No One To Blame But Myself…

These are the crazy things I did (almost always when drunk) so I can’t pin the blame anywhere else.

From OCD to TKO in a Heartbeat

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Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am under absolute duress to be ready for anything in any reasonable amount of time. Even more than that, I can’t even get ready in an unreasonable amount of time. Celebrities don’t take this long to prep for the Oscars – but for me to run to the supermarket is a production. I have tried things to quicken the pace, but sort of like a gentle soufflé, you cannot rush certain things.

My wife always argues with me about how long it takes me to get ready, but while she looks absolutely perfect and requires very little touch-ups from the moment she rises out of bed, when I wake up I look like one of the zombies marching in back of the float in the Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance video.

My toiletry regimen alone is a great big process in and of itself: I set my Ipod for one song and then get in the shower. It should not take longer to shower than one random song. That’s not the time-consuming part. The exception to this one-song rule is if you have fallen into the cesspool (Lance) or had a plumbing pipe full of shit (literally, full of shit) explode into your mouth and onto your chest (Hal) – At that point, take as long as you feel necessary in there and no one will say a word.

Back to the routine; I like to start at the top and then work my way down. The opening act, or my first facial scrub, is just a tingly little wake-up call and then we head straight for the follow-up nourishing face wash and immediately into the Bliss face wash after that. I then grab my two thickening shampoos (it’s sort of the same philosophy that I have with Pumpkin muffins, where if one is good – two will be much better) and wash my hair. Obviously, the shampoo is dripping down my body and I would need to scrub again after it – so it just makes sense to use the body bar after the hair is done. Moving on to my Oil of Olay Age Defying soap for certain parts of the body – though never on this gentle face with a bar soap! I actually don’t understand why anyone would choose to use a bar of soap to wash their body and then use that SAME bar to wash their face. Any bar of soap that touches my feet or cleans my balls sure as fuck isn’t going anywhere near my face!

Blue Body wash is next for the rest of my body that the soap doesn’t cover. I don’t mind scents, but I feel like it needs to be blue or it won’t fully clean me. I don’t know why blue body wash strikes me as more thorough – but I just can’t use another color. Then I dry off and get my robe and waist towel (what my wife lovingly refers to as a skirt) and put on my Birkenstocks so my clean feet won’t touch the ground. Did I forget to mention that I HATE to be barefoot and just cannot do it? Nothing gets me worked up more than that. OK, the beach does – I mean you’re sitting in dirt – It doesn’t make any sense!!! (I actually had a mini panic attack at the airport last summer when I rushed out of the house in flip-flops not thinking and then had to go through security when I got to the airport. I almost scrapped the whole trade show that I was going to for work when they told me I had to take the flip-flops off. I asked for some napkins or paper towels so I wouldn’t have to walk on the floor – but they looked at me like I was the crazy one. Needless to say the sight of me scrubbing my feet in the men’s bathroom sink immediately after going through security didn’t go over well. Two people looked at me like I just escaped from the mental hospital and another told me that I was crazy. Fuck them – people can shave in the sink and hair is everywhere, but one foot on the counter sets them off? I was balancing like Nadia Comaneci because if one of my barefoot little toes had touched that disgusting airport bathroom floor – they would have taken me out on a stretcher right into the ambulance.)

For my next act, I move straight into oral hygiene and start with my Listerine pre-rinse and floss and Q-Tips to check for wax or and then grab my Radius toothbrush to start on the choppers with my Tom’s of Maine fennel toothpaste. Don’t let them fool you, if it’s not fennel – it’s not fine. I will not use a toothbrush that isn’t Radius – it just gets the job done! If you haven’t tried it – get one right now. Your brushing will shoot right up to the next level and you’ll be thanking me for it for years to come. The zesty tingle after a good brushing just starts me on the right path and keeps me going all day.  

If you were just thinking that I was finished and ready to leave the bathroom, you would be mistaken. The next stop on the OCD Express is my eye serum for the bags under my eyes (regular face creams are just not gentle enough for this area) then we move on to the T-Zone cream (for the nose and forehead) which tends to be an oilier area so you have to use a product of a different consistency and then I finish up with my gentle SPF Facial cream for the chin, cheeks, and neck area.

I hit the Styling Paste to spruce up this thin crow’s nest I’m calling my hair these days, and then an extra healthy spot of Rogaine Foam. Rogaine is the only one of my toiletries I have a heavy hand with – you never know. I now head for the brush to get my hair under control and give it a “look.” With my hair, I try to go for the “messy, cover-up” look to make it look thicker, but it usually just comes across as the “desperate, comb-over” look.  

We haven’t even gotten to the deodorant (Spray? No way!) and cologne yet. Lately, I have been going back and forth between Tiffany for Men and Diesel. I’m actually a little scared of using the Diesel at full force with more than one squirt – so I go very sparingly. It says right there on the bottle in big letters to “Use with Caution” and I take that warning very seriously. Seriously, the last thing I need is to go waltzing into work after one too many squirts of Diesel and set that little minx in Accounting off into a Diesel infused stupor. Instead of her flirting with the Subway guy at lunch like she usually does, she’ll be trying to steal the pickle off my McRib sandwich! That’s the power of Diesel!

I grab the tweezers for a quick little maintenance check and to make sure there is no hair trying to escape out of my nostrils or ears. There is absolutely nothing more offensive or careless than nose hair. There’s just no excuse for it. Why don’t we use this as the general rule of thumb for nose hair from now on: If you can grab it and twirl it or if small children can jump rope with it – there’s a problem. If your nose hair is long enough to floss your teeth with – stay the fuck home and trim it! 

One last check in the mirror for the once over and then I am ready to leave the bathroom and pick out clothes to wear. I did leave out one minor detail which doesn’t help my time spent in the bathroom: I have to do all of these things a certain number of times and simply cannot veer off of that. If I don’t brush my teeth forty-five times – I need to start over. If I don’t rub the Rogaine on my head into a circle seventy-five times – I need to start over. Also, if I go out of order in my routine in any way, I need to start over. That’s not a joke either – I don’t think of it as compulsive, I think of it as thorough. I will literally get back in the shower and start over.

If this sounds excessive or crazy, just imagine that I shower multiple (3 – 5) times a day. When I wake up (obviously), every time I take a shit, if it’s summer and I’m sweaty – add at least two more showers that day, before I got to the gym, when I get back from the gym…it’s actually a good thing that I’m overweight and have decided to cut out my time at the gym so I don’t risk a heart attack or I would have to get up even earlier than I already do to take another shower.

If you didn’t feel bad for my wife before this – I’m sure you have now joined the growing crowd that does. I actually used to feel really bad for her too because she is so patient, but then one day I stopped. The day that I stopped feeling bad was the day that her and her crazy sister actually jumped me in their mother’s basement to try to “Cure me” of my OCD. They had seen a documentary where this lady got a vacuum cleaner dumped on her head while she was duct taped to a chair and they got inspired. She sat there crying her eyes out and the light bulb went off above their heads.

When I say that they jumped me, I actually mean that they jumped on top of me and threw me to the ground while the two of them tried to remove their shoes and put their bare feet on my face. Their fucking bare feet on my face! Who they thought that would help, I certainly don’t know, but I went all Wu Tang on them like I was back on the streets. OK, I was never actually on the streets and there are grade School kids tougher than me, but at that moment – I imagined myself a gang member or as the epitome of strength and courage: Chuck Norris.

At this point in the game when two crazy bitches get all up in your grill like that – the “don’t hit a girl” rules fail to apply. I was all Chris Brown throwing punches left and right at those girls. Luckily for them I have as much coordination as a newborn kitten and I punch like a five-year old girl, so I was mostly hitting myself. I was screaming for help to old lady Ann that lived next door but to no avail. I was bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali and was finally able to get away and run up the stairs to freedom (and another shower.) Yep – they knocked me to that basement floor and there was no way that I wasn’t going to need a shower.

I grew up in a house with a crazy kamikaze sister who would turn into the flying Whoozini and attack out of nowhere and now here I was married to another ninja attacker and her crazy wombat sidekick. Needless to say, it’s been years since that happened, but I still never turn my back on either sister at family functions for fear of a repeat performance. Sometimes life just isn’t fair!

Is it really the thought that counts or what the f*ck were you thinking?

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spongebob

 

People say that it’s the thought that counts when receiving gifts – but do you know who really says that? The people who don’t get the crappy gift! When you are the one who actually receives and opens the shitty gift, you never think “Oh, it’s the thought”…you think – “What a douche”…

 

summers eve

 

If you don’t agree with that last statement then you obviously have never been given a bath towel that has a white side marked with the word Face and a brown side marked with the word Butt by your father-in-law for Christmas. He said he saw it and thought of me instantly. Not sure what that means exactly, but I never took it too personally because this is the same man who carried one of his wife’s old purses through Europe so he had all of his things at the ready on the plane trips. It’s not even like it could pass for an attaché case or a messenger bag – it was a God damn Coach pocketbook!

 

It's not even like I got the matching soap that comes with it!

It’s not even like I got the matching soap that comes with it!

 

I’ve never been really good at faking my disappointment at bad gifts. I’ve never been as bad as my sister Marlene who once opened a crayola crayon sweater from an uncle and said “Are you kidding – I’m not wearing this thing.” She was justified when my brother Anthony told her he was sick of giving her bad gifts every year, so he would give her cash for Christmas instead. Come December 25th, she saw a big box with her name on it and sensed trouble right away. She knew that there was no way the box could be filled with cash and she gave him that knowing glance. that glance usually precedes a violent outburst at our family gatherings and he said “I know, I was going to just give you money, but when I saw this I just knew that you would love it.” She proceeded to open a pre-Sue Sylvester red polyester track suit, strikingly similar to the ones worn by those weird kids in The Royal Tannenbaums and she looked at my brother to see if he was serious. He had such a proud smile as if he just gave her the keys to a Range Rover and then she noticed the $14.99 price tag that he had left on it. She first checked the pockets for the gift card that would normally accompany a gag gift like that and then said “Are you fucking kidding me?” she offered – “What happened to you being sorry about always giving bad gifts, so you were going to give me money instead. You spent $14.99 on this.” He didn’t get it and tried to ask where her holiday spirit was, but needless to say that Christmas gift ranks up top with her just above the Island of Misfit Toys dolls that he gave her just two years earlier.

