Not The Car Of My Dreams But...

 

We finally got a new car to replace the one that was destroy by some crook during a crime spree.

While the Ford Taurus Wagon isn't the vehicle I would have bought had I been able to by any car, sometimes you make do when you have little in the way of funding and time is of the essence.

It's got the space, decent mileage, has doors, roof, windshield and was less than $10,000.

Plus it can double as a camper or band van...

Thirsty?

 

Last summer I wrote about a new beer that I discovered.

Despite the fact that the hops crisis is driving up the price of beer to ridiculous amounts (first gas, now beer, what's next?) I have not made good on my claim to switch over to wine.

While the Two Hearted is mighty tasty, it packs a wallop on the alcohol content meter, so I when I wondered into my local beer store and saw my friend J-ME from NC metal gods Tooth behind the counter I asked him if he could recommend a beer- a good tasty summer brew that would quench my thirst but not pickle you too bad if you tackled a six'er.

Without even blinking, he walked over to one of the many beer coolers, picked up a six pack and handed it to me.

I don't know what's better about this equation: walking into a beer store with thrash metal blaring out of the boom box or having counter help that knows exactly what you want to drink.

Because Nothing Is Better Than Reality TV... Except Reality!

A few years ago I got a call that a local catering company was in dire need of holiday help. There was a week-long event down at the coast and they needed as much wait staff as they could get their hands on. The selling point was that they were going to put you up for a few days in a hotel and you wouldn't be required to work before 4pm so you could enjoy the mornings. Plus it was over the Fourth Of July so you got holiday pay: 3 and a half days at the beach and getting paid double-time? Sign me up!

Of course, as you can see below, it was quite the adventure...


On Saturday July 1, I met up with a crew of fellow caterers (none of which I had known as I was new to working with this company) in Raleigh around 2pm and drove in a 15-passenger van to Beaufort, NC, to work for a few days at the massively disorganized Tall Ships festival.

Upon arrival roughly three hours later, I was immediately thrown into the madness of a 700-person seated, served dinner. All hell broke loose shortly after it was discovered that the punch we were drinking to hydrate ourselves was spiked. I thought it tasted weird but weird in a “someone made lemonade in the sweet tea cooler” kind of way. An older Southern woman started hollerin’ “there’s firewater in da juice!” until one of the managers heard it and moved the “rum punch” out to one of the bars. They were less concerned at that moment of having tipsy wait staff on their hands and more concerned with having enough punch to serve the VIP guests. In attendance was Bernie Reeves - the former publisher of Spectator (my old boss) and current publisher of Metro Magazine. Of course he didn't remember me and was still as self-absorbed as I remember talking about himself until our encounter was broken up by his wife.

The whole event was sponsored by Pepsi yet during a speech given after the dinner by Lt. Governor Bev Perdue, she asked everybody to raise their glass of beer, wine or Coke for a toast.

The crowd went silent.

We ended up serving 700 entrees in 25 minutes, which was a feat in and of it self. The tent was the size of a football field and I can't tell you how many times I crossed it; it’s times like this I wish I was wearing a pedometer. A good half-dozen people broke during the event, some walking off in tears mid-shift regardless of the fact that they were hundreds of miles from home. The event ended – and after a scramble to get the beverage truck unstuck from the sand - every body headed back to the hotel where I found out I was going to share a room with five guys and that since I was the new guy (the other dudes had been there since Thursday) I would be sleeping on the floor. But the floor wasn’t all mine: while the two white guys didn’t mind sharing a bed, the two black guys refused to sleep together and would alternate as to who had the bed from day to day so essentially two people had to share floor space.

HURRAY!

And I had no room key so I was tethered to one of them named Kenji* - a Jamaican dude - for the evening. Everyone ended up drinking and smoking pot down at the pool. Someone procured minis of Crown Royal that where on the tables during dinner and they were drunk as well. At one point these two white trash girls come down to join the party but one blonde girl in our group - who was clearly drunk and cock hungry - would have none of it. Suddenly she was “double dawg dared” to throw one of the redneck girls in the pool which she did. Quite convincingly I might add.

She told me that I reminded her of "dude" from the Big Lebowski but I'd never seen the movie (despite being a big Coen Brothers fan). I soon found that all my roomies had wondered off so I retired to the room around 4:30am narrowly missing sleeping on the floor in the hallway when one of my roomies woke up to pee and fortunately heard me knocking on the room’s door.

About and hour later one of my roommates – a college guy named Conner* - came in with the same girl from the pool who liked the Coen Brothers. They drank in the bathroom for a spell, their silence broken by giggling, before leaving.

Sometime around 6am I heard them come back into the room with a clutter of noise. I overheard talk of fire ants and the hospital. Later I came to find out they were fucking on the sound behind the hotel and he got bitten by the ants and turned out he was allergic to fire ants causing him to swell up and break out in hives. So they ended their tryst with a trip to the emergency room. She left him her myspace page URL on the night stand as a means to get in contact with her – a sign of the times indeed.

It was like a bad episode of The Real World.

I called my wife in the morning to debrief her and she asked if I wanted then to drive down and rescue me.
"It can't get any weirder," I said.
"Besides, the pay is too good to pass up."

Around noon we got a call that said we needed to be at work at 2pm instead of 5pm surely do to the fact that several people wouldn’t be returning from the night before. I was dead dog tired. I got to work and ended up scheduled at a tent party sponsored by a yacht company that was right next to the stage where Anna Nalick and Train play. She was good and had more rock sensibilities than I expected.

Train totally sucked.

Breakdown was a bitch but we end up riding back to the hotel in the beverage van full of Red Stripe and liquor. Me, my two roommates and a guy named Jack* drank beer mostly because it was cold and we were thirsty. Two guys proceeded to pinch some for the poolside after party. On the way to my room to change I saw through the crack of an open door that someone was smoking pot out of a apple – you could smell the pungent aroma of marijuana throughout the hallway.

The hotel - by the way - was also ground zero for security for the ship event and was crawling with SBI, FBI and state troopers. Oh the irony. You’d see them in the hallways and in the elevators with their 9s strapped to their hips, earplugs in and fully-engaged in two-way radio conversations. But there's was a war on terror not on drugs. Paging Hunter S. Thompson!

Jack bugged out about the possibility of being caught with the beer he stole so he put it in his trunk and said he'd leave it open for us but to keep it on the down low.

He ended up shutting the trunk in a panic when a supposed tattle tale approached and subsequently locked his keys in the car. He was afraid to call AAA because his car smelled like dope and apparently his stash of dope was in there with his keys. Some lesbian chef jumped in to help out and it turned out she was an ex-con and when some Sorority-girl type told her to give it up with the coat hanger technique she turned and said something to the effect of “I fuck girls like you for breakfast. Shut up before I tattoo my name on your ass and make you my bitch!”

