Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Death is only nice once.

The absurdity continues.

I always get a little sad when the wild times I cultivated for so many years become a distant memory.

Like looking back in a dusty photo album saying, “Remember that time…with the fire…and the strippers…” We trail off and then stare into the sky as if the memory would suddenly fall back onto our fragile heads if for only a moment.

But when the waters get clam and the waves begin to flutter into the gentle ebb of the tide there is undoubtedly someone, or something that is willing to pierce the night with a bang sending throwing their wake on your peaceful shore.

With a full moon and only a handful of days until Halloween, I knew it was time for one of those nights.

I am not really sure how we got ourselves into a situation that involved dancing bananas, nicknames and one of htem ost ominous invitations from Death himself. But then again, being blinded sided by life is better. Then the stories – as your struggle to remember them – are all the better over tacos and cheese dip the next day.

The night was fueled, for me anyway, with more than dozen bourbons and sugar daddy going though his midlife crisis. We managed to score a spot next to the juke box at the Lava Room, a dimly-lit lounge that is reminiscent of what the 1950s though the future was going to look like.

A regular blast from the past to help you thought the haze of cigarette smoke and booze. The man, who serves on the school board in one of the small suburban cities in this god-forsakes city, kept sending us requests written on napkins with a dollar bill folded neatly inside.

His ruddy face kept getting redder and redder each time he would stop by making his white mustache stand out even more with each subsequent drink. He looked like a politician and drank like one too.

At first I felt like a musical prostitute, but eventually I got used to it. Playing some of the odder mixes off the Nickelodeon and forcing the entire bar to endure a little Pat Bennatar and Scissor Sisters…I know, sadistic. But who can resist…oh, Barracuda…

With Halloween right around the corner the bar began to fill with a few who came straight from the masked parties and events that forced sane men to dress up in ridiculous outfits and women to skank it up for a night.

Their breasts could defy gravity in these outfits as they attempted to writhe on the dance floor with two gentlemen who were parked there wearing identical V (like the Vendetta movie) masks.

“This is fucking time warp,” I said to the stripper sitting next to me. “I feel like I have been roffied…”

As soon as I said the words I could tell she was not having any of the words coming out of my mouth. Either that or she had been roofied once before and knew if I could still make coherent sentences then I was not riding the Roofie-colota pony.

As a band of Polynesian drunkards ordered their third bottle of Grey Goose in the booth next to us and began what we can only call group sex with one another, we decided it was time to bolt and leave behind whatever stragglers we could.

We were in no state to drive or even make a quick get away after all the drinks it took to even get me on a dance floor. Instead our plan was to cool our heels a while in the Newsroom, a veritable chill out tent in the insanity that was beginning around us.

But even there, The full Moon had already cast its spell on the characters streaming into the joint.

One drink in and we run into our newest friends Rad and Tex. Former lovers that now were “just friends” But from what we could tell, Rad was pimping out his blonde ex and maybe just banking on the fact that he might sleep with her if she struck out with this motley crew of drunkards and retards.

The two had another 6-foot-5 friend who apparently lived in the city, but she was off seducing the bartender, who earlier in our conversation managed to shoot a piece of ice down her shirt from across the room. A feat that was so amazing, to her mostly, that she insisted on standing on the bar and grinding her hips into his face.

“Your friend is kind of a slut,” I said to Rad. “I bet she would do you in the bathroom.”

No thanks, Rad, I have some dignity left – even after the college years.

I had no intention of going home with anyone from this group. I had what I loved at home already. My goal tonight was getting my roommate laid, or at least kissed.

Rather, he settled for a lap dance from the blonde masseuse from Texas.

By this time we had weaseled our way into their hearts with our wit and damn good looks, but more importantly we had also weaseled our way on their tab. Every new joke was accompanied by another drink and a shot for good measure.

The tall burnette was off again sitting between two 300 pound Mexican guys asking for anyone who would buy her a shot. She had gone from an easy bar pick up to an annoyance that was losing favor among the staff. Things were beginning to turn ugly.
A banana was being undressed by Tex, Rad was motoboating Jessica Rabbit and I was finishing my drink quickly before they realized we had just taken them for about $100 in booze.

Closing time; my exit strategy.

We stepped out into the cool air and were momentarily sobered up by the blinding light offered by the full moon. A soft breeze forced some to shiver. We needed to get somewhere for food or find a ride home before too long.

I did not even notice the kid approach me he as I was staring up at the moon and basking in its full weird vibe.