 

island of misfit toys

 

There is a difference if you give a bad gift with a funny intention or if the gift is truly funny. Last year for my Christmas grab bag at work, I put in a bright  orange Mr. T Soap on a Rope. It was brand new, but when our admin opened it, she totally didn’t get it. Granted, she is brain-dead and is the queen of the blank stare, but that is a classic gift that people fight over. You just can’t get that everywhere! I gave it to Weezie for her birthday one year and she gave it the ultimate respect that it normally commands – she placed in right into the cleavage of her low-cut shirt and wore it for the rest of the night at the bar.

 

soap

 

I usually put a ton of time into thinking what to get a person, but I too have fallen to the dark side and gotten a bad gift or two. Let me start out by saying that I am a whore for a compliment. I was in the mall at Christmastime and you know those kiosks in the aisles that always have the cute foreign girls coming up to you saying they just want to talk to you? They’re dangerous. All it took was two Armenian girls sweet talking me and I left their kiosk with four of The Original Head Trip Tingler Copper Head Massagers:

 

Copper Head Tingler – Who wouldn’t want to get this as a gift?

 

Needles to say when my sister unwrapped it – my wife started to laugh; She certainly didn’t expect to find one under our tree at home or one for her mother and sister either. She also didn’t expect that I would spend 100 bucks on shit that no one wants. I fall victim to a compliment from a pretty girl and believe every word – that’s why I can’t be left to shop alone. I once bought a ruffled white shirt that cost $150.00 because the sales girl in Kenneth Cole told me I looked cute like Usher when I tried it on. I, of course, bought it hook, line, and sinker and then got the jeans too because she told me they completed the outfit. I got home thinking how hot I would look and my wife then reminded me that I look nothing like Usher. In fact, I look more like Oprah than Usher – especially since I’m white!!!

 

arrives at the 52nd Annual GRAMMY Awards held at Staples Center on January 31, 2010 in Los Angeles, California.

arrives at the 52nd Annual GRAMMY Awards held at Staples Center on January 31, 2010 in Los Angeles, California.

 

 

The timing of this post might seem suspicious, but I don’t throw this out there now because my birthday is next week and I am afraid of bad gifts. I put this out there now because if you give me bad gifts, I am gonna let you know. And don’t get me a towel that says Butt on it – I didn’t need one, but I certainly don’t need two! And if you give me a bad gift – I will write it here!

 

they feel lik

Eye believe that you really need a mint Sir!!!

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I want to send a message out there to everyone who is a hard-working service provider day in and day out – Hygiene is not optional so please BRUSH YOUR FUCKING TEETH PEOPLE!

I went to get an eye exam in order to renew my license this afternoon and I expected to possibly wait a little while if there were other people ahead of me. What I didn’t expect was to get nauseous and vomit in the parking lot. I am not one to complain or be dramatic (OK, who am I kidding – Of course I am!) but come on. 

As I was walking into the exam room, the doctor greeted me and he was seriously ancient. If he was less than 80 years old I am a monkey’s uncle. I’m not usually one to discriminate against a person because of age, but seriously when you’re hunched over and shimmying across an eight by eight room using baby steps and it takes you three minutes to get to the credenza – it might be time to hang up that lab coat.

(Don’t even get me started about that ancient old man who ran over my brother Angelo twice in the gas station parking lot! Yes, you read that correctly, I said he ran him over twice! He hit him then drove right over his body and then upon realizing that he hit something, he put the car in reverse and then proceeded to back over Angelo. The driver had suffered a stroke a few months before but never stopped driving. He actually had his name and address written down on a piece of paper in his glove compartment because he couldn’t remember who he was. It has been years since that happened, and my brother is finally just starting to think that it is as funny as we do. Who gets hit twice by the same car? He really got hurt, but that’s not the point. Seriously – twice?)

Apparently, when you’re licensed as an eye doctor in Connecticut, you’re appointed to the position for life sort of like a Supreme Court Justice. That doctor was panting and breathing so heavily like Darth Vader and I immediately started getting concerned in case something happened to him while I was in that chair. Truth be told, I wasn’t especially concerned for his well-being, I was just terrified that I wouldn’t be able to get my eye exam done today if something happened to him. Selfish maybe, but I needed that eye exam done today.

I sat in that chair as he got closer and closer to my face until he was all up in my grill and then it hit me like a brick. Apparently, that doctor had a shit sandwich for lunch because his breath was absolutely disgusting. I have a weak stomach and am not good in situations like this. I had taken my contact lenses out for the exam, but as he edged in closer to talk to me, I almost died. That musty breath was just the appetizer because even with my contacts out and everything blurry, I could see a small topiary shrub growing out of each one of his nostrils. Thank God my contacts were out, because those hedges needed to be clipped and I couldn’t even see them that clearly. He has the bushiest nose hair that I have ever seen in my life. Picture broccoli sprouts strategically places inside each nostril branch side hanging out. He actually had more hair in each nostril than all of the hair that I have on my head and my back combined. How does he not have family members forcing clippers on that nose hair? For that matter, where is the Board of Health? There must be some code against that. As he turned to get his light off the table, I couldn’t help but notice that he was also wearing white earmuffs which I thought was really strange since its August. Then I realized that they weren’t earmuffs at all, it was his ear hair. That fuzzy white ear scarf started in the center of his ear and then wrapped around running all the way up and around the lobe on a trail to nowhere. He was a nice old man, but it almost looked like he was a cave man with prehistoric grooming rituals. Needless to say that when he pushed his face right up close to mine and said “Is it clear now” – I almost died. That was the absolute worst thing that has ever been that close to my face. I would rather have a sweaty camper from my aunt’s Fat Camp place his ass gingerly on my forehead after eating nachos and bean dip than be that close to that dentist’s face again.  

As I tried to rush my way out of there, he just kept getting closer and closer and asking if it was getting clearer. I now know what a hostage situation is like and exactly what it feels like to be tortured. I thought for sure Ashton Kutcher was gonna jump out and punk me, but I wasn’t that lucky.  I kept trying to hold my breath, but I’m not Shelly Winters in The Poseidon Adventure and I just couldn’t hold my breath for longer than fifteen seconds.

After it was finally over, I headed out to the reception area to find a set of glasses, but then thought better of it. They were trying to find me a pair of glasses and offering up what frames they thought would look nice on my face, but I wasn’t having any more of it. I told them that I changed my mind about getting glasses and bolted for the door.

I thanked him and rushed out the door so fast that they had to call me back in because I left without getting my credit card back from her after paying for the exam. I was dry heaving in the parking lot and looking for something to drink but the piss warm Diet Pepsi only made me spit up a little. I lightly vomited and felt much better, but couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth. It was like I had been gang raped by gorillas. It was almost like he burned that stench onto me and no amount of gum or binaca could make it better. Needless to say I skipped lunch after that! 

A little back-story about the leadings up to today’s ordeal and why I didn’t have the time to go somewhere else: My Driver’s License is about to expire and since I wear contact lenses, I needed to get an eye exam or they wouldn’t renew it. I have a New York State Driver’s license even though I have lived and worked in Connecticut for the past five years. I refuse to switch it because the Connecticut DMV won’t let me use the picture from the New York Driver’s License – where I look amazing!  That photo was taken over ten years ago when I was still in college – when I had a full head of hair and two chins fewer than my current state, so it is a great shot. It’s a really good picture and I intend on using that for my AARP membership card many years from now. For some sadistic reason, Connecticut wants to scare people and put what my current-day self looks like on a license so I refuse to allow them. I actually look like I have swallowed the person in the picture on my current license, but I don’t care. I have been a victim of driver’s license photo hit-and-runs before, so I am holding on to this one for as long as I can. When I first got my license all those years ago, no one told me that pimpstache’s weren’t “in” anymore. My hair was rumpled from being under my hat and paired with that pimpstache creeping above my lip it could have easily been mistaken for a mug shot. I think back to that pimpstache and wonder not only why my friends didn’t tell me that it looked ridiculous but also, more importantly, “Why the hell were all those girls having sex with me?” Back then, I was the poster boy for the old phrase “it’s what’s on the inside that counts” because my face was working overtime against anything my personality was putting out there!

I actually got into it with a representative from Bank of America about my license recently because our car loan is through them and they were questioning why my wife had a Connecticut License, why our residence and my work are in Connecticut, but my license was in New York. I thought long and hard before answering her and then proceeded to make up a convoluted story about my wife and I having problems and that was forced to stay at my Mother-in-law’s house and that’s why I have my license registered there. I actually vote with an absentee ballot too so everything works out fine for me. My wife of course thinks that I’m a complete Ass for telling a random stranger that I’m having marital problems instead of admitting that I’m an idiot, I’m shallow, and that I’m trying desperately to hold onto the past – but I say as long as I get to keep that photo who cares!  

So here we are. I’ve sent the paperwork in to renew my NY License and even though I was violently abused to get it – it definitely is worth it. I stand by that picture and will go through great lengths to keep it! People, the point and the takeaway of this is “Consider Oral Hygiene to be a requirement, not just a hobby!”

Oh Canada, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

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Let the record show that I have a really big crush on Canada! A few weeks ago I was reminded how much I love Canada when I went to Vancouver for a Trade Show. We went to the Granville Island Public Market and look what welcomed me and my friend Jenny-J (her actual CB Handle):       

TALK ABOUT IRONIC...WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

 

This is cereal called Holy Crap! How random and creative and crazy and fitting!!! Of course, I got it and brought it home for my Mother-in-law. It’s a vegan cereal and I knew she’d love it since she always eats healthy. I love the name and although I’m sure it tastes good, there is no way that I would ever try it because it’s primarily made from Chia and you know that old saying “Stay away from Chia or you’ll get diarrhea!”     