I took that as a sign to retreat back to the pool and avoid the car at all costs.

Drinking ensued well past "being late into the night" and clear on into sunrise wherein every body ended up raiding the continental breakfast. At one point the early morning clerk showed up, an older woman, and the big screen TV in the lobby started showing porn. By now the hooks-ups were obvious and at least three couples had paired up or were well into the process. One of the gay guys asked some dude who all the girls thought was cute and had been working in the tent earlier in the day to come “party by the pool.” But he also wanted to fuck him so there was this juggle to find out if he was gay or not. One of the SBI guys came down and said he heard a complaint about us over his radio and that we should heed his warning, clean up the place and go to sleep.

I go to bed at god knows what time.

But the floor had never felt more comfortable.

I woke up the next morning tired as all get out. My Jamaican roommate rolled up a blunt and smoked it in the room. Mixing a cigar’s tobacco leaf wrapper with pot could quite possibly result – when burning – in one of the most putrid smells ever.

I left the room for obvious reasons and walked to a gas station to get some Gatorade but when I walked the couple of blocks it turned out it wasn’t a mini-mart but rather a straight-up gas station. I cursed myself for even thinking about walking as tired as I was and with each step my legs reminded me so. I went to the Taco Bell by the hotel, got a burrito and ate it by the pool where several girls in the group were trying to piece together the actions of the this so-call slut who went back to a room knowing there were 5 guys in there.

I told them that was my room they were talking about and that nothing happened in the room but that there was some sort of fiasco with fire ants and emergency rooms.

That night I worked a party for 600 that turned out to be less than 300 which was a total blessing and the shift went off without a hitch save for the fact that everybody had that crazed look on their faces. Most people planned to leave the next day so it was a full-scale party at the pool after breakdown was finished. Then it started to thunder. One guy said, “no way is the party going to my room” since his floor had all the cops. Although he quite possibly could have been the apple smoker. We ended up sitting in the outdoor section of a bistro across from the hotel with a fireplace and steel chairs.

People lit the candles.

Delirium set in and I went to bed at god knows what time again but the sun was already up and bringing the heat.

I was told to meet at 11am to catch my shuttle back to Raleigh. Not wanting to get fucked, I walked over to the makeshift office about an hour before I was scheduled because I feared, the way things had gone, that is would be possible to somehow miss the shuttle back to Raleigh. But just like the days before, I spent two hours doing miscellaneous shit. By 1pm the van got the okay to leave. I ate a hot dog and did two double shots of Don Julio tequila (I had been "marrying" the booze with some other guys) for the ride home.

Several stops and hours later, I got home at about 6pm, bought a 12 pack and went see the fireworks at Kenan Stadium on the campus of UNC.

I came home and passed out from exhaustion.

Cheers!

And Happy Fourth Of July!



*yeah i changed the names of all involved...

Gas Station Attendant

Inspired in part by Cynical Dad's post about working at a gas station and also by the fact that I've been aggressively looking for work to help defray the cost of getting my car jacked, I've been scanning the classifieds and job web sites like a desperate girl on Match.com

Cynical Dad stirred up a long lost memory I had of working at a gas station as a full-service attendant. I did not then - and still don't today - know jack shit about cars but I could clean a mean windshield and fill your tank with wicked ease.

The station in question was in Kensington, Maryland - a Shell station nestled right by the DC/Maryland line on main thoroughfare Connecticut Ave.

The night shifters always had weird stories about what they saw after dawn from the confines of their bullet proof box but then again most of the night shifters liked their hard drugs so I was always skeptical about their talk of werewolves and vampires and sexy ladies wearing nothing but trench coats.

One of the oddest things I saw involved an elderly couple.

They pulled up in their Cadillac right by one of the open bay doors and parked it. They had New York tags and were quite clearly the kind of bluebirds who drove from NYC to Florida to winter. The nagging wife got out and asked where the bathroom was and my boss pointed her to the key on the wall and told her the door was around the side.

Someone came up to a pump, called my name several times [see below] before I assisted them with refueling and window cleansing.

When I finished I noticed that the husband had popped the trunk and was getting out some luggage and placing it on the sidewalk next to the office. He was selective in his choices of luggage and for a moment I thought he was trying to locate the spare tire or something.

Then he closed the trunk and drove off leaving the luggage behind. I assumed the old timer was having one of those "senior moments" I'd heard my parents talk about and stepped into the office to inform my boss. Just then I saw the woman return from the bathroom and hand my boss the key.

He turned and hung it up on the hook.

And at the precise moment the key met the hook the woman launched into a tirade.

"Where the hell is my husband?" she screamed.
"Where did he go that bastard?"

I remember being perplexed by it all and unable to fill in the blanks at the said time. My boss spent the next few hours bearing the brunt of this woman's expletives and offering her the use of the phone from time to time to call someone to come pick her up.

I don't remember how it resolved itself but what I do remember was the words my boss told me the next day when I asked him what all of it was about: "Sometimes you just have had enough," he said.

"You mean the guy just drove off and left her here?" I asked.
"Yep," he said.
"Happens every so often," he said. "Sometimes those long drives get to you."

My tenure working at a gas station also led me to the conclusion to never ask for directions at a gas station. I don't think anybody I worked with gave people the right directions including myself. It was a way to entertain yourself on the job. Someone would come in and ask me where the White House was or how to get to the Mormon Tabernacle and I would tell them to ask the guy in the booth. The booth guy would then send them in the complete opposite direction. Usually directions would involved something like "go about three miles until you see a steep grade in the road and right about the time you feel you've gone too far and missed the turn, turn right. Then drive past the mall and the car dealership and go left. You can't miss it."

So there you have it: I have just explained why men don't like to ask for directions at gas stations. It is not that we are too proud to ask for help, it is that most of us have worked at - or known someone who work at - a gas station and know the secret of giving the wrong directions on purpose when asked for them.

To all the GSAs out there, much apologies for breaking the code, I've kept it for over 20 years and besides cars now come equipped with GPS.

And no, you are not getting my GSA shirt back. And not because it was hip and cool to wear such a thing a decade ago, nope it is because I never got to get my own personalized shirt because I told my boss I'd only be there temporarily.

For six months I wore a shirt that said "John."

I bet people thought I was dumb as a rock because it would take them three or four times calling my "name" before I would reply.

Food, Glorious Food

 

It's been awhile since I wrote about food.

I was recently inspired to do so after seeing the pics of
AMR's garden which made me hungry for fresh produce (of which I had none myself).

Because of the recent bullshit I have been going through we have been forced to maximize [spelling changed after being pointed out by Dan my editor friend. see comments section. -ed.]our grocery runs as a means to tighten up the budget. This means the house needs to be cleaned out of all edible food before returning to the store.

