There are now officially 5 days until Christmas, which means it’s time to recall my favorite holiday memory. I’ve been racking my brain for the past week, but there isn’t a competition for number one. No party, gift or even meal can challenge the one memory that sticks out in my mind. It was exactly one year ago when a friend introduced me to the phenomenon that has consumed my waking life. In a mere forty minutes my world was turned upside down. Tears streamed down my face and I shook with side-splitting laughter. When it was over, I immediately began going through withdrawal. I wanted more, but there wasn’t any. Then I was angry that I had lived so long without it. I’m speaking of course of the hip-hopera by R. Kelly, “Trapped in the Closet.”
For those of you unfamiliar with this masterpiece, it is 12 chapters that detail the story of one man’s affair. Each chapter is its own song that is roughly 3 minutes long. Together they tell the tale of Sylvester (R. Kelly) and the events that take place after he cheats on his wife. The soon-to-be classic involves a cast of characters that you have to see to believe. There’s Twan, Sylvester’s brother-in-law, who just got out of prison. (I falsely believed for a while that his name was actually “Tron” which is way funnier.) There’s Bridget, who is cheating on her husband with a very unlikely stripper. And there’s James, a cop who sleeps with Sylvester’s wife, Gwendolyn. (James is played by Michael K. Williams who you may recognize as Omar Little from “The Wire.”) I’ll only mention Rosy the Nosy neighbor in passing.
I don’t want to spoil the plot for those of you who haven’t seen T.I.T.C., but I’d like to give you a few examples of why it’s so close to my heart. As a fan of rap music I’m accustomed to slant rhyme and understand its place in the hip hop community. However, no artist takes the twisting of words to the level that R. Kelly does. In one of his best moments, he rhymes “dresser” with “berretta.” In other instances he rhymes a word with itself. The brilliance of each chapter is that he ends it with a cliff-hanger line. For example, “The midget faints again...While Twan and Sylvester is trippin'...The midget's the baby's daddy; woo.” If that line alone doesn’t make you want to see it, I don’t know what will.
I’m doing my best to spread the word of “Trapped in the Closet.” I’ve introduced countless individuals to the magic and in turn they’ve passed it on to family and friends. Even those skeptical of R. Kelly because of his affinity for urinating on underage women have come around and seen the light. Don’t let any pre-conceived notions stop you from fully immersing yourself in this Hip-Hopera. If you buy yourself one thing this Christmas make it the “Trapped in the Closet” DVD. Skip the Egg Nogg. Avoid the Mistletoe. Don’t even hang the stockings. It will be the best $18 you’ve ever spent.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Clear and Presents Danger
There is one aspect of Christmas that is by far everyone’s favorite. Decorated trees are nice. Snow is an added bonus. The food is plentiful and delicious. However, no mug of spiked egg nogg or string of flashing lights can hold a candle to getting presents. We’re told from a young age that it is better to give than receive, but that’s not true. Sure it’s fun to pick out the perfect present for your friend or loved one and see their expression when they open it, but the next step is finding out what they got you in return. If it was truly better to give than receive it wouldn’t be awkward when a person who you’ve bought nothing for gives you a present. That’s why Christmas shopping can be so stressful. You have to buy a gift for not only your loved ones, but anyone who you think might get you something.
There are ways to avoid the inevitable awkwardness of a one-sided gift exchange. If someone gives you a present while you’re out and about you can just tell them their gift is at home. That will buy you a day or so to actually get them something. Or you can be proactive and buy a generic gift that will work for just about anyone and keep it with you at all times. Leave it in the trunk of your car or in your book bag and claim the tag must’ve fallen off when you hand it to them. If you’re faced with a surprise gift giver at your house, the only recourse is to tell them you ordered their present online and it hasn’t arrived yet. No matter how you’re presented with an unexpected gift, the important thing is not to panic. Anyone who gets you something for Christmas considers your friendship stronger than it actually is, so they’ll want to believe whatever excuse you come up with.