Chia, for the uninitiated – and I didn’t know what it was either so I googled it – is the world’s healthiest whole food and chock full of fiber so it’s literally like a stick of dynamite if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I mean picture the last birthday party you went to where after Willy ate a few hot dogs, a cheeseburger, then had a healthy slice of Fudgie the Whale and a piece of Chocolate Cream Pie, and then ate a piece of Banana Cream Pie forcing him to miss the fireworks. He missed the fireworks because by eating all of that and essentially lighting a very short fuse, he “went to play Dig Dug in the basement”  – which is really code word for destroying the basement bathroom for forty minutes. Ring a bell? That’s Chia! Also, there is no way I’m putting anything that will make hair grow on a plaster bust of Homer Simpson in my mouth. Chia Pets might not be the same exact thing, but I’m not taking any chances! As I write this post my wife thinks it might be constructive to spread Chia on my scalp to combat my impending baldness. Isn’t it a little odd that people eat something that grows hair? Seems strange to me…but if eating Chia made my hair grow and supplemented the hard work of my thickening shampoos and Rogaine – I might just change my tune. Then you could trim my hair and use it as sprouts for your salad – Functional and healthy!    

Now, whenever someone asks my Mother-in-law if I give her any crap, she can say “yes” and really mean it! I can just picture the conversation while she’s eating: “What is that you’re eating, cereal?” “No, it’s Crap.” “Come on, what are you eating – Corn Flakes?” “No, really it’s crap.”     

I don’t get paid for any referrals, but if you would like to get your own bag of Crap (Holy Crap that is) check out their website Here. The owner, Corin Mullins, is super cool and this makes a great Birthday or Christmas gift! There’s also another saying that goes along with this: “Give the gift of Chia and the toilet they will see-a!”    

My love for Canada first started a few years ago when my wife and I drove to Quebec City. I’d always heard that it’s such a beautiful drive but I have no idea if that’s actually true since I slept through almost the entire car ride from Westchester, NY to the Canadian border. I was awake for a small portion of the ride, but I had taken my contact lenses out so I couldn’t see anything past the dashboard and we could have been in Albuquerque for all I knew. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a B.A. Baracus from The A-Team type of situation where I was drugged in order to travel – I’m just borderline narcoleptic. Put me into a reclining position or let my head rest back and it’s lights out. Not lights out instantly like Victor, but close to it. Right as we drove across the border we stopped at a rest stop mere steps into the country. As I walked into the men’s room, what do you think I saw on the bathroom floor? (No, not a pair of “just stepped out of but still holding a huge pile of shit” Hanes blue underwear from the men’s room at Mount Fuji in Suffern, NY! Literally a pair of soiled (Soiled? More like demolished!) underwear right in front of the toilet. Someone shit their pants, stepped out of the evidence, and then went back to their table for dessert! I couldn’t eat or drink a God Damn thing in that place for fear that the owner of that pair of abandoned soiled undies might be our waiter!) Right there on the floor of that Canadian bathroom was an Imodium AD tablet staring up at me; my very own welcome Ambassador to Canada! At that very moment, I knew that Canada was the place for me! Oh Canada – you spoke to me in the only language that I could possibly understand and came right at me with that little tablet of love!    

I would be remiss if I wrote about Vancouver and didn’t mention the homeless people. They might be some of the most creative and innovative marketers that I have ever encountered in my life. I will even go so far as to say that some of these people should be coming up with ad campaigns for Nike and Pepsi. Exhibit A: The man in this photo:    

Now this is how you market yourself!

 

As my friend Ja and I were leaving dinner and heading to another bar, we approached this fellow above wearing a very dapper top hat and holding an eye-catching sign that said: Penis Enlargement Went Horribly Wrong. Spare Change for Fancy Car to Compensate.” He looked me dead in the eye and said “Dude, I just don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.” I figured this poor soul had been through enough and I reached into my pocket and gave him ten bucks. He took the money and then he stood up and got out of the wheelchair! I had to pick my jaw up from the floor and I innocently inquired “you’re not really paralyzed?” He turned back toward me and leaned in and immediately I detected a subtle hint of spearmint on his breath which really surprised me and then he whispered “Dude, I’m out here all day and my back starts to hurt – I need a good chair to sit in!” I reached back into my pocket and gave him another ten bucks – this man is a genius! Forget anyone at the Trade Show, he was the most creative guy I had seen all day. At the next corner, there was a homeless guy pounding on a mailbox with his fists and thrusting at with his hips to keep the beat of the music. Poor guy must be just starting out and looking for his angle. A little tip that I learned right there on that street – no one pays to see a homeless guy hump a mailbox.      

The next night, a bunch of us went to another bar after the street party and we tore it up. I was like an inferno on the dance floor, so much so that I started grinding up on a mid-fifties Asian woman in the crowd. She was wearing an Ascot and I seductively untied it to swing it around like a flag, but I couldn’t swing it because it was so soaked with sweat that it was heavy as a sponge. After vomiting in my mouth just a little bit, I handed the scarf back to her and then she walked away only to come back seconds later with her elderly friend that I could only assume was her older sister or her mother. She put her friend’s hand in mine and said “Now it’s her turn with you” and I looked her right in the eye and then started to rock her world as I lit it up again. Another satisfied customer!    

As we were leaving that bar, we saw a different homeless guy working a different angle: He was letting you kick him in the balls for 20 bucks! We looked over at this girl who took her flip-flop off and really let him have it. She had a wind up like David Beckham and he went down groaning. He must have made a hundred dollars while we were standing there, but I don’t care – there’s got to be an easier way.    

Another homeless guy was standing outside a restaurant as a few friends came out and he approached them and his angle was honesty. He walked right up to them and said “Hey guys, you got a few bucks so a Bum can get a beer?” They gave him money and then he let them record him saying that into one of their cell phones so that every time it rings you now hear his voice saying “Hey guys, you got a few bucks so a Bum can get a beer?” He knows what works and sticks with it.  

Forget about the Hookers, it’s really competitive out there for the homeless guys in Vancouver! The smart ones line up near a busy Japadog truck and work the crowd. I don’t really get the Japadog thing and I actually almost threw up as my friend Heather scarfed one covered with seaweed down – I don’t know what it tastes like but it looked like shit. I mean what is really Japanese about a hot dog anyway? And who wants to eat a hot dog covered with seaweed? Is it Kosher too? Who came up with this you might ask? I’m much too lazy to look it up and I’m really not that invested or curious about finding it out, but if I had to guess – I would say that it was a homeless guy from the streets of Vancouver! Like I said – I love Canada!

Rugby Bulges lead you here???Now I’ve heard everything

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So,

In the statistics feature on this site, I can see what people searched for on the internet to find my site. Some people see the link on Facebook and Twitter or get referred by Yahoo and Hotmail but yesterday, and I am not kidding, someone found my little immodiumabuser.com post while searching for “Rugby Bulges!!!”

I’m glad to know that my posts about Weezie have reached a broader audience but who knew it would have such widespread appeal!!! Also, is it weird if my first thought after seeing that was, “great, more people are reading my stuff” and the second thought was “I wonder if they liked it” and then I thought about what to have for lunch and then ate lunch and then complained because it wasn’t really what I wanted and now I didn’t feel well because I have a bad stomach and the choices of what I can eat are very bland and limiting and then like an hour later finally I wondered: Why is someone searching for “Rugby Bulges.” And they capitalized each word like it was the formal version. I wonder if I would show up in the lower case version of the search.  Seriously, what do they do with that info when they find it? It can’t possibly be informational or educational? Can it? I guess if you’re a Rugby Coach or that crazy girl who has the sex toy parties where she sells her wares, but there’s just no sense to it otherwise. Who would find that arousing? Our African housekeeper Happy who stormed into the kitchen while I was frying eggs one morning and demanded that I take off her Neon Yellow Leather Mumu immediately!  It was laying on the couch and I only put it on because the air conditioning was so high and I was cold.  I was only wearing underwear but she insisted so I took it off and continued cooking my eggs as she sat there watching me. I didn’t mind too much because that leather Mumu was starting to stick to the back of my thighs and God only knows how she must have sweat in that Mumu all summer. In all seriousness, is a leather Mumu ever a practical fashion choice? And neon yellow – what does that even match? Do you need to dry clean it? You can’t possibly put that in the washing machine – what cycle do you use for that?…That’s really not the point, but you see where I’m going with this.  

Incidentally (or coincidentally?) I also got a random comment yesterday from someone I don’t know who likes this site – maybe it was the same person?…Either way – Thanks for reading and keep checking back. Who knows, maybe the next time you search for “American Terrier banging Roommate on Coffee Table” or “Fat Camp and Sex on Snoopy’s Doghouse” it’ll lead you to this site!

Like I’ve heard so many times before “Wow, That’s a long one!”

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“Are you ready?…” I could hear her as she stomped into the building and headed up the front staircase to our second floor apartment like Godzilla rolling through Tokyo. “Why is this door locked?…Let me in!…I know you’re in there…Can you hear me?…Come on,  we need to leave – Oh my God – are you still sleeping? Get up; we’re going to be late! Don’t do this to me. Open this door right now!!…Do I need to kick it in again!!! Don’t piss me off…”

That’s exactly how I was rudely woken up by my friend Weezie screaming and kicking at the front door of my apartment. Both of my roommates went to Albany for the weekend so there was no one else to let her in. I tried my best to ignore her, but she was relentless. “Get up, its 4:45 and you know it starts at 5 O’ Clock!” she implored.

I slowly peeled off my Navy Blue Tempur blinders and tried to steady myself. (Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me – those blinders are so comfortable and so soft that it’s actually as if you took your head and shoved it right up a sheep’s ass – seriously, they’re that soft!) As I tried to get my bearings, I knew that I should be in my own bedroom and should be sleeping in my own bed, but nothing seemed familiar at all. It felt like I had been turned upside down and was looking straight into a hall of mirrors. I knew that I should just lie back down and ignore her, but the truth is that she really would have kicked that door in again if I didn’t get up. Ignoring her would only lead to an assault!

“I’m coming” I groaned as I slowly lifted myself out of bed “Stop screaming before I smack you again.”

“Try it Bitch, and you’ll see what happens” she growled through the door.

I don’t think I can accurately describe my friend Weezie. She’s the type of person who feels that it’s more important to scream every word as opposed to speaking like a normal human being. I thought I had gotten used to it after five years, but when you’re hung over and the equilibrium is far from steady, being anywhere near Weezie is never the right choice. She was one of the toughest players on the girls Rugby team, but she was freaking hysterical and one minute with her would have you laughing your ass off. She’s a lot of fun and one of my closest friends, but that girl is legitimately crazy. When she says she’ll kick in a door – she means it.

