completely passed out, exhausted, tattered with bites and probably a couple quarts shy of the average or preferred human-blood level. The blood feast was one that would have made the Red Cross jealous, and we later felt the itchy repercussions.
I was the first to come to, and I immediately noticed the remnants of the citronella candles lying next to me, smoldering in a black pile of ashes. Those candles had burned like cannon fire all night, and had completely torched themselves into oblivion... all within the confines of our tent. How the entire thing didn't burn to the ground is beyond my comprehension.
When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I noticed a thick black film on my fingers. And then I saw poor Drew and his face. Oh, his face!
I soon realized we had slept in a smoke incubator throughout night. Drew's face was just absolutely tarnished, completely covered in soot. He looked like he was wearing one of those mud masks you get at a spa, or had been up all night sweeping Tennessee's chimneys, or had been mining for coal deep within the bowels of the earth, or was some sort of human phoenix birthed from the ashes of his former fiery self.
He awoke, and the whites of his eyes had the most magnificent contrast with the sheer blackness of his soiled face. And then he saw me! I had the same thing going on! We thought this was hilarious, but then were dismayed at how stupid we were/are. We started coughing and blowing our noses and discovered the soot was not just on us, but in us as well. Our noses, our throats, our lungs, our eyes, our ears, under our nails.
Since there is little to no water at Bonnaroo, we washed ourselves with Budweiser, which made even less sense, and only attracted other creepy-crawly things in the coming days.
Timber!
So I broke my first chair. And let me tell you, there's nothing quite like taking something so commonplace for granted - such as your seat - and then spontaneously plummeting toward the earth... all before 9 a.m.
Talk about a rude awakening.
Sad story. This, probably the culmination of my weight, has been a strange and trying time. Truth be told, there is probably no way to feel good about breaking a chair, especially an office chair that was designed for long-term use by fatsos. Yes, it seems I, too, have taken durability to school. And it don't feel all that great.
While reading the newspaper, I suddenly found myself staring at the ceiling, falling backward, to the side, then down, down, down, until finally the ground was left with no other option than to try its turn at holding me up.
Now, it's one thing to break a chair, and it's another thing to break a chair in a crowded conference room. People tend to notice something like this. Those astute pricks. Carry on! Pay me no mind! So what if the ass of this chair is now detached from the body? I don't know how I did it, but I did it! I'm gonna pick myself up off the floor now, and when my head breaks the surface of this table, it would be swell if I didn't see 12 faces staring at me, k?
Buuuuut no. There you all are. Hi! Yeah, it was me. The chair is now broken. Good morning to you!
Talk about a rude awakening.
Sad story. This, probably the culmination of my weight, has been a strange and trying time. Truth be told, there is probably no way to feel good about breaking a chair, especially an office chair that was designed for long-term use by fatsos. Yes, it seems I, too, have taken durability to school. And it don't feel all that great.
While reading the newspaper, I suddenly found myself staring at the ceiling, falling backward, to the side, then down, down, down, until finally the ground was left with no other option than to try its turn at holding me up.
Now, it's one thing to break a chair, and it's another thing to break a chair in a crowded conference room. People tend to notice something like this. Those astute pricks. Carry on! Pay me no mind! So what if the ass of this chair is now detached from the body? I don't know how I did it, but I did it! I'm gonna pick myself up off the floor now, and when my head breaks the surface of this table, it would be swell if I didn't see 12 faces staring at me, k?
Buuuuut no. There you all are. Hi! Yeah, it was me. The chair is now broken. Good morning to you!
Readings From the Gospel, According to Al
(Note: I also posted this on Unspun.)
Apparently being a former
The context for this post is Al Gore's recent speech on environmental activism and his incorporation of (brace yourselves) religion into the topic.
Oh no he didn't. Yup, he went there.
On Jan. 31 in
Gore then addressed the state of our environment and delved into how those of the Baptist faith can do their parts in combating global warming by supporting programs like scientific research, green technology, renewable energy, recycling, apocalypses, oracles and prophecies.
Well now you've got my attention, Al.
Using strong verbiage, dramatic pauses, stirring PowerPoint animations and other tools like doctrine, fire and brimstone, Gore then quoted Bible verses to support his save-the-earth message. He also warned of Old Testament-style famines and floods, should earth not clean up its act.
Following are some quotes from Gore's speech and my personal reactions to each.
Exhibit A: "'When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have set in place, Lord, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?' I think that there is a distinct possibility that one of the messages coming out of this gathering and this new covenant is creation care - that we who are Baptists of like mind and attempting in our lives to the best of our abilities to glorify God, are not going to countenance the continued heaping of contempt on God's creation."
Reaction: Whoa. What's with all the Scripture? And can't the fight against global warming be a non-denominational one? What the heck is this?
Exhibit B: "Come, let us reason together and tell one another the truth, inconvenient though it may be, about the crisis, including the opportunity that we now face. The ancient prophet laid the choice before the people. Life or death, blessings or curses. Therefore choose life so both thou and thy seed may live."
Reaction: The "truth, inconvenient though it may be" reference flirts too closely with being a shameless plug for his own documentary (now available on DVD!). Ew, Al.
Exhibit C: "The evidence is there. The signal is on the mountain. The trumpet has blown. The scientists are screaming from the rooftops. The ice is melting. The land is parched. The seas are rising. The storms are getting stronger. Why do we not judge what is right?"
Reaction: Honey, grab the kids and cat and head for high ground! Eternal damnation is upon us! But seriously, I don't like scare tactics. You can just picture the PowerPoint frenzy going on with this one. Yawn.
To be honest, I found a lot of value in "An Inconvenient Truth." Regardless of your political, religious, economic or environmental beliefs, the 30,000-foot view of the documentary's message is a good one: being aware of our earth's health is imperative, and can greatly benefit us and our future generations. After all, they'll have to live here too (unless they ever revive that whole life-on-Mars thing). But messaging that's crafted in the above fashion is very likely to alienate (no pun intended) a majority of your audience - part of which probably agreed with you in the first place. They will then only feel embarrassed for listening to what you originally had to say. Not good.
From a professional standpoint, Al, if you absolutely must attend New Baptist Covenant Celebrations, by golly, spread your arms wide and be broad and all-encompassing! According to your film, we all need to do our parts, not just the Baptists. So why not invite us all to the party?
Sadly, this is not the end of my post.
Perhaps more startling than all of this put together (and then multiplied… by three) is the fact that Gore's presentation was officially closed to all media. "Why?!" you ask. Gore didn't want the PowerPoint slides with Biblical allegories to be leaked on the Internet. (Insert myriad jokes about Al Gore as the creator of Internet here.)
Well then. Where do we begin with this one? For starters, this approach never wins over journalists and other staunch supporters of a little ditty called the First Amendment. On top of that, banning the media creates the allusion that you're hiding behind a murky veil of dishonesty. If you are truthful and confident in all that you do, stand behind your messaging and facts, be transparent and let the knowledge flow.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Goreacle hath spoken.
Look-alikes
All right, let's get this over with since I've managed to let it go unaddressed for eons. The premise is quite simple, something you have all undoubtedly experienced in your lifetimes...
The look-alike.
That is, when a third party believes he/she has uncovered a profound resemblance between your own sad appearance and that of a better-known entity. Sometimes, but not always, this entity is that of a celebrity (OMG!).
Relax, because more times than not, this is an unglamorous revelation. In fact, it can be downright humiliating when this can of worms is opened up in the presence of other people - people who you might not necessarily know - but who are fully capable of comparing your physicality to said public entity. And they're also capable of swooning, laughing or looking mighty perplexed, which are the only three reactions that are possible when a look-alike scenario presents itself.
So enter yours truly and his look-alike story.
Now, the people I know seem to experience the exact opposite of what I continue to experience. They are the dashing, beautiful, memorable, handsome, sultry and sexy actors and actresses who sell tickets, populate marquees and provide lesser people with the necessary motivation to do things like, say, work out.
Then there is what I experience.
What on earth could be possibly be worse than being mistaken for (and/or even remotely resembling in any way, shape or form) Rick Moranis?
"Rick... Moranis?" you cringe. "Lord, probably nothing is worse than that!"
Yes, on several isolated occasions, separate, independent factions have each compared my mug to the likes of the Canadian-born beau who broke millions and millions of hearts through his paternal roles in blockbuster, ahem, "films" like: "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids"; "Honey, I Blew Up the Kid"; "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves"; and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." (What a franchise.)
