Tony has drinking advice for you.
Recently in drinking Category
Kevin Triskett is one of my favorite students, ever. There's a video here, I've noticed my RSS feed doesn't render it, so go to the actual page, eh? Not necessarily for this video (of Jamie Gilbert, Paul Porter, Michelle Calka, Becky Gropp, Kevin Triskett, and I pregaming for OSU vs Michigan while in San Antonio) but for the one I posted last night, of Tina and I at Halloween. And comments finally work again. I accidentally tagged something with the .pl extension instead of .cgi which is what I've decided to stick with on my install. They work now, and I should stop getting >300 spam posts a day now.
The leaves blow along the bricked sidewalk with a warmth entirely malapropos for November. The leaves blow eastward; they blow along with the traffic on Fifth Street that leisures by, unaware of the dramas happening amongst them.
The wedding ended without fanfare; there was no Pottery, nor any Crowing of any sort. Not that it matters. Chinese poker is like any game; you play the hand you're dealt. Sometimes it's a good hand, and sometimes it's a bad hand. Either way, you're looking to hit the heart, mind, and body.
The top is the heart, and you're faced with making that connection that can't be described. Maybe it's a nut flush or a full boat; a straight flush is even more solid. Yet the most volatile, the most important round is the middle: do you take two pair to the mind or hold one over to satisfy the body? You play the hand you're dealt, but you have myriad decisions along the way.
You play the hand you're dealt, as you consider your flight back to Florida on Sunday. The paired Aces could have made the trips on top a boat, but would they hold up? Would it sacrifice the mid and bottom? The mind and body?
She drives away and you'll replay the hand forever. You play the hand you're dealt, until it's played to your satisfaction. It's never to your satisfaction.
It was a good Halloween. I think.
Today we launch Blogtracks, a musical accompaniment to your reading pleasure. Hopefully it catches on and more bloggers offer a streaming, relevant soundtrack to their posts. Stream today's by clicking here.
In today's episode of Journeys, we'll cover some major Lonelygirl15 hoax - scam - conspiracy - fakery news, talk with lonely Northwestern alums, and rock out with our collective jocks out to celebrate Football Christmas.
Big news in the Lonelygirl15 world, and hopefully the elaborate ruse all comes crashing down upon someone very soon -- as we here at Journeys have way better things to be doing than talk to attractive law school students over IM and fire emails across continents. Here's what's gone down in the last 24 hours.
Lonelygirl15 (I'm pretty much resigned to not calling her "Bree" anymore) posted a new video -- and it's time for making cookies! Though, conveniently, they make the cookies... in her bedroom. So we don't get to see the rest of the "house," or as I refer to them, "sound stages." The video, to its credit, is on face quite dull, but contains all number of clues to those of us on the investigation trail. "Bree" drops a few Myspace names, and "Daniel" is seen, almost ludicrously so (in the manner that they REALLY WANT TO MAKE SURE WE SEE), reading this week's Rolling Stone. Okay, so the videos really are recorded with a decent amount of recency. Or not? One poster matched a screenshot side-by-side with the actual cover and declared it a Photoshop job. You be the judge.
That's the least interesting discovery made in the last day, though.
Let's start at Tech forum site Anandtech. Anandtech is one of those sites you had bookmarked back in the late 90's owing to the forums constantly buzzing with news of free coupons, free shirts, and free DVDs. The late 90's were a jackpot for freebies, and those of us with the right connections ended up with piles of swag from websites that don't exist anymore. Except for this one called Google, who sent me a T-Shirt back in 1999 which reads, "I Google" (using the trademark as a verb, which they would really like you to stop doing).
ANYWAY, longtime Anandtech poster "edprush" lets this bomb fly:
Later posts explain she's been asked to attend a private school in Oregon or receive private tutoring. Apparently other cousins inform him an appearance on Leno or Letterman is in the works.
No surprise that he also has a YouTube account.
IT. GETS. BETTER.
Intrepid Lonelygirl15.com users tracked down a development at, of all things, the United States Patent & Trademark Office.
Yes, kiddos, Lonelygirl15 is now a trademark. Its owner? *drumroll*
Goodfried, Kenneth INDIVIDUAL UNITED STATES 17341 Cumpston St Encino CALIFORNIA 91316
Um. Okay? And the text of the application?
IC 038. US 100 101 104. G & S: Broadcasting programs via a global computer network. FIRST USE: 20060524. FIRST USE IN COMMERCE: 20060524
First use in commerce? You mean this is commercial in nature? It's not just some girl and her friend making videos from her bedroom?
I feel so disillusioned.
So now it's time to track down Mr. Goodfried and find out the truth. Is the end in sight? And why is a labor attorney filing trademark applications? Using his home address (a modest-looking place right off the 101)?