As I opened the door, her glance told me that she wasn’t amused. There she was: one arm strategically placed on the left hip of her sparkly black formal dress and on her face a look of disgust that I can’t even begin to describe. She was ready to go out for her big night and here I was screwing that up. For some unknown reason, I had thought it was a good idea to stay out the night before until 7 AM and then sleep the day away. This would normally be her routine as well on a Saturday, but offer up free booze and she’d scale a wall for it.

Her Formal for the Girl’s Rugby Team started in less than fifteen minutes and she was not amused that I had just opened the door in grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a ripped T-shirt – obviously not dressed and ready to go unless by the word Formal they meant that trailer park chic was the dress code. I didn’t even want to go because I was hung over and felt like crap, but the prospect of a top-shelf open bar for five hours really enticed me. My girlfriend didn’t mind me going with Weezie and most of our friends were going, and did I mention that it was open bar so, I thought, why not.

Weezie pushed past me and went straight for a Coors Light as she started playing with my dog. When I say that, I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she was actually playing with my dog, Smokey. I tried to sit on the couch and make small talk by saying that she looked nice and that I would like a beer too, but it did no good. She gave me a look and then offered me ten minutes before it was going to start getting physical, so I got moving. Once again, when I say that I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she would literally smack the shit out of me! I tried to pull myself together because I knew she wasn’t above using a slap or an elbow to the gut to motivate. She said she’d walk Smokey, to speed things along, and I asked if she would make me a sandwich since I was starving.  

“Are you kidding me? Did you just ask me to make you a sandwich?”

“You make it like I asked you to clean the toilet – it’ll keep you busy while I get ready. Come on, I’m starving.”

“You can eat when we get there – We’re gonna be late.” 

“Weezie, when you’re worth it they’ll wait.” Picture her unamused.

About fifteen minutes later, I was ready. Anyone who knows anything about me knows I was under duress to be ready in fifteen minutes. I locked the front door behind us as we headed down the steps. (This is important – I normally never carried keys or bothered to lock the door but my roommates made me swear to do it before they left for the weekend because of people coming in and taking stuff. It was a safe town and they didn’t think twice about anyone stealing the TV or DVD Player – the crime they were talking about was beer theft. Lisa used to sneak in (sometimes through the keyhole and sometimes through the front window – she is a small girl) and take the beer. She’d then blame Weezie who my roommates would scream at and accuse of lying when she tried to deny it. I knew it was Lisa but didn’t care because it was hysterical how crazy Unibrow would get. Unibrow was one of my roommates and we called him that because he was from New Jersey. I’m kidding, we called him that because he had the bushiest strip of felt impersonating two eyebrows that I have ever seen on a man’s forehead. It was as if Bert on Sesame Street had a baby with Peter Gallagher.    

As we were leaving the front porch I said “Weezie, will you put my keys in your bag? My pants are tight and I don’t want to have two distracting bulges.” She put my keys in her bag and cracked a smile so I could tell that she was loosening up a bit.

“I’m really hungry – what are they having for dinner?” I gently asked.
“Hooka, I told you they’re not having dinner – it’s passed food” She rudely responded back with.
“What? Who doesn’t serve dinner? It’s five hours long.”

“It was cheaper this way so the planning committee thought people would eat first to keep costs down”

When she said cost-effective, she really meant it. Their idea of offering something to nosh on was nachos, potato chips, and pretzels. I thought they might be putting the real food out later since this must obviously be a joke, so I started drinking to fill my stomach with something. I was going through my vodka phase and just took a tiny bit of orange juice to gently color the vodka a bit. Little did I know what a dangerous game that would be to play on an empty stomach…
“Weezie, when are they putting out the other food?”

“They have nachos right there – eat those.”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t eat with my hands remember…”

“You and that OCD bullshit again…”

“They don’t have any silverware or napkins either, how am I supposed to eat anything here?”

By seven, I was drinking heavily and dancing violently. I apparently thought it was my job when Michael Jackson’s Beat It came on, to get in the center of the dance floor screaming the words and busting out a few karate kicks. I looked good, but I’m clumsy normally so a kickin’ beat and all that alcohol did nothing to stop me from bumping into almost everyone on the dance floor.

That’s actually the last thing I remember of the Formal. I don’t have any recollection of the events for the rest of the night following that dance. My recollection is that I had a lot of rhythm and looked really hot, but some pictures have surfaced that drastically contradict that idea.

I have heard many stories of my activities from those missing hours, but since I can only hope that they are exaggerated, I refuse to accept them as fact. What I do recall is being surprised that a December night with so much snow could feel so hot. I was sweating like rice pudding left out in the sun all day.

The next thing I remember is walking down Main Street towards my apartment. It was just about five AM on the Savings Bank digital clock. I had absolutely no idea where I had been since the bars closed at two or where Weezie was. I also had no idea where my shirt and tie were for that matter as I was now only wearing my white undershirt. For some reason it also wasn’t as warm as it had been earlier. Did I mention that it was December in Upstate NY?  

When I got to my building, I tried to open the front door but it was locked and I didn’t have the key – Weezie did. Right about then having two distracting bulges didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.  

That’s when I remembered about the back fire escape that led into my bedroom. I had never actually used the fire escape before, mostly because I’m terrified of heights and partly because the slumlord that rented it to us actually said never to use the fire escape. It wasn’t really attached to the house and actually banged into the house on windy days. (The building was being torn down after the Spring Semester and was actually condemned). There was also a lip in the doorway leading into my bedroom from the fire escape about five inches high where a plate had been laid down, leaving an opening under the door so snow came into the room. It didn’t just come into my room, it accumulated. The gap was so big I was always afraid Smokey would crawl out through it.

As I mounted that frozen monstrosity that they were calling a fire escape, I somehow knew in the back of my mind that this wasn’t such a good idea but there was no other way for me to get in. It was snowing lightly, my hands were frozen, and as I forged ahead, I just couldn’t look down. As I got to the top of the ladder, I tried to steady myself and climb onto the landing but it was very slippery. Just as I thought I was on steady footing and stepped towards the door, I slipped on a patch of ice and fell off the back of the fire escape toward the snow-covered ground two stories below. Everything went black.

I have no idea how long I was out for, but there I was in the snow looking up at the fire escape and my first thought was that this was exactly the reason why the slumlord had told me never to go on that fire escape.

My second thought was that my head was pounding and something was wrong with my left shoulder. Every part of my body was fighting to let me know who was in the most pain. I think the back of my head won out, but then came the worst pain of all: I realized that I was still locked out.

Believe it or not, that second climb up the fire escape was a lot easier than the first. In addition to being drunk, now I was dizzy and in horrendous pain, but I made it up there. Slowly, I found my footing on the landing. I held onto the railing very tightly as I opened the door and rushed into the room.

Remember that lip on the door I told you about? Yep, it got me. I tripped on the lip of the door and fell forward with no time to react. I closed my eyes as the desk got closer to my face because I just couldn’t do anything else. The corner of my desk ripped through my forehead like a knife through cheese and I forgot all about the pain in my shoulder or the back of my head. Blood was gushing everywhere and Smokey was going nuts.

I couldn’t get myself off the floor partly because the pain was too intense and partly because of all the blood that was now in my eyes. I tried but I just couldn’t lift myself and Smokey’s barking and jumping around like a lunatic were not helping the situation. It was barely light outside, and I had to squint to see anything at all. I knew I should call my girlfriend because I needed to go to the hospital, but the phone was all the way through the bedroom, through the long hallway past the bathroom and then in the corner of the living room. I dragged myself through the house leaving blood everywhere as I crept to the phone and finally dialed her number.  

“You’re not gonna believe this, I’m bleeding. I fell off the fire escape, and..”

(Cutting me off) “Oh my God Is Smokey OK?”
“I’m fucking bleeding, he’s jumping all over me, HE’S FINE – I’m not OK!”

“Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m drunk, what would I be doing on that fire escape if I was sober? It’s not even attached to the house! I need help over here. I can’t get off the floor”

“Go to bed and call me tomorrow – you’re so dramatic” and she hung up.

I think that’s the exact moment I knew that I would marry that girl.

I got Weezie’s answering machine next (she told me later that she was in bed hysterical laughing listening to me leave the message because all she could understand was me slurring “Hooka…Hooka…it’s not right…I fell off the fire escape…you have my keys…”

I finally got a friend to come over and take me to the hospital and a few hours later I was back in my bed with torn ligaments and a slight concussion after a good “talking to” from the doctor in the Emergency Room about drinking. I was so out of it that I was agreeing to his points and nodding to everything he said and didn’t realize that he was talking about me. I stupidly thought he was just making small talk about the way people drink when they’re in college.

I had just fallen asleep when I woke up to Weezie hysterical laughing as she stood above me dangling my keys. I tried to explain what happened, but she just kept laughing. She thought it was poetic justice for me leaving her alone at the Formal last night.

When my girlfriend came over, she couldn’t believe how seriously I was hurt. She thought I was just drunk and rambling on when I called her. I immediately forgave her because I was in love with her. I also immediately forgave her because no one else would take care of me and clean up my apartment and I was starving. I was heavily medicated that day but still made it out to the bars two nights later.

I wish I could say that night was a wakeup call for me and that I never got that drunk again, but that would be a lie. I had to leave school early and get an incomplete in all my classes and I looked like Mikhail Gorbachev with that big gash that went from my hairline to the top of my nose. I made scars trendy way before Harry Potter did but it didn’t go away for over two months and I had trouble with my left shoulder for much longer than that. I was in a sling and it was impossible to do anything for myself. I wish I could also say that was the last time that I got hurt while I was drunk (see broken ankle number one, broken ankle number two, St. Patrick’s Day 2009 when I fell face first into a brick wall and looked like Rhianna, etc.) As the saying goes: if you fall off the horse, you get right back on and I‘m pretty sure that applies to fire escapes too.

Assaulting Tom Cruise-Part 2: Great, now Rosie O’Donnell thinks I’m a scumbag

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This has nothing to do with my post, but I just think this photo is hysterical

 

In case you didn’t read it here, I went to London and assaulted Tom Cruise while trying to meet Nicole Kidman, and then forged his signature to get the movie placard he just leaned on across the Atlantic Ocean intact so that I could give to Rosie O’Donnell – now what! Getting to Rosie O’Donnell with the placard and telling her my story seemed like such an easy thing in my head. Why wouldn’t she want to meet me? It actually turned into a little but of a  daunting task but I knew there had to be a way.          