So there I was staring into a mostly barren fridge wondering just what the fuck I was going to eat when I peaked into the crisper and saw some asparagus that was in need of being consumed as it was on the verge of going bad.

I looked in the cupboards and found some rice but also a jar of roasted red peppers. I went back to the fridge and spotted a container of goat cheese.

I went outside to see if anything from my garden was ripe but was quickly rejected by that thought.

On my way back inside I saw some garlic we grew drying and picked that up.

Within 20 minutes I had this gem of a meal: jasmine rice and roasted red peppers with sauted asparagus and garlic tossed in a bowl with goat cheese and liberal amounts of extra virgin olive oil.

Because this is what I do best: make lemonade out of lemons...

And I Try, Tra,Tra,Tra,Tra, Try

But I just can't get no satisfaction.

I went to Social Security today.

This time I had the smarts to get there about an half an hour before it opened making - I was 12th in line.

The waiting room was like equal parts Unemployment, INS and a mental ward.

I stared at this picture for about 40 minutes marveling at the cigar and the placement of the ashtrays on the desk.

The guy next to me said he had previously come to this office only to find that they were averaging about one person per hour: I think there were seats for about 50 people.

I thought about a movie idea where some guy steals another dude's identity only to be royally screwed by the new guy's ID.

He goes to the bank but there's no money.

His credit cards are maxed out and long overdue.

And now the IRS is after him.

Then I remembered some Ben Affleck movie I saw some time back that was sorta like the idea I was thinking about and soon after I flushed it down my mental toilet.

Shitdamn.

When I got home the phone rang and it was some lady and she asked to speak to my wife and the caller ID said "Mary Handsome" and she proceeded to bitch about how she was gonna call her lawyer on us to get an insurance claim paid for because of the whole stolen car thing.

She got my wife all riled up which is not a good thing to do right now.

This led to a phone call to the police department to rip them a new asshole for giving out our information to this crazy la-dee from the ghetto. Turns out they didn't.

Rather somebody has been calling the department asking for the report. I gather this woman's car was involved in one of the accidents that happened when the thug fled the scene and was looking to cash in on it.

By any means necessary I guess as she was hinting at extortion or some shit.

Welcome to Durham.

Strange Dreams

I had this dream the other night where I was hanging out with Glenn Danzig.

Having been a music journalist for the better part of the last 15 years, it's not usual to dream about your job.

Only I haven't done much interviewing of bands in the last few years because I have been too busy being punk rock dad.

It's not unusual for me to have fucked up dreams

But in this dream it was more or less like two dudes eating lunch and talking shit.

I remember there was a conversation about guitarist Joe Christ, er John Christ, and how he had lived in the Tower B dorms at Towson where I went to college. We chatted about how this guy told his girlfriend that Danzig made him dye his hair black and change his name.

The next day I couldn't seem to shake the Danzig-isms that popped up.

I still can't.

And I still can't stop listening to The Lost Tracks



Back when I was a nut job music fanatic, my friends and I would drive hours to see shows. But when it came to Danzig, we would drive to the end of the Earth.

When the guitarist I mentioned above was recruited for Danzig's band, they played a show somewhere's on the other side of Baltimore for his family and friends - a "secret" show that I had gotten wind of through the dorm room gossip channels. Problem was that me and my buddies had already made plans to go see the Leeway/Cro-Mags show at the (old) 9:30 Club that same day. Fortunately for us, the Danzig show was at like 6pm. So we saw Danzig (well not really, he's so small I couldn't see him because he stood/sang lower than the heads of the people standing in front of the stage) at some cheesy bar that you would never see a band at unless something like this came up.

Or unless you were really into Trixter.

I saw Chuck Biscuits at the fast food place across the street and wanted to say something gay like "that D.O.A. 12 inch is one of my all time favorite punk rock records" but decided for the even gayer "have a good show."

We got lost trying to take a short cut after the Danzig set and walked into the 9:30 Club as Leeway was finishing their set but still caught a sloppy Cro-Mags set.

Some time after that the same crew of friends and I drove to NYC to see Danzig open for Slayer and we stunned when he got booed off the stage by the teething Slayer fans.

They were pits on top of pits at that show.

I can say this: back when NYC was dangerous, I never felt safer leaving the show and getting on the subway than I did that night when it was all longhairs (Secaucus in da house!!).

Return To Normalcy

 

Some days you just have to take baby steps... or just concentrate on breathing.

Much like addicts and their 12-Step programs, dealing with the recent voodoo juju that has been haunting my family lately, all we can do is take it one day at a time.

My life is in a constant state of unpredictability: every day something changes on the fly and I have to switch gears.

Case in point was yesterday.

One of my many jobs is to deliver promotional collateral around town to museums and hotels.

But when I got to the office to pick up the goods my contact was not there yet this was the only day I could find the time to pick up the stuff and start the delivery process.

I was lucky to have my oldest son to help but he secretly (or not so secretly) just wanted to get paid for it.

So I returned home, dropped off my son and opted to go to Social Security to get a new card issued since that dickhead thug stole my car with my wallet inside. Only when I got there, shortly before 10 in the morning, there already was a two-hour wait. I don't know why I wasn't smart enough to envision the SSA office being like the DMV but I guess I just wasn't.

Then I got the call saying that the contact had come in and I could go pick up the boxes.

So I swung back by home, got my son, picked up the boxes and made most of the deliveries.

One of the new drops I have to make is at the Carolina basketball museum.

I figured I'd take both my kids with me to this one.

Both were completely enamored with the scene and the rich history of UNC b-ball on display. You'd been hard pressed not to get goose bumps walking through the place (unless, of course, you are a Duke, Wake or State fan). I've long been a fan of archivalism and this place was rife with it - from championships rings and coaches' suits to Sean Mays' shoes and Guthridge's "excuse jar" - there didn't seem like there was much that wasn't included.

The trip there was a nice return to normalcy but the cloud of needing a new car and finding the money to buy one still hangs over us...

Attention To Detail

 

I thought this was a great idea: to put these display boxes in the the floors.

My Personal Favorite

 

By far the best thing for me to see at the Carolina basketball museum was this letter sent to Michael Jordan from the desk of Duke's Coach K.

"I am sorry to hear that you no longer have an interest in learning more about Duke..."

Warning: Duke fans hide yer eyes.

Flapjack & Chowder

I'm totally down with being subversive.



Google Cartoon Network's Chowder

don't tell them I sent ya...

They Found Our Car

 

Rejoice?

Not so much.

As you can clearly see by the following pictures, the car is trashed both inside and out.

But the dude had enough sense to get himself some air freshener.

No doubt with change from the console of my car.

Nice job dude.