Meanwhile, the mysterious informant Mr. T is speaking more Jibba-Jabba in the LG15.com forums:
she graduated from McAuley High School in 2003
That doesn't jive at all with what edprush was saying, but, then, what's McAuley High School? There's McAuley High Schools everywhere -- including Cincinnati. I'd do some Myspace school searching, but Myspace sucks. Seriously, I'm not sure how Myspace is so popular, as it's a standing example of how not to engage in web design. Not only is the site horribly ugly (which could be fixed by, oh, three minutes of CSS adjustment), but IT DOESN'T WORK. Seriously, try doing a search based on networking or high schools, or browsing schools by city -- it just doesn't work. "An unexpected error occurred." No, I've long come to expect them, thank you.
So Myspace sucks.
Mr. T would also like us to know "she spent 2004-apr2006 in miami florida" which ... means nothing. He won't tell us much more, because he "doesn't want to face litigation." Seriously, check it out here. I think the dude's nuts.
For what it's worth, there are people getting paid to do what I'm doing here, and so they're doing a better job of it. The L.A. Times (thanks milo) has latched onto the story, and yesterday published a long expose on the subject. Here's the highlights:
If you freeze the frame at one minute and 36 seconds, you will see (according to some) a shadow sweep over the lower left-hand corner of the video; a shadow which, it is alleged, was likely cast by a boom mike — proving the use of professional equipment on the set.
(In regards to a YouTube message poster:
However, when contacted by ToLD, Johnny replied by saying: "i am sorry i am not at liberty to share any information with you. i apparently signed a Non Disclosure aggreement in feb 06. which legally keeps me from responding. again I apologize." (sic)
The fact that a major international newspaper has something called "The Trail of Lonelygirl15 Daily" on the front page of their Entertainment section is phenomenally surreal. It's the big time, kiddos, and those of us scooping up the dirt on the sidelines are headed for the bench, unless we keep up the due diligence. Now I know what it was like for Pauly when the big-timers showed up just in time for the Main Event and muscled the bloggers out of the way.
Finally, one of the forum kids made this parody. It's smart, but if you're going to make something smart, get somebody not tone-deaf to sing it. Gilbert and Sullivan weep in their graves.
Some of us are just gearing up for the backlash.
Yesterday was Football Christmas. To celebrate, I attended my local BW3's to watch the Northwestern-Miami game and whatever else they'd put up ... which wasn't much. Sat next to an excited Northwestern alum who had nice things to say about Athens. He was okay, but the $3.00 22oz Coors Lights were better. So was the Chase Club bartender next to me from Bay City, who wouldn't leave me alone, not that I wanted to be left alone.
The most miserable part of Football Christmas -- and there's always a miserable part -- is the fact that more than half the televisions at BW3 were set to the Buccaneers' preseason game. And the ones that weren't were being roundly ignored. These ignorant 'necks care more about meaningless NFL preseason games than FOOTBALL CHRISTMAS. Oh, and Delmon Young has a higher batting average than he does on-base percentage. God, I love baseball stats. Psyched to see Delmon in person tonight.
Today's Blogtrack featured 7L & Esoteric - "Play Dumb" and Goldfrapp - "Fly Me Away (Ladytron Remix)".
I do not know how Pauly or Otis do it. They live this schedule for six weeks, and I am falling apart after four days. Half of my face comes off every time I wash it (it sort of resembles a piece of limestone right now) and I might lose a toe. I'm ready for my Stacy Adams shoes to be broken in; right now, all they're breaking are my feet. Even my daily workouts aren't helping my body recover from the poisoning it gets on a nightly basis. Here are a few more observations from the past few days that I found interesting. Also some pictures from the crappy camera I bought from Wal-Mart that I was warned sucked and does. Plus some camera phone pictures and video.
Here is a camera phone pic from the VooDoo Lounge where I was Thursday night, looking south:
Here is a video of Phil Hellmuth dancing at VooDoo Lounge. I don't know how I forgot about this, but I found the video in my phone and a note about it in my Moleskine.
The hallways are a fire hazard as there are thousands of spectators and players and they all want to be in the Amazon Room at the same time. Here is a video of the typical hallway outside:
Here is James Garner opening Day 1A of the Main Event with the "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines" of the poker world, "Shuffle Up & Deal!"
He would probably appreciate if I stopped calling him Phil. Also, he's old. Very old. If you, like me, invest in deadpools, add
Phil James to your list.
There is an enormous expo area with booths set up for major poker sites and other poker-related enterprises. One booth is a sports memorabilia store, and they brought in Pete Rose to sign (overpriced) autographs.
Except they brought him in when the Media/Celebrity tournament was scheduled.
So there I am, looking at Pete Rose, sitting forlornly by himself, wondering why nobody was around to talk to him. They were all inside the Amazon Room staring at Cindy Margolis' boobs or Shannon Elizabeth's makeup.
I've been hanging out with some Xavier grads, one of whom is playing tomorrow. He's a PokerStars qualifier and so we were lucky to get some early access to their suite and swag. I'm going to have to mail all this stuff home, unless some of you want it, I mean, I have all sorts of T-shirts, hats, gewgaws.