Waiting for tickets the old-fashioned way wasn’t working, and time just kept going by. One day I was looking for the car keys on my aunt’s desk in the basement and saw a gift certificate for a pair of Rosie O’Donnell Show tickets from an auction that she had attended on her desk. I was at first shocked and then mad as hell and went to find that bitch to rip her wig off. I took that certificate and stormed up the steps like Joan Crawford into Christina’s closet when she saw that wire hanger. (My aunt actually wore wigs because she thought that they looked better than her real hair – and she was right  – not because she was sick or losing her hair. I could actually go on about her wigs and the drama with them like when she had the “Rachel” from Friends or when the sand fleas in Paris Island started claiming squatter’s rights in her new Raquel Welch glazed mocha “Tigress” wig or the Cher infomercial extensions that were weaved through your head using a series of fishing wire strings, but I will save that for another post…(As a side note, it’s amazing to me that more women don’t wear wigs. I say shave your head and get one in every color. Leave it on the dresser at night, and then wake up and shake the dust off, put it on your head and you’re ready to walk out the door. You could save so much time, sleep later, and you’d use less products…Think of it as going Green Extreme! I think it could really catch on…)        

She was on the phone, but I didn’t care – “You selfish fuck! You know that I need to talk to Rosie and you went and got tickets? What’s wrong with you? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Seriously, you don’t think that’s selfish?” She looked at me with a mix of mild annoyance and disgust and then spat back at me – “That’s your Christmas present asshole!” (If I wasn’t a mix of scitzo-madness right there, I never have been in my life and I changed my tune real quick) “Oh my God, I love you – where did you get them? I can’t believe this” I exclaimed as I now tried to hug her. Other people might have thought this an odd exchange, but in my family insanity is the norm, and really I was just so excited about going I forgot right away about thinking that she was being selfish.         

So, we got the tickets and had the date in January all set – nothing was going to stop me now! Or so I thought…         

When I got back from London, I left the placard at my father’s house which is about ninety minutes from my girlfriend’s house. On the night before the taping, we left to her house to go and get the placard at my Dad’s and in the middle of a terrible snowstorm, her car broke down. By the time we got the car towed by Triple A and then back to her mother’s house, it was almost one am. I was ready to borrow her mother’s car and get back out on the road so we could get the placard, because I had my priorities straight, but they looked at me like I just suggested that we test it out to see if you really do get pink eye from someone farting on your pillow. (Insert your favorite New Jersey Revenue Director that wears the belt of his pants so high that it could actually be confused as a dog collar here. This has already happened to him this summer when his wife farted on his pillow and he got a really bad case in both eyes!!!) Needless to say, they wouldn’t go and I couldn’t drive stick shift or I would have taken the keys and made a run for it. I wouldn’t stop complaining about it and right before I stormed off to bed I said “How am I gonna go tomorrow without the placard? What am I supposed to do,  jump up and down to get Rosie’s attention? (This is the point of the story where you would normally hear the ominous foreshadowing music in the background…)         

We ended up taking the train to NYC for the show since we could no longer drive. I complained the whole train ride and then the whole subway ride (for a real reason now, not just out of principle that I think I’m too good to ride on the filthy subway) and then the whole time while we were waiting in line to get into the theatre for the show. One might say just another day in my life with my normal routine, but I am usually a little better than that…         

Since they were bought at an auction, we had really great seats right in front next to the piano player John and I stopped complaining and quickly got hyped up again. Winona Ryder was the first guest and everyone got copies of the Girl, Interrupted book and then they went to commercial. Edie Falco came on and everyone got copies of the Soprano’s soundtrack, and then they went to commercial. Time was going by so quickly and I could just feel my opportunity slipping by me with every koosh ball she shot out at me. (For the record, I caught two and the third she shot toward me went horribly off course – one would think with all the practice she had shooting those things that she would have spot-on precision like a sniper. I didn’t realize until later why she kept shooting them my way.)         

          

They go to the next commercial and Rosie was up and out of her chair walking towards me and I could just feel the fates aligning and the stars were all in a row like this is the way it is supposed to happen. As she stopped in front of our seats and started talking, it was just her and I and we both knew it. She looked right at me (or so I thought) and said “Does anyone have anything they would like to say or have any questions?” I guess, in hindsight, I should have known that she wouldn’t be talking to me at that exact  moment; I mean how would she know that I so desperately wanted to tell her about Tom Cruise? Just as the words were just leaving her mouth it was like something out of a movie: to everyone’s (especially my girlfriend’s) surprise, I burst out of my seat like someone set me on fire  – like a roman candle exploding into the air on the Fourth of July. Most surprised of all, was the person sitting in back of me that Rosie was actually talking to and who I had jumped up in front of. I could tell that someone else got up too, but I couldn’t see who it was and didn’t dare miss my chance to talk to Rosie.        

I started screaming and talking a mile a minute about how I had assaulted Tom Cruise and screamed in his face and forged his name and smuggled the placard back by lying and tricking the airline into letting me get it onto the plane. I guess that in hindsight (there goes that hindsight thing again) I should have actually thought out what I was going to say beforehand so that it painted me in a little bit of a better light, but I just got so excited and I knew that she was going to just love me and my story and that she would probably call me a Cutie Patooty and laugh and then get Nicole to meet me and she’d end up with Tom and I’d be with Nicole and we would go on vacations together and we would most certainly be friends after this. Sadly though, that isn’t how it turned out.         

Rosie, of course, was trying to take in my incoherent ramblings and looked at me with amazement and then asked me the obvious question: “Where’s the placard?” At that moment, I felt a definite shift in my stomach and knew this wasn’t going so well and might not have been a good idea – sort of like eating McDonald’s before heading to the airport for a six hour flight. With that, I shot daggers at my girlfriend and proceeded to tell Rosie about how her car had broken down and she was so selfish for not driving me with her mother’s car to get it at one am and what was wrong with her. Once again, not painting myself in the best light. Rosie said “Send me the placard” and then tried to dismiss me and looked past me at the person still standing in back of me. “Hi there little boy, do you have something to say?” With that one short little sentence, my stomach just dropped and I felt a very bad vibe all of a sudden as I slowly turned around and gasped.         

I turned to come face to face with a sick little bald boy all of about ten years old standing up to say how he was here courtesy of the Make a Wish Foundation and that his one wish was to meet Rosie and to see her show. NO ONE WAS MORE SHOCKED THAN ME AT THAT MOMENT! People started to take what he had just said in and there were a ton of awwwwww’s, and then every set of eyes in the place started turning from his innocent smiling face towards me and shooting daggers and staring like I was an animal. I slowly tried to sit back down in my seat but it felt like everything was happening in slow motion, to say the least. I could feel the disgust directed at me and it was radiating through the air like dust and if I would have known where the exit was I might have run out the back door, but I felt like I had to explain.  I cut Rosie off as she was talking to the boy and stood back up and started explaining – first to his mother who looked like she was about to pop me right in the chops and then back to Rosie, then to my girlfriend, then to randoms in the audience and back to the little boy and then back to Rosie…”Rosie, I didn’t know…I thought you were talking to me…(as I turned back to the boy) I thought she was talking to me…I didn’t see you…(turning back to Rosie) I didn’t see him…I thought you meant me…How could I know? I thought you meant me.” Needless to say the rest of that taping wasn’t as fun-loving as the first part and I kept trying to explain to my girlfriend, who in turn was trying to pretend she wasn’t with me and just shook her head. “I didn’t know…” I just kept repeating – “I didn’t know…”            

Apparently, when Rosie kept shooting those koosh balls towards us, she was aiming for that little boy and trying to get them to him, not to me. The narcissist in me just assumed that she wanted me to have them. I never did live that day down and I really did feel terrible about that kid. but honestly, who looks behind them before they jump up and start talking? Who else would that happen to?        

Assaulting Tom Cruise-Part 1: Hit and run

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Way before he was jumping on couches and eons before he was considered crazy – not creative – I met Tom Cruise. Well, met is a subjective term and I bet his security team remembers it a little differently than I do, but I’ll share with you how I remember our meeting.

I was studying abroad in London in the Spring of 1997 and Tom & Nicole Kidman were filming Eyes Wide Shut there so I just knew we were destined to meet – me and Nicole that is. You see, I had been carrying on a very elicit, top-secret romance with Nicole Kidman since the Fall of 1989. It was Dead Calm and I was anything but. I’m not one to kiss and tell, but we were hot and heavy. It was one of those timeless stories where the very sight of me would have her so overcome with passion and uncontrollable urges that she would just lunge at me right there. The only thing I needed was to get her to actually see me so that she could have that reaction and I could let her in on our secret romance.

They were having the premiere of Jerry Maguire in Leicester Square that night and I got all my friends to go. We were spread out across the crowd angling to get the best spots to see people, but I knew just where to go. I grabbed my friend Kate and we headed for the doorway. It was early, so we buddied up to these Swedish women at the front doorway and settled in for a wait until they arrived. More and more people started filling out the area and it got to be a really big crowd. The square was closed for the event and jam-packed with people.  

So you can get a clear picture of the area, the front doors of the theatre were the start of a red carpet that rolled out to the area where the cars let everyone out. On either side of the carpeting was the crowd fencing about three feet high and set up to keep the masses at bay. It looked like a big T with the doorway we were situated at being on the very bottom of the T and the cars drove up and let people out at the top of the T. We were in a good spot because everyone needed to come to us to get in and then back out to their waiting cars.

As time went by, we could spot certain friends through the crowd scattered all across the divide trying to get the best view and access. In the mean time, there was the guitarist from the New Power Generation (Prince’s old band) and there was Cube Gooding Jr (who would win a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Jerry Maguire shortly after – I’m not saying that I was responsible for him winning in any way, but I have always thought of myself as a lucky person) and then Woody Harrelson (who would go on to lose the Oscar for The People vs. Larry Flynt to Geoffrey Rush for Shine shortly after) came along. I looked over and there is my crazy friend Janet not getting an autograph from Woody, but writing down her phone number for him. This was amazing on so many levels, but mostly because Janet neither had a great smile and personality nor was she attractive at all. She was a very cool girl, but not something you’d want to hit one night in London if you were famous and had your choice of anyone…I’m just saying. 