Another one of my favorite forced giving situations is the Secret Santa or White Elephant party. These can be amazing fun and I’m not knocking them, but they can also be torture. The worst example of this is the company or corporate version. Buying scented lotion for the girl three cubicles down is about as fun as receiving McDonald’s dollars from the guy in the mailroom. Essentially the Secret Santa office party is trading $25 cash for something equivalent in value, but of no desire to anyone. And why do people insist on telling everyone who they had. It’s Secret Santa! Secret. Trust me, no one wants to know that you bought the Legos because you thought it’d be funny. Gag gifts usually don’t elicit much of a laugh outside of bachelor parties. Jesus wasn’t birthed into a mound of dirty hay so you could give me an oversize talking Budweiser mug the Friday before Christmas.
Speaking of inappropriate presents, I’d like to clear up a common misconception. Many people consider gift certificates to be in poor taste. They seem to indicate that the giver is lazy and thoughtless. I disagree. Sure you may have some lazy and thoughtless people in your life, but gift certificates are a great option. Cash is insensitive, but money designated to one store is a great idea. A gift card to Blockbuster says, “Hey, I know how much you like movies.” So this Christmas, stop by Target and Best Buy and stock up on gift certificates. They’re great for last minute lop-sided gift exchanges, office Secret Santa parties and friends/relatives who might live on the other side of the country. It’s certainly better to receive a gift card than a latex can coozie shaped like a condom.
There are ways to avoid the inevitable awkwardness of a one-sided gift exchange. If someone gives you a present while you’re out and about you can just tell them their gift is at home. That will buy you a day or so to actually get them something. Or you can be proactive and buy a generic gift that will work for just about anyone and keep it with you at all times. Leave it in the trunk of your car or in your book bag and claim the tag must’ve fallen off when you hand it to them. If you’re faced with a surprise gift giver at your house, the only recourse is to tell them you ordered their present online and it hasn’t arrived yet. No matter how you’re presented with an unexpected gift, the important thing is not to panic. Anyone who gets you something for Christmas considers your friendship stronger than it actually is, so they’ll want to believe whatever excuse you come up with.
Another one of my favorite forced giving situations is the Secret Santa or White Elephant party. These can be amazing fun and I’m not knocking them, but they can also be torture. The worst example of this is the company or corporate version. Buying scented lotion for the girl three cubicles down is about as fun as receiving McDonald’s dollars from the guy in the mailroom. Essentially the Secret Santa office party is trading $25 cash for something equivalent in value, but of no desire to anyone. And why do people insist on telling everyone who they had. It’s Secret Santa! Secret. Trust me, no one wants to know that you bought the Legos because you thought it’d be funny. Gag gifts usually don’t elicit much of a laugh outside of bachelor parties. Jesus wasn’t birthed into a mound of dirty hay so you could give me an oversize talking Budweiser mug the Friday before Christmas.
Speaking of inappropriate presents, I’d like to clear up a common misconception. Many people consider gift certificates to be in poor taste. They seem to indicate that the giver is lazy and thoughtless. I disagree. Sure you may have some lazy and thoughtless people in your life, but gift certificates are a great option. Cash is insensitive, but money designated to one store is a great idea. A gift card to Blockbuster says, “Hey, I know how much you like movies.” So this Christmas, stop by Target and Best Buy and stock up on gift certificates. They’re great for last minute lop-sided gift exchanges, office Secret Santa parties and friends/relatives who might live on the other side of the country. It’s certainly better to receive a gift card than a latex can coozie shaped like a condom.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
‘Tis the Beginning of the Season
Even before the last bits of turkey had been piled on slices of white bread and smothered in the final spoonfuls of gravy, city workers everywhere were busy stringing festive lights across our great nation. Christmas no longer waits for December 25th; it begins in November and doesn’t end until the last dried evergreen is dragged to the curb well after the New Year. People everywhere repeat the mantra “‘Tis the Season” because Christmas is so much bigger than one single day. In honor of the build up to the big occasion, I’m going to wax poetic about the holiday from now until January 1st. I’ve decided to begin with one of my favorite winter memories from college: the time I thought I was paralyzed.