An Asian girl at VooDoo Lounge refused to believe that I am not myself Asian.
Johnny Chan cut in front of one of my Xavier friends at the Rio's fast food Chinese place. He got sweet and sour chicken, then ate it by himself in the Rio sports book. I meanwhile watched him eat and hit a 64:1 exacta.
Anna Benson hit on me. Well, if you call her walking up to me and saying "I just have to tell you, that's an awesome tie" hitting on me. I don't know why she's here, but she has a booth for her web site in the expo center.
Bodog has a booth where you can go into a "bedroom" and get into a pillow fight with promo models in lingerie. The line is very long and consists mostly of fat and pasty PokerStars qualifiers.
Johnny Chan later handed me a deck of cards, to which I responded, "Thanks, Champ." The world no longer comes to a stop when Johnny Chan is in the room. Then again, maybe it never did, and that's just a line in a movie. Nevertheless, Johnny Chan was the ugliest promo model in the expo center.
I met Louie Anderson as he was getting ready to take on Chris Moneymaker in sumo wrestling. Err, I mean, poker. Hachem and Raymer were there, too, for a PokerStars heads-up challenge on the computer. There is nothing more enticingly boring than watching the last two champions of the World Series of Poker Main Event play each other in computer poker.
Really, that's Joe Hachem and The Fossilman.
Louie Anderson is fantastically fat, moreso than nearly any person I have ever met. I don't know if they gave him a special chair or something for his seat in today's Main Event, because I haven't gone over there yet. He's not been busted yet, so I'll have my chance in an hour or so. He did get a ten minute penalty for dropping the f-bomb. There are only two things banned in the cardroom: smoking, the f-bomb, and dotcoms. Wait, that's three.
Chris Moneymaker is very quiet and not very attractive. He is fairly friendly, though, not as much as Raymer, but friendly.
She sat down next to me at the bar at the Scottish Pub, Tilted Kilt. "Where are you from?" I asked. She responded, "Uh, I'm from here." "That's not very interesting," I replied, and got up and left.
I found a VIP card for Club Rio on the ground the other day, so I stood in line for an hour (apparently not a big enough VIP to go to the front) and got in for free. I left after about 20 minutes because it was about the stupidest, worst club I'd ever been in. Maybe it gets better later, but at 1am on a Saturday night it sucked butt. There were, by a bouncer's estimate, five times the number of men in the room as women. The few girls that were there were fat and ugly. They looked nothing like the barely-dressed woman in the poster advertising Club Rio outside. If I'd paid $20 to get in I'd have to kick my own ass. I guess that's why VIP cards can be found abandoned on the ground. I left for the small lounge next to Club Rio. I saw the bartender flairing and flashed my L.A. Hangout VIP card.
"You know Alcohol Paul?" he asked.
"I'm his best customer," I lied. It's amazing how many people here that dude knows, and how many doors my L.A. Hangout VIP card opens. Greg knows Paul from his Kahunaville days.
I don't have much to say after that except I woke up this morning in my clothes on top of the bed and half a glass of Captain Morgan on the nightstand.
Penn Jillette (of Penn & Teller) knocked me over in a hallway. He was apologetic.
Ron Jeremy asked me the time
Cindy Margolis rubbed her magnificently fake breasts across my chest
Made out with a dental hygenist (sp?)
I name-dropped Alcohol Paul and drank for free at an amazing club... overlooking the Strip... my blood is 90% captain morgan now
I walked through Rio and was amazed at the number of people saying hi to me, until a few minutes
later I realized Phil Hellmuth was walking right behind me
I danced with Daniel Negreanu's press agent (maybe did more? can't remember)
I talked to James Garner
I talked to two women who did not know who James Garner was ("Maverick, Rockford Files?" "Not ringing a bell."
I bet on dogs at Tampa Greyhound with a real-life card cheat
Okay, I didn't bet, but I pretended to and drank every Miller Lite the cocktail waitress could bring
Doyle Brunson hit me with his crutch (on accident)
I talked to Wil Wheaton while he was fuming over losing a hand to a total jackoff jerk (whoops)
and I've had my fantastic seersucker suit and white bucks outfit complimented several times
back to the Rio... and after that, who knows.
Bob came up to his friend Carl.
"Have I got a story for you. I was out flying my airplane, and it caught on fire!"
Carl replied, "Oh no! That's bad!"
"No, it's good," the pilot Bob said, "because I got out of the plane before it crashed."
"Oh. Good," answered Carl.
"No, it's bad, because I didn't have my parachute," said Bob.
"Oh my. That's bad!" said Carl.
Bob answered, "No, it's good, because Farmer Jones had just left a haystack right under where I'd jumped out of my plane."
"Wow!" Carl shouted. "That's great!"
"No, it's terrible," said Bob, "because Farmer Jones left his pitchfork sticking straight up out of the middle of the haystack."
"Noooooooo! That's bad!" said Carl.
"No, it's good, because I missed the pitchfork," said Bob.
"Phew. That's good."