I am still shocked and dismayed that anyone managed to put this together, because I, myself - who should be the most acclimated with my own unsightliness, right? - did not come to this conclusion before people who are not me. So I Googled "Rick Moranis" and confirmed my fear - right there, practically the first result, was an image of Rick Moranis that looked more like me than him! Aw, are you kidding me?! Come on!
The portrait was/is basically one of my high-school yearbook photos with Rick's name under it. And with glasses added. Horrific, horrific stuff.
No, I will not post any Moranis-centric images at this moment.
The look-alike.
That is, when a third party believes he/she has uncovered a profound resemblance between your own sad appearance and that of a better-known entity. Sometimes, but not always, this entity is that of a celebrity (OMG!).
Relax, because more times than not, this is an unglamorous revelation. In fact, it can be downright humiliating when this can of worms is opened up in the presence of other people - people who you might not necessarily know - but who are fully capable of comparing your physicality to said public entity. And they're also capable of swooning, laughing or looking mighty perplexed, which are the only three reactions that are possible when a look-alike scenario presents itself.
So enter yours truly and his look-alike story.
Now, the people I know seem to experience the exact opposite of what I continue to experience. They are the dashing, beautiful, memorable, handsome, sultry and sexy actors and actresses who sell tickets, populate marquees and provide lesser people with the necessary motivation to do things like, say, work out.
Then there is what I experience.
What on earth could be possibly be worse than being mistaken for (and/or even remotely resembling in any way, shape or form) Rick Moranis?
"Rick... Moranis?" you cringe. "Lord, probably nothing is worse than that!"
Yes, on several isolated occasions, separate, independent factions have each compared my mug to the likes of the Canadian-born beau who broke millions and millions of hearts through his paternal roles in blockbuster, ahem, "films" like: "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids"; "Honey, I Blew Up the Kid"; "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves"; and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." (What a franchise.)
I am still shocked and dismayed that anyone managed to put this together, because I, myself - who should be the most acclimated with my own unsightliness, right? - did not come to this conclusion before people who are not me. So I Googled "Rick Moranis" and confirmed my fear - right there, practically the first result, was an image of Rick Moranis that looked more like me than him! Aw, are you kidding me?! Come on!
The portrait was/is basically one of my high-school yearbook photos with Rick's name under it. And with glasses added. Horrific, horrific stuff.
No, I will not post any Moranis-centric images at this moment.
The Awful Elephant
Every time you are at Elephant & Castle you wonder why you are at Elephant & Castle. It is consistently the poorest option. Really, this place is no place for anything.
Elephant & Castle has all of the traditional sucky-bar traits (poor service, it's nearly impossible to get a drink, loud as hell, overpriced/bad food, uncomfortable environment, etc.), but it also has the suckiest trump card of all up its sleeve.
Trivia.
Now, I used to be a big advocate for bar trivia. It used to be fun. It used to engage people (strangers even!). That is, until Elephant & Castle killed it.
Yes, bar trivia is dead. Elephant & Castle decided to make Thursday nights trivia nights, and that's when they lost the limited patronage they once had. See, trivia should probably be held on any day from Monday to Wednesday. By the time Thursday evening rolls around, haggard Financial District professionals break out of the woodwork in full force to drown their sorrows and forget about their trite careers and, well, lives. Not to play trivia.
Even after taking all of this into consideration, Elephant & Castle might have saved face had they chosen their trivia moderator wisely. But they didn't. No, instead they chose some British dude who is very much tone deaf. Conversations are frequently interrupted by a monotone, soggy drawl, which is downright blasted throughout the bar's speakers. And, yes, no one is playing.
"This musician starred in an '80s fantasy film with a teenage Jennifer Connelly. Teams, your answers please..."
(There are no teams.)
"David Bowie... The answer was David Bowie... Teams? David Bowie... David... Bowie... Two points if you had David Bowie."
(People start to ponder various ways to kill themselves.)
"This was the supercontinent that existed 250 million years ago. Yes, 250 million years ago, this supercontinent existed. Teams?"
(A craving for more alcohol consumes all patrons. They contemplate satisfying the urge elsewhere.)
"Pangaea. The correct response was Pangaea. That's P-A-N, G-A, E-A. Pangaea. Two points for Pangaea."
(People file out of the bar.)
Elephant & Castle has all of the traditional sucky-bar traits (poor service, it's nearly impossible to get a drink, loud as hell, overpriced/bad food, uncomfortable environment, etc.), but it also has the suckiest trump card of all up its sleeve.
Trivia.
Now, I used to be a big advocate for bar trivia. It used to be fun. It used to engage people (strangers even!). That is, until Elephant & Castle killed it.
Yes, bar trivia is dead. Elephant & Castle decided to make Thursday nights trivia nights, and that's when they lost the limited patronage they once had. See, trivia should probably be held on any day from Monday to Wednesday. By the time Thursday evening rolls around, haggard Financial District professionals break out of the woodwork in full force to drown their sorrows and forget about their trite careers and, well, lives. Not to play trivia.
Even after taking all of this into consideration, Elephant & Castle might have saved face had they chosen their trivia moderator wisely. But they didn't. No, instead they chose some British dude who is very much tone deaf. Conversations are frequently interrupted by a monotone, soggy drawl, which is downright blasted throughout the bar's speakers. And, yes, no one is playing.
"This musician starred in an '80s fantasy film with a teenage Jennifer Connelly. Teams, your answers please..."
(There are no teams.)
"David Bowie... The answer was David Bowie... Teams? David Bowie... David... Bowie... Two points if you had David Bowie."
(People start to ponder various ways to kill themselves.)
"This was the supercontinent that existed 250 million years ago. Yes, 250 million years ago, this supercontinent existed. Teams?"
(A craving for more alcohol consumes all patrons. They contemplate satisfying the urge elsewhere.)
"Pangaea. The correct response was Pangaea. That's P-A-N, G-A, E-A. Pangaea. Two points for Pangaea."
(People file out of the bar.)
Hold on! It's Muni Time!
San Franciscans are all too familiar with Muni and its various forms of public transportation. But the Muni Bus offers something that the rest do not...
Utter chaos.
Simply put, Muni Bus is a carnival on wheels. And the most entertaining routes that never disappoint are the ones that run in the hilliest parts of the city. Oh, and Chinatown.
Now, I did say that San Franciscans are familiar with Muni's existence, but I did not say that they're familiar with how to ride Muni.
Ride the 1 California line and you are in for the biggest treat of them all.
Take a moment to picture your most favorite roller coaster from childhood. Got it? Good. Now, you know the cars they strapped you into? Replace them with a giant bus. A Muni Bus. Push "play" and picture that same roller coaster resuming its normal, curvy course.
This is what the 1 California line is like.
With people packed in like sardines - sardines without seat belts - the Muni Bus makes its ascent up the steep hill. One would assume that the daily riders of this route are savvy, quasi-athletic folks who've a great sense of self and the most stable centers of gravity.
That ain't the case.
When the bus hits the hill you will see approximately 40 uber-surprised individuals flying to the back of the bus, colliding with each other like someone has just broke a fresh set of pool balls. They go everywhere.
Through the windows they are only able to see slanted buildings and blue sky ahead of them. Briefcases are dropped; lunches tumble out of plastic bags; someone invariably almost steps on an apple; a small, elderly woman and/or young boy gets stampeded; strangers embrace awkwardly; and a LED marquee at the front of the bus flashes a message in blood-red text - "PLEASE HOLD ON!" Yes, in caps.
Then the plateau. Everything is quiet when the wreckage bears its ugly head. Disheveled people try to put themselves back together and gather their stray articles. In this moment, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, everyone - everyone - forgets about the sharp dive that's still to come.
The nose of the bus lowers, and we come over the crest to see the street disappear underneath the vessel. Then the opposite of everything that just happened happens. People are thrown forward with mercurial force, and by now the bus driver is laughing uncontrollably. Tumbling fools catch glimpse of the LED marquee that is still taunting them with its message...
And they want to murder inertia.
When the bus finally reaches the valley, smoke, steam and hatred practically spew and seep from the bus' crevices. The doors open and people fall out, in no way ready for the workday that awaits them all.
Utter chaos.
Simply put, Muni Bus is a carnival on wheels. And the most entertaining routes that never disappoint are the ones that run in the hilliest parts of the city. Oh, and Chinatown.
Now, I did say that San Franciscans are familiar with Muni's existence, but I did not say that they're familiar with how to ride Muni.
Ride the 1 California line and you are in for the biggest treat of them all.
Take a moment to picture your most favorite roller coaster from childhood. Got it? Good. Now, you know the cars they strapped you into? Replace them with a giant bus. A Muni Bus. Push "play" and picture that same roller coaster resuming its normal, curvy course.