December in Laurinburg, N.C. can be particularly cold, especially when juxtaposed with the ungodly heat and humidity of the summer. The winter of my freshman year stands out as one of the more frigid of my life, but not necessarily due to the actual temperature. It was no doubt chilly, but I didn’t have any of the warming elements of the season I was accustomed to while living at home. After class I couldn’t return to a toasty living room and enjoy hot chocolate, instead I spent those gray afternoons in a cold dorm room with cinderblock walls. The pine roping and poinsettia-lined hearth of my childhood was replaced by a desk from the 60’s and a thick stack of exam review materials.
The winter of ’98 was completely foreign to me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own and responsible for myself. Unfortunately, I’m sometimes irresponsible and that’s how I woke up one morning with the belief that I couldn’t move my legs. My philosophy was work hard during the week and play hard on the weekend. I rarely missed a class and always got good grades. In return, I participated in the most hallowed of college traditions: drinking. Aside from some questionable Sunday afternoon hangovers, life was good.
If I had a complaint, it was that the winters around campus were boring. Laurinburg isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Couple that with the cold, overcast days and the only answer was drinking games. In fact, we had our own suite devoted to beer pong with malt liquor. One memorable evening, I consumed several 40’s and retired early. In the middle of the night I had to get up to use the bathroom. I entered the stall and leaned against the door. The combination of alcohol and standing up too fast caused me to pass out. I hit the floor next to the toilet and would later find out that I’d been asleep for an hour.
When I woke, I was disoriented to say the least. I tried to push myself up off the floor, but my legs wouldn’t move. I laid face down next to the toilet struggling with every ounce of strength when it occurred to me that I must be paralyzed. I screamed, “Help! Help!” as loud as I could, but no one could hear me. I decided that if I could just roll over I could pull myself out of the stall and maybe back to my room. That’s when I realized I wasn’t paralyzed, I was retarded. It seems that when I blacked out the stall door had closed over top of me, pinning my legs to the floor. So this Christmas season I urge you all to be safe. Whether it’s Colt 45 or Egg Nog drink responsibly and remember that if you wake up and can’t move it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve handicapped yourself.
December in Laurinburg, N.C. can be particularly cold, especially when juxtaposed with the ungodly heat and humidity of the summer. The winter of my freshman year stands out as one of the more frigid of my life, but not necessarily due to the actual temperature. It was no doubt chilly, but I didn’t have any of the warming elements of the season I was accustomed to while living at home. After class I couldn’t return to a toasty living room and enjoy hot chocolate, instead I spent those gray afternoons in a cold dorm room with cinderblock walls. The pine roping and poinsettia-lined hearth of my childhood was replaced by a desk from the 60’s and a thick stack of exam review materials.
The winter of ’98 was completely foreign to me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own and responsible for myself. Unfortunately, I’m sometimes irresponsible and that’s how I woke up one morning with the belief that I couldn’t move my legs. My philosophy was work hard during the week and play hard on the weekend. I rarely missed a class and always got good grades. In return, I participated in the most hallowed of college traditions: drinking. Aside from some questionable Sunday afternoon hangovers, life was good.
If I had a complaint, it was that the winters around campus were boring. Laurinburg isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Couple that with the cold, overcast days and the only answer was drinking games. In fact, we had our own suite devoted to beer pong with malt liquor. One memorable evening, I consumed several 40’s and retired early. In the middle of the night I had to get up to use the bathroom. I entered the stall and leaned against the door. The combination of alcohol and standing up too fast caused me to pass out. I hit the floor next to the toilet and would later find out that I’d been asleep for an hour.