"No, it's bad, because I missed the haystack too."
I'm stuck in the Minneapolis airport for five hours. That's bad.
I'm in the Northwest WorldPerks Worldclub, with free wireless and free drinks. And I just found the bottle of Jim Beam.
Call me an Interbay Superstar acolyte. While I'll never have the style, glamour, or connections of Rachel*, I'm trying to make the most of my new world here in Pinellas -- while remembering my roots. Thus, I'm not really living the South Tampa - St. Pete lifestyle as much as I am the Lutz-Oldsmar-Clearwater. It's like cutting your Manhattan with tap water. Call me a Redneck Interbay Superstar, a rover, a wanderer, a vagabond...
Call me what you will, the last two nights have been fruitless and toothless, but there's a story in every smile.
In my never-ending quest to find actual Devil Ray fans watching baseball, I headed out Friday night to watch the Anaheim game (10:05 start) and figured the Clearwater Dogwater Cafe would be a good place -- a well respected sports bar, yadda. Well, it was half empty, and despite the game being underway, and signs posted EVERYWHERE advertising drink specials during Rays games, it wasn't on any of the televisions. I'd committed myself, though, and the bartender found the game for me. I stayed through the seventh, then headed over to the lauded 420 Park Place. The band was playing The Bangles, and were pretty good, but a good band can't help a dead establishment, so I rolled out after a Select and found myself back at Eddie's in Dunedin. I got the lowdown on the places to be from some guys at the bar, and headed home. Little to say about my Friday night adventures.
I was more determined to find a good spot to watch the game on Saturday. I ran down to the US 19 Mugs & Jugs, which was packed. Despite having, oh, 400 or so televisions, zero were tuned to the Rays. I asked the bartender if the one television NOT tuned to the boxing match (it was showing Law & Order) could be tuned to the Rays, and she snapped at me. I don't know if rudeness is part of the decor at Mugs & Jugs, but I decided I had better places to be.
Where else would I be guaranteed to find people watching the game but at Ferg's, the sports bar across from Tropicana Field? So I ventured into St. Pete, wandered past the homeless dudes, and walked into Ferg's. A Jimmy Buffett tribute band played to a crowd of 50-somethings and the NASCAR race was on all the televisions. I walked past a "Private Party" sign and into a private party for Rays pitcher Doug Waechter. At least they had the game on in there, but I felt guilty taking their beer, so I drove down Central Avenue and on a whim stopped in a tiny joint called Steve's.
Your usual hole-in-the-wall, Steve's had a pool table, new jukebox, some hipster kids near the front, and some grizzled old men huddled around the ancient television in back watching... the Devil Rays. The grizzled old men were true fans, and I enjoyed watching the middle innings, though being trapped into a conversation with a dude without his teeth whom I relied upon the tone of his voice to determine how I ought to respond to his mumblings. I excused myself to bowl, using the incentive of $500 to the first 300 game as inspiration. Steve gives free drinks to every 220 game, but I could only manage a 218.
I told Steve I was going next door for open mic at Cafe Bohemia, where I drank some unspecified Hollish ale and listened to a pink-haired lounge singer whom I'm sure is some kind of cult figure over here. If anything, it was true St. Pete, and when they packed up, I went back nextdoor to rap with the hipster kids.
Gave 420 a second chance, and it turned out to be the last. Ran out to Eddie's, and the parking lot was nearly empty. Finally dropped by JJ's Prime Time and found the sparse crowd friendly, if... sparse. Undaunted, I rolled over to Hillsborough for last call at Chase Club, and... well, you can probably figure out where this is going. The brunette wasn't impressed with my game, so I rolled it on back to Dunwater Harbor.
If you think we're giving up, you're crazy. It's a new town, it'll take some shakes to get the snowflakes falling. And Steve's a cool dude.
Also, this story was just on SportsCenter, and it's totally changed my opinion of Kobe Bryant. Eh, not totally. Somewhatally.
I have always been a fan of economics, particularly at the micro level, and read Levitt and Dubner's Freakonomics several times. It quickly became one of my favorite books, ever, and Steven Levitt became one of my heroes.
Imagine my surprise when Levitt posted in his blog the following:
I’m going to have a team of researchers in Las Vegas running some experiments on decision making by poker players. We are looking for serious poker players who (a) will be in Las Vegas between July 21 and July 27, (b) want to make a little money and get a signed copy of Freakonomics, (c) read about themselves in the sequel to Freakonomics, and (d) have about an hour to spare.
Are you kidding me? I arrive in Las Vegas to do MY work on poker the 26th. Could I possibly meet up with the man himself? Could I discuss a chapter of my dissertation with THE Dr. Steven Levitt? Stay tuned.
Wednesday night ventured out to explore the bars and taverns of my new neighborhood. Stopped in Norton's, only a block away, and found it pretty dead. A Select and round of bowling and I got out. I can't just walk into a place and walk out if it's dead -- I know some people can. I can't. I figure I owe them at least the amount of time it takes to guzzle a Select, which is about 90 seconds.
