Another Weekend in the Trenches: Part I, A Sweaty, Formal Friday

Sometimes my job requires me to work odd hours, which can include evening and weekends. I don't mind most of the time, because I get time off later, I have no life, and most of the time it's for interesting stuff.

So I found myself heading into last weekend with assignments as follows: Friday, 5/15, 6:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., and Saturday 10 a.m. Not the most productive hours, since all time in between is rendered useless.

But because I take many of my life lessons from 80's band Scandal, I am the warrior. So I sucked it up. And what ensued I hope is funny shit for you, because it sure was for me.

Friday night, 5:30 p.m. I am sitting in my office, waiting to head to a certain National Cemetery in a few minutes for some fancy reception. Now, since I came to work at 6:30 a.m. in the morning, I didn't get up early to shower, so my hair was a disaster (not to sound like a chick, but if you know me in real life, you'll get the clue), and I had a dirty pair of jeans on.

I was able to go home at noon and shower and change into a clean shirt, so I'm looking pretty sharp at 5:30.

I head over to the cemetery, park my car a few hundred yards from the building, which doesn't seem to me much of a big deal. I pop in a stick of gum to make my breath extra fresh, and I head over to the building.

Here's what I didn't count on. The late afternoon is a crisp 85 humid degrees, and I am in a heavy collared shirt and pants. The walk to the building is up several steep sets of stairs.

Can you see where this is going?

I start to sweat. I'm not a big sweater, I think my lack of excessive body hair helps me in that regard. I don't even buy anti-perspirant for my under-arms, just plain deodorant. But when it's humid out, the aforementioned mop of hair I have acts like a fucking ski cap.

So I start to sweat a bit, which presents two problems.

1) White people (myself included) do not look good when they sweat, unless their hair is very short. Watch any NBA game. The white guys look like losers when they sweat.

Black people get all shiny and smooth, and their hair carries the sweat well. White people, the bottom layer of hair gets all wet, so it starts sneaking underneath your hairline, and greasy tendrils of hair get plastered all over your forehead and neck. It's disgusting.

Us whiteys might have gotten the swimming ability and the grammar advantage, but I would trade those things to be able to sink 20-footers at a 60 percent clip and look good doing it.

and;

2) The B.O. conundrum. I am absolutely paranoid that I smell at all times. I don't think I do, but no one thinks that they smell.

I know a lot of people, friends, bosses, co-workers who smell and it makes me subliminally think less of them. I know they probably can't help it, nor are they aware of it, but if someone comes up to me to ask a question, part of me wants to answer, "Oh, I'm sorry, all I heard was 'blah blah blah, I smell like a taint in summertime.'"

So I'm always afraid that I secretly smell and people are thinking the same about me. Because no one respects a smelly fucker, that's just science.

At this event, I my media contact is a very attractive young lady (saying that makes me feel like I'm a 45-year-old kid toucher, but I don't know any other way to say it), who I don't really want to think I smell.

So I'm sitting there shooting some shit, and all I can think is, "Holy Santa Claus shit, am I washing over her with a wave of pure stank right now?"

I kept trying to get covert whiffs of my pits in the middle of conversation, which is probably even worse than smelling. I think I was okay though, either that or she was a damn good actress.

Since this thing is being held in a cemetery, naturally death is a focal theme of the evening, meaning respect must be at the top of every attendee's priority list. The music was soft, slow guitar music, which I didn't recognize immediately.

Then I hear the familiar verse, "Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?"

Tears in fucking heaven? At a cemetery? How cliche can you get?

Then I started to thing, maybe this is just their "Death Mix" I spent a lot f time figuring out what else it could contain, I'm looking for slow, mournful songs about a tragic death.

• Neil Diamond - Morningside
  
• Bob Dylan - Knockin' on Heaven's Door (possibly more cliche than Tears in Heaven)
• Elton John - Candle in the Wind
• Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (if you don't weep openly at this song you are not human)
• Cannibal Corpse - Scattered Remains, Splattered Brains

But it was moot, because it wasn't "Death Mix 2009" they were playing (but tell me that doesn't sound like an awesome Jason Statham flick). No, it was Eric Clapton's "Unplugged."