When I woke, I was disoriented to say the least. I tried to push myself up off the floor, but my legs wouldn’t move. I laid face down next to the toilet struggling with every ounce of strength when it occurred to me that I must be paralyzed. I screamed, “Help! Help!” as loud as I could, but no one could hear me. I decided that if I could just roll over I could pull myself out of the stall and maybe back to my room. That’s when I realized I wasn’t paralyzed, I was retarded. It seems that when I blacked out the stall door had closed over top of me, pinning my legs to the floor. So this Christmas season I urge you all to be safe. Whether it’s Colt 45 or Egg Nog drink responsibly and remember that if you wake up and can’t move it doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve handicapped yourself.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
No Guarantee
Take a second and think of one thing that you buy that there’s no guarantee you’ll get to use. Give up? The answer is condoms. When I buy a box of Ritz, I know I’m eating crackers. If I pick up a light bulb, I know I won’t have to stumble through the dark. And if I stop by Goodwill and snag a sweatshirt for a dollar, I won’t freeze to death in my apartment. They are all guaranteed. The purchase of condoms is only half the battle, and that percentage may be generous.
I’ll play devil’s advocate for a second and agree that condoms can be used without a partner. Now that we all know how stupid that sounds, I’ll continue. Sure you can blow them up like balloons or put them on various pieces of produce and hide them around your friends’ apartment, but what’s the point? Maybe your friends’ mom will discover a Trojan-covered cucumber in the linen closet and have to give an embarrassing explanation, but seriously let’s stay focused. The only appropriate time to use a condom is during sex.
If you’re married or in a serious relationship my theory doesn’t apply to you. I’m speaking to the millions of people who keep irregular sex lives. The people who buy condoms on the contingency that they’ll get to use them. The guys who keep one in their back pockets when they go to a bar just in case. The girls who buy a box as a joke for part of a Halloween costume or scavenger hunt, but keep them in the top drawer next to their beds. These people are the reason condoms have expirations dates. If you didn’t know they could expire, please watch your head as you exit the vehicle; you needn’t stay along for the ride.
The deeper seeded problem is that condoms are necessary. Murphy’s Law states that the minute you don’t have one within reach a supermodel will want to act out pages 13 to 76 of the Kama Sutra with you. You have to keep one in your back pocket or top drawer because the alternative is scary. I’m not talking about unwanted pregnancy or abortion; I’m talking about EC (emergency contraception). Sure there’s no guarantee that you’ll get to use condoms when you buy them, but it beats the hell out of waiting an hour at Planned Parenthood for a Plan B pill in a room filled with free-clinic regulars. You’ll never know if the lady next to you is there for a flu shot or her Hep-C medication. So to all the sexual irregulars out there, keep racing those expiration dates.
I’ll play devil’s advocate for a second and agree that condoms can be used without a partner. Now that we all know how stupid that sounds, I’ll continue. Sure you can blow them up like balloons or put them on various pieces of produce and hide them around your friends’ apartment, but what’s the point? Maybe your friends’ mom will discover a Trojan-covered cucumber in the linen closet and have to give an embarrassing explanation, but seriously let’s stay focused. The only appropriate time to use a condom is during sex.
If you’re married or in a serious relationship my theory doesn’t apply to you. I’m speaking to the millions of people who keep irregular sex lives. The people who buy condoms on the contingency that they’ll get to use them. The guys who keep one in their back pockets when they go to a bar just in case. The girls who buy a box as a joke for part of a Halloween costume or scavenger hunt, but keep them in the top drawer next to their beds. These people are the reason condoms have expirations dates. If you didn’t know they could expire, please watch your head as you exit the vehicle; you needn’t stay along for the ride.