(I know she gave him her number because later that night when she had gotten back to her apartment, her roommate’s boyfriend had just hung up the phone twice when he answered and the voice on the other end said “Hi is Janet there, this is Woody Harrelson” – He thought it was a joke! She came busting in saying that she just met Woody Harrelson and gave him her number as the phone rang again. She answered that time and he invited her and her friends to an after-party at a private club so they all got to hang out with Woody, Cuba, and the guitarist from New Power Generation all night. I on the other hand went bar to bar through the night sharing my Tom Cruise Story with everyone who would listen and even some who wouldn’t)

So as I was waiting for the sight of Nicole so we could make our love connection known to the world or just make out depending on how she felt, I saw Tom and he wasn’t with Nicole – he was with Jonathan Lipnicki, the little boy from the movie. Not one to be deterred, I threw the two Swedish ladies in front of us out of the way and then got onto the crowd fencing and started screaming for Tom to come over. As we were right by the front door to the building, the security guards started to heckle me. “He isn’t coming over, he’s already gone. Where are you from New York, screaming like that. Do you see anyone else here yelling? He’s not going to come over…” With that I stood straight up on the crowd fencing and screamed at the top of my lungs “HEY TOM…TOMMMMMMM – GET OVER HERE!!! At this point he stopped dead in his tracks (as did the crowd who all of a sudden got a little quieter and turned towards me) and started walking towards me. I quickly turned to the security guards and said “what do you think of that!” and looked over to see Kate hysterical crying at the sight of Tom Cruise literally steps away from her and I turned back to see Tom stepping up to me with a huge smile.

He put out his hand to shake mine and I don’t exactly know what came over me but instead of shaking his hand, I leaned across the crowd fencing I was standing on and grabbed his upper arm and pulled him about two feet closer right up face to face and got all up in his grill. My immediate thought was – what a great suit – nice material – but then I started screaming (literally inches from his face) “WHERE’S NICOLE – WHERE”S NICOLE – I LOOOOOOOVVVVVVE HER!!!” and everyone around us just went silent. He bust out hysterically laughing and tried to adjust his suit that I had just grabbed and then he goes “She’s filming, I love her too!” and started laughing at me. That’s when I really got out of control. I started screaming, to no one in particular, about how he was going to go home and tell her about me. (Of course, someone just grabs you and gets all up on you screaming about your wife and you don’t tell her?) I just  knew that Nicole would know about me in a matter of hours and it was just a matter of time now before she came looking for me and all sorts of crazy ramblings that make sense when you’ve had a bit much to drink as well….A reporter from Access Hollywood tried to come up and interview me but I was too hyped up and Kate was still hysterical crying at having just met him…She tried to ask us questions, but I ripped the microphone out of her hand and screamed in her face – “What’s wrong with you – Didn’t I just tell you he’s going to go home and tell Nicole about me???Nicole knows about me!!” Tom looked back at me still screaming and carrying on like one of those nine-year old Asian girls with the Hello Kitty knapsacks in the Michael Jackson videos and then he laughed and got into his car and pulled away.  

Then it hit me – I’m going to take the cardboard movie placard that he just leaned on and bring it to the Rosie O’Donnell Show – she loves Tom and she’ll get Nicole on to meet me. It’s amazing how the dynamics of a twisted mind work – because this seemed like such a reasonable plan to me. I ripped that placard off the crowd fencing and the thing was as wide and long as a dining room table, but I didn’t care. We took that placard to every bar that night as we went to celebrate meeting Tom and my eventual intro to Nicole.

I brought that to our apartment and hung it above our mantle. Anyone and everyone who was on our Study Abroad program heard about that placard and story on a daily basis. The day we were flying back home, everyone told me that they would never let me get the placard on the plane and I knew it would get ruined if I shipped it. I did the only thing a reasonable person would do in a situation like that: I forged Tom Cruise’s signature on the back of the placard and told the British Airways people that I was auctioning it off for charity in NY and it was Tom’s autograph and very valuable. The stewardesses let me put it in  back of the last row of seats on the plane home so nothing happened to it and I got it back to NY intact – now, how to get it to Rosie…Stay tuned later this week for the continuation of this story and hear about what happened when I told Rosie all about it!

Pretzel Boy sent back to the minors

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It was the middle of July, and it was hot as balls. Of course, Fat Camp was in full swing and to illustrate just how hot it actually was, I’m borrowing a Facebook Post from earlier today from my Rabbi Kodi – “Fock its hot! At the rate my balls are sweating I’m going to wake up in the morning dehydrated!” Needless to say, I needed the Air Conditioning as desperately as I need oxygen to breathe or alcohol to make it through the day, so it was off to only peaceful oasis that I knew of in the area: the mall.

I was actually pretty well-known in that mall, but not for very good reasons. I used to go there frequently with my cousin Leaky and her boyfriend, Dim, but nothing good ever came of it. Security was usually involved, sobriety was never involved, and immaturity was always involved. I loved her, but Leaky was always, always, always in a bad mood and being the absolute biggest bitch possible. I would try to embarrass her or make her laugh to get her out of those moods, but it didn’t always work.

That day she was especially bitchy and I couldn’t even ditch her because she had driven us and wouldn’t let me hold the keys to the car. As we were walking on the second level, I noticed that there was a guy giving out pretzel bites samples on the level below. I stopped and leaned over the railing, looked down at him and then started yelling: “Pretzel Boy!…Hey!…Pretzel Boy!” He tried his best to ignore me, so I repeated myself. “Pretzel Boy…I know you can hear me!…Throw me one!” He looked up at me (more annoyed than he should have been) and shook his head while saying softly – “No…You’ll get me in trouble…Get out of here”

  

 

Not getting the point, I got much, much louder and started screaming “PRETZEL BOY!…PRETZEL BOY!…I SAID I WANT A PRETZEL!…THROW ME ONE…NOW!…DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE!” to which he responded by picking a sample off the platter that he was serving from and proceeded to throw it at me. At this point, not only were my cousin and her boyfriend watching, but there were about ten other randoms watching as well. Pretzel Boy had obviously never played professional  baseball before because it was an awful throw. It went high and to the left and all of a sudden Leaky reached out her hand and caught that out of control pretzel bite. 

I thought for sure it might fly through the front entrance of Claire’s and land in the pile of headbands by the cash register but, I just couldn’t believe she caught it. She was far off from being an athlete and even further off from being coordinated – it was a shock to see her moving so deftly. And if you know her, you know it’s a shock to see her moving at all unless you have a box of Entemann’s cookies in your hands. (Funny enough she once ate a whole box of Entemann’s chocolate chip cookies in one sitting while we were talking and then looked down at the empty box and back at me and then down at the empty box again and then spat at me defensively “I didn’t eat all those cookies!” and then stormed off when I started to laugh and called her out on it. Listen, I say if you’re gonna eat a full box of Entemann’s chocolate chip cookies yourself – and who hasn’t? – then you have to own it Honey!)

Anyway, she tried to hand that pretzel bite to me after she caught it but, of course now that whoever made it and put it on the tray, Pretzel Boy, and Leaky had all touched it with their sweaty bare hands – there was absolutely no way that was I going to put that pretzel bite anywhere near my mouth. Pretzel Boy’s boss came out to talk with him (about what I couldn’t exactly hear, but I had a pretty good idea) so I yelled down at them “Throw me some cheese to dip it in!” Neither of them thought it was as funny as I did and they went back into the store. It was like the baseball coach coming out of the dugout to pull the pitcher from the mound after he just let another batter hit one into the stands…

I didn’t get a pretzel bite that day, but I did get that bitch out of her bad mood. Still a win in my book and then we were able to get down to business and get drinks in the sports bar that we always went to in the mall. I promptly forgot about the heat and quickly moved onto something else to complain about…

Who does this shit happen to?

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Speaking of really freaky pets and the lunatics that own them, when I was in High School there were two sisters that I was friendly with that were so ugly it was a sin. I’m not an attractive person in any way, so this isn’t coming from a place of arrogance – it is coming from a place of consideration. I’m not exaggerating, those poor girls were butt ugly. I have seen malnourished, third-world refugees that have a better shot of getting laid at the local pub on a Saturday night. I’m telling you this from the standpoint of a compadre because if I wasn’t funny, there would be nothing going for me and I’d still be single!

Anyway, the sisters were into Theatre too, so we were always in the school plays together and we became pretty friendly. One day after rehearsal was over, we were heading out the doors and it was raining cats and dogs. Their mother pulled up and as they got into their station wagon, she asked if I wanted a ride home and I gratefully accepted.

As we were heading out of the parking lot, I got a good look and couldn’t help but realize that their mother was actually a decent looking woman. She wasn’t a MILF or anything but, truthfully, I might have hit that on a drunk night in college given the chance or the right amounts of alcohol. She introduced herself and invited me over for dinner which I accepted. I couldn’t help but think that she absolutely couldn’t be more pleasant and I wondered where the attitude on these two sisters came from; It must be their father, I thought. As we drove to their house, I looked sister to sister, and then back to mom, and then sister to sister again and then back to mom and I just truly, truly hoped for both of their sakes, that this was only an awkward phase that they were going through.

Rats all Folks…

When we got to their house, I met their father, his mother who lived with them, and their younger brother. Amazingly enough, all of them were just as appealing as the sisters. You could see the resemblance to their father immediately, and that is not a compliment or something any girl should ever have to go through. We were making small talk and I took a seat on the couch next to their sweet little grandmother.  As we were talking, their mother was looking over my shoulder shaking her head no, but I wasn’t paying attention to her because I was captivated by their grandmother. She was telling me about how both of her granddaughters were so funny and so beautiful. She repeated it three times and I laughed along with her thinking she must be kidding around because neither of those two qualities could be used to describe either sister on their best day – but she was serious. I was questioning to myself whether dementia had settled in with her…when at that moment everyone got quiet.

