The Best Thing About Halloween

I love Halloween. Some of the best experiences I've ever had have happened on that day, and that's just in regards to alcohol.

For example, a few Halloweens ago, I was living in a house in a certain Southwestern Virginia college town. The party was rockin', and I was shit faced. I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in years, and we decided to catch up while inhaling illegal drugs.

So we're sitting up there, wasted, and one of my buddy's friends came in to tell us about this sick party happening down the street. And when I say buddy's friends, I mean a former Army ranger that was dropping into Iraq when I was still shitting in diapers (and yes, I know that Desert Storm happened when I was nine, some of us are late bloomers).

Since I'm wasted, I mutter a "yeah, I don't know man, I'm pretty good right here." The guy looks at me like I just slapped his mother, and says:

"You're coming with us, or I will kill you."

And that's when I boarded the train to Blackoutville. I don't remember a thing about the party, only that I apparently didn't die.

Back to Halloween, the above story isn't the best thing about Halloween. It's not even the booze.

It's the song "Monster Mash" by Bobby "Boris" Pickett. I love that song.

I don't know whether it is the glorious Boris Karloff impression, or those breath voiced backing vocalists, which I have always loved.

So do yourself a favor. Download the song, and put in on a CD. It will fit twenty times on a standard 80 minute CD-R, and 18 on a 74 minute. Do it.

Winter Sucks

Winter sucks. Can we all just admit it? Unless you like skiing (in which case, you've got a whole other set of issues), winter never did nothing good for nobody.

The Donner Party? Ask them how they like winter. Oh, I don't know, it only made them get trapped and they were forced to eat members of their own family.

Ghandi? I'm pretty sure he died in a blizzard. Either that or shot, I can never remember.

Go fuck yourself, Jack Frost

Among many of my controversial stances (pro-hatred, pro-violence, anti-tolerance) is pro-Global Warming. Seriously, how awesome would it be if the entire world was like Florida?

People from colder climates already flock to Florida and other tropical destinations during the winter, why not save everyone a whole lot of time and energy?

Aside from a few hippie ski-bums, no one would mind.

Here's a list of things that blow about winter:
- No sandals. Who the fuck wants to put on shoes and socks if you're just running out to the grocery store? Faggots, thats who.
- No sunroof weather. How am I supposed to get fired up when blasting my mix CD of every single cover of "I Drove All Night" when it's 40 degrees out? Side note: A list of the best versions of that awesome song.
1. Cyndi Lauper
2. Roy Orbison
3. Celine Dion
- The morning. When it's all cold in the morning, it is miserable getting out of bed. I have enough trouble finding the will to drag my sorry ass out of bed in the morning anyways, without it being cold. On a cold morning, there's nothing better than relaxing in the post-morning masturbation afterglow under warm (and sticky) sheets.
- The afternoon. What's nice about working in a small building is that I have to leave it to do almsot anything except go to the bathroom. And on a stressful day at the ol' orifice, there's noting better than stepping outside for a few rays of sunshine and some fresh air. Except when it's fucking 45 degrees out, and the wind is so cold it makes your nose bleed (well, maybe the years of cocaine abuse have something to do with it)!
- The night. Where to begin. The night starts too goddam early, it's too goddam cold, and forget about any possibility of a naked evening constiutional. Not unless I want the nickname, 'inchworm.' How am I supposed to impress the nonexistent MILFs that live near me? You tell me that!

In conclusion: winter sucks, global warming rules, and I am extremely well endowed. Amen.

They finally got me

Well. They did it. They finally got me.

I put of a fight. After all, what is a man who can't take a moral stand once every now and again?

But I caved.

I was at the abyss of modern culture we call Best Buy to buy the new Bloc Party album, (stay tuned for review), and as I made my 180 degree turn in the line, something caught my eye.

What was it you ask? Perhaps a long-forgotten classic movie, available for less than $10? Perhaps a greatest hits album from a rock group I hadn't heard in years? No.

It was Superman: Doomsday the animated movie of the comic book story arc where Superman dies.

I'm not a Superman geek, I have never owned a Superman comic. Hell, I didn't even see the latest abortion to wear the blue and red. So why did I buy it?

I couldn't tell you. It wasn't even that cheap, it was $15. But it sits in my DVD player right now, waiting for the pesky Rays to lose to the Phillies, when we'll see what $15 of my blood, sweat, and tears went towards.

So you got me Best Buy. Your carefully researched impulse line got me. Throughout years and years of walking by temptation in stereo, you never did. And it was a goddam Superman DVD.

Do I have a point? Not really. But I guess that's what blogs are for.

And hey, if you like rhetorical questions, the last 100 words are like porno for you.