Weird choice. Made even weirder by the fact that they skipped the unplugged version of Layla, which is a fucking travesty in and of itself. But how weird is that? Let's look closer.

• Someone made the choice to put Eric Clapton Unplugged into the CD player, or queue it up in their iPod.
  
• That same someone made sure that Layla would be skipped, or it was deleted from the album.
  
• Layla is the most uptempo song on the album, so apparently someone thought that it needed to be skipped lest the atmosphere of a solemn occasion be besmirched.

The conclusion: Whoever selected the music was willing to have Tears in Heaven played at all costs. It's no coincidence that it was playing as soon as we all walked in. I'm surprised it wasn't on a continuous loop, but that probably would have been too much.

I'm working this event, and right away, there are no prospects in the female department. I'm trying to spend a Friday hunting stink, but there's little to be found.

The only person in the building I would nail (namely, the only person not collecting Social Security) was one of the caterers. I had a moment with her at one point. She walked by me with hands full of dishes, and a fork dropped in front of me.

Here's my chance, I told myself, if this goes well, you could be smashing some hot caterer ass in a bathroom stall within the hour.

I picked up the fork as slowly as I could, searching my brain for a good line.

"Well, well, well, stick a fork in you, you're done."

Not great, but not an abortion either. She gave a quick smile, so I had laid the foundation. Which promptly came crumbling down, as I laid the fork back on the plate, and it fell off again.

It's times like this that the men are separated from the boys. Can I come top my own mediocre zinger with one that's sure to make the panties drop, or will I fly to close to the clam on wings of bad metaphor?

"Of course, that's not all I'd stick in you."



Hint: I'm the plane.

So that was a no go.

But alas, the night had other options in laid out for me.

In this case, it was a blonde that was at least two inches taller than me, in just a knockout of a cocktail dress.

I don't remember if I've mentioned it before, but I loooove tall chicks. Maybe it's the subconscious knowledge that only by impregnating a giraffe and/or black chick will I be able to sire an NBA Finals MVP, or maybe it's just because I like long legs, but here we are.

So I started hovering creepily around this tall chick. She was with a chick that had the exact same dress on, only she was 6 feet wide. Yecccch.

I caught her in some pictures, which I would post, but I am currently touching myself to, and you can't upload an open file. I'll upload them when I'm done, so around Halloween. Look for them then.

But much to my chagrin, the delicious elixir that allows me to go up and get rejected by chicks I wouldn't even make eye contact with, alcohol, was nowhere to be found. The bar? Serving water, iced tea and canned soda.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So I went up to the bartender, and I asked for a coke, in a glass with ice, "and, hey buddy, why don't you only fill 'er up halfway with coke, wink wink."

My first mistake was saying the words "wink wink" instead of actually winking. Bad start.

He didn't know what I meant.

"I mean, why don't you fill it half full of coke, and fill the other half with some Crown Royal?"

That fucker acted like he didn't have a stash behind the counter. You're telling me that these people are this fucking stupid without booze. I had just eavesdropped on some general's wife's conversation, the bitch had to be hammered, she was slurring like a mug.

Either that or she was a stroke victim, which, now that I think about it, would explain the wheelchair...

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, I did my shit, and spent the rest of the evening trying to insert myself into as many family photos as possible. With a nut hanging out. My khaki pants made it pretty easy, and I hope they aren't discovered until those photos are ten feet high on a projector screen.

Later, I'll get into Saturday, part II of this weekend in the trenches.

Sorry for this being so long. I would apologize, but I never apologize. I'm sorry, but that's just the way I am.

Friday Hate: 4/3 (D.C. Edition) and Some Detective Work

This week you get an extra-long edition of Friday Hate, featuring some nifty detective work by yours truly.