The deeper seeded problem is that condoms are necessary. Murphy’s Law states that the minute you don’t have one within reach a supermodel will want to act out pages 13 to 76 of the Kama Sutra with you. You have to keep one in your back pocket or top drawer because the alternative is scary. I’m not talking about unwanted pregnancy or abortion; I’m talking about EC (emergency contraception). Sure there’s no guarantee that you’ll get to use condoms when you buy them, but it beats the hell out of waiting an hour at Planned Parenthood for a Plan B pill in a room filled with free-clinic regulars. You’ll never know if the lady next to you is there for a flu shot or her Hep-C medication. So to all the sexual irregulars out there, keep racing those expiration dates.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Happy Thanksgiving (I’m a Genius)
I’m an idea man. On occasion I develop earth-shatteringly original concepts that would revolutionize the world as we know it today. Unfortunately these ideas never arrive with pen in hand. They seem to appear as I’m drifting off to sleep, lathering up in the shower, or, in the words of Borat, when I am make toilet. Although I have an incredible memory for trivial knowledge, I can’t for the life of me remember anything very important. At one point I could name all the Presidents in order, but now those cells are filled with Goo Goo Dolls’ lyrics. Often I’ll try to file a good idea in a certain part of my brain until I can write it down, but usually wake up with a meaningless placeholder like “kitchen gun” or “sandwich laser.”
Truly, I’m an idea idea man. I tend to come up with the idea for the idea for something great. For example, I’m positive that if I invent something for a car that I would be a billionaire. See, I have the first idea, a broad stroke of genius if you will. However, I have yet to create the actual thing for the car that would earn me the GNP of Honduras. I’m thinking about a highway camera system that would project an image of the traffic ahead on the lower portion of your windshield so that drivers would have more time to react, thus preventing a large number of accidents. Unfortunately, technology scares me and I have no idea how to even begin such a system, so I have a feeling my invention will be something on the level of the cup holder.
Make no mistake, I am not an inventor. Sure, I can press legos together with the best of them, but I can’t bring an idea to life. I was the kid who took things apart only to put them back together with fewer pieces. In fact, there’s a Teddy Ruxpin from my childhood that looks like a stroke victim. Only one eye opens and the tape plays so slow it sounds like he’s slurring his speech. About the only thing I actually accomplished was taking the motor out of an old remote control car and affixing a 9-volt battery and popsicle stick to it, creating a fan.
Where I am truly gifted is in the creation of one-liners. I can twist words with the best of them and I actually get paid to do it. I write sports puns that appear on the bottom of the screen during the show I work on (Jim Rome is Burning on ESPN). Last week we had a take on Chris Webber and I came up with, “The Passion of the Chris.” Jim also compared Raiders head coach Art Shell to a mime because he never says anything, then went off on how unfunny mimes are. I’m proud to say even Rome himself chuckled at “A Mime to Kill.”
So this Thanksgiving I’m offering two nuggets that have had me chuckling for the past week. They are ideas for t-shirts for the very holiday we’re about to celebrate. The first involves a picture of a turkey wearing a thong. The caption reads “Happy Thongsgiving!” The second idea is a turkey wearing a monkey costume. The caption reads “Happy Thanksgibbon!” Feel free to make a shirt using these ideas; just make sure you send me one in lieu of payment. (But seriously, if you sell a lot of them, I want my cut.)
Happy Thanksgibbon!
Truly, I’m an idea idea man. I tend to come up with the idea for the idea for something great. For example, I’m positive that if I invent something for a car that I would be a billionaire. See, I have the first idea, a broad stroke of genius if you will. However, I have yet to create the actual thing for the car that would earn me the GNP of Honduras. I’m thinking about a highway camera system that would project an image of the traffic ahead on the lower portion of your windshield so that drivers would have more time to react, thus preventing a large number of accidents. Unfortunately, technology scares me and I have no idea how to even begin such a system, so I have a feeling my invention will be something on the level of the cup holder.