In the car were stolen goods (clothes), needles in the glove box (heroin? or just a diabetic thug?), bolt and wire cutters because no car should be outfitted without them, and an all-black Atlanta Braves baseball cap (gang affiliation?).

My only hope is that some kid found the CDs and is now turning on his friends to great bands like Turbonegro, Metallica, Zeppelin, The Nomads and Three Mile Pilot.

Maybe they'll be an art rock slash metal scene sprouting up in East Durham's hood in the next few years?

Resisting Arrest

 

Apparently, a thug was spotted driving our car without a seat belt. The cop ran the tags and it came up stolen. I guess once the lights came on a chase ensued and homeboy - after crashing into several cars/objects - came to a stop after missing a turn at a T-intersection (my guess is this is where the rear tire became unoperable), jumped from the car and fled.

He was caught and it turns out this guy has a rap sheet as a long as my arm and was just in court a few days before stealing my vehicle for a probation violation.

Bolt Cutters

 

Now why would somebody be driving around with these in a stolen vehicle?

Stolen Goods and Hypos

 

Notice the balled up clothes with tags still on them lying on the floor and the plastic bags of syringes about to fall out of the glove box.

It Wasn't Suppose To Be Like This

Monday was suppose to be a day of celebration: My youngest was graduating from his cooperative playschool in Chapel Hill and then after that I was going to take the boys to go see Kung Fu Panda.

But that didn't happen.

What did happen was that our car was stolen.

From a church parking lot.

Outside the school.

With my wallet inside.

I could go on right now and list the litany of bullshit I have had to endure since the moment I realized my car was no longer parked in the shade under an oak tree, but instead I'll just let you wrap your head around it as you think about the contents of your own wallets or purses...

Today is Wednesday and the cops haven't found our car yet and - quite honestly - I don't expect them to find it.

[UPDATE: As I pulled into my driveway with my truck after returning from the DMV with a new DL, smoke started billowing from the hood. Today I'm out $700 in repairs. I just spent $600 to get the other car up to inspection last month before it got jacked]

Metaphors Aside...

It's days like this I can't get this Third World song out of my head.

"Real hot!!"

Tomorrow

There's a reason behind the current heat wave going on in the southeast: and that reason is the NC Dad Summit.

I've managed to round up a group of stay-at-home dads (future,past, and present) from around the Tar Hell state to participate in some group discussions while eating pork barbeque and drinking beer.

It was a feat in and of itself and one that will surely reap some rewards, just what those rewards are I cannot say at the moment.

For all you last minute planners, here's the info:

NC Dad Summit


3pm-5pm: meet, greet and eat

5pm-7pm: discuss topics such as -
a.) dealing with isolation and depression
b.) blogging for money
c.) financial management and the need to spend
d.) life with a special needs child
e.) dads and daughters

7pm to whenever - solve the world's problems

The last one is where we really get deep.

We got a nice write up over at the News & Observers' mom site - Triangle Mom2Mom - which can be accessed by clicking on the header.

Beer

 

Many, many moons ago I began the task of collecting beer bottle caps for an art project.

I wanted to do something fun with them like cover a coffee table or maybe a shed door.

Something.

But after a few years it got out of hand and my wife told me to stop collecting the caps.

Then when we finally bought our house in '98, I was told to "get rid of them" because, really, where would we store them until the creative muse struck us?

Well the muse finally did strike.

And it was a funny moment at that: my wife and I were sitting out on our deck enjoying a lovely evening as kids played in the Back Forty when she quipped, "we should totally cover that table in beer bottle caps" and pointed to a table she had made out of wood scraps when we had out deck built.

I'm not quite sure what kind of look I had on my face but it was one that got the retort, "Wh-wh-whaaaaat?"

She followed that up and asked where all the bottle caps were, you know, the ones I had transported across the country and into and out of one townhouse and one mill house.

"You made me throw them all out," I said.

"Uh-huh, yeah I vaguely remember that," she said.

"But did you?"

I brandished a sheepish grin.

"I saved a couple of bags," I said.

Then I ducked in the house and retreived a couple of plastic bags worth of bottle caps that had been stashed under our bed (where else does a dude stash stuff?)

My idea was to just put them on the wooden table randomly but that was quickly trumped by the realization that my wife rarely does anything randomly.

So we had to sort them by color or logo.

I have to say it looks pretty good.

And I could show you a picture of it.

But I found this picture infinitely more intriguing - and revealing - by the caps that I have collected.

I mean, those are Mickey's Malt Liquor bees, but then who drinks Mickey's and doesn't buy the big mouths? Right next to that is a Schlitz Malt Liquor (a.k.a. The Bull) cap. Who knew The Bull came in a bottle that wasn't a screw top? Kind of defeats the purpose now doesn't it? I also found a good twelve pack's worth of Olde English 800 caps in there, again not twist offs.

Clearly I was going through some sort of malt liquor phase at the time but I thought I had outgrown that in college (well and there was that one time I wrote a review of malt liquors for Big Brother magazine and felt the need to sample them all being a fan of participatory journalism and all) but that still predates living in the Carolinas by over a decade.

The outer ring of the table is lined with Red Hook ESB caps, which back in the day was a tasty microbrew before one of the major breweries sank their claws in to it. A bunch of Sierra Nevedas, followed by Fosters and, of course, a smattering of High Lifes.

There's also a few Lucky Lager's in there which are notable because they were the first, if not one of the first, to put little puzzles on the underside of their caps.

But then there's about a case or so worth of caps that say nothing but "pure cold" with frosting on top of the lettering and I haven't the faintest idea what beer these caps belong to.

It's something to ponder...

Yum

 

Bacon-wrapped, peppercorn'ed pork tenderloin with a (fresh from my garden) herb rub.

De.

Lish.

Us.

Although I have a sneaking suspicion that one of the pots of plants in the herb garden was a (inedible?) perennial not a herb.

I'm really not sure, I'll have to go ask Alice.

That Which Does Not Break You Only Makes You Stronger

 

My wife has been out of town since Wednesday morning.

She had a pre-planned business trip to the Mid-Atlantic region and then - now this didn't come as a surprise - an unplanned visit to her hometown to attend the funeral of her grandmother who happened to pass away the morning she left.

Due to the timing, me and the boys stayed behind it just seemed easier on everybody.

I most likely won't see my wife until late this evening.

Five years ago, the prospect of spending 5 days without spousal support was daunting. Granted the kids were younger and a lot more demanding but I also hadn't developed my ability to go long stretches without so much as a phone call with another adult back in the day.

Wednesday through Friday was a cakewalk: the usual routine of school and backyard shenanigans in place. I was fortunate enough to have my neighbor called Friday to check on my wife and ended up coming over for a cocktail after the kids went to sleep.