I can't tell you how proud I am of myself for ignoring the possibilities of the phrase "extra-long." Or disappointed. Yeah, disappointed.

Last night I attended yet another professional sporting event in the fine District of Columbia, your nation's capital. I watched the Washington Wizards play the Cleveland Cavaliers, and it was a good time.

What I come to you today about is something specific, which is a little different from your usual Friday Hate.

Usually I rail about something generic, whether it be a group of people, a certain action, or whatever. This time, I come to you to rail about a specific person.

After the Zards game, in which I got pretty drunk there, including double fisting 24-ounce beers for the fourth quarter, since they stop selling them at the start of the fourth.

The Verizon Center, or the Phone Booth as the locals call it, happens to have a bar in one of the corners, and it's a good bar. So after the game, me and my friend decided to wait out the rush to the metro at the bar, and we head in there to watch some non-live basketball, and have a few drinks.

A few drinks quickly turned into a Jager bomb, then another, then I think one more. There might have been shots of Jameson mixed in there also, I can't be sure. And of course, the ever-present Bud Light in all of its drinkable glory was there to wash everything down.

The bar was very crowded. A big Wizards win, combined with a Thursday night, combined with a general love of alcohol in your nation's capital led to a festive mood for all. Lots of people, lots of loundess, good times all around.

But sitting at the bar was one douchebag that didn't seem into all of it. He's surrounded by big guys in LeBron James jerseys, and hot chicks ordering fancy shooters, and he's sitting at the bar, calmly, not watching TV, but reading while chaos reigns all around him.

This guy was a douchebag. I could tell right away, for reasons I'll soon get into. But first, take a look at him, and see if you can't spot some of the tell-tale signs of prickdom.


First of all, you can't see the title of the book he's reading, so let me enlighten you.

Eros and Magic in the Renaissance.

I shit you not.

He is reading this book at 11:30 in a crowded sports bar filled with rabid basketball fans in Washington, D.C. What a fucking tool.

Note the rings he's wearing. A thumb ring. Do you know anybody who isn't a complete fuckstick that would wear a thumb ring?

(Actually, I do know one. He wears a thumb ring, but his last name is Scorpio, and with a last name as awesome as that, you can wear whatever the fuck you want.)

Check out the other ring, a copper spiral on his index finger. This guy is a grade-A fuckstain, and he wants everyone to know it.

The picture doesn't do his hair justice, but it's that greasy, slicked back look of someone who reads Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction. The drunker I got, the more pissed off I got at this dude.

Luckily he left before we took the second round of Jager bombs, because I was so ready to ask him something obnoxious.

But alas, I didn't. But I think I already made an ass out of myself the last time I was in D.C., so I figured I'm good for now.

So i got talking to some folks about the NBA, because there is nothing I like more than to talk basketball with people when I'm drunk.

Quick side note: Apparently the new slang term for African-Americans is "presidents." I hear it from good sources that it will soon replace the N-word as one of the more insulting racial epithets out there. You heard it here first.

Before I knew it, time had slipped away, and it was 12:30. It was then and only then that we thought it prudent to ask when the Metro closes.

The answer? Midnight.

Fuck.

Trapped in D.C. After dark.

Double fuck. (which also happens to be my favorite genre of porn)

So I call my roommate, who comes through in the clutch like Larry Bird (as long as we're sticking with the basketball theme).

A final note:

While looking for the picture I took of the prick reading, I found another photo, this one:

Looks like something pretty standard right? A mostly full bottle of Bud Light, sitting on a counter of some sort.

So, like I tend to do after several drunken nights, I played detective this morning. Fired up the ol' Photoshop at work, and did some sleuthing.

Clue #1: The shadow is my head, so I am obviously standing over the bottle, and the light s coming from behind me, meaning I'm not at the actual bar, because bars don't rest against a wall. Since it is florescent light, I am inside.

Clue #2: The surface seems to be white and shiny. There appears to be a line of caulk between the wall and the surface, suggesting an atmosphere involving moisture. Interesting.