I thought I heard something jostling around and turned my head to see a rat racing across the top of their couch towards me! A FUCKING RAT! As it crawled across the couch and up to my sleeve, I nearly dropped dead right there! I thought that I must be hallucinating looking right at this gray little rat shooting across the couch like a rocket – dragging the biggest set of balls I have ever seen in my life. Yes, when I say balls I mean balls. Seriously, I haven’t seen balls that big on adult men in gym locker rooms, but here was this little fucker charging across the couch at me – proud as can be! My first reaction was absolute shock and terror at being this close to a rat. My second reaction was about the sheer size of that rat’s balls because they were probably ten percent of his body weight. It was just Shocking! 

I was overcome with paralyzing fear and lost control of myself and did what any self-respecting man in my position would do: I started screaming hysterically like a little girl. “CALL 911 – THERE’S A FUCKING RAT ON THE COUCH! WHAT THE FUCK!!!GET THAT FUCKING RAT OUT OF HERE!!! (at this point they were hysterical laughing and said it was their pet – one of four rats they kept in the house.) As the rat was advancing up my arm now, getting closer to my face I lost it: “HELLO, WHAT THE FUCK!!!YOU UGLY FUCK, GET THAT FUCKING RAT AWAY FROM ME!…WHAT DID I JUST SAY???…THE FUCKING RAT IS ON ME…YOU UGLY BITCH…THAT…FUCKING…RAT…IS…ON…MY…ARM!!!GET THAT FUCKING THING OUT OF HERE NOW YOU UGLY FUCK!!!” 

With that, the room fell dead silent and their brother scooped up the rat. All eyes were on me and no one was saying a word as I tried to nonchalantly check and make sure that I hadn’t just shit my pants on their couch. My heart was racing a mile a minute and I was looking around the room, not to see if they were all staring at me which they were, but to make sure there were no other rats out…The sister that had put the rat onto the couch was closest to me and she gave me the full stink eye and said “He’s harmless and you’re being such a little baby. And by the way, my mother thinks I’m beautiful!” As I tried to calm myself and catch my breath, I offered “Who keeps rats in their house? Get that fucking thing out of here. You don’t put that on people! What’s wrong with you? That’s disgusting! Hello, it’s a fucking rat! And also, your mother is a fucking liar!” That last bit came out a lot harsher than the way I actually meant it, but I was just attacked by a rat so my emotional state was shaky at best and I shouldn’t have been held responsible for anything that I was saying. 

Their mother turned from cute to crazy in an instant and lashed into me something fierce. She really let me have it. I don’t know what happened to that pleasant, sweet-as-can-be woman from the car ride, but this crazy bitch went off. She tried to make it like there was something wrong with me (if you can believe that) and that I had been the one out of line – as if it’s normal to put a rat on someone – and she wanted me to apologize. I couldn’t tell if she meant for me to apologize to the rat or one of them. With that, my invitation for dinner was revoked as was my ride home and they told me to get out immediately. Not only did I have to walk in the pouring rain, but they lived even further away from my house than the school was, so it took me twice as long to get home. Needless to say, I never went back to that house again – nor did I ever receive another invitation – but that’s not the point. Who puts a rat on someone? What is wrong with people?

The Greatest Love of All

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I bet that if you were to ask my wife, she would say it was her – but let’s be honest here: My soulmate and the great love of my adult life has been Imodium AD. I love my wife to death, but this is a no-brainer and pretty obvious. Imodium  AD has touched me in an obscene, all-consuming way that no woman could ever truly understand. It’s done more to support me and has just always been there for me – it’s ‘had my back’ as we used to say on the street. I would never stray, but lately I’ve been having these overwhelming feelings and I’m torn – Don’t tell Imodium, but my Rogaine is fighting to get control of my heart!    

In case you don’t know what I look like, I’ll give you a visual. Picture a younger George Costanza with contact lenses instead of the glasses and that’s me. I’m short, overweight, balding, and unemployed, and those are just the highlights! I have actually come to accept these quirks and try not to harp on them anymore. I mean, I can’t do anything about the shortness (especially since I fell the last time that I wore platform boots), I’m actually eating more to bulk up for the eventual stomach band surgery I’ll get, but baldness is where I draw the line.

I say balding, because I have been fighting an uphill battle to keep those baldness dogs at bay for a few years now. I don’t have the luscious mane that I had in high school or the bleached blond (just like Slim Shady) full head of hair from college, but I’ve still got a bit up there. If you go through my family tree, no man in my family has hair past twenty years old. It starts thinning and thinning, until the only thing left is a memory. My brother Arthur finally shaved his head, but until he did, the front of his head looked like a yoyo – all surface and one little string in the center.

I’ve actually considered (and still might) converting to become a Jew so I can have the yarmulke cover my bald spot.

Funny little side story: At my brother Anthony’s wedding I was an usher and we were waiting in the bridal room for the DJ to announce the wedding party. We were drinking for a while and I had already soaked the flower girl with a pitcher of water because she touched my food (don’t you dare say that’s a mean thing to do – that little bitch deserved it!) I found a yarmulke with Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah emblazoned across it in rhinestone in a drawer so I put it on my head figuring that it would cover my bald spot for the photos, but my brother Arthur saw it and asked what the hell I was doing. “Get that off your head, are you an asshole? Why are you wearing that?” I didn’t miss a beat and said, “Are you kidding, you were at my wedding! You know my wife is Jewish and I converted. I’m Jewish!” (which was a crock of shit that I made up just then and really, what self-respecting Jew is wearing their Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah Rhinestone-covered yarmulke at a wedding?) He apologized immediately said “I’m sorry, I forgot that you did.” I replied as gingerly as a drunk fool could “Are you an idiot? -You don’t even know if I’m Jewish or not? I made it up – I’m not Jewish!”  “Come on” he replied “Are you Jewish or not?” My own brother didn’t even know if I was Jewish and it wasn’t like I got married years before – it was only a few months before this wedding – I love it.

I know that some people might be offended by that, but I am more of a shallow man than I am a religious man, so converting religions to cover a bald spot isn’t a lot to do. I know people think it’s not a big deal and I am acting crazy with this fascination with my hair, but on this one I will defer to Babs from Making the Band 2 when she fought with Chopper: “I TOLD YOU CHOPPER, YOU DON’T GO MESSING WITH MY HAIR” when he didn’t give her a phone message from the stylist and she was trying to get her weave done. Sing it Sister – I hear ya!

When I was younger, I swore that I would never be bald because I was still holding out hope that I was adopted or switched at birth or left on the doorstep and that I would have wonderful thick hair, but fate and my lineage turned on me like a cold-hearted bitch…so I ran to the open arms of the Rogaine. I was actually afraid of the Rogaine at first. You had to touch it to apply it and I’m OCD so I got rubber gloves. It was also messy and would drip down the back of my neck or my forehead when I applied it. I was terrified that I would end up with a thick mane of hair running down the back of my neck like a giraffe. Also, what if I started growing hair on the tips of my fingers? If Rogaine will make hair grow on my head, why not on my fingertips? Forget about shaking someone’s hand, how the hell would I ever wipe my ass while holding a ball of yarn in my hand? That isn’t sterile.

As if hearing my concerns/prayers, they worked out a compromise and came out with Rogaine Foam which has changed my life. Gone is the eye dropper to apply it and then dabbing the tissues to stop it from dripping off my scalp. It now looks like shaving cream and dissolves when you rub it in. You obviously still need the rubber gloves, but that’s not so bad. Just like the institution of marriage – this has been a blessed union. And just like the first time I had a strawberry flavored Charleston Chew (Bemish’s favorite) – I was hooked.

Although I would love it one day, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have dreadlocks and I have accepted that. I won’t be able to have a ponytail and I have accepted that. I’m still holding out hope for the cornrows, but I will get over that too eventually. For the chance at a full-fledged mullet, I might even consider trading a kidney…I know that I would look ridiculous with each and every one of those hairstyles, but I would at least like to have the option…Rogaine is making a play for my affections and I am torn. At the end of the day – there’s enough room in my heart for both of them, but my Imodium AD will always get the top shelf.     

     

I hate birds: Part One – London (long but worth it)

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I have fear and loathing and more than just a mild disgust for birds. More than disgust, I actually hate all kinds of birds: cardinals, pigeons, vultures, thunderbirds, anything.  It’s not the movie that did it to me because I actually really like anything by Hitchcock, and when Darlene dressed up as Tippi Hedren on Roseanne‘s Halloween episode it was genius. Like I said, it isn’t the movie that made me hate birds – it’s the birds that have actually attacked me. Not just circling the car at the McDonald’s by the water that my mother used to take us to when we were little, but I have actually been attacked more than once by vigilante birds looking for trouble. Here is part one of my vendetta against birds…

 

When I studied abroad in London, we didn’t live in dorms on campus. We lived in apartment building across the way from Marble Arch and the Speaker’s Corner section of Hyde Park. Now, I will go into the stories about that building with the poor tenants that we terrorized, Neville the always drunk doorman, and the convenience store at the foot of the building where Crazy Mary and I forced the cashier to hang a photo of us on the register at another time or this entry will be ten pages long.

 

The building was in a great location, and from the outside looked perfect, but the place was filthy and infested with roaches the size of matchbox cars. I would get out of the shower and see my towel speeding down the hallway on the back of what looked like a small toy yorkie. Anyone that knows me, is scratching their heads right now and saying with my Extreme OCD – how the hell did I live with roaches and I hear you. Wanna know how – ALMOST DAILY ALCOHOL BLACKOUTS. It was either that or go back home…

 

There were five of us living there and the rooming situation was like this: Me and Jeff shared a room because we got along really well and he used to sleep at his girlfriend Laura’s room across town a lot so it was almost like having my own room half the time, Gregg and Brian shared a room because Brian’s girlfriend got the single room in  her apartment on the ninth floor and Chris ended up with the single in our apartment because none of us really liked him or wanted to share a room with him. Stop it right now, I know what you’re thinking and that is not a mean thing to say because in this world, we don’t have to like everybody and something was really wrong with him!