So I drove around downtown Dunedin, didn't see much going on, until on Alt19 I came across Eddie's. I popped into the place and found 2-for-1s to my liking, so I fired up a deuce of the Dunedin Brewery's Pale Ale. Chatted with three kids at the bar, teachers, and when their friends showed up we moved to the other room for some darts and air hockey. I have never, EVER, been so bad at darts as I was that night, but the crew didn't seem to mind, and my partner was on the phone with her fiance most of the time anyway. Two more Selects, more darts, and the crew (some of which had moved down from Chi-town three days prior) took to me okay, though the women were all taken. I skipped out on meeting them Thursday at the Roundup, as the country dance thing ain't my style.
Took my leave and found myself as open mic night was winding down at the Dunedin Brewery, which inexplicably was closing at 1. Hello? Pinellas already chokes itself with the inane 2am bar close, and you're going to cut things off even earlier? I lounged at the smoking patio with some hipsters and some guy who apparently gave me his business card... I think he wanted to hire me to do landscape work. Not sure. Rolled in, slept on the floor.
Thursday was a meetup with the old gang at the UA, though my night was somewhat interrupted when a cute blonde in a bright pink shirt asked if I had a quarter. I'm a poor ass, so I didn't have a dime on me, but I directed her to a change machine. She asked if I could break for her friends who were playing pool. Never one to back down from a challenge, I walked away from my crew and headed up to the tables. Pinky introduced me to her three friends, one a smokin' brunette in a soulful shade of blue. I can't remember sh*t for names lately, so it helped the initials in the order I was introduced made the memorable acronym of KAML. I chatted up the brunette who looked back with wide open eyes. They weren't USF students; in fact, they'd just moved here three weeks ago from Madison.
"We're on a one-year fellowship mission."
I'm a good Catholic boy, but my brand of Jesus isn't the same as these gals, and I found myself torn between trading come-ons for Jesus' love and ended up settling on a topic we could all agree on: the evils of Scientology.
"They just haven't found the love of Jesus Christ yet."
I sank the Eight and headed back to my friends, not after accepting an offer to head to their apartment Sunday for spaghetti. I dunno if that's a euphemism, but a boy can dream.
A quick beer at the LA and a shot of Marnier and it was time to head home. Or not. Dropped in on the Chase Club for karaoke night, slow, but rocked the house with some New York State of Mind and rolled with some insurance salesmen. Male-Female was about infinity, so I stuck around for two Blues and rolled out.
It's Friday, and I'm a loss as to where I'm headed tonight.
After ten beers, an hour nap becomes a five hour nap, completely ruining your night.
Also, I'm moving to Clearwater. No, I'm not becoming a $cientologist, I'm just moving back in with Jenn. Yay.
Edit: If you haven't gone and seen Jobsite Theater's We Won't Pay! We Won't Pay! then you're missing out and this is your last chance to see it so GO TONIGHT because it's amazing and my full review is coming soon
After a day spent pleading with poker players and writers to let me interview them, I tripped down the BBD to check out the film An Inconvenient Truth on its opening night in the Tampa Bay area.
I was pleased to find a nearly-packed theatre. The film itself is beyond description. I can only say that if you don't see this picture, you're doing yourself and our country a great disservice. It's beyond epic. I wish it were longer, but I suppose director Davis Guggenheim decided 105 minutes of powerful material was enough. The end of the film is the best part; make sure you stay through the credits, as they're probably the most important part of the picture, and the only "activist" one.
I walked out shaking and called my parents, urging them to see the film, and I urge you all to do the same. I only wish Mr. Gore had been so clear and charming (and funny!) during the 2000 campaign.
After the film, I ran down to the UA Hangout to meet Tina and Charles. We pasted two #1s on the rest of the country in the span of 90 minutes, and Tina and Charles took off leaving me with a stack of plastic shot cups, signifying the free drinks we'd earned for our superior intellect.
So I crossed the bar and chatted up the two girls who kept looking at me. The blonde scenester type was, as I'd predicted by her body language, the bartender's girlfriend. The other, the brunette, apparently also had a boyfriend, but was awfully interested in my shirt -- a Teen Girl Squad baseball shirt. After explaining Cheerleader, So-And-So, What's-Her-Face, and The Ugly One to her, she asked my name, and I hers.
I strained to hear it through the tones of the Geto Boys' "My Mind Is Playing Tricks On Me." I thought she said "Manda."
"No, Nanda," she replied.
That's not your full name....
"Fernanda," she explained, and my evening's soundtrack hit the Play button, and would be all Abba, all the time.
So Ferndanda was Brazilian, and I discussed several ways of forcing her to prove her heritage, though she eventually resorted to simply showing me her ID. The eighteen middle names listed were proof enough to me. I've never understood why Brazilians have eighteen names but only go by one of them.