Saturday was a beast though as my oldest took part in a 3-on-3 soccer tournament. His bracket had games at 10am, noon, 2pm and 4pm (12-minute halves, 2-minute halftimes and no stoppage of the clock so they were quick ones). I had the foresight to pack a cooler with sandwiches and cold drinks which was a damn good thing because it was hot as hell out there on the pitch. My initial plan was to retreat to the comfort of our home between games because we only ive but 10 minutes from the fields. But that was shattered when we showed up at 9:30am and couldn't find a place to park. It was like the Kentucky Derby of soccer - there were team tents sprawled out everywhere, a concessions tent, some tent sponsored by a local soccer distributor called Eurosport and even a cop directing traffic.

I was ill-prepared.

After game one, which found the Chicago Pizza (hey I didn't name the team) victorious, we headed back home so I could:
a.) get a hat so I wouldn't burn my forehead and scalp
b.) lube the boys up with lotion
c.) replenish the two sandwiches my 5-year-old ate during the first game
d.) buy some Gatorade to keep me and the boys alive during the long haul.

When we returned for game 2, I landed a choice parking spot and the deal was sealed that we would not leave again until all this was over. Between games my 8-year-old's coach would get them to sit in the shade and drink water and chill out. He 's got this collapsible 8-seater bench type thingy that was totally crucial for the day's events.

So crucial in fact, that I believe his smarts to keep the kids hydrated and in the shade led them to bringing home the championship.

It never ceases to amaze me how unfazed kids are by the elements, whether (er,weather?) it be a freezing cold ocean or blazing, 90 degree soccer field. It also never ceases to amaze me how many parents seem to let their children run amuck and unsupervised. Several teams were sucking wind by game three and most of these kids were the same kids that I saw running around chasing each other playing tag or throwing empty water bottles at each other between matches.

After the third game, a bunch of us saddled up in the shade and hunkered down with food and drinks to wait it out until the last game of the day, the game that would decide the championship for that bracket. The coach's wife had these things called Sharkies which I'd never seen before that were little fruit chews except they were packed with electrolytes. I made a mental note about these because they most definitely should be kept around the house for flu-like bouts of diarrhea and dehydration. What kids won't choke down a little baggy of fruit chews?

Several times throughout the day I tried to reapply lotion to my 5-year-old (and even myself) but by the day's end it was clear that the lotion had either expired or that hole in the ozone above us had gotten bigger in the last few weeks because we both came home with patches of sunburned skin.

It must have been the shade (or the Sharkies) but my son's team played like madmen considering it was their fourth game of the day and four o'clock in the afternoon. One of his teammates - Charlie - was on fire and after the opposing team scored first he came back and nailed two quick ones to give them the lead. I joked to his mom that it must have been the Sharkies. Even better was that the other team was coached by a bunch of douchebag dads who barked and yelled and harassed the kids in what was one of the truly saddest examples of the byproduct of little league sports: the dad couch who takes things way to seriously.

Of course after the Chicago Pizza scored two more goals, the other team was in tears (my hunch is that they knew they were going to get an earful, if not a spanking, on the way home) and pretty much just fell apart, resorting to cheap, aggressive play and name-calling.

Medals were presented after the game in Olympic-like fashion by the coach as they stood on the cooler (how awesome is that!) and then I treated my boys to a post-game celebratory meal of tacos and enchiladas.

On the way there my son said, "I want to dedicate this medal to mom and Grandma Sadie."

He watches too much ESPN me thinks.

We all washed up and then crashed hard. But my youngest relocated to my bed and soon was taking up just about as much space as a 5-year-old could possibly take up. My rest didn't come as easy to me as their's came to them.

Beat down and bushwhacked, we (mostly I) spent the majority of the day today doing chores (grocery store, laundry) and chilling out comfortably inside (it's fucking 90 plus degrees out) too hot for even the pool (especially with the sunburn) yet financially-challenged enough to not break out the Sunday matinee at the local cinema.

I shudder to think what they've been doing since I started this epic post, but hopefully it doesn't involve putting Play Doh in the DVD player or Rescue Heroes in the fishtank...

So I am stronger I suppose and a better man, father and husband for taking this all in stride.

I foresee some really cold beer in my near future.

Bro'ing Down With The Team

 

The Little Man was a trooper yesterday, holding his own for 7 hours out in the scorching sun while attending his older brother's soccer tourny.

The best part, of course, was even being able to bro down with the team during breaks between games.

Look at that face - is that kid not having a good time?

Much apologies for the sunburn dude but you young tough and made me proud.

F&%$in' G*d@mn Ticks

I found a tick on my ass this morning.

this has happened before

and sometimes it leaves you with

shit like this

So I put the fucker into a zip loc bag, signed the date and made a note of its placement on my body with a Sharpie:

"5/29/08, left buttocks"

I think I'm going to just bathe in DEET this summer.

OBC

 

That's short for Overdrive Bike Club - which my sons and their Our Gang-like group of friends have started.

The took old bike parts and hung them off or around the treehouse, which by the way is no longer a treehouse but a clubhouse. When I saw them gathering up broken bike parts the other day I asked them what they were doing.

"We're making a bike club," said my 8-year-old.
"Oh," I said.

"Well do you have bylaws?" I said.
"What are bylaws?" he asked.
"Rules. The Rules of the club that all must follow," I explained.
"Get me a piece of paper," he said.

The other night my wife had her assistant and her boyfriend over because she just graduated from college and the two are planning to move to Austin.

We took them (and our adult beverages) up into the clubhouse to show them what crafty little buggers my kids and their friends are and how encouraging it is - in this day and age - to see kids being kids building shit and using their imagination instead of squatting in front of the TV watching cartoons or playing video games (trust me, they do do that).

We must have been causing quite a racket up there because we woke up the kids and they both came out on the deck and started yelling at us.

"Hey, get out of there!" said my 5-year-old.
"That's our clubhouse!!!"

He was pissed.

And caused quite a racket himself, enough that his older bro came out and started in on us as well.

"What are you doing???" he screamed.

"Get out of there, it's for club members only!!!"

They were clearly not happy about all of this so we tried not to laugh and smirk too much in their faces and helped ourselves down from the treehouse, er, clubhouse.

I secretly want to buy them all jean jackets with back patches...

If Only

 

They had signed their names in blood.

5 Is The Magic Number

 

My youngest son turned 5 last weekend.

It seems like just yesterday he was in diapers.

Fuck, I'm lying... it seems like an eternity since he was in diapers.

A funny thing about children is that the old adage "they grow so quick" does ring true at times, but when you have spent every waking moment (more or less) with them for those past five years it can seem like an eternity.

One of the unplanned activities that broke out in the backyard amongst the kids was a kickball game, and my son Cole, being the man of the hour decided to break out the traditional Maori Haka war chant (click on header for explanation) before starting the game.