This is what the 1 California line is like.
With people packed in like sardines - sardines without seat belts - the Muni Bus makes its ascent up the steep hill. One would assume that the daily riders of this route are savvy, quasi-athletic folks who've a great sense of self and the most stable centers of gravity.
That ain't the case.
When the bus hits the hill you will see approximately 40 uber-surprised individuals flying to the back of the bus, colliding with each other like someone has just broke a fresh set of pool balls. They go everywhere.
Through the windows they are only able to see slanted buildings and blue sky ahead of them. Briefcases are dropped; lunches tumble out of plastic bags; someone invariably almost steps on an apple; a small, elderly woman and/or young boy gets stampeded; strangers embrace awkwardly; and a LED marquee at the front of the bus flashes a message in blood-red text - "PLEASE HOLD ON!" Yes, in caps.
Then the plateau. Everything is quiet when the wreckage bears its ugly head. Disheveled people try to put themselves back together and gather their stray articles. In this moment, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, everyone - everyone - forgets about the sharp dive that's still to come.
The nose of the bus lowers, and we come over the crest to see the street disappear underneath the vessel. Then the opposite of everything that just happened happens. People are thrown forward with mercurial force, and by now the bus driver is laughing uncontrollably. Tumbling fools catch glimpse of the LED marquee that is still taunting them with its message...
And they want to murder inertia.
When the bus finally reaches the valley, smoke, steam and hatred practically spew and seep from the bus' crevices. The doors open and people fall out, in no way ready for the workday that awaits them all.
Words From a Funeral
You know, I wrote this last night and wasn't even sure I'd end up reading it today. Please bear with me.
Earlier this week, Molly asked us grandchildren what memories of grandma we will carry with us. I immediately thought of three specific scenarios, which will hopefully lighten our spirits a bit since I will always remember Katy as a fun, warm and sociable woman.
First, in my mind I still picture her at the Higgins Lake cottage, sitting out back on the patio in one of the green swinging couches. Nine times out of 10 she had a choice beverage in her hand that she told us kids was "iced tea." By the time I was 11, I learned that iced tea was, give or take, only half the contents of her glass. I also learned that when the words "long" and "island" are placed in front of "iced tea," it's an entirely different ballgame. And a much more enjoyable one at that. So I cheers you on that note, grandma.
Secondly, when doctors prescribed grandma calcium supplements to help strengthen her bones, we were all a bit confused as to why she started carrying around a seemingly endless supply of vitamin C pills in her purse. "Doctor's orders!" she said. That's when we had to politely explain to grandma that the "C" in "vitamin C" does not stand for calcium. She thought this was hilarious, so bless her for that. And to her credit, the doctor should have been more specific. Sorry if you're here, doc.
Finally, I remember the questioning but loving looks grandma gave us grandchildren once (who, mind you, were probably on the verge of a sugar- or caffeine-induced comatose) as we gathered around the stereo, got out Storm Front's lyrics sheet, turned the volume on full blast and attempted to belt out every single word of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire." And all of this at 10 a.m.! "We did not start this fire, grandma... It was always burning." We're sorry about that one, Katy.
We love you big.
Earlier this week, Molly asked us grandchildren what memories of grandma we will carry with us. I immediately thought of three specific scenarios, which will hopefully lighten our spirits a bit since I will always remember Katy as a fun, warm and sociable woman.
First, in my mind I still picture her at the Higgins Lake cottage, sitting out back on the patio in one of the green swinging couches. Nine times out of 10 she had a choice beverage in her hand that she told us kids was "iced tea." By the time I was 11, I learned that iced tea was, give or take, only half the contents of her glass. I also learned that when the words "long" and "island" are placed in front of "iced tea," it's an entirely different ballgame. And a much more enjoyable one at that. So I cheers you on that note, grandma.
Secondly, when doctors prescribed grandma calcium supplements to help strengthen her bones, we were all a bit confused as to why she started carrying around a seemingly endless supply of vitamin C pills in her purse. "Doctor's orders!" she said. That's when we had to politely explain to grandma that the "C" in "vitamin C" does not stand for calcium. She thought this was hilarious, so bless her for that. And to her credit, the doctor should have been more specific. Sorry if you're here, doc.
Finally, I remember the questioning but loving looks grandma gave us grandchildren once (who, mind you, were probably on the verge of a sugar- or caffeine-induced comatose) as we gathered around the stereo, got out Storm Front's lyrics sheet, turned the volume on full blast and attempted to belt out every single word of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire." And all of this at 10 a.m.! "We did not start this fire, grandma... It was always burning." We're sorry about that one, Katy.
We love you big.
Please. Don't... Move
[rant]Really, don't. No big deal. I'll go around. No need to for you to pay attention or acknowledge someone other than yourself, so, so just walk right into me, k? There ya go. See that felt nice. That was sorta like a little hug without the embracing part. Thanks.
What in the eff, you stupid frigging people? I exist. So start acting like it.
It seems that now, more than ever, the average shmuck is a lowly individual with little or no courtesy, manners or sensibility. This is stuff that should've died out in the '50s for Christ's sake. We claim to have evolved and become uber-intellectuals, right? So what gives?
Here are a few simple tips to help you suck less:
1 a. When you walk on sidewalks in crowded cities, look up. Looking down at your shoes will cause you to, ready?, run into other people (me), which is considered rude. So if you are about to run into someone, don't.
1 b. When walking on sidewalks or in public places, please stay to the right. Last time I checked it's still how the traffic of anything and everything in America is organized. As much as you might hate conformity, please don't go against the grain.
2. Upon opening a door, look behind you to see if there is another life form who might need to use the same door. If it looks to be that way, hold the door for him/her. Getting bludgeoned with a door is no fun, especially when you're holding a hot beverage.
3. Before entering something that has sliding doors (i.e. elevators, subways, buses), let those in the contraption out before you go in. Shocking concept, I know, but this one in particular has spiraled out of control. No need to stampede and trample children. You'll get in, I promise.
4. If it's raining and you are carrying an umbrella, please be aware of its size. Umbrellas are freaking huge, and they increase the amount of space you take up on this earth. And they can poke, stab and hit people when you move too quickly or wander aimlessly.
5. If you are walking in a group (more than three people), you are probably taking up the entire sidewalk and, no, you are not the only ones who need to use it. Get organized, and stop bogarting space.[/rant]
I Committed Bunnycide
What's cuter than bunnies? Let's be honest, probably nothing is cuter than bunnies. So you'll understand the heartbreaking nature of this sad-but-true tale, in which I play both the protagonist and the antagonist (and the executioner!).
One of my summer jobs in college was working with the maintenance "crew" at a local airport. As the sole member of the one-man "crew," it was I who was responsible for cutting roughly 150 acres of grass on a weekly basis. Fun stuff.
It took me almost no time to master the lawn mower (a Scag Tiger Cub), which guzzled diesel gasoline like Gatorade and pumped some awful black stuff back out into the environment. But I loved riding that polluter around on hot summer afternoons. Airplane mechanics took great pride in making fun of my pale complexion and slender build, and they taught me much of what I needed to know about the job. Much, but not all.
What they had failed to tell me was that I should pay special attention to certain areas of the airport grounds, as they are home to several species of wild animals. Guess I should've seen that one coming.
I had become quite skilled at rounding corners, turning on a dime, cutting in alternating swaths, avoiding damp soil, identifying troublesome objects (such as boulders, rocks and roots) - the whole nine yards. I was an artist, and even I admired my work.
But not for too long.
It all came crashing down one day when I drove the mower a little too quickly through a heavy patch of grass. While going over the patch, I heard what I believed to be the sound of sticks snapping in the blades and saw what I thought to be dandelions shooting out from the mower. But upon returning, I got a clear view of what I had just destroyed.
Something was moving beneath the grass shavings. And then I saw them. Below me lay the disfigured remnants of a litter of bunnies, writhing in a messy, glossy pool of red, brown and green. Pieces of them and their unstrung fur coats were strewn about everywhere. I had killed something like a baker's dozen of bunnies that were alive and young just a few moments before I had crossed their paths, and all I could do was shut off the mower and hate myself forever.
I didn't last much longer at that job.
So sorry, bunnies. I can't look at you guys the same as I once did. Please forgive the lawn-mower man.
One of my summer jobs in college was working with the maintenance "crew" at a local airport. As the sole member of the one-man "crew," it was I who was responsible for cutting roughly 150 acres of grass on a weekly basis. Fun stuff.