Make no mistake, I am not an inventor. Sure, I can press legos together with the best of them, but I can’t bring an idea to life. I was the kid who took things apart only to put them back together with fewer pieces. In fact, there’s a Teddy Ruxpin from my childhood that looks like a stroke victim. Only one eye opens and the tape plays so slow it sounds like he’s slurring his speech. About the only thing I actually accomplished was taking the motor out of an old remote control car and affixing a 9-volt battery and popsicle stick to it, creating a fan.
Where I am truly gifted is in the creation of one-liners. I can twist words with the best of them and I actually get paid to do it. I write sports puns that appear on the bottom of the screen during the show I work on (Jim Rome is Burning on ESPN). Last week we had a take on Chris Webber and I came up with, “The Passion of the Chris.” Jim also compared Raiders head coach Art Shell to a mime because he never says anything, then went off on how unfunny mimes are. I’m proud to say even Rome himself chuckled at “A Mime to Kill.”
So this Thanksgiving I’m offering two nuggets that have had me chuckling for the past week. They are ideas for t-shirts for the very holiday we’re about to celebrate. The first involves a picture of a turkey wearing a thong. The caption reads “Happy Thongsgiving!” The second idea is a turkey wearing a monkey costume. The caption reads “Happy Thanksgibbon!” Feel free to make a shirt using these ideas; just make sure you send me one in lieu of payment. (But seriously, if you sell a lot of them, I want my cut.)
Happy Thanksgibbon!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The Eternal Question
Have you ever been so drunk that you gave your phone number to a homeless person?
Up until one Sunday morning in the not so distant past, I could've confidently answered that question with a resounding, "No." However, in light of certain events, I must forever respond in the affirmative.
If I may set the scene, it's just after closing time somewhere in the neighborhood of 2am. I had just left a bar in Santa Monica and purchased a case of beer from 7-11 mere minutes before they stopped selling it.
Outside I ran into a homeless guy. Normally, I wave off homeless people with the same idea of collective responsibility everyone has thinking that someone else will help them. Tossing a dollar in an old McDonald's coffee cup doesn't give me peace of mind, in fact it makes me feel more guilty about my own inability to manage money, so I avoid it at all costs. However, this particular homeless guy was different.
He didn't ask for money. All he wanted was for me to look at some of his drawings. Now as a supporter of the fine arts I was torn, but decided that since it was the middle of the night and I was hammered, it was no time for philanthropy or art appreciation. I bid the gentlemen good evening and continued on my way with my case of beer firmly in hand.
As it so happened not only was this homeless guy an artist, he was persistent as well. It became very clear after several blocks that he was willing to accompany me to my final destination. Now like most people, I've fantasized about killing a drifter, but having never actually gone through with it, I concluded the better part of valor was to humor him for a moment. To my surprise, this homeless guy was actually quite the artist.
Sure he didn't have the steady hand for a perfect circle, but I bet Giotto would be equally as inhibited with a diet of malt liquor and newsprint. Maybe it was the fact that I was drunk or maybe he was an incredible artist or maybe I feared for my life, but I took out twenty bucks and purchased one of his originals. The homeless man was so overwhelmed with my generosity that he wanted to give me a larger print of one of his finest pieces. The only catch was that he didn't have it with him.
It's never more clear that you may have a drinking problem than when you're holding a case of beer next to a homeless guy in a Kinko's at 2:30am., for that's where his masterpiece lay.
It turns out that Kinko's doesn't have a lot of faith in homeless people's ability to pay for things, so they hadn't copied or printed whatever he was trying to give me. I wished the guy luck and headed for the door. He started talking about other art he had and how much he really wanted to get me an enlarged version of his masterpiece when it was printed. Whether I was starting to sober up or simply the ridiculousness of the situation had finally set in, I was finished with the encounter. I decided the only way to get out was to give him a phone number. Instead of giving him a fake, I actually wrote down my real cell phone number.
You might ask how anyone could be that stupid. Here is the answer: $99 worth of Jager bombs. I didn't drink them all myself because drinks were purchased by the round, but I assure you there was a hundred bucks worth of poison coursing through my body.