It's been something he'll break out on occasion ever since his big bro got Rugby 06 for his birthday back in March which is where he was exposed to this pre-game tradition from New Zealand's All Blacks.

It's fucking cute as all get out.

Wax Museum

 

A few weeks ago, my 8-year-old's class did a project called the Wax Museum.

The kids had to pick somebody from the history books and give a little oral presentation while dressed like the person they picked.

The teacher requested that they had to pick somebody from the past. The person couldn't be presently famous. The note sent home to us parents basically explained that they didn't won't little Hannah Montanas or the cast of High School Musical running around the halls.

My son labored long and hard over who would be the subject of his biography whittling it down to two people: John Bonham or John Riggins.

Growing up with a father who was a high school football referee and a season-ticket holding Skins fan, Riggins is a figure of mythical proportions in my household. He was one of the original NFL wingnuts who didn't give a fuck about the status quo. With a country boy work ethic and a punk rock attitude, Riggins has always been a personal hero of mine, so when my son was doing his research I gladly saddled up with him to scour the internet for info or to search YouTube for classic clips of Riggins.

I still get goosebumps when I watch Riggins break free on fourth down and rumble to a touchdown against the Dolphins in Super Bowl VXII - a play that has gone down in the annuals of NFL history as one of the greatest ever.

But I also loved the fact that he had the balls to not only sport a Afro but also a mohawk.

And or course there's the "Lighten up Sandy" episode where a drunken Riggo told Supreme Court Justice Sandra O'Conner to relax and enjoy the banquet party they both were attending only to "fall asleep" on the floor later in the evening.

But despite my enthusiasm for Riggins, Zeppelin's drummer still won over my son's heart.

Again, here we have another dude who didn't give a rat's ass about the public perception of him and did whatever the hell he wanted to do. At least Riggins is still alive; it was a challenge trying to explain how some old rock star died chocking on his own vomit (which, by the way, is not something you hear of anymore but was all the rage back in the day).

The obvious thing to do here would be to show a clip of Bonham doing his hand drumming during "Moby Dick" but instead I'll leave you with a little Riggo.

Long Live The Diesel!

You Blunk'ed

Despite the unsavory outcome of the recent weather(see my knee caps below), it has been awesome.

Sometimes we just go straight from winter to summer, with a minor pit stop in spring, just long enough to rain a few times and maybe break out the sweatshirt once or twice before the heat and humidity become the daily norm.

Ironically, the best spring we've had in years came on the heels of one of the severest droughts the Southeast has had to endure.

Things were looking pretty grim in January but we have had plenty of rain since then so much so that they have lifted some of the water restrictions (re: the car washes are back open).

I call this San Diego weather as that is what it reminds me of: party cloudy, mid-70 degree days with little or no humidity. 70 degree highs and 50 degree lows could quite possibly my all-time favorite stretch of weather. Although when I lived in SoCal, it was precisely this kind of weather that drove me bonkers. The lack of seasons can be disconcerting when you have a hard time deciphering between Christmas or the Fourth Of July. Marked not by the articles of clothing you wear but rather by the seasonal displays at your local drug store.

So it was a no brainer last weekend to sit under the covered part of our deck and watch a storm roll in. Yahtzee being the time-killing game of choice.

That was until my two boys spiraled off into playing the Staring Game which - quite obviously - involves staring at your opponent until someone blinks.

"You blunked!" scream my 4-year-old.
"You blunked. I saw you!!" he said.

"Blinked," said their mother.
"It's 'you blinked'" she said.

Ten minutes later I play the reigning champion, my 4-year-old, who stared at me with the widest eyes ever.

"You blunked!" he said.

Victory was his.

Ouch!

 

Yesterday my oldest son found his soccer season ending on a double header. It was a beautiful balmy day. We made lunches for in between the games and brought snack for his teammates.

Turns out everyone had the snack idea as several parents brought food for the budding Beckhams.

Last week I was sporting a freshly shaved head and it got a little sunburned so this week I opted to wear a hat. I couldn't find my sunglasses from last summer so I was still subjected to squinting for the majority of the morning.

I even had the foresight to slather some sun screen on my face... unfortunately I didn't have the sense to put the shit anywhere else on my body.

And apparently, as the Earth's orbit would have it, that hole in the ozone just happened to be over the soccer fields in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, this past weekend.

I also had the pleasure of having to work a catering gig later in the night.

I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to have polyester tux pants rubbing up against your sunburned knees for several hours.

Fuck water boarding, this shit could break the weak at heart in two Gitmo Bay minutes.

Celebrate Diversity

 

It seems lately that my yard has become the default spot for the neighborhood kids to play.

They are a motley bunch ranging from ages 4 to 12 and comprised of El Salvadorians, Egyptians, Indians, a French-American half-breed, a couple of unidentifiable-origin'ed Caucasians and my mutt children. It can get to be a bit much at times, trying to make sure the older ones don't outdo the younger ones (or expose them to "mature" subject matter). For the most part the kids are all well-behaved and cordial to each other and they know they I have a rule that if they all can't agree on something or make piece with each other after a disagreement then the "party is over" as I like to say.

I had to start keeping disposable cups on hand because I was finding that I had to wash too many cups on a daily basis; water is of an utmost premium here in the drought-ridden Southeast.

The other day they were playing soccer in the backyard - a hectic, discombobulated sea of bodies and heads going in all directions - when I heard the Indian boy, who was playing goalie, yell out defensive strategies.

"Nobody's listening to me," he said as I walked outside to inspect the ruckus.

"Well maybe you should tell them in Punjabi," I said.

He laughed and then let out a tongue-trilling bombardment of sentences.

"See," he said. "They won't listen to me in Punjabi... because THEY DON"T KNOW PUNJABI Greg!" he said.

The next day I was with my 4-year-old and we made a pit stop at the drive-thru teller at the bank.

"Why does that girl have a dot on her head?" he asked.

"It is part of her culture," I told him.

Later that day I told him to ask his neighbor who then explained to me that the size of the dot indicates whether the girl has reached adulthood, is about to get married or is married.

"So her small dot means she's old enough to date?" I asked him.

He laughed.

"Girls don't date," he said. "Marriages are arranged."

"Oh yeah right," I countered.

Today was one of those early release school days which means the kids began congregating in my back yard slightly after 2pm. My son came in and asked if he could play over at the Indian boy's house. He's the oldest but for some reason - one that everybody knows - I'm just not comfortable with a 12-year-old being held responsible for my 4-year-old.

My Indian neighbor stepped up and said that his grandmother and sisters were home.

"Okay," I said much to the delight of my sons and their friends, a rousing round of Hi-Fives ensued.
"But I'm going to walk you over there and make sure it is okay."

Grandma came to the door and I asked her if it was okay that my boys play there.