Get your paws off me, you damn dirty ape.

I loathe myself (The Party Break-Away)

I love parties. I don't know whether it's the booze, the company, the alcohol, the drinking, the friends, or the drunkening, but I love parties.

Nothing is better than getting wasted and shooting the shit with people you barely know, and will never know beyond this several hour chunk of time on a weekend night.

This past weekend, my parents threw a party. For those of you who are in their mid-twenties like myself, that means one thing: more and better booze than I can afford myself.

In this case we are talking about four kegs, plus an open bar, where Maker's Mark was the cheapest bottle. Yeah.

The con to a parental shindig such as this is that their friends also feel the need to show up and drink my beer. So I saw a lot of older friends of the family that I haven't seen since I was a sophomore in college, and still drinking illegally.

So I had to make the rounds, tell the same less-than-100-word description of where I am in my life right now, and toss in the occasional closing zinger, because I am, as you should know, hilarious.

So here's where the shame spiral rears its ugly head. After I've gotten my story out, and the laughter from my awesome zinger fades (like I said, I'm hilarious) generally, another conversation starts.

Part I of the problem: this new conversation involves some new recipe that is cheap, or how the kids are adjusting to middle school or some other tripe that I hope I don't have to worry about for another ten years, if ever.

Part II of the problem: I am still in the same circle of conversation that I was previously dominating with my dry wit (hilarious), now I am a black hole of conversation. Unless I'm more than ten beers deep, I don't know where to even laugh or give a "you're so right" kind of sigh. (Not that I know after I'm ten beers deep, it just doesn't matter anymore.)

Here's the rub. Do I sit there, with a half smile on my face, begging for the sweet release of death to spare me from this agony? Do I interrupt the conversation and mumble some awful excuse to leave? Or do I wait for this horrible conversation to come to it's grinding, tedious conclusion, and break away with the rest of the members of the circle.

Here's how I handled it last weekend. After about three to five minutes of awkwardly standing there, I pretended to tip my beer cup up and finish it (because let's face it, it was long gone), and give a curt nod, and make my way back to the keg.

Sounds good right? It worked pretty well, but here's a new wrinkle.

What happens if you're in a one-on-one conversation, and you don't necessarily want to leave the conversation, but the five beers you drank in the last half-hour are saying that you need to leave.

I was in an interesting conversation about literature last weekend. And in between my erudite references, and recommendations that I was trying to remember (and still don't), I had to take a piss.

Do I interrupt my conversation partner's well-heeled analysis of Stephen King's The Dark Tower for the third crudest need of a human being? Do I pull the empty glass trick, and immediately destroy all intellectual credit I built by making it known that beer is greater than books (the jury's still out on that one)?

Luckily, I didn't have to make a decision. I made the glass-tip-up motion, and the guy I was talking to followed my lead, and made his way to the keg, and I made a quick stop at the bathroom on the way.

Even better: I was right behind the guy I was talking to at the keg, and I give a "Fancy seeing you here." Gold.

On Assignment: Fucking With Fire

So I'm standing in a fire department at a local metropolitan airport. There is an overflowing ashtray on the counter in front of me, which also contains a can of glass cleaner, several dry-erase markers, some rolls of tape, and a pair of safety goggles.

My assignment? Document a training session with several local firefighters. Just another instance of me hanging around real men, the whole time realizing what a sack of shit I am.

You ever seen that Seinfeld where Jerry and George talk about how they aren't men? That's what I'm feeling right now as I talk with these men who work 56 hour weeks, sometimes 36 hour shifts.

Anyways, back to where I am.

The whiteboard above the counter is the only thing on the wall I'm standing near, and it has been marked and erased repeatedly by the aforementioned markers, to the extent that the shadows of a million briefings remain on the board.

The bay I'm in is about 500 feet long, and there are five bright yellow foam fire trucks, each of which resemble a 50-foot long Armored Personnel Carriers. These things are intense, with multiple water turrets in the front.

A few minutes before, several firefighters demonstrated how these things work, and they freaked me the fuck out. They look like something developed by SkyNet, as these remote control turrets can be moved around to attack a fire from the best angle.

I'm standing with four other firefighters, and within five minutes I know who's mom has been banged my multiple firefighters (the guys on my left), whose girlfriends are sleeping with black men right now (the guys on my right), and which guy has a two-inch dick (all four of them).

Feeling much better about my five inches, I try and laugh along at the right spots, generally keeping my mouth shut. I'm just the homo with the camera, the douchebag who can write, these are the badasses putting out fires and strangling puppies, or other manly things.