I start using my free drinks to buy shots, something called a "Funky Monkey" or ... I don't really remember. They were Kahlua, Bailey's, Banana liqueur, and cream, and I gobbled them up while I plotted my escape. It wasn't to be, and Fernanda dragged me to the dance floor where we did whatever people do on dance floors. "How old are you," she asked. "Mid-20s," I truthfully responded. She rolled her eyes, and I concluded ambiguity wouldn't be enough. I told her the truth, and we danced a while, before I begged off and said I really have to get going.
She ran to the bar and yelled for a pen, rushed back with a cocktail napkin, and told me to write down my number.
I didn't bother to ask for hers.
Edit: While collecting my things to go down to MacDinton's I found a cocktail napkin with the name "Fernanda" and a phone number written in someone else's handwriting. She must have stuck it in my pocket when I wasn't looking. Not like I'll call her. I can only imagine what a Brazilian's boyfriend must look like.
Off to watch the USA pound the living pasta fagioli out of the Eye-talians. Have fun, kiddos. Oh, and here's something special for y'all: I uploaded Neko Case's Wednesday Letterman performance to YouTube. Enjoy!
I made a phone post Wednesday night from Turner Field in Atlanta, extremely drunk and apparently while talking to some girls? I don't remember making the call at all, and it was marked private for some reason. Anyway, for your listening pleasure, or displeasure as it may be:
I'll write up a full post when I have a chance, things are a little crazy around here, we are constantly showing the house which is a pain in the ass for me, because it means I need to leave the house... and I have so much work to catch up on having been gone for four days.
I really don't remember much of Gasparilla yesterday. All I know is I started the day off like this:
And ended something like this:
I don't know how I got home, who I saw, what I did... which I guess means it was your usual Gasparilla.
See all the pics
I realize not a lot of you click on the jump. The next few days, I'll start doing my stories from the past couple weeks. I assure you, it'll be worth your time.
What do you remember, if at all
Only pieces of the night?
I reached into the backseat of my car to retrieve the Museums and Communities book I needed to read for my Cultural Heritage class. My hand was rudely interrupted by a pair of black high heels.
Upon the desk lie five credit card receipts; all from the L.A. Hangout, and all from this weekend.
The joint was small; at first, I thought it was a bidi.
"That's a name? That's a word?"
"One for the road?"
I call it safekeeping.
As it turns out, she was married. 27 years, and I still don't know enough to look for a ring.
Luis smirked as he slammed the door to his powder-blue Mustang. "What up, Bam-Bam?"
You're embarrassing me
You're embarrassing you
Rode hard and put up wet, I ain't down but I can't get up yet It's a long ride back to the way I want to feel
Sun down across the plain, I've been sore before I'll be sore again No place to hide to keep from runnin'
Happy birthday to thechuck_2112 and my brother, The Hot Dog Man. AIM him birthday wishes @ THEgianthotdog.
Monday mornings are when we pick up the scattered pieces of a long weekend. My weekend, well, let's say there's a lot of pieces in a lot of places, and it's gonna make for a whole lot of sweeping. First off, to the individual I was text-messaging last night: what I was trying to say is that when I get into my neighborhood, I lose mobile signal and my calls get forwarded to my home phone, so to call me when you got home. So I didn't get your last three messages until this morning when I went to work. Thus I didn't call, and I pretty much ended passing out on the sofa by 10:00. I hope your last message was just cutesy-angry and not actually being pissed, but if you were/are, I'm really sorry and will call you tonight.
That having been said, is there anything hotter than flirting via text message? Or just flirting in general. I'd forgotten what that was like.
So, yeah, the problem with spending 72 hours in an alcoholic haze is not necessarily the lost memories, but the removal of location and time context from the event memories. So while it was only 36 hours ago that I was giving someone my phone number, it might as well have been months. Did Dave and I actually get lost driving back to the Hangout? That was Saturday? This pizza in my fridge... when did I make it? Also, apparently, the deejay on 93.3 (the popular music station in this town) was talking about me this weekend. Some of my students heard it. I guess he saw the show, and was talking about my being the funniest part? Seriously, if anyone else heard this, tell me. They weren't very descriptive about whatever the deejay was talking about -- or is it the dude who deejays the Hangout? Does he know me? Everything is such a blur.
In any case, I'm fortunate to have friends that love me so much as to throw that much booze at me -- but I'm unfortunate to have lost the sense of personal responsibility to say "no" occasionally. Somehow, I spent the years of 20-25 in pretty mature behavior patterns. The minute I got to Florida, I regressed. I'm not going to say that I'm just "making up for lost years" because there's nothing that can justify my irresponsibility. But, then, I'm supposed to learn from my Mondays, picking up those pieces of the night.
Yet I'm sore and exhausted and even ten hours of sleep time resulted in little more than a bizarre dream punctuated by waking up every 20 minutes or so... the dream came in chunks and spaces but the details are somewhat along these lines:
I am upstairs in my house. It's raining. There are people there, but I don't know them. Except Darrell, the guy who plays Joseph in my show. He's there. And the USF game is about to begin, but I don't know why I'm not going to the game. My parents are there, and they're cooking. Something. They have a celing fan with about 40 settings and I'm baffled as to how to turn it off. The switches fold back and in and amongst themselves. My house has an open courtyard, then, and Darrell is trying to find our downspouts, but we don't really have any. Water just pours off our roof.