It took me almost no time to master the lawn mower (a Scag Tiger Cub), which guzzled diesel gasoline like Gatorade and pumped some awful black stuff back out into the environment. But I loved riding that polluter around on hot summer afternoons. Airplane mechanics took great pride in making fun of my pale complexion and slender build, and they taught me much of what I needed to know about the job. Much, but not all.
What they had failed to tell me was that I should pay special attention to certain areas of the airport grounds, as they are home to several species of wild animals. Guess I should've seen that one coming.
I had become quite skilled at rounding corners, turning on a dime, cutting in alternating swaths, avoiding damp soil, identifying troublesome objects (such as boulders, rocks and roots) - the whole nine yards. I was an artist, and even I admired my work.
But not for too long.
It all came crashing down one day when I drove the mower a little too quickly through a heavy patch of grass. While going over the patch, I heard what I believed to be the sound of sticks snapping in the blades and saw what I thought to be dandelions shooting out from the mower. But upon returning, I got a clear view of what I had just destroyed.
Something was moving beneath the grass shavings. And then I saw them. Below me lay the disfigured remnants of a litter of bunnies, writhing in a messy, glossy pool of red, brown and green. Pieces of them and their unstrung fur coats were strewn about everywhere. I had killed something like a baker's dozen of bunnies that were alive and young just a few moments before I had crossed their paths, and all I could do was shut off the mower and hate myself forever.
I didn't last much longer at that job.
So sorry, bunnies. I can't look at you guys the same as I once did. Please forgive the lawn-mower man.
The Biggest Compliment of My Life (Happened in a Dentist's Office)
There's been a whole lotta writing about teeth lately, huh? This one warrants some words. Sorta.
After going a year and a half with no - I repeat - no dental examination, I felt it was time to surrender myself to the awkward waiting rooms, blinding lights and stainless-steel prods I had been avoiding so well for so long.
First, I should mention that I have a poor track record when it comes to winning dentists' opinions. As a child, my brother and I would always have back-to-back appointments, and while his teeth garnered rave reviews ("Andrew, such a pleasure to see you! Have you kept good care of our favorite pearly-whites?!"), mine, sadly, were not as well received ("David, how many times do we have to tell you to brush your teeth?").
And the worst part was that I brushed them religiously! You could set your watch to my dental regimen. It was my brother who never brushed! He would even go as far as polishing off a bag of Skittles in bed the night before a dental examination! The situation could not have been more unjust.
That is, until recently.
Up until a week ago only one other dentist in the entire world had seen my teeth, so I had my concerns. (What if she doesn't understand my teeth like my old dentist did? Will she hate them? Have I stepped up my brushing game enough? And I know I hate, hate, hate flossing, but I've been doing it more regularly. I mean, haven't I? Oh God, I haven't! I think I skipped last Saturday! And I think I forgot to do the bottom teeth yesterday! That would explain why something's lodged down there!)
But when I sat in the chair and opened my mouth an unequivocal expression of fulfillment came over my new dentist. A lifelong search had ended. Beams of light emitted from every tooth. Choirs sang. Kittens mewed. Time itself stood still to honor the triumphant moment I was about to have. It was glorious.
She set down her tools and took off her rubber gloves, dabbing her brow with a blue handkerchief. She poised herself for what she was about to say.
(Small Hispanic woman saying the following) "Mr. Wendland, I have to say... In all my years as a dentist I have never, ever come across a set of teeth quite like yours. The are... how do I say?... magnificent."
E gads! Was this really happening?! Was this some sort of cruel prank dialed in by my former, crueler dentist, or perhaps my brother?
(Getting misty-eyed) "When such care is given to teeth, it reminds me of how good they are able look. You, Mr. Wendland, have taken exceptional care of your teeth, and I am so very pleased you came into my office today."
She really meant it! Holy cow! This was the moment I had waited so long for! (Are they really that great? I mean, I do brush - or try to brush - twice daily. Sure, sometimes it's once. Maybe she just sees a lot of homeless or wayward folks or meth-heads who don't own an actual toothbrush and have to use their fingers instead? Ever tried that? Doesn't really get the deep cleaning done.) Hooray!
I consider this the biggest compliment I have ever received in my lifetime. Call it lame, that's fine with me, but I can say that the joy this dentist brought me by ending years of mental angst and frustration is something that is hard to describe.
After going a year and a half with no - I repeat - no dental examination, I felt it was time to surrender myself to the awkward waiting rooms, blinding lights and stainless-steel prods I had been avoiding so well for so long.
First, I should mention that I have a poor track record when it comes to winning dentists' opinions. As a child, my brother and I would always have back-to-back appointments, and while his teeth garnered rave reviews ("Andrew, such a pleasure to see you! Have you kept good care of our favorite pearly-whites?!"), mine, sadly, were not as well received ("David, how many times do we have to tell you to brush your teeth?").
And the worst part was that I brushed them religiously! You could set your watch to my dental regimen. It was my brother who never brushed! He would even go as far as polishing off a bag of Skittles in bed the night before a dental examination! The situation could not have been more unjust.
That is, until recently.
Up until a week ago only one other dentist in the entire world had seen my teeth, so I had my concerns. (What if she doesn't understand my teeth like my old dentist did? Will she hate them? Have I stepped up my brushing game enough? And I know I hate, hate, hate flossing, but I've been doing it more regularly. I mean, haven't I? Oh God, I haven't! I think I skipped last Saturday! And I think I forgot to do the bottom teeth yesterday! That would explain why something's lodged down there!)
But when I sat in the chair and opened my mouth an unequivocal expression of fulfillment came over my new dentist. A lifelong search had ended. Beams of light emitted from every tooth. Choirs sang. Kittens mewed. Time itself stood still to honor the triumphant moment I was about to have. It was glorious.
She set down her tools and took off her rubber gloves, dabbing her brow with a blue handkerchief. She poised herself for what she was about to say.
(Small Hispanic woman saying the following) "Mr. Wendland, I have to say... In all my years as a dentist I have never, ever come across a set of teeth quite like yours. The are... how do I say?... magnificent."
E gads! Was this really happening?! Was this some sort of cruel prank dialed in by my former, crueler dentist, or perhaps my brother?
(Getting misty-eyed) "When such care is given to teeth, it reminds me of how good they are able look. You, Mr. Wendland, have taken exceptional care of your teeth, and I am so very pleased you came into my office today."
She really meant it! Holy cow! This was the moment I had waited so long for! (Are they really that great? I mean, I do brush - or try to brush - twice daily. Sure, sometimes it's once. Maybe she just sees a lot of homeless or wayward folks or meth-heads who don't own an actual toothbrush and have to use their fingers instead? Ever tried that? Doesn't really get the deep cleaning done.) Hooray!
I consider this the biggest compliment I have ever received in my lifetime. Call it lame, that's fine with me, but I can say that the joy this dentist brought me by ending years of mental angst and frustration is something that is hard to describe.
Update: Rest of World Just as Confused About Toothbrushes
Since our last foray into contemporary dental hygiene, I received some reaffirming feedback from a friend who currently resides halfway around the world. Her message to us, from Australia with love, is this: the rest of planet earth is equally perplexed about the toothbrush conundrum. Ladies and gents, it appears we have an intercontinental caper on our hands.
For anonymity's sake, we'll refer to her as Cuspid for this post.
"I went to look for a new toothbrush the other day, and it took me a good 20 minutes to settle on one," said Cuspid. "And then I had to choose my color! There were so many combinations. Am I a pink and yellow kind of girl? What does purple and green say about me? And what combination screams 'No!' to plaque?"
So Americans aren't the only sad souls spending fortnights in the toothbrush aisle! Oh, what a relief! Can you imagine if we were to add the collective man hours wasted on deliberating over toothbrushes? Had there been just one model and one color - only one option - we'd probably have cured certain diseases and ended wars by now (excluding gum disease and the war on plaque, of course). But no! We love selection!
In the end, Cuspid chose a baby-blue toothbrush fully equipped with gum massagers to roll, knead and do all sorts of crazy stuff to her gums. And is she happy with her choice?
"I have to say it's worth it," said Cuspid. "I never knew such a level of pleasure was possible with one's gums."
Cuspid, here's to your next checkup!
For anonymity's sake, we'll refer to her as Cuspid for this post.
"I went to look for a new toothbrush the other day, and it took me a good 20 minutes to settle on one," said Cuspid. "And then I had to choose my color! There were so many combinations. Am I a pink and yellow kind of girl? What does purple and green say about me? And what combination screams 'No!' to plaque?"