Clue #3: The silver metal fixtures at the bottom left corner and top of the photo. They look like they could be connected in an L-shape. Hmmm...

My powers of deduction lead me to believe that it is a plumbing fixture of some sort. Since I am standing, it would have to be.......a urinal?

And that's when it all came flooding back. Where I was, why I took a picture of a seemingly innocent Bud Light bottle, and my general failure as a member of the human race.

I remember going to the bathroom. And when I got to the urinal, there was an empty bottle of Bud Light on top.

By now, you're probably saying to yourself, "but the bottle in the picture is full."

Right. Because I filled it. With my piss.

I don't know why, but for some reason, I remember thinking that it would be the funniest thing in the world to piss in this bottle, and leave it on top of the urinal. Like someone's just going to come by, see a full beer on a urinal (which is very, very warm), and just drink it.

I am a disgusting human being.

No one denies this.

Culture? I Hardly Know Her

Culture. It's more than just a sample in a preti dish that will tell you whether or not you have AIDS. It's something that people have. Other people, not me.

So when given a chance to meet with high-society types, I took this oppotunity to crawl out of the slop, hose myself off, and act like a human being.

Last night, as per usual on a Friday night, I found myself rather thirsty. Not thirsty for water or vengeance, but for delicious, delicious alcohol.

A friend of mine called me about a happening in Washington D.C., where some Libertarian website was holding a viewing party for their new special. Not that I give a shit about any of this, but it did have an open bar. Just try and keep me away from an open bar.

For most people, the evening was a chance to rub elbows with D.C.'s young, progressive elite, and meet like-minded people who would use these connections to one day change the world for the better.

For me, I could get drunk for free, and mabye create some awkward situations. A win-win really. And if I managed to find an emotionally distant chick with too much eye makeup to pity fuck me, well, it would be the cherry (if I'm lucky) on top.

So I got off work, and met my friend at his place, and we drove into D.C. The venue, as it turned out, was near DuPont Circle, which is a place that is rife with "the gays."

Nothing wrong with that, but I didn't want to find myself walking into the wrong bar and seeing bad things. Unspeakable things.

The club near the place I parked was called "The Ramrod" and it seemed to be one of those places where one might walk in to see an asshole stretched tighter than a snare drum.

I don't even know what that means, but I guarantee you the staff of The Ramrod do.

The guests at the particular event I was attending was the kind of people I rarely associate with.

Lime green sweater vests over pink shirts. Touch screen phones as far as the eye could see. Short, moussed hair. Chilled white wine in clear plastic cups. Goatees. Horn-rimmed glasses. Boot cut jeans over slip-on shoes.

That kind of crowd. Fuckfaces galore.

The event itself was absolutely perfect for two of my favorite pastimes: people watching and eavesdropping.

Most of the crowd was the mid-twenties, yuppie types who have likely never known the sweet sting of sweat after a hard day's labor.

But lo and behold! There was a mullet sighting. It was this guy who had a T-shirt tucked into jeans with elastic cuffs over white Asics. A classic look really. And timeless.

This guy was with a mousy looking girl, and they had a real Rocky-and-Adrian thing going on. He kept an arm around her the whole time, and she just looked like the sight of this many people would cause her to disappear into fine particle of pure estrogen.

Besides the guest lecturers, there wasn't any women over the age of 30. But there were plenty of gray-haired men, with nary a wedding ring in sight, and they always seemed to be following crowds of chicks. A little bit creepy (read: me in 20 years).

It was in an office on one floor of the building. It was a giant square room, with angled corners made of old brick and new white drywall between corners.

In the center of the room was another square, for glass walls and inside was the free food. The open bar was right next to this square, and that's where I decided to set up camp.

It was one of those parties where, if you came exclusively to drink (which I did), then you pretty much had to get back in line as soon as you got your drink (which I also did), because by the time you got back to the front, your drink would be empty (which it was).