We're off to a train station, where they have complimentary sodas, but it's all cherry or grape or orange soda. I have 1/4-full bottle of Svedka vodka in my hand, and I'm seeking orange soda to make the drink that I'll forever refer to as an "Eb's Basement." We're on the train, now, but I'm with different people, and it's an hour ride to wherever we're going.
But now I'm riding in a car, in some exotic island locale. And we're taking these roads behind businesses or houses that have tall, thin, dark men standing sentry outside them. And now we're on a boat, heading to a secret island, though it's one I'm well-familiar with. It's some famous island that doesn't belong to any country-- but we're coming up on this gleaming institution that is, apparently, some Chinese governmental building. And my friends and I, well, we're agents, of some sort, secret agents except I'm not a secret agent. We need picture ID to enter the building, and I have my old prison ID. But another member of my group, and all of a sudden it's Jeanine (kinky_carpet's mom) but she doesn't have any ID on her for some reason. So they give us these gift bags, and I'm sitting there with someone else, eating these little cookies and crackers and peanut butter. Everyone else goes into the building to see whatever secret hoopla the Chinese have going on. So while I'm eating, crazy shiat goes down, and I escape, and I jump into the ocean, or South China Sea, wherever we are. and now I'm driving back on that highway, and there's a LION in the road, and I swerve to avoid the Lion, and now I have to decide whether or not to go back to that Chinese place, or ...
and now I'm in someone else's apartment, and this guy has a gun, but it's not a gun, but, yes, it is a gun. And I pretend to be one of the secret agents I was with, but terrified because I know no hand-to-hand combat. So I use this guy's bathroom and I can't control my pee, it's going all over the place, and it's brown. So the real secret agents are on the other side of the door, waiting to kill me, but I just came in here to get my cell phone back.
berrydip and Megan found their way home from Bodies and while I dealt with rehearsal (which was really not much to write home about; crazy director is back on her depressed stage, it would seem) they made their way to Sarasota to see a college friend. Along with Jenn and her boyfriend, Chris, they started over to the L.A. Hangout where I was waiting. While wandering through the bar, talking to my friends and some other regulars, I wandered outside where I saw a gentleman my age lounging with a few others out on the patio. This particular gentleman was wearing the exact same hat as I happen to be wearing in this LJ icon.
"What year did you graduate?" (I've never been much for proper introductions.)
"Shit, man, I graduated '99 too. What major?"
"Ahh, I was journalism."
A girl across the table said, "My roommate was a journalism major, did you know Lisa Zamborsky?" Ahh, yes, the infamous Lisa Colbert nee Zamborsky. One of my first friends in the broadcast news circuit over at good ol' WOUB, where I cut my teeth on the hard-breaking news of the tristate area. Indeed, I knew Lisa, and was with her the night I was arrested, of all things.
Turns out girl-across-the-table was Ohio Hat Guy's girlfriend, and they, with the other people at the table, were all doctoral students in Biology at USF. So I tried some name-dropping of my own, and of course they knew my old friend Shannon, who was the first person I met after moving here, and the girl through whom I met Dave, tinafizz, and all my other friends with whom I roll the streets of the TPA night after night. So we regaled ourselves with Shannon stories and I calmly observed the impending total collision of pretty much every aspect of my life, right there on the patio of the L.A. Hangout.
My crew arrived for their first taste of the Hangout and I bid my farewells to my fellow Bobcats. We went inside, where my buddy Alex insisted on picking up the tab for our first round, provided with the usual expertise by Miss Leslie. We made our way over to the tables where the other eight members of my Tampa bloc sat, frustrated with my tardy arrival to Abused News. We had a #1 national ranking to defend, after all.
While doing our introductions and while I bounced from table to table frantically emulating an addict of Colombia's two cash crops, Leslie arrived and began setting up a massive pour that culminated in near-perfection, given the poor lighting conditions of that corner of the Hangout. My friends adored her immediately. And, yeah, we took #1 again.
Another round of shots arrived, Les popped in and out to visit, and the girls got a few more drinks, returning amazed and impressed with their first glimpse of the world of flair bartending. I'm hoping the experience was a good one for Jenn, and she comes out there more often, because I really do love hanging out with her... she just doesn't come out that much. For once, I like one of her boyfriends, and they're fun people.
We left quickly and unceremoniously as Megan was pretty drunk and it marked my earliest exit from the Hangout in months. And I've skimmed over the best parts of the evening, but, really, this post was intended to really pronounce how fabulous Les was last night in taking care of my friends and I. And, yeah, I know you read this, so if you get here before I can tell you in person, thanks for everything. You're about my favorite person alive right now, and I think the world of you.
oh, also, our water problem here in the house is fixed. after three months of misery, i can finally take a shower without worrying the water will mysteriously stop halfway through shaving.