So Americans aren't the only sad souls spending fortnights in the toothbrush aisle! Oh, what a relief! Can you imagine if we were to add the collective man hours wasted on deliberating over toothbrushes? Had there been just one model and one color - only one option - we'd probably have cured certain diseases and ended wars by now (excluding gum disease and the war on plaque, of course). But no! We love selection!
In the end, Cuspid chose a baby-blue toothbrush fully equipped with gum massagers to roll, knead and do all sorts of crazy stuff to her gums. And is she happy with her choice?
"I have to say it's worth it," said Cuspid. "I never knew such a level of pleasure was possible with one's gums."
Cuspid, here's to your next checkup!
One, Two, Too Many Toothbrushes
Have you been to a drug store lately? Good grief! I think searching for used cars is an easier task. At least you get to test drive them.
Who knew finding the right toothbrush would be such a time-consuming process that requires detailed comparison and deliberation? Shouldn't something so commonplace and essential be just as easy to select?
Um, no.
There are literally hundreds of options when it comes to toothbrushes. And they all do one thing and one thing only (ready?): clean your teeth! They don't even floss for you or ask you if that feels OK or take X-rays or administer fluoride or schedule your next dentist appointment or give you a little smiley-face sticker to wear on your shirt. What a ripoff.
So why are there so many kinds? There should be, like, two models max: soft bristles or firm. I'm all for that particular differentiator, but none of the others. Manual, electric, hybrid, battery-powered, solar-powered, diesel - the list goes on. Long-reaching, deep-cleaning, stain-removing, gum-massaging, tongue-scrubbing, molar-forming, tiered-bristling, ergonomic-fitting, etc. Oh, and just when you think you've narrowed it down they throw colors into the mix. Red, orange, green or leopard-print? Maybe silver?
And why don't all toothbrushes have the ADA seal of approval? Nothing is worse than ending up with one that doesn't. You mean to tell me the ADA does not recommend this model? Well crap, this thing might actually give me cavities.
Wait, what if all the ADA-approved toothbrushes sitting on shelves are really non-ADA-approved toothbrushes, in a ploy by the ADA to keep herding tartar-infested heads into dentists' offices? Awesome marketing scheme right there, no? This might explain why certain toothbrushes at local Walgreens stores are kept in secured glass showcases as if they were high-end stereo equipment or video games. Yes, these must be the ADA-approved toothbrushes. They certainly wouldn't want your average Joe being able to easily access such a device that could rid him of all his dental ailments, now, would they? No. They would make no money off of him! So they make it inconvenient for Joe and encourage Joe to purchase one of the lesser, "floor-friendly" models because none of the staff is willing to unlock the showcase for him.
Who knew finding the right toothbrush would be such a time-consuming process that requires detailed comparison and deliberation? Shouldn't something so commonplace and essential be just as easy to select?
Um, no.
There are literally hundreds of options when it comes to toothbrushes. And they all do one thing and one thing only (ready?): clean your teeth! They don't even floss for you or ask you if that feels OK or take X-rays or administer fluoride or schedule your next dentist appointment or give you a little smiley-face sticker to wear on your shirt. What a ripoff.
So why are there so many kinds? There should be, like, two models max: soft bristles or firm. I'm all for that particular differentiator, but none of the others. Manual, electric, hybrid, battery-powered, solar-powered, diesel - the list goes on. Long-reaching, deep-cleaning, stain-removing, gum-massaging, tongue-scrubbing, molar-forming, tiered-bristling, ergonomic-fitting, etc. Oh, and just when you think you've narrowed it down they throw colors into the mix. Red, orange, green or leopard-print? Maybe silver?
And why don't all toothbrushes have the ADA seal of approval? Nothing is worse than ending up with one that doesn't. You mean to tell me the ADA does not recommend this model? Well crap, this thing might actually give me cavities.
Wait, what if all the ADA-approved toothbrushes sitting on shelves are really non-ADA-approved toothbrushes, in a ploy by the ADA to keep herding tartar-infested heads into dentists' offices? Awesome marketing scheme right there, no? This might explain why certain toothbrushes at local Walgreens stores are kept in secured glass showcases as if they were high-end stereo equipment or video games. Yes, these must be the ADA-approved toothbrushes. They certainly wouldn't want your average Joe being able to easily access such a device that could rid him of all his dental ailments, now, would they? No. They would make no money off of him! So they make it inconvenient for Joe and encourage Joe to purchase one of the lesser, "floor-friendly" models because none of the staff is willing to unlock the showcase for him.
A Flurry of Flurries
The McFlurry. Ever had one? I used to be obsessed. Obsessed to the point where I'd crave a McFlurry at the most random, inconvenient moments.
Per the McDonald's Wikipedia entry, the McFlurry is described as "...a vanilla ice cream dessert that has pieces of candy, fruit or cookies mixed into it." The McFlurry is available in "most of its markets."
Per the McDonald's Wikipedia entry, the McFlurry is described as "...a vanilla ice cream dessert that has pieces of candy, fruit or cookies mixed into it." The McFlurry is available in "most of its markets."
Well what happened here? Most of its markets?! Ronald, this is utter blasphemy. Why not all of its markets? Or every market that ever existed anywhere? Are you trying to ration the supply of McFlurry goodness to create a swelling demand for the tasty treat? Praying for a bull market, Ronald? Come on. Ya ain't no Greenspan. You're a frigging clown. No, this McFlurry thing of yours needs to be sold everywhere. On street corners, Ronald. On street corners!
My most memorable McFlurry experience occurred whilst pulling an all-nighter for an exam in college. Once my system came down from the sugar and caffeine comatose that Monster had wrought on my synapses, I found myself craving something sweet (shock!). But what could possibly be open at 3:45 a.m.?
You guessed it.
The only soul on the road, I clenched the wheel with sweaty palms and envisioned how great my McFlurry would be. Hell, the late-night McDonald's crew was probably up mixing its finest batch of vanilla soft-serve ice cream, ready and waiting for me to valiantly place my order.
"Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?"
"A McFlurry! I'd like one, please! With Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Woo!"
I was getting ready to devour my McFlurry. I paid and pulled forward and waited patiently for them to perfect my dessert. I envisioned all four employees participating in the making of my McFlurry - each taking handfuls of Peanut Butter Cups and sprinkling them in at the most precise places, dancing around in a tribal circle as they achieved the optimal balance of creamy vanilla and chocolatey, peanut buttery sweetness.
This was going to rule. I might just park at the window and eat the McFlurry in front of them so they could witness how happy they were about to make me.
And then something magical happened. The window slid open and an employee leaned out with not ONE but, wait for it, TWO (count: two!) McFlurries!
"Two McFlurries, sir?"
"Yes! Yes, that's my order!"
I never found out if they had messed up my order or were just really bored and could sense how excited I was to have a McFlurry and made two. But I ate both in 25 minutes. It was disgusting. In fact, I almost didn't make it to my exam because of the intestinal pain the quart of dairy put me through.
Can one acquire lactose intolerance? Because I think I did.
You Can "Go Greek," I'm Going Home
(Just dug this one up from the college days.)
Advertisement 1: "Go Greek, Sparty Did!"
Advertisement 2: "Greeks: The Leaders of Tomorrow!"
I think we need a little more guilt put into these cheap recruitment slogans, please. There's nothing like peer pressure to get me to do something. Sparty went Greek this year? Oh he did, did he? Since when are people doing what Sparty does? I'm yet to see anyone walking around campus wearing steel-plated armor and skirts. Did you hear at U of M last week Wolverine announced he would be endorsing the "Go Mammal, Wolverine Did!" campaign? Yup. The entire student body's on his side.
Advertisement 1: "Go Greek, Sparty Did!"
Advertisement 2: "Greeks: The Leaders of Tomorrow!"
I think we need a little more guilt put into these cheap recruitment slogans, please. There's nothing like peer pressure to get me to do something. Sparty went Greek this year? Oh he did, did he? Since when are people doing what Sparty does? I'm yet to see anyone walking around campus wearing steel-plated armor and skirts. Did you hear at U of M last week Wolverine announced he would be endorsing the "Go Mammal, Wolverine Did!" campaign? Yup. The entire student body's on his side.
Well, I guess since my own university's mascot went Greek then I should too. But does this mean I'll have to tote around one of those bulky canvas bags with strange letters sewn on it? How can I be a leader with such a great weight on my shoulder? And aren't we stealing the characters of a different culture? I've never even been to Greece, and would probably be lucky to identify it on a map. So what gives?