The beer was pretty good, some micro-brew from California, but that didn't stop most of the doucebags from ordering Scotch.

I mean, seriously, Scotch, even good scotch tastes like shit. And they didn't have good scotch. They had Johnnie Walker Red, which is the equivalent of Budweiser in the scotch world. It's okay, but everyone knows the brand because of the advertising, and there are a ton of better drinks out there.

Everyone who ordered a scotch and soda made sure to say it really loud, and then look around, hoping to catch an approving glance from another like-minded prick.

Here's when I knew I was in a weird place. I went to use the men's room, where there were three urinals. I waited in line to use them, and I noticed a very curious thing.

Every dude at the urinal would unbuckle his belt to take a piss. Isn't that weird. Whatever happened to unzipping your fly? Freaking weirdos, man.

I decided to walk around spreading hate and awkwardness in my path. Since these were a progressive bunch, I knew which buttons to push.

A sampling of conversation starts I used:

• Hey, the government has functioned perfectly for the past 230 years, why change now?
• I miss Dubya.
  
• I don't know about you, but I think there's just some things the government needs to do to keep us safe, and we don't need to know about it.
  
• Sure, immigration needs reform, but won't that lead to a decline in white people? No one wants that. Right? Guys?
• That Ron Paul sure is a kook, isn't he?
  

Blank look after blank look, sometimes with flashes of pure, unadulterated hatred, was the only response I got. This night was turning out to be all right after all.

The event itself was a series of lectures on things like: universal pre-school, privatization of roads, immigration and the like. BOR-ING!

At one point, they asked for questions from the audience, and I raised my hand, and they passed the mic over to me.

"Uh.. do you think the Celtics will overtake the Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference?"

Deafening silence. I continued, thinking the audience hadn't gotten the question.

"Because, you know, the Celtics have been pretty good without KG, and they did it last year, but I just don't see how they can match up with LeBron in crunch time."

Cricket. Cricket.

I took that as my cue to leave. And when I say leave, I mean go to another, straighter, part of D.C., get hammered, get lost in the city, and end up driving through the ghettoes to get home.

Good times, good times.

A Capital Idea

There are few things in life that are as much fun as being an asshole. Not all the time, mind you, but once every now and again, it's your turn to be the asshole.

Every drunken night needs an asshole. In your group of friends, you may not have anyone that qualifies as being an asshole, but everyone is capable given enough alcohol.

I really hadn't been the asshole for a good five months, since last September. So I was due.

Last night, me and several friends went to watch the Washington Capitals play the Florida Panthers.

We took the metro in, which means one thing: little to no drunk driving. Always a good thing. It also means that no restraint will be shown. Especially by me.

We drank some beers at my place, drank some beers at a bar next to the Verizon Center, drank some beers and shots at an Irish pub nearby, drank beers at the game, drank beers and shots in the Greene Turtle inside od the Verizon Center, then headed to a bar for beers and shots after the game.

So yeah.

The only thing of note that happened is the following story. Ladies, I would love to know your opinions on the wager discussed, so feel free to comment.

Me and two of my friends were outside smoking a cigarette. A mere six feet from us, were two ladies, both very attractive.

One of the had the king of blouse on that has a big bow right below the breasts, emphasizing the belly, and resembling maternity wear. I wish now that I'd taken a picture.

I don't remember how it came up, but me and my friends started debating whether or not this girl was pregnant.

I said she wasn't, that it was a poor fashion choice, and my two companions disagreed. We decided to wager on it.

If she is pregnant, then I will pay each of them five dollars. If she isn't, then they each owe me five bucks.

Thankfully for us (and you, fair reader), I was sufficiently drunk enough to find out.

I walk up to them, and here's how it went down:

Me: Uhh, excuse me ladies...
The Non-pregnant-looking one: She's not pregnant!
Me: What?
The Non-pregnant looking one: We heard your whole conversation. She's not pregnant, asshole.
Me: Hey! I was on her side. I just said that it was a poor fashion choice.