She looked at me and then at her grandson.

He translated my inquiry.

"She said it's cool," he said.

"Thanks dad," my oldest said with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Behave yourself," I said.

"I will," he said. "We always do."

Notice A Pattern?

I've been so hella busy that I haven't had much time do much writing of any kind but this morning while waiting to drop off my youngest son we got to talking.

He brought up how much fun he had at the mountains a few weeks back.

"Yeah," I said. "That was a lot of fun."
"Especially you streaking," I said.

"Streeee-eeekkk-innnngggg?" he said.

"Yeah, remember you would run from one bedroom to the other naked," I said.

"Well that's because I didn't want anybody to see me naked," he explained.

"But everybody saw you naked," I said.

"It's best to put your clothes on before you run about in public," I explained.

"Oh," he said.

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

 

I often tell my friends and relatives about how nuts my oldest son is, and mostly in jest, but the lad does have an obsessive/compulsive streak a mile wide.

Here's a shot of his card collection, separated by sport, then team and then Lord only knows what else...

But then I guess I should expect this from a kid who takes off all his clothes to go poo.

I shudder to think just what he will do at a keg party (that's where I would usually put forth my naked equation).

It Was A Robin's Egg...

 

and it was blue.

I discovered this nest the other day after nearly being side-swipped by Mama Robin.

Having lived in North Carolina for the better part of a decade as well as being a music critic in the Chapel Hill, Raleigh, Durham area for a large chunk of the '90s, it's almost impossible for me to see a robin's egg and not conjure up the Superchunk song "Mower."

So now I'm going to imprint both audio and video so that you too - when spotting a robin's egg - will forever hum this indie rock chestnut.

[UPDATE: The wrens have hatched, the robin has laid three more eggs and Superchunk is playing a free show. From Ross Grady at Trianglerock.com: "You've probably heard about this by now, but just in case. The Barack Obama campaign is running a huge early-voting push in North Carolina, and this show is part of it. Tickets have been available for a couple of days now at Obama tables near early-voting sites in Chapel Hill, Carrboro, Durham and Raleigh. It's unclear how many people the Carrboro Town Commons will actually hold--initial reports were that they were planning for 3-4000, but later I heard 6000.

Gates (what gates?) open at 1:00 p.m., with Superchunk tentatively scheduled to go on at 2:00 & the Arcade Fire at 3:00. Nobody is promising an Obama appearance (and since he's at the Dean Dome on Monday . . .) but it'd be amusing to see him drop in via helicopter or something.

But I daresay most folks in possession of tickets--even folks like me who've been rocking Obama bumper-stickers for years now--are more excited about the chance to see Superchunk (or the Arcade Fire, anyway)."]

All The News That's Fit To Print

Scanning the web this morning as part of the internship I've been doing over at WUNC radio, I came across this fine nuggets.

First up, from my hometown of Durham, NC, is this:

"Traitor" Chinese student threatened
NYT

DURHAM, N.C. -- On the day the Olympic torch was carried through San Francisco last week, Grace Wang, a Chinese freshman at Duke University, came out of her dining hall to find a handful of students gathered for a pro-Tibet vigil facing off with a much larger pro-China counterdemonstration.

Ms. Wang, who had friends on both sides, tried to get the two groups to talk, participants said. She began traversing what she called "the middle ground," asking the groups' leaders to meet and making bargains. She said she agreed to write "Free Tibet, Save Tibet" on one student's back only if he would speak with pro-Chinese demonstrators. She pleaded and lectured. In one photo, she is walking toward a phalanx of Chinese flags and banners, her arms overhead in a "timeout" T.

But the would-be referee went unheeded. With Chinese anger stoked by disruption of the Olympic torch relays and criticism of government policy toward Tibet, what was once a favorite campus cause -- the Dalai Lama's people -- had become a dangerous flash point, as Ms. Wang was soon to find out.

The next day, a photo appeared on an Internet forum for Chinese students with a photo of Ms. Wang and the words "traitor to your country" emblazoned in Chinese across her forehead. Ms. Wang's Chinese name, identification number and contact information were posted, along with directions to her parents' apartment in Qingdao, a Chinese port city.

Salted with ugly rumors and manipulated photographs, the story of the young woman who was said to have taken sides with Tibet spread through China's most popular Web sites, at each stop generating hundreds or thousands of raging, derogatory posts, some even suggesting that Ms. Wang -- a slight, rosy 20-year-old -- be burned in oil. Someone posted a photo of what was purported to be a bucket of feces emptied on the doorstep of her parents, who had gone into hiding.

"If you return to China, your dead corpse will be chopped into 10,000 pieces," one person wrote in an e-mail message to Ms. Wang. "Call the human flesh search engines!" another threatened, using an Internet phrase that implies physical, as opposed to virtual, action.


Not to be outdone, there's always are hapless, helpless government as evidence by these two short entries:

"Secure" WTC plans found in trash
NYP

It's a good thing Osama wasn't walking through SoHo yesterday morning.

Two sets of confidential blueprints for the planned Freedom Tower, which is set to rise at Ground Zero, were carelessly dumped in a city garbage can on the corner of West Houston and Sullivan streets, The Post has learned.

Experts said the detailed, floor-by-floor schematics contain enough detail for terrorists to plot a devastating attack.

"Secure Document - Confidential," warns the title page on each of the two copies of the 150-page schematic that a homeless, recovering drug addict discovered in the public trash can.

*or*

Military doubles felon recruits
GRDN

The US army doubled its use of "moral waivers" for enlisted soldiers last year to cope with the demands of the Iraq war, allowing sex offenders, people convicted of making terrorist threats, and child abusers into the military, new records released yesterday showed.

The army gave out 511 moral waivers to soldiers with felony convictions last year. Criminals got 249 army waivers in 2006, a sign that the demand for US forces in Iraq has forced a sharp increase in the number of criminals allowed on the battlefield.

The felons accepted into the army and marines included 87 soldiers convicted of assault or maiming, 130 convicted of non-cannabis-related drug offences, seven convicted of making terrorist threats, and two convicted of indecent behaviour with a child. Waivers were also granted to 500 burglars and thieves, 19 arsonists and nine sex offenders.

The new data were released by the oversight committee of the House of Representatives. Henry Waxman, the Democratic chairman of the oversight panel, said that while "providing opportunities to individuals who have served their sentences and rehabilitated themselves" is important, the waivers are a sign that the US military is stretched too thin.

The number of moral waivers in the military, mostly for misdemeanours such as speeding fines, reached 34,476 in 2006, or nearly 20% of all enlisted soldiers, according to the Palm Centre at the University of California. Recruits with felony convictions are more likely than other soldiers to drop out or be released from the military.