Is it safe to assume that Greek college students are as interested in American culture as we are in theirs? Could we go to Greece and expect to find students carrying around propaganda promoting the EAT or ZOMG house? I mean, what does that all really mean anyway? Don't you think we'd laugh at that? "Doug, look, that house over there has ABC on its roof in gigantic, blood-red letters. They must be, like, a spelling bee dynasty!"
But I, I guess this bag's kinda cute... ish. I just thought labeling was discouraged nowadays. Granted, we do need to differentiate ourselves from the non-Greek people. Is that part of our philanthropy? I thought it was, and that's sorta why I got into this thing. So...
Hmm...
Oh, I know! Perhaps they should give us staffs instead. Yeah! Or maybe scepters. Yes. Big, golden scepters with cool crystal balls fastened to their tops. And our trusty steeds will be unicorns. We'll bring them back, and we'll ride them around campus. I think that fits the leadership/visionary role a little better, you know, instead of a bag, or a hat, or sandals or something?
Actually, we could probably have hats - the tall, black fuzzy ones British Guards wear. And we could march too. People would genuinely want to know what we are up to. "Where the f*** are you guys going?!" they would ask. And that's when we could raise our phat scepters and reply: "To the future! We're leading you to the future!"
And then we could lead like we advertise ourselves to.
Biggest Mistakes of My Life: Mistake No. 2
I still regret going back to Wisconsin. What was supposed to be a weekend full of concerts, camping and sun just turned out to be one huge disaster.
Since we needed extra room, we decided to borrow my parents' van for the 400-mile trip from Detroit to East Troy. We also used their roof rack and carrier to help transport the tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, coolers, grills and other funky crap that people need when staying in a field for days on end.
Since we needed extra room, we decided to borrow my parents' van for the 400-mile trip from Detroit to East Troy. We also used their roof rack and carrier to help transport the tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, coolers, grills and other funky crap that people need when staying in a field for days on end.
The heat alone was enough to make the expedition a bad idea. It was the type of humidity that makes you feel like you're swimming in your skin all day. You can just taste the salt dripping down your face. No thanks.
Once we arrived, we unloaded the van and roof carrier and set up our camp site. Then it was time to drive to the amphitheater for the first night's concert. Since the carrier was now empty, we contemplated leaving it at our site but decided instead to fasten it back to the roof rack and bring it with us.
Morons. All six of us.
What we had not thought about were the laws of physics, and how all of our luggage had helped weigh down the roof carrier on the drive to Wisconsin. Sure, the carrier was somewhat secured by bungee cords fastened to the roof rack, but it was basically a massive plastic sled sitting on top of our van.
We slowly pulled out of the camp grounds and onto the interstate. I was driving, and by this point had completely forgotten about the carrier. We were accelerating quickly, but there was a disgruntled Wisconsinite riding our bumper. Apparently 50 mph wasn't fast enough for him.
Thank God he decided to pass us.
Before we hit 60 mph something awful happened. With no weight in it, the roof rack was trying its hardest to withstand the headwind. The only things keeping it down were now the bungee cords that had been strung together by idiotic amateurs.
SNAP, SNAP!
In a fraction of a second after this noise bludgeoned our ears, I saw in my rearview mirror a sight of pure horror. The carrier, flying over our car - up, up and away - crashing down onto the road behind us and blowing up into two pieces. And then...
CRASH!
This is the last thing we heard before we were surrounded by shards of glass flying every which way throughout the cabin of the van. Slow motion. Glass was exploding everywhere and we all ducked to cover our heads, including me - the driver. I don't know how we kept it on the road.
When the bungee cords snapped and left the carrier at the mercy of the wind, they whipped around to the back of our van, their metal hooks shattering the entirety of our back window and tail lights. The glass was then sucked into the vehicle, entering various points of our skin and landing all around us.
Would you feel comfortable leaving your car at a concert if it had no rear window and all of your belongings were sitting inside for anyone to take? We didn't. So we headed to Wal-Mart to bandage up the van.
After buying a couple hundred yards of duct tape and blue tarp, we taped up the ass of our van. Poor thing. It looked like a giant blue diaper. I could no longer see anything out of the back while driving.
The damages set me back $1,200, but had the Wisconsinite not passed us his car would have been hit with our plastic roof carrier missile. I could have been a murderer.
Red Hot & Blue
Growing up, my dad created a lot of awkward and embarrassing moments for our entire immediate family. At home, on the road, in the car, in private, in public, on the sidelines of some obscure Midwestern soccer field. Didn't matter. It was bound to happen anywhere, anytime, usually without any given notice - just a really drawn-out exhale and a slow shaking of his head before things got pretty bad.
One of his favorite places to eat used to be (used to be) Red Hot & Blue. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it's a safe bet for grabbing some barbecue. A conservative estimate would be that 98 percent of Red Hot & Blue's patrons come to taste their "award-winning" St. Louis style ribs.
Such was the case during our second, and final, visit to Red Hot & Blue.
When dad wanted something, he would go to great lengths to make sure he got it. Time, money, weather, physical distance, laws - things of that nature that might deter any normal, rational person from wanting something - were of no object to him. He was going to get it. End of story.
On this particular day, that item just so happened to be Red Hot & Blue's St. Louis style ribs.
I couldn't have been older than 10 or 11, but I can still recall this entire dining experience from start to finish. Dad was actually in a pretty good mood entering the restaurant, probably because he had already downed a couple of Coors Lights at home.
We were seated at a table and you could just tell right away that his expectations were pretty high - even impracticably, unattainably high - for this one specific meal. He had been clamoring about the damn ribs for two days and we were finally there, about to order.
First our drinks. You knew dad meant business when he ordered two Coors Lights right off the bat, "in frosted mugs, please." This was really going to be a dining experience for the books. Halfway into his second beer, our waitress was ready to take our order.
Dad didn't even open the menu. He knew. He had lived out this very moment five times over in the past 48 hours, and he surely didn't need to consider what else he might dine on that night.
"I will have the house special," he said. "Actually, make it two orders of the sweet St. Louis style ribs for me. I'd also like some extra Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce on them, too. I love that stuff. How do you guys do it?! And another Coors Light, please."
We all could sense something was off because the waitress was writing none of this down. But dad didn't seem to notice yet. She was just standing there, holding her pen and paper, looking mighty nervous. She was probably 18.
(With a trepid, flinching face) "Um, wow, I hate to tell you this, sir... But we're actually all out of ribs. I'm sorry."
Oh good lord the disappointment. You could feel it instantly. I felt extremely uncomfortable and felt so very bad for this unfortunate waitress. She had no idea what she had just said.
There was only silence for what felt like an eternity. It just hung there. My dad was absolutely raging inside, and he was doing his best to contain it within himself. But he just couldn't. This was too much of a disappointment for him to stay quiet. By this point his jaw was clenched tight and he was shaking his head slowly, staring down into his lap. Then the long exhale. We braced ourselves.
"What. Do. You. Mean. You're. (fingers for quote marks) 'Out.' 'Of.' 'Ribs.'? Huh?!"
She didn't have an answer for him. That's all there was to say. Somehow Red Hot & Blue had run out of what they do best. Blame it on a mishap in inventory or awful managerial skills, but this young waitress was just the messenger. You could tell she was hating her very existence at that moment, hating the restaurant's lack of ribs, wishing and willing to give her own ribs to dad with a side of Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce just to calm him down.
"You have got to be KIDDING me! You are OUT of RIBS?! RIBS are what you DO! No, it's ALL you DO!"
Now we were making a scene. We tried our best to act like we didn't know the man. Dad was getting loud and riled up, his face beet red and he was scooting out of the booth to present his argument standing up, complete with hand gestures.
"No! Nononono! This is like going to a football game and having them say, 'We're sorry! We're out of football players at the moment, so we're gonna play BASEBALL for you instead!' Yeah! THAT'S what THIS is like!"
The manager had by now been alerted to the situation and approached our table, apologizing to dad and encouraging him to order something else.
"No! I am not ORDERING anything ELSE! Honey, grab the kids. We're leaving!"
And just like that we left and have not been back to Red Hot & Blue since. Dad still holds a noticeable grudge against the place, often giving the building itself the middle finger while driving by.
One of his favorite places to eat used to be (used to be) Red Hot & Blue. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it's a safe bet for grabbing some barbecue. A conservative estimate would be that 98 percent of Red Hot & Blue's patrons come to taste their "award-winning" St. Louis style ribs.
Such was the case during our second, and final, visit to Red Hot & Blue.
When dad wanted something, he would go to great lengths to make sure he got it. Time, money, weather, physical distance, laws - things of that nature that might deter any normal, rational person from wanting something - were of no object to him. He was going to get it. End of story.