Then the non-pregnant girl pushed her friend inside.

During the whole conversation, she gave me this look that said, "I find you slightly more repellent than a slug on the ground, crawling through its own slime."

But I win the bet! Right?

Well, apparently this wasn't good enough for each of my friends to give up five dollars. Because they argued that she was lying.

Fuckers.

Now, she didn't have a drink in her hand, and I'm pretty sure she didn't have a cigarette.

But, we argued about it. And argued. And argued. We threw it to my friend's girlfriend, who happened to be on my side.

And we kept arguing about it, even on the metro ride back.

And apparently at least one fellow passenger heard us, and wasn't too fond of our topic of conversation.

"Hey, excuse me fellas," this guy said. "You know, it was funny for the first five minutes, but really, back it down fellas. The ladies on this train don't need to hear you talk like that."

Are you fucking kidding me? Since when is this not America?

If I had literally had one more beer and/or shot, I would have let it go up a notch.

But I didn't. The guy was a douchebag. He was on the train by himself.

I'm sorry, I thought this was America.

Gone Clubbin'

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Loneliness and Name-Changing MILFs

I'm not going to lie. I'm a basketball fan. Living in D.C., that is an awful thing to be, because the Wizards are horrible.

Recently I got tickets to go to a game against the Phoenix Suns. I was going to go with a friend, but he wasn't able to make it, so I ended up going by myself.

And that is where you, loyal reader, come in. What follows is an account of possibly one of the most pathetic things a human can do: attend a sporting event by himself.

I don't have anything against doing things by myself. I go out to dinner once an a while by myself. I've been to several movies recently by myself. I don't mind. I'm fabulous company.

But a sporting event or concert is something different. I drew the line at going to see Neil Diamond by myself when the person I was supposed to go with bailed.

I had the tickets, but I don't think I could live with myself if I ever had to tell someone, "Yeah, I've seen Neil Diamond. By myself. And I cried during September Morn" If the person I told that to didn't put a bullet in my head on the spot, I would have to do it for them later.

So I traded my tickets for a limited edition Neil Diamond figurine. God, I hate myself.

Anyways, back to the game at hand. I wanted to see the Suns play, the Verizon Center is like 15 mins from my office, so I decided to treat myself to a night on the town with myself.

Yes, I realize that's what divorced fifty-year old women tell themselves. I didn't say I was proud of it. Want to know how awesome my life is? I share many experiences with 50-year-old divorcees.

Hanging myself in the shower has never sounded so good.

I got to the game with plenty of time to spare, and I headed to the Will Call window. In front of me, I eavesdropped on a most interesting conversation.

There was a woman in front of me, with two younger kids. She was very attractive, and she was arguing with the lady at the Will Call about showing her ID to pick up her tickets.

"I know the name is different, but I bought these tickets a week ago, and I just got my name changed today."

I was hooked. Immediately I had to know more. Why did this woman change her name? Why is going to a hoops game a priority post-name change? Why the kids?

It got even thicker. And no, not my penis. Well, yes my penis. But it wasn't the only thing. The plot also thickened. Though not as much as my penis.

She was sitting in the upper section along with me, and I was behind her on the escalator. The escalator to the top stops on the club level, and you have to get off and get on another escalator to go all the way to the top, probably so the people on the club level can see the human scum who sit at the top, and will never sit anywhere else but the club level again.

As this lady and her kids passed the line of people getting into the club level, she clearly recognized a similarly hit MILF, who was waiting to get into the club. The mystery lady exchanged greetings with the club lady, and that got me even more interested.

Let's recap. This woman:

• Has changed her name in the last three hours, ergo her life is in shambles
  
• Made a point to go to the Wiz game, to watch a horrible team from horrible seats
• Her kids are with her
• She has at least one wealthy friend, who she ran into

Who is this minx? I guess we'll never know.

Odds are that she just got divorced, and wanted to spend the quality time with her kids, but that's pedestrian, so I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.