So somewhere on a park bench or maybe a steam grate, or maybe curled up under some newspaper just beneath the pier is a man, no, an artist, with a dream, $20 and my phone number.
Up until one Sunday morning in the not so distant past, I could've confidently answered that question with a resounding, "No." However, in light of certain events, I must forever respond in the affirmative.
If I may set the scene, it's just after closing time somewhere in the neighborhood of 2am. I had just left a bar in Santa Monica and purchased a case of beer from 7-11 mere minutes before they stopped selling it.
Outside I ran into a homeless guy. Normally, I wave off homeless people with the same idea of collective responsibility everyone has thinking that someone else will help them. Tossing a dollar in an old McDonald's coffee cup doesn't give me peace of mind, in fact it makes me feel more guilty about my own inability to manage money, so I avoid it at all costs. However, this particular homeless guy was different.
He didn't ask for money. All he wanted was for me to look at some of his drawings. Now as a supporter of the fine arts I was torn, but decided that since it was the middle of the night and I was hammered, it was no time for philanthropy or art appreciation. I bid the gentlemen good evening and continued on my way with my case of beer firmly in hand.
As it so happened not only was this homeless guy an artist, he was persistent as well. It became very clear after several blocks that he was willing to accompany me to my final destination. Now like most people, I've fantasized about killing a drifter, but having never actually gone through with it, I concluded the better part of valor was to humor him for a moment. To my surprise, this homeless guy was actually quite the artist.
Sure he didn't have the steady hand for a perfect circle, but I bet Giotto would be equally as inhibited with a diet of malt liquor and newsprint. Maybe it was the fact that I was drunk or maybe he was an incredible artist or maybe I feared for my life, but I took out twenty bucks and purchased one of his originals. The homeless man was so overwhelmed with my generosity that he wanted to give me a larger print of one of his finest pieces. The only catch was that he didn't have it with him.
It's never more clear that you may have a drinking problem than when you're holding a case of beer next to a homeless guy in a Kinko's at 2:30am., for that's where his masterpiece lay.
It turns out that Kinko's doesn't have a lot of faith in homeless people's ability to pay for things, so they hadn't copied or printed whatever he was trying to give me. I wished the guy luck and headed for the door. He started talking about other art he had and how much he really wanted to get me an enlarged version of his masterpiece when it was printed. Whether I was starting to sober up or simply the ridiculousness of the situation had finally set in, I was finished with the encounter. I decided the only way to get out was to give him a phone number. Instead of giving him a fake, I actually wrote down my real cell phone number.
You might ask how anyone could be that stupid. Here is the answer: $99 worth of Jager bombs. I didn't drink them all myself because drinks were purchased by the round, but I assure you there was a hundred bucks worth of poison coursing through my body.
So somewhere on a park bench or maybe a steam grate, or maybe curled up under some newspaper just beneath the pier is a man, no, an artist, with a dream, $20 and my phone number.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Widespread Panic
For my first post I thought I'd revisit a favorite story of mine from a few years ago.
Thursday, April 17th 7:30pm Constitutuion Hall Washington, D.C. - My first Widespread Panic show. As many of you already know, WP falls under the "Hippie Stoner Jam Music" classification in my book, so you're correct to presume that the ticket was indeed free. My brother procured two tickets from a friend who was unable to attend. Evidently the band doesn't have it's reputation staked in punctuality because despite arriving on time, we were left with the painfully expensive task of sucking down $7 wild turkey shots while waiting for the concert to begin.
In that extra hour, I believe I figured out the origin of their name: "Widespread" because stoned hippies in tye dyes were everywhere and "Panic" because the combined length of the bathroom and booze lines was roughly 17 kilometers. 8:30 arrived and it seemed that WP was ready to take the stage. My brother and I consulted our tickets and began the search. Evidently we were seated in Section: 23, Row: M, Seat: Contact Buzz. Despite being a smoke free venue, the air was perfumed with kindbud. I made friends quickly with the stoner to my left who decided his dancing should not be confined to one seat. In an attempt to decide if I was a narc or simply one week early for the Opera, he offered me a swig from his fifth of Crown Royal. I imbibed and gave him a nod that said, "smoke away."