On this particular day, that item just so happened to be Red Hot & Blue's St. Louis style ribs.
I couldn't have been older than 10 or 11, but I can still recall this entire dining experience from start to finish. Dad was actually in a pretty good mood entering the restaurant, probably because he had already downed a couple of Coors Lights at home.
We were seated at a table and you could just tell right away that his expectations were pretty high - even impracticably, unattainably high - for this one specific meal. He had been clamoring about the damn ribs for two days and we were finally there, about to order.
First our drinks. You knew dad meant business when he ordered two Coors Lights right off the bat, "in frosted mugs, please." This was really going to be a dining experience for the books. Halfway into his second beer, our waitress was ready to take our order.
Dad didn't even open the menu. He knew. He had lived out this very moment five times over in the past 48 hours, and he surely didn't need to consider what else he might dine on that night.
"I will have the house special," he said. "Actually, make it two orders of the sweet St. Louis style ribs for me. I'd also like some extra Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce on them, too. I love that stuff. How do you guys do it?! And another Coors Light, please."
We all could sense something was off because the waitress was writing none of this down. But dad didn't seem to notice yet. She was just standing there, holding her pen and paper, looking mighty nervous. She was probably 18.
(With a trepid, flinching face) "Um, wow, I hate to tell you this, sir... But we're actually all out of ribs. I'm sorry."
Oh good lord the disappointment. You could feel it instantly. I felt extremely uncomfortable and felt so very bad for this unfortunate waitress. She had no idea what she had just said.
There was only silence for what felt like an eternity. It just hung there. My dad was absolutely raging inside, and he was doing his best to contain it within himself. But he just couldn't. This was too much of a disappointment for him to stay quiet. By this point his jaw was clenched tight and he was shaking his head slowly, staring down into his lap. Then the long exhale. We braced ourselves.
"What. Do. You. Mean. You're. (fingers for quote marks) 'Out.' 'Of.' 'Ribs.'? Huh?!"
She didn't have an answer for him. That's all there was to say. Somehow Red Hot & Blue had run out of what they do best. Blame it on a mishap in inventory or awful managerial skills, but this young waitress was just the messenger. You could tell she was hating her very existence at that moment, hating the restaurant's lack of ribs, wishing and willing to give her own ribs to dad with a side of Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce just to calm him down.
"You have got to be KIDDING me! You are OUT of RIBS?! RIBS are what you DO! No, it's ALL you DO!"
Now we were making a scene. We tried our best to act like we didn't know the man. Dad was getting loud and riled up, his face beet red and he was scooting out of the booth to present his argument standing up, complete with hand gestures.
"No! Nononono! This is like going to a football game and having them say, 'We're sorry! We're out of football players at the moment, so we're gonna play BASEBALL for you instead!' Yeah! THAT'S what THIS is like!"
The manager had by now been alerted to the situation and approached our table, apologizing to dad and encouraging him to order something else.
"No! I am not ORDERING anything ELSE! Honey, grab the kids. We're leaving!"
And just like that we left and have not been back to Red Hot & Blue since. Dad still holds a noticeable grudge against the place, often giving the building itself the middle finger while driving by.
More Heels in the Men's Room
In response to Heels in the Men's Room, it greatly saddens me to report that there have been, yes, more heels in the men's room.
I saw her again, only this time I was not using the facility. While waiting for the elevator, I caught a glimpse of our culprit as she strode into the lobby - all 5 feet, 90 pounds of her. Knock. Knock. Before lowering her shoulder into the door, she looked back at me with a face that reeked of "Yes-I-am-really-going-to-do-this" bravado. And in she went.
The verdict of this case is really quite simple. In fact, I'm quite embarrassed for ever over-thinking it. The truth stands that this person clearly knows what she's doing, and is simply too lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs to use the restroom that has been designed and designated for her entire gender.
Ignoring social norms, public signage and etiquette in general, she enters, uses and exits the men's room on a daily basis, very aware and unconcerned that she might run into a man during this process.
I saw her again, only this time I was not using the facility. While waiting for the elevator, I caught a glimpse of our culprit as she strode into the lobby - all 5 feet, 90 pounds of her. Knock. Knock. Before lowering her shoulder into the door, she looked back at me with a face that reeked of "Yes-I-am-really-going-to-do-this" bravado. And in she went.
The verdict of this case is really quite simple. In fact, I'm quite embarrassed for ever over-thinking it. The truth stands that this person clearly knows what she's doing, and is simply too lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs to use the restroom that has been designed and designated for her entire gender.
Ignoring social norms, public signage and etiquette in general, she enters, uses and exits the men's room on a daily basis, very aware and unconcerned that she might run into a man during this process.
They Caught the Plumber Looking at Porn
Well this one is pretty self-explanatory.
My parents' house flooded, so they hired a plumber to work on the pipes. Yeah, apparently the guy took the "working on the pipes" part as an open invitation to use our home computer to download porn.
Thanks, jackass. Way to have my mom come downstairs and find you minimizing windows at light speed.
"Excuse me... What are you doing?"
"Uh (click, click)... Um... (click, click, click... clickclickclickclick)... Oh, yeah, um, I needed to check my e-mail to see if I had a message from my sister - she's having a baby today."
"A baby, huh? So what's this on the desktop here? I'm pretty sure that's two people fornicating. Is she your sister?"
"... Yes?"
You, sir, just lost your job.
My parents' house flooded, so they hired a plumber to work on the pipes. Yeah, apparently the guy took the "working on the pipes" part as an open invitation to use our home computer to download porn.
Thanks, jackass. Way to have my mom come downstairs and find you minimizing windows at light speed.
"Excuse me... What are you doing?"
"Uh (click, click)... Um... (click, click, click... clickclickclickclick)... Oh, yeah, um, I needed to check my e-mail to see if I had a message from my sister - she's having a baby today."
"A baby, huh? So what's this on the desktop here? I'm pretty sure that's two people fornicating. Is she your sister?"
"... Yes?"
You, sir, just lost your job.
Lifetime Hates Men, but Men Probably Hate Lifetime More
Any man who has ever been in a relationship with a woman has at some point been subjected to watching Lifetime Television - for several hours on end, usually on a random Sunday. If for some reason this has not happened to you, pay close attention, for the following will save you future shock, awe and revelation.
She will be surfing around aimlessly and somewhere between the Disney Channel and ABC Family she will land upon a Made-for-Lifetime Movie. Starting then, the remote will not be touched for at least three hours, depending on what point you have entered the programming.
You poor bastard.
Whichever program you are coerced into watching, this will be the overarching message: men are horrible, horrible creatures (pigs). The series of events it takes to reach this conclusion is irrelevant. On Lifetime, it always ends up here. So don't be alarmed.
Comprehensive analysis of Made-for-Lifetime Movies reveals that only two basic plot lines actually exist. They also form the basis of everything ever aired on Lifetime (excluding some commercials, of course).
Plot One
Main woman is in a seemingly happy relationship with a semi-wealthy to wealthy man, who nine times out of 10 has black hair and a goatee. One day woman grows suspicious of man when one or more of the following happens:
1. Man says he will be "held up late at the office because of the upcoming board meeting and the boss is breathing down my neck."
2. She finds another woman's lipstick on the collar of his white dress shirt.
3. He claims to be away on business, but after an amateur investigation and/or pursuit, woman discovers man to be in the arms of another woman, at a motel very close to their home town.
Again, not important. Man's plan is foiled and he now tries to kill woman. He always drives a black Lincoln. Due to man's careless nature and susceptibility to let testosterone get the best of him, he fails, and woman ends up killing man in self-defense. If she has a child they move far, far away to start anew. If she is not a mother, she moves in with her own mother to mend.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who kill women (if necessary).
Pretty intense stuff to be near the Disney Channel, no?
Plot Two
Main woman is successful, independent and of the upper-middle class. She either is ill with or has recently fought and overcome breast cancer. She oft reflects on the several serious relationships she has had in her lifetime (no pun intended), but that have failed to materialize into anything permanent. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has four close girlfriends.
Her best friend sets her up on a blind date with a loose acquaintance of hers - "a friend of a friend." To her own disbelief, the date goes surprisingly well and she ends up falling in love with "Mr. Right." The couple is happier than ever when things take a turn for the worse.
Over a bottle of red wine, an argument ensues and man strikes woman. It is not yet evening. When she regains consciousness it is the next day and she has trouble piecing together the previous night's events. Then she notices the cuts and bruises on her neck and arms. She concludes she has been abused. She is about to go to the police when she receives threats from man not to do so, or else there will be "repercussions." Her friends encourage her to do so anyway.