Sadly, this was the last I saw of the mystery woman. Her seats were not near mine, and my standard fantasy of some sort of covert bathroom dry-humping did not come to fruition. Such is life.

As the woman faded out of my life, I stopped at the beer stand to get a tall, frothy glass of "Life is okay after all," made my the good people at Budweiser. For all the crap that professional sports get about concession costs, a 24-oz. beer for seven bucks isn't too bad, especially compared to car prices in D.C.

I took my seat, and I entertained myself by watching the pre-game jumbotron fesitivites, and listening to the PA annoucner spew his filler. Some highlights:

• The PA guy announced that it was illegal to sell or buy scalped tickets. Oh really? If you're inside the game, it doesn't really matter who the fuck you got your tickets from, because you're already in the arena.
  
• The jumbotron had a big advertisement about the penalties for underage drinking, then an ad that no one was allowed more than two alcoholic beverages (fuckfaces), followed by an ad for delicious DeWar's Scotch. Good placement.
  

Every arena has championship banners posted on the ceiling. Unfortunately, the indoor D.C. teams have combined for one championship (Bullets, 1978). Which means that the banners were a motley collection of "Who gives a shit?" banners such as the Caps going to the playoffs, and my personal favorite, the WNBA highest-attendance from 1998, 1999 and 2002. Way to go ladies.

There must have been a hole in my beer glass, because it was empty before the game began. I went to go refill it, and got back into my seat just in time to see the Wizards cheerleaders start their pre-game routine.

I love looking at hot ladies as much as the next fella, but these chicks had something to be desires. When you have a cheerleader with love handles, you know that you only have nine wins.

As the game began, I started to think about writing a blog post about the game. It would be just me and you, dear reader, watching the game, and enjoying it.

Though, when the wave of crushing loneliness hit around the second quarter, that didn't help too much. Fuck my life.

People can text messages up to the jumbotron, and they're usually stupid things like, "Hey Stan!" and shit like that. I briefly considered texting: "If I blow my brains out, will anyone on this godforsaken rock care?"

My seats were so high up that the Chipotle blimp couldn't climb to my altitude to drop free burrito coupons, which was also sobering. Or drunkening. Yeah, drunkening.

Even though I was in the upper section, a surprising number of seats were filled. I thought no one was coming to the the ol' Zards anymore, but the people were here. I wanted to scream, "Damn you people! Go back to your shantys!" in the worst way, but I didn't.

What I did do was drink beer and hope that some married chick with a single friend who loves basketball and needed a place to stay tonight would sit next to me. No such luck. Instead there was a prick behind me who spent the whole fucking game complaining that The Dark Knight wasn't up for best picture.

Apparently there is a whole new generation of motivational songs that play at sporting events. I grew up with Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll Part II" and Tag Team's "Whoomp! (There it is!)", but apparently that has passed me by.

Now they play M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" and Kevin Rudolf's "Let it Rock," which I must say, isn't much of an improvement.

Also, I noticed that there aren't many things in this world more awkward than the Kiss Cam that they do at games.

They always end up getting one couple who is actually brother and sister, one couple who don't know each other, and they always focus on two members of the opposing team. If there's one thing that's funnier than interracial homo-eroticism, I haven't seen it yet.

Much like the Kiss Cam, the Dance Cam comes with it's own stigma. They always show a bunch of ugly white kids who have no rhythm, but they are obnoxious enough to get on camera. It always ends with a little dreadlocked black kid who has more rhythm than every whitey in the place combined (it's genetic, you know) and everyone applauds.

I knew I was feeling pretty good, but I didn't realize that I was actually pretty drunk until I let out what I thought was a quiet burp during the game, and the people sitting courtside looked up at me.

But I managed to make it out of the game without causing a huge scene, and other than the bottomless abyss of lonliness, it was good time.

This is the first in what should be a series of posts called, "Field Trips." I don't call them "On the Road," because I'm not really traveling, but they do involve me going to other places. So look for that. Or don't. I don't give a fuck.