Now you WP fans might be wondering what songs they played. As far as I can tell, they only played one song that lasted roughly 109 minutes. It was split by an indecently long, one hour intermission that as far as I could tell was simply to allow anyone sobering up a chance to burn one down inside the comfort of their Mystery Machine style hippie vans. The mainstay of the second set was very similar to the first: dancing. In fact, I don't recall anyone around me sitting down ever. When I did take the time to relax, I spent it fantasizing about the cute blonde in front of me, who I'm pretty sure in retrospect was not having a seizure despite evidence to the contrary.
Widespread rocked out solidly until after 11pm and set the pace for what will surely be another two incredible nights at Constitution Hall. The good news is that rumors were spreading that they may actually play a different song every night. Is that enough to get me to attend, sadly I think not. The show reinforced what I've long thought about most concerts, and that is this: buy a twelve pack of PBR, throw three of any bands CD's in the changer, spread a towel down in the backyard and rock out for $6.12 with as many or as few friends as needed. But all in all, I am glad that I ventured out of my element to experience this subculture. No, you won't see me at the show in Philly next week, but guy with the crown royal and girl who danced like Elaine from Seinfeld, you will always be in my heart.
Thursday, April 17th 7:30pm Constitutuion Hall Washington, D.C. - My first Widespread Panic show. As many of you already know, WP falls under the "Hippie Stoner Jam Music" classification in my book, so you're correct to presume that the ticket was indeed free. My brother procured two tickets from a friend who was unable to attend. Evidently the band doesn't have it's reputation staked in punctuality because despite arriving on time, we were left with the painfully expensive task of sucking down $7 wild turkey shots while waiting for the concert to begin.
In that extra hour, I believe I figured out the origin of their name: "Widespread" because stoned hippies in tye dyes were everywhere and "Panic" because the combined length of the bathroom and booze lines was roughly 17 kilometers. 8:30 arrived and it seemed that WP was ready to take the stage. My brother and I consulted our tickets and began the search. Evidently we were seated in Section: 23, Row: M, Seat: Contact Buzz. Despite being a smoke free venue, the air was perfumed with kindbud. I made friends quickly with the stoner to my left who decided his dancing should not be confined to one seat. In an attempt to decide if I was a narc or simply one week early for the Opera, he offered me a swig from his fifth of Crown Royal. I imbibed and gave him a nod that said, "smoke away."
Now you WP fans might be wondering what songs they played. As far as I can tell, they only played one song that lasted roughly 109 minutes. It was split by an indecently long, one hour intermission that as far as I could tell was simply to allow anyone sobering up a chance to burn one down inside the comfort of their Mystery Machine style hippie vans. The mainstay of the second set was very similar to the first: dancing. In fact, I don't recall anyone around me sitting down ever. When I did take the time to relax, I spent it fantasizing about the cute blonde in front of me, who I'm pretty sure in retrospect was not having a seizure despite evidence to the contrary.
Widespread rocked out solidly until after 11pm and set the pace for what will surely be another two incredible nights at Constitution Hall. The good news is that rumors were spreading that they may actually play a different song every night. Is that enough to get me to attend, sadly I think not. The show reinforced what I've long thought about most concerts, and that is this: buy a twelve pack of PBR, throw three of any bands CD's in the changer, spread a towel down in the backyard and rock out for $6.12 with as many or as few friends as needed. But all in all, I am glad that I ventured out of my element to experience this subculture. No, you won't see me at the show in Philly next week, but guy with the crown royal and girl who danced like Elaine from Seinfeld, you will always be in my heart.
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