 

The only good part about the apartment was that we had a housekeeper, but the negatives far outweighed that: the stove and the oven were very ghetto and didn’t work and the washing machine only sporadically worked and there was no air conditioning; it was like the London version of Clayton Street. My other big gripe was that there were no screens on the windows. We were on the fourth floor and we were always hanging out those windows to heckle people on the street or to throw things at our friends below and having screens on those windows would have kept us restrained inside the windows. Or kept other things out…

 

As a preface to this next bit, I need to tell you that I am a very heavy sleeper. I have slept through policemen & firemen, alarms & sirens, and one time, an actual fire. I put my blinders on and I’m out! (Brookstone Tempur Blinders are amazing by the way – it is literally as if you took your head and shoved it right up a sheep’s ass – They are that comfortable!) I also don’t move when I’m asleep, so I’m a little bit like a dead body laying there with my mouth open as if rigor mortis has just set in. People have made fun of me for years, but I just cannot sleep without the blinders. In addition to the blinders, I desperately need air conditioning or an open window with a cool breeze because I am a very hot person. (Yes, I know that is what all those girls in college always used to say about me, but I am talking about temperature right now).

 

One night after a particularly drunk evening, I was wasted and needed to get some rest. I took out my contact lenses, took off my clothes, opened the window because the room was so hot, put on my blinders and passed out. My roommate Jeff was away in Paris with his girlfriend, so I didn’t have to contend with his usual snoring.

 

I awoke from my dead sleep at about 8:30 AM to my shoulder being repeatedly poked very hard. My immediate thought was that it was one of my roommate’s ready to get his ass kicked for disturbing me, but I lifted my blinders to find a pigeon on my shoulder pecking me with its beak. A fucking filthy pigeon was attacking me! I thought that I was hallucinating again and was squinting because I didn’t have my contacts in. That pigeon was all up in my grill shaking its beak and staring me in the eye as if to say “What’s up, Dude.” I started screaming like a little girl and tried to get it off me with my hand, but it freaked out and went nuts! That pigeon clenched its claws and dug into my shoulder and really scratched me up (it drew blood!) and then it really freaked out! I threw that mother fucker off me and it landed onto Jeff’s bed. As it got it’s bearings, it tried to fly away and started crashing into walls and was making the most terrible screeching imaginable.

 

I was on the floor by this time, since I had fallen out of the bed in the commotion and was trying to get out of the door and see how badly that pigeon tore up my shoulder. At the same time that I was trying to get out the room, my roommate Gregg burst in and smashed me in the head with the door. He turned on the light, saw me on the ground, the pigeon crashing from wall into wall into wall shitting everywhere and he ran out the door and shut it behind him. He almost closed my head in the door because he tried to slam it shut to lock the pigeon in.

 

I got free and ended up in a ball trying to compose myself on the hallway floor while our other two roommates came to see what was going on. I couldn’t even tell them what happened because I started to get myself worked up and freaking out that it might have shit in my mouth (because I sleep with my mouth open) and started gagging. They, of course, thought me getting attacked in my bed was the most hysterical thing ever but I was like “get that fucking thing out of here.” And of course, I was bleeding from where it got me in the shoulder.

 

Gregg went to open the door very slowly when the noise had settled down because he said it probably flew out the window, which must be how it must have gotten into the room. He looked in the room and saw the pigeon perched atop Jeff’s dresser. Apparently, the banging we heard was the pigeon knocking everything off of Jeff’s dresser. Gregg shut the door and turned back to me and said “the window is closed – how could it have gotten in here?” I thought about it and remembered that I had gotten up at about 5:30 AM and closed the window because it was raining…Oh my God, how long was it on me? It had been in the room for almost three hours with me…

 

Between the four of us, no one would go into the room to get the pigeon out. After round one with my flying friend, I was certainly not going back in there or anywhere near that thing and I would have gladly slept on the couch and left it in there. Finally, my friend Crazy Mary came over and said she would get it out. She went into the room with a loaf of bread and I thought she was going to feed it but she was throwing the slices of bread like a frisbee at the pigeons to get it to move. That pigeon just sat there staring at her with a quizzical look as if to say “what are you doing, crazy girl?” She connected with one good shot and that slice of bread whacked the pigeon right in the head. That pigeon let out such a screech and kamikaze pilot flew right at her and almost hit her in the face. It whizzed right past her and into the bathroom and she didn’t even flinch. I, on the other hand, was once again screaming like a little girl and almost shit my pants as I dove down the hallway to get out of the pigeon’s way as it zoomed past.

 

The pigeon flew out the bathroom window a little bit later on, but not before it left a ton of shit all over the bathroom in addition to the lovely gifts it had left earlier in my bedroom. Fortunately for me, the pigeon shit mostly on Jeff’s stuff and his side of the room. The unfortunate news was that when Jeff came home the next day, he didn’t find that as funny as we did.  He kept blaming me as if I invited that pigeon to come in and date rape me. I had a really big scratch on my shoulder for a long time where the pigeon attacked me and for the rest of my time in London I NEVER slept with the windows open again. To this day, I still get uneasy whenever I sleep with the windows open…

How have I not had the shit kicked out of me yet?

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As hard as it is to believe for anyone that knows me, I have never actually been in a fist fight in my life. Many, many, many, many times, I really should have had the stuffing knocked out of me, but by some grace of God – I have eluded the fisticuffs (although there have been a few scuffles). I never got to throw even one punch in any of them, but that’s not really the point I guess. Not even when I went up to that girl in The Dark Horse Tavern and told her that her face looked like diarrhea because I thought I was helping her out, not even a slap. Of course, I was drunk and slurring my speech when that happened, but she got my meaning and just as an FYI: if someone is trying to help you, I think you should at least hear them out! 

In Elementary School, I used to incite the girls that I liked so that they’d chase me around and then beat me up when they caught me. I was young and had crushes and besides, I actually liked it when they beat me up. My first love was Elizabeth Taylor (when I saw her in Cleopatra at the age of five, I knew one day she’d be mine), but my next love was a girl in second grade named Jennifer who could run faster than any of the other girls (and most of the boys) in our class. When she eventually caught up to me, and she always did, she would take hold of my hand or my ankle and swing me around so fast like a carnival ride…Granted, she would eventually let me go and I’d usually go flying face-first into a chain link fence or a brick wall, but she did hold my hand for those few brief moments… 

I have three older brothers and one younger sister, so there were always fights in our house growing up. Usually, the fights were between my brothers Angelo and Anthony, but my sister was always the wild card. She was the one who would say “You know, Mommy says you can never hit a girl, right” and I would tell her that of course I knew that and before I could even ask why she was asking me that, she would haul off and punch me in the face. Literally, closed fist punch me in the face. Of course, I was stunned and disoriented and then she would run to my mother saying I was after her which would have my mother screaming at me to leave her alone. That bitch was crazy back then and to this day I still refuse to sit next to her at family dinners in case she has a flashback or something. I mean, this is also the girl who took a razor and gouged the hair and at least ten layers of the skin off of my right ankle while screaming “Wanna shave your legs too” and then ran off while I lie there bleeding. It has been over twenty years since that happened and the hair still doesn’t grow over that scar.     

As a point of reference, I don’t count the time that I got jumped by those three guys on Wellwood Avenue trying to get my wallet, as a fight. My wallet was in the chest pocket of my poncho (no jokes, a lot of people wore ponchos) and the zipper, of course, got stuck on the material of the poncho as I tried to give it over to them. I’ve never been a hero or what you’d call brave – I think the technical term is actually that I’m a Pussy. When I didn’t hand my wallet over, they knocked me to the ground and just kept kicking me in the head, face, and chest figuring any smart person would give them the wallet and let them be off. That whole time, I was trying to get the zipper unjammed and give them the wallet, but I couldn’t get it loose. Finally, I just said “Take the fucking Poncho and the wallet already” and tried to take the poncho off. I don’t know if you have ever tried to remove a poncho over your head while three people are steadily kicking you in that same head at full speed, but it ain’t easy – so it just added to the confusion.

As this was happening, there was a lady who was about sixty years old sitting on her porch swing at the house we were in front of watching the commotion and saying (not even screaming, but just saying at regular voice) “You boys better move that away from here before I call the cops” to which I gingerly replied back at her (trying to poke my head through the barrage of kicking feet wailing at my noggin so she could hear me clearly) “HEY LADY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR? – THEY’RE BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF ME – CALL THE FUCKING COPS ALREADY!!!”

Long story short, I couldn’t get the zipper undone and then a cop car drove by (she never did call, the cop was patrolling the area and randomly passed by) and they ran off. As I tried to get myself up off the ground, she just kept saying that she didn’t want trouble in front of her house. If that cop wasn’t there and I had my bearings, I most certainly would have went all Jackie Chan on her ass, but I was a little bit shaken up and, truth be told, she probably could have taken me in a fight too.  

At the police station, I didn’t want to get my mother nervous (it was the middle of the night and she had cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy) so I called my friend Elaina’s house to ask her to come and pick me up. That was a mistake. Apparently, that Yenta had hung up the phone, told her mother, then called my mother and then between the two of them, called everyone they knew and more than twenty people showed up at the police station. It probably wouldn’t have been bad if my mother and Elaina’s mother hadn’t started a vigil in the waiting room like Kris, Bosley, and Julie did when Kelly was in surgery after being shot in the head on the last episode of Season Five of Charlie’s Angels.

As I walked into the waiting room and saw all of them there and heard my the aforementioned Yenta‘s wailing and crying, I remember thinking “Oh my God, this is humiliating, what could possibly be more embarrassing than this?” I found out the next morning, when I woke up to my mother hysterical crying on the phone with someone – “They beat the shit out of my baby, my baby boy” (as if she were talking about an infant.) I went to the kitchen and let her mutter on with her call thinking it was her friend Bonnie and as she hung up, I tried to tell her that I was alright and not seriously hurt and asked her to calm down. I asked her to hand me the phone so I could call in sick to work to which she replied “Who do you think I was just on the phone with? That was your boss, Joyce, I called in sick for you. She is so upset” I literally had the shit kicked out of me again right there. Needless to say, I was ragged on quite a bit at work over the next few months for being 20 years old and having my mother calling in sick for me while crying hysterically to my boss…     

So I don’t necessarily consider any of the above an actual fist fight (they were more like drive-by shootings) and as a side-note, I do have really nice hands. I think that one day I could possibly be a professional glove model or ring model, so I would hate to scar them up with bruising and teeth marks from a fight…so it’s really not practical for me. Don’t worry though, because I will update this entry if, by chance,  I ever do get into a fist fight where I actually get to throw a punch – not just receive them.