As the talk gets rauchier, I get more comfortable and start adding ackowledements to the end of stories, things like, "Oh, yeah!" and "I heard that." And yes, I'm trying my best to ignore the increasingly dirty looks I'm getting.

Finally, it's time to head out to the pit. The pit is a circle of about an 80 foot diameter, with a shell of a DC-9 in the middle. There are 70-something liquid propane nozzles buried in the gravel around the plane, and the firefighters must approach the custom-made fires with their badass vehicles and put them out.

It's about 8 p.m., pitch black, and 40 degrees. There is a strong wind blowing, which carries the sound of gunshots from the local firing range over to our location. I am officially in badass central.

The only light comes from two streetlamp-style lights right about 100 feet from the pit. The lights are 50 feet apart, and each has a fire hydrant in the circle of yellowish light. This is where the fire trucks will get refilled.

Before we get started, the safety officer gathers all of us around for a safety briefing. He tells the firefighters how the propane works, and how the sensors will read the spray from their hoses, leading to a few scattered chuckles.

My hour or so of forced interaction with these people (as well as the few nips of bourbon I've taken from my pocket flask to take the chill off) have made me very comfortable. It is this sour-mash lubrication that nearly leads to disaster for your hero (which is me by the way).

The safety officer tells them it's important not to cross their water streams, because it will take away the effectiveness of both.

Wanting to beat everyone else to the Ghostbuster's reference, I quickly shout out, "Don't cross the streams, that would be very very bad," followed by obnoxious laughter, mostly coming from myself.

Refusing to believe that no one got the reference, I repeat it several times, before jabbing my elbow into the firefighter next to me, trying to cajole him into getting my joke.

I woke up about 25 minutes later, sprawled on a metal picnic table, with a splitting headache, and feeling like I was literally in Hell. Due to the cold, I had a winter jacket on, and I was sweating, as flashes of orange flames filled my unfocused vision.

The fire was going crazy about 100 feet from me, and a massive fire truck was spraying water from its turrets, as it moved around the fire, getting the best position.

One of the firefighters was standing next to me.

"Sorry about that, but you really shouldn't have kept elbowing Mikey over there. He's got a temper anyways, and he's been working for twenty hours straight."

I quickly mumbled something about it being my fault, and then just waited for this godforsaken night to end.

Before long, the big fire truck lumbered over to us, and another of the fire fighters got out. He waved over to me, seemingly indicated that I was to get in the cab.

I hesitated at first, since you know, I had just gotten knocked the fuck out by one of the guys in that truck, but they insisted.

So I grabbed my camera, and saddled up. Lucky for me, I got some images, which you are looking upon now.

We're deep in the soup now.


"Yeah, get that fire! He tried to kill my father!"

Yeah, shit was crazy.

Well, that about wraps up my trip to fire department training. I had some fun, got a little drunk, and got the shit knocked out of me. Pretty standard Tuesday night actually.

I loathe myself (The Office Hello)

Welcome to the first real post, and one that concerns a topic that is near and dear to my heart, my constant living in a shame spiral.

Today's reason for hating myself goes is: the office hello.

When I walk into my office in the morning, walk down the hall to the bathroom, or just wander the building meeting with various people, I usually always see people I know.

And the exchange goes like this. I walk up, give a cursory "Hello"/"Good morning"/acknowledgment nod, and continue my walk. If I'm lucky, the person will give a hello, or a good morning back, and I've completed my duty, being polite to the people who happen to spend their 40+ hours per week in the same geographic location as myself.

So how often do you think that happens? Try once every 100 times I say hello.

Usually I give my hello, and the other person says "How are you?" And here's where it gets thick.

Often times I am in mid-stride, and if its in the morning, I am always late, so the stride is a rapid one. So when I respond to "How are you?", I usually only have time for a quick "Good" before I am out of range.

Approximately five seconds after the "Good" leaves my mouth, the hatred of myself begins.

Should I have said, "Good, you?"

Am I being a prick, because they took the time to ask me how I am?

Do they not even notice, and its just me that thinks that they do?

Or does everyone secretly talk about that prick who never asks how anyone is?

Not that I really care, but it's something to ponder.

Up and blogging

Welcome, welcome. This is the first post on my brand, spanking new blog. One where I shall be discussing many things, including: basketball, alcohol, a smattering of politics, hilarity, baseball, women, movies, music, Ronnie James Dio, football, life, stupid people, good books and much much more.

So stay tuned to this site, since it is of a general nature, it will probably be updated pretty regularly with at the very least funny things that happen to me that may or may not be 100% true.

I will let you ask one question. Why Fists With Your Toes?

Simple. Watch the first five minutes of "Die Hard." As if you didn't have it memorized anyway.