So she does. Mid phone call or en route to the police station, there is a struggle between her and man, usually in her own home or on the side of the road, in the woods, at dusk, in the rain. Either way glass is somehow broken. She kills man in self-defense.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who beat women (if necessary).
To the directors of Lifetime Television: are you feminist lesbians or twice-divorced straight women with an undying hatred for people with penises? My guess is the latter since every woman ever featured on Lifetime Television is straight.
Can you imagine if there was a channel like this for men? I mean, there's plenty of stuff out there that objectifies women - but what about an entire channel where the target viewership is sensitive males and plots feature backstabbing women who lie, cheat, connive and steal from men and men are left with no other choice but to kill women in self-defense?
It just doesn't seem possible.
So grab a beer and get comfortable, guys. It's gonna be a long one. Just remember: you're not that bad.
For a parting thought, I'll leave you with this: I recently discovered that Lifetime is actually an acronym. The underlying message? Like, I Freaking Envy The Instant Men Existed.
She will be surfing around aimlessly and somewhere between the Disney Channel and ABC Family she will land upon a Made-for-Lifetime Movie. Starting then, the remote will not be touched for at least three hours, depending on what point you have entered the programming.
You poor bastard.
Whichever program you are coerced into watching, this will be the overarching message: men are horrible, horrible creatures (pigs). The series of events it takes to reach this conclusion is irrelevant. On Lifetime, it always ends up here. So don't be alarmed.
Comprehensive analysis of Made-for-Lifetime Movies reveals that only two basic plot lines actually exist. They also form the basis of everything ever aired on Lifetime (excluding some commercials, of course).
Plot One
Main woman is in a seemingly happy relationship with a semi-wealthy to wealthy man, who nine times out of 10 has black hair and a goatee. One day woman grows suspicious of man when one or more of the following happens:
1. Man says he will be "held up late at the office because of the upcoming board meeting and the boss is breathing down my neck."
2. She finds another woman's lipstick on the collar of his white dress shirt.
3. He claims to be away on business, but after an amateur investigation and/or pursuit, woman discovers man to be in the arms of another woman, at a motel very close to their home town.
Again, not important. Man's plan is foiled and he now tries to kill woman. He always drives a black Lincoln. Due to man's careless nature and susceptibility to let testosterone get the best of him, he fails, and woman ends up killing man in self-defense. If she has a child they move far, far away to start anew. If she is not a mother, she moves in with her own mother to mend.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who kill women (if necessary).
Pretty intense stuff to be near the Disney Channel, no?
Plot Two
Main woman is successful, independent and of the upper-middle class. She either is ill with or has recently fought and overcome breast cancer. She oft reflects on the several serious relationships she has had in her lifetime (no pun intended), but that have failed to materialize into anything permanent. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has four close girlfriends.
Her best friend sets her up on a blind date with a loose acquaintance of hers - "a friend of a friend." To her own disbelief, the date goes surprisingly well and she ends up falling in love with "Mr. Right." The couple is happier than ever when things take a turn for the worse.
Over a bottle of red wine, an argument ensues and man strikes woman. It is not yet evening. When she regains consciousness it is the next day and she has trouble piecing together the previous night's events. Then she notices the cuts and bruises on her neck and arms. She concludes she has been abused. She is about to go to the police when she receives threats from man not to do so, or else there will be "repercussions." Her friends encourage her to do so anyway.
So she does. Mid phone call or en route to the police station, there is a struggle between her and man, usually in her own home or on the side of the road, in the woods, at dusk, in the rain. Either way glass is somehow broken. She kills man in self-defense.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who beat women (if necessary).
To the directors of Lifetime Television: are you feminist lesbians or twice-divorced straight women with an undying hatred for people with penises? My guess is the latter since every woman ever featured on Lifetime Television is straight.
Can you imagine if there was a channel like this for men? I mean, there's plenty of stuff out there that objectifies women - but what about an entire channel where the target viewership is sensitive males and plots feature backstabbing women who lie, cheat, connive and steal from men and men are left with no other choice but to kill women in self-defense?
It just doesn't seem possible.
So grab a beer and get comfortable, guys. It's gonna be a long one. Just remember: you're not that bad.
For a parting thought, I'll leave you with this: I recently discovered that Lifetime is actually an acronym. The underlying message? Like, I Freaking Envy The Instant Men Existed.
Mel's? Gross
You know it very well. Mel's Drive-In is a place that you have probably ended up at because of someone else's poor and/or drunk decision-making skills.
Inebriate 1: "Guys, I am STARVING! Where can we get something to eat?!"
Inebriate 2: "Uh, gee, I don't know, I'm really not that..."
Inebriate 1: "I KNOW! How about Mel's?! I've never been there!"
Inebriate 2: (Exhaling) "Ah... Mel's... I mean, I guess if you're really..."
Inebriate 1: (Hurling self into empty street) "TAXXXIII!"
Mel's is only popular for one reason: it's open late. Much to my chagrin, they've studied local drinking establishments closely and found that all of them close at, gasp, 2 a.m.! Can you believe it? Those intelligent bastards. So how late does Mel's stay open? Until 4 a.m., which is one waffle away from being open 24 hours! Maybe it's got something to do with keeping the staff at part-time so they don't have to offer them any benefits. Their compensations stop at the '60s checkered uniforms. Chic!
Anyway, being the only (disclaimer: following word used loosely) restaurant that's open late, Mel's has become something of a ward or corral for the drunk. Bars close and haggard looking men, women and zombies saunter into Mel's to eat terrible, terrible food. Everything is messy. The people are loud. The food is fried twice. The talk is slurred. The lighting is unnecessarily bright (spotlights + inebriates = unsightliness). Yet they herd people in by the dozen, and they hook up, flirt and pass out over waffles, gyros and milkshakes, with the occasional homeless person sprinkled in who made his/her way in off the street and has gone yet unnoticed.
It's an ugly scene.
The first and last time I was at Mel's I saw a man heave and projectile vomit under his table, onto the feet of his friends. One of the guys was even wearing sandals. Gross! And there was no reaction. None! As if this was acceptable behavior or nothing out of the ordinary for a drunkard's haven. I was the only one who reacted, halfway across the room. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he regained focus and ate the rest of his pancakes. I think I even saw him making out with some woman in the lobby when I left. What a romancer. (Not sure how he pulled that one off actually.)
I don't know if I've ever witnessed a more appalling act take place in an eating establishment. Holy hamburgers. Mel, check please.
Inebriate 1: "Guys, I am STARVING! Where can we get something to eat?!"
Inebriate 2: "Uh, gee, I don't know, I'm really not that..."
Inebriate 1: "I KNOW! How about Mel's?! I've never been there!"
Inebriate 2: (Exhaling) "Ah... Mel's... I mean, I guess if you're really..."
Inebriate 1: (Hurling self into empty street) "TAXXXIII!"
Mel's is only popular for one reason: it's open late. Much to my chagrin, they've studied local drinking establishments closely and found that all of them close at, gasp, 2 a.m.! Can you believe it? Those intelligent bastards. So how late does Mel's stay open? Until 4 a.m., which is one waffle away from being open 24 hours! Maybe it's got something to do with keeping the staff at part-time so they don't have to offer them any benefits. Their compensations stop at the '60s checkered uniforms. Chic!
Anyway, being the only (disclaimer: following word used loosely) restaurant that's open late, Mel's has become something of a ward or corral for the drunk. Bars close and haggard looking men, women and zombies saunter into Mel's to eat terrible, terrible food. Everything is messy. The people are loud. The food is fried twice. The talk is slurred. The lighting is unnecessarily bright (spotlights + inebriates = unsightliness). Yet they herd people in by the dozen, and they hook up, flirt and pass out over waffles, gyros and milkshakes, with the occasional homeless person sprinkled in who made his/her way in off the street and has gone yet unnoticed.
It's an ugly scene.
The first and last time I was at Mel's I saw a man heave and projectile vomit under his table, onto the feet of his friends. One of the guys was even wearing sandals. Gross! And there was no reaction. None! As if this was acceptable behavior or nothing out of the ordinary for a drunkard's haven. I was the only one who reacted, halfway across the room. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he regained focus and ate the rest of his pancakes. I think I even saw him making out with some woman in the lobby when I left. What a romancer. (Not sure how he pulled that one off actually.)
I don't know if I've ever witnessed a more appalling act take place in an eating establishment. Holy hamburgers. Mel, check please.
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