The summer I was 21, I was living at home [Napoleon, OH: population 8,000 and high school graduating class of 152 for the uninitiated], working (kind of; that's a story for another day) and waiting for the fall to arrive and bring with it my first real full-time college teaching job at Eastern Michigan.
But mainly what my friends and I did that summer was sit out on our boat on the Maumee River, go to our play rehearsals for Hello, Dolly! at night, and follow it up with a trip to Napoleon's newest and nicest (and only, for the most part) bar: Rick's Sports Tavern, retitled "Rickety Rick's" almost immediately by my buddies and I.
We hit Rickety Rick's nearly every night of the week. We were some of the bar's best supporters in the early days, and knew nearly everyone who frequented the place. As the years rolled on, and we went our separate directions, we still hit up Rickety Rick's on Saturday nights, and it's a sure bet to see most of the people we went to high school with there on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
Thus, I had concluded I was going to go there Saturday night, regardless of if any of my friends in town were interested in going with me.
My parents, the Hot Dog Man, and I headed over to BW3 in Defiance for some beers and trivia, and we spent maybe two and a half hours there, fumbling through trivia and eventually giving up and playing poker instead. It's weird that I spend enough time in bars that I go into "bar mode" regardless of the fact that I'm with my parents; I had to keep telling myself, "no, you can't go talk to those girls." But it was a great time, and we got home around midnight. I asked the Hot Dog Man if he wanted to grab a beer at Rick's and he said he was tired. So I headed out alone.
One thing about living in a small town is that your sense of distance gets totally warped. A drive downtown seemed like a bit of a haul, when we lived here, but I timed it and discovered it takes four minutes and 15 seconds to drive from my parents' house to Rick's. What a joke. I can't even get out of my neighbourhood in Tampa in four minutes.
I walk into Rick's and look around. I recognize no one. This falls in line with the article in the paper about a bad car accident near my parents' house that killed three people, ages 24-27, all from Napoleon, yet listing names I did not recognize. Everyone I knew here moved out and the replacements came from who-knows-where. They looked at me suspiciously, like I was infringing on their territory. I felt the same about them.
I was about to leave when this beautiful brunette comes through the door in a dress that is just slightly gaudy enough for me to recognize as a bridesmaid's dress. I look more closely and realize it's a girl I went to school with for eleven years and whom had always been a little strange toward me, for reasons I have never nor will ever understand. She was cute when we were in school, but she's grown to be a real stunner.
I almost didn't recognize her, but then I was like "LISA" and she was like "OMG TIM" and we decided to have a beer. I asked if the dude she was with was her husband; it was, and he introduced himself and those were the last words he said. Why all the cute girls from high school married quiet, gruff men I will never know.
So we talked for 20 minutes, catching up on who got married (one of her friends from high school, someone who was always much nicer to me than Lisa was) and who was at the wedding, what I'm doing, et cetera. The conversation was far longer than any conversation between the two of us previously in the 20 years I have known her. She and gruff husband left.
I went into the other room and realized two twin brothers that were in my high school class, collectively known as the Youngbuddies, were sipping bud lights and smoking cigarettes along the bar. I was not friends with these guys; they were well-known as drug dealers and punks. Truth be told, they're nice guys now, and I sat and talked with them about life, gossip, and how our hometown sucks now. We closed down the bar, pledged to see each other at our ten-year next summer, and I headed home on the frighteningly short drive. Napoleon used to be a "nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there." I'm not so sure it's even a nice place to visit anymore.
hours ago they left in the hands of a redhead named amber
she said she'd call me tomorrow
i may not remember her name, but at least i know the last person i made out with now.g
Click here for a photoessay of my Friday eveningthe end.
a few random items which will some day be cohesively placed into a story
1) i saw dick vitale last night. i actually took his photo.
See, there he is. He actually lives down in Sarasota.
2) I met someone last night who was both engaged (with a quite large diamond) and a Harvard graduate who called attention to neither fact until quite late in the evening. I found that very admirable and gave her my number. She won't call.
3) I have fallen to a hypermasculinity around gay men that I don't quite understand. I guess it's from all the years of having mainly gay friends or something, but now I have this really odd behaviour where I always make some comment relating to my heterosexual lifestyle when I am in conversation with gay men I've just met. This is as opposed to just letting them assume I am gay and then telling them later "actually i like girls, sorry."
4) I don't want a girlfriend. I don't even want someone to sleep with, really. What I want is someone to have a crush on. I haven't had a crush in a really long time, and I sort of need that feeling of falling off the proverbial flagpole.
4.5) Is there a way to ameliorate the grammatical issue with "have a crush on"?
5) What proverbial flagpole? I'll write about that next week sometime. I've been planning a post about my high school philosophical axioms for a while. The flagpole theory is just one of a handful of things I came up with when I was sitting in math class, bored, 14, and far smarter than I am now.