And now something to cheer you up:

Wii Fit ...to strip?
ABC

As the new Wii Fit made the rounds on morning talk shows this week, a U.K. company was working on a buzzy tidbit of its own: a stripping game for the popular console.

Peekaboo, a company that specializes in temporary at-home stripper polls, including one endorsed by Carmen Electra, announced this week that it's developing a strip aerobics game for the Wii.

"Peekaboo is pleased to confirm that it is in talks to develop a game for the Nintendo Wii that meets mainstream demand for the fun and fitness benefits of pole dancing," the company said in an e-mailed statement. "Peekaboo and its partners are focused on using Wii-friendly hardware to make aerobic pole dancing instantly accessible just as 'Guitar Hero' did for rock'n'roll."

Electra will not be involved in the game, according to the company.

"It would be natural for the platform. ... That's the Wii's strength," said Rob Enderle, a Silicon Valley analyst. "If you wanted to create a stripper poll game, this would be the system you'd target."

Ah, It's That Time of Year

The time when I step back and think about the fucking gnarly ordeal I went through four years ago.

Over-the-counter drugs are evil folks.

Worse than street drugs because you are told to take them.

Click on headline for linkage.

Rob & Big

Tonight is the season finale and final episode of the MTV hit show Rob & Big.

If you pay close attention, you just might hear the Chest Pains song "Action!" tucked somewhere in the television show.

Below is the trailer for Season 3:

My Friends The Wrens

 

They are back to making babies!

This time around my neighborhood wrens have decided to make a nest in this pine cone Christmas tree thingy my wife made during one her Martha Stewart moments.

While it is obviously an awesome place to make a birdy home - it comes with a heavy price as it is located next to the front door and therefore finds itself next to heavy foot traffic. I moved it a little bit further down the porch so it would be bit more out of the way of the kids but not far enough away to confuse the birds.

Cheetos Sandwich

 

Crazy busy and finding little time to write anything.

Yet it's times like this when I feel I have the most to write about.

Conundrums.

Above is a staple sandwich from when I was a kid: The Cheetos Sandwich.

White bread with yellow mustard, yellow cheese and topped with Cheetos.

It doesn't get any better than this folks.

Fort Totten

 

Do you remember when you were a kid?

One thing I love about being the parent who stays at home is that I get to revisit all these goofy memories that would probably stay in some dusty corner of my brain without the daily inspiration from my two boys.

Currently, they are all about the indoor fort (as seen above).

I remember making many pillow and blanket forts as a kid.

At some point I branched out and began to include the closet into the action before all together abandoning pillows and blankets for the crawl space under the steps in our basement. The problem with that spot was it was barely big enough for one person much less two so it didn't see much action with any of my friends.

Soon or later, the couch and its pillows became the goal line stand for whatever team I was pretending to play and I would practice my over-the-top touchdown dives.

My kids have been holed up in their fort playing PS2 from behind their afghan curtain for a couple of days now. They had asked me to name the fort so I called it Fort Totten after a Red Line stop on DC's Metro rail system because after I outgrew forts I became fascinated with riding the subway. I would just get on it a ride to a stop on the other side of town, then switch trains and turn around. Once, in high school, I used this plan as a first date with a girl I had asked out. I went to an all-boys private school so my dating skills were limited at best and when she requested that I actually have a plan for the date, I chose conversation while riding the Metro. What seemed like to me to be a clueless first date proposition turned into something "cool" and "edgy" and I was soon cast as some punk rock wanderer amongst the local public school girls. You know, the guy your mother warned you about. I had a lot of first dates but not to many second dates. Of course I had no idea about this and didn't find out for probably a decade that I had unknowing been cast as the freak in my own John Hughes teen flick.

Sadly, the fort had to be taken down this morning after my cat gacked up a hairball on one of the blankets used as "the floor" for one of the rooms in the fort.

There's no subway to ride here either.

And Now For Something Completely Different*

A gratuitous plug for my friends over at:

jackassworld

My association with jackass goes back to when I was a teenager and used to ride BMX bikes and skateboard with jackass creator/director Jeff Tremaine.

We'd ride around in his station wagon that was plastered with Meatland bumper stickers ("The Meat That Can't Be Beat") going to jumps/skate spots drinking Dr. Pepper's and eating Slim Jims. We'd steal plywood in the light of day from newly-birthed subdivisions and spray paint the walls of the local high schools with Black Flag logos. We'd go to matinee punk shows at the old 9:30 Club.

Basically your typical '80s kids with Thrasher subscriptions and weekly trips to the local surf shop to ogle the cute girls who worked there.

Early on it was apparent that Jeff had a fucked up sense of humor as I was one of the first to be subjected to it. Jeff used to blame his stinky ass farts on his dog until one day his dog passed away and the farts still came. He tried to convince me, Joey and Andy that the band on the back of the Dead Kennedys record - the record where the back cover has a '50s band with Danelectro guitars - was indeed the Dead Kennedys. He talked me into going to the beach guaranteeing us a place to stay only to wind up sleeping in his wagon. That same trip he convinced me how cool it would be to pierce my ear and wear a fish lure in it like Darby Crash. Man, that shit fucking hurt.

He also forced me to watch Heavy Metal and Monty Python's Holy Grail*.

College came.

Jeff went to St. Louis and joined a fraternity while I went to Baltimore and started to play rugby.

We stayed in touch and eventually both of us would end up living in Los Angeles. At the time he worked at a BMX magazine that I would end up writing music reviews for and so began a music journalism career I've had for over 15 years now but that's a whole nother story.

Eventually Jeff ended up as the creative director for Big Brother skateboard magazine and me - after bouncing around through various Hollywood jobs (Restless Records, writing radio promos for Baywatch, being a proofreader at DIRT), I found myself working as the pool boy at the Beverly Hills Hilton.

For real.

It was a brainless day job that allowed me to write for magazines like Transworld Skateboarding, Warp, Blunt, Bikini and Big Brother.

I wrote some great articles for Big Brother: the malt liquor review, buying drugs at the parking lot of a Dead show, how to bet on horse racing and a beastiality porn review to name a few. Ah, good times.

Things get all James Frey'ed fuzzy somewhere around the mid-'90s.

I was living in Los Feliz which turned out to house a hot skate spot and found myself shooting footage of people like Paulo Diaz (clip below which isn't mine by the way), hanging out with photographer Rick Kosik in some sketchy areas all in the name of skateboard photography or trying to convince Jeff and Marc McKee to not call the cops during the infamous Bong Olympics.

I moved to North Carolina and got married while Jeff continued to ply his warped sensibilities on the world mixing Howard Stern, Monty Python and a few reads of Terry Southern's Magic Christian into the brand we know it as today: jackass.

jackass took over television and the big screen and now they are setting their sights on the internet (i.e. new media).

Be afraid.

Be very afraid.