“There is a party going on at my place if you guys want to come along. It’s only five bucks,” he said. Something was wrong with his face but as I focused I couldn't see what exactly.

His all-black costume was unmistakeable, though.

“So what do you think? You wanna hangout,” Death said to me.

“Sure. I got nothing to lose,” I said letting the omen sink in slowly.

My spokeswoman took over from her and decided to blow the scene as quickly as it had come crashing down on us.

We were silent on the cab ride home.

Yes, Virginia, that just happened.

Here is to you roommate, you were so close.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Shit storms and dog costumes

This is the last time, paragraph factory.

I can’t believe after all we went though, you could pull a stunt like this. I thought we had an agreement. An understanding. A shared assumption that this would not happen again.

But no.

I saddle up to the desk and what do I see. Another damn animal dressed up in a costume. The paragraph factory – printing all the news that fits.

If readers send it in, we will run it in a big bold color spread and call it a feature.

I am sure there are people who love their animal and I am sure , as Kali envisioned, that love manifests itself in some way the involved a lot of felt and a glue gun.

Granted, sometimes I think it is funny to take my own Red Sox hat and put it on my own dog. Mostly because I know it irritates him and when he scratches it off he then looks at me with the most disdainful eyes.

“What the fuck, bro,” he can say with those old eyes. “Now get me a raw hot dog wrapped in cheese before I crap on your shoes again.”

He could just as easily bite my face off.

There are people though, who dress their dogs/cats/birds not because they are trying to irritate their animal and get them into a playful fight or some sort with a beef flavored rope.

Fuck no, these people dress up their dogs because it is “fashionable” or they really do believe that making your terrier look like a witch and thus makes you the hot shit on the block.

I wonder if people would find it as funny if I dressed up a pit bull in a costume and let it loose on the general public. Dogs in costumes would not be nearly as cute if he is gnawing at your jugular.

Oh but the shit storm has yet to start.

I am anxiously awaiting the “anal leakage” and “spotty flatulence” that is expected to start here in the next day or so as I embark on another dieting attempt.

My girlfriend and I have decided that we need to lose some weight in the coming months as we both have put on a considerable amount – mostly due to heavy drinking and then the drunk food that follows.

Last year at exactly this time I started a diet that involved a personal trainer and an expensive gym membership. I went from 300 to about 220 in six months. I’m back up to about 250, but maintaining.

Now I am prepared to attack this crap from all angles. We are going full throttle.

I am running again, eating healthier and supplementing my diet with a health dose of over the counter and slightly illegal pills.

Alli seems to be the most popular right now – mostly because it is the only the FDA approves of. But their modest claim to lose 3-5 lbs alone was not enough.

So we upped the ante and found a cadre of drug pushers to also hook me up with some industrial hoodia and a little bit of ephedrine laced with meth.

The combination should be a great jump start to this diet and give me the runs of an illegal migrant worker.

Look out world. As I reach my ideal weight I am going to be an unstoppable force of attractive man meat. That is, if you can get over the poop stains on my pants.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Do I regret it...fuck no.

Yes, there are times I wished I had done better in college. I probably should have studied more or focused more on the tests that got brutally shoved up my ass each and every three weeks.

Maybe I should have sucked up a little more to those professors who would rail on Wal-Mart or brand-name clothes. Or the teaching assistants who wanted to make sure we bought their books and read their works.

Fuck, I should have at least introduced myself to a few more teachers so I would not have to sweat like a jackal in heat as I wait for the scores of my most recent academic blunder.

I really screwed the pooch on this one.

But this time I actually studied. I actually wanted to do well and did not go into that class room at 8 a.m. with that dreaded stomach knot realizing I was having a test that day.

I was confident and knew I was not the one getting raped against a blackboard…calk dust getting in your eyes to ad insult to injury.

Well, this brutal back alley fight left both of us with bruised egos and walking a little funny, but at least we still had our pride intact.

What made this last fight so horrible and important was the fact that, well, I was a horrible student.

Do I regret my actions in college? Not at all. In the grand scheme of things it actually helped me. If you think grades really matters ask yourself where your high school valedictorian is these days.

Ours lives at home and is pregnant with her second kid…I think. I might be making that up. Grades don’t matter unless you are in a pissing match with a scientist; or applying to law school.

I think it was my blast from the past that put me on the foul track of wondering if I made the right decisions. And it does not take long to say, hands down, yes. I would not change on bit.

Maybe I would learn an instrument…but then, that is one of those regrets I have held onto since High School, and sweet Jesus I had a lot of regrets there.