I hate Reunion.com!!!

I apologize if you got a stupid email from me saying I wanted you to join reunion.com. That is not the case. I hate reunion.com and hope that everyone involved with the website gets what is coming to them.

Here's what happened. I got the same email from my uncle that you got from me. I hadn't talked with him in months. I'd also moved recently. I thought that he was trying to contact me to get my new info. He's a busy guy, so I thought signing up quickly for the website would help him. Unfortunately, I now realize he got duped in the same way I did.

The website asks for your email information to match you with your friends/family already registered on reunion.com. What I didn't see in small print was that it also sends an email inviting the rest of your contacts to join. F@ck You, reunion.com!!! Do you really think I wanted to invite my boss to your stupid website? Or the dozens of business contacts in my address book? I'm sure Jim Rome was real happy getting that email.

The worst part is that now I have to explain this over and over again. So I'm wishing for a plague of sorts to befall the offices of reunion.com. I hope you're all reunited in the ICU. Again, sorry to everyone for the email. Please delete it. Thanks.

Let's get Barry Bonds back on the Field!

Barry Bonds is good for sports. There is nothing worse than seeing an athlete waste away when they still have the ability to compete. It makes me ill to think that Brett Favre has nothing to do but riding lawn mower commercials and think of ways to spend the ridiculous amount of money he's made. No. 4 has a gift and should be lined up between the hashmarks. For a brief second after his retirement, I hoped he would come back to the Falcons and the team that drafted him. Favre could make one last stand for the people that brought him into the league. But Atlanta killed my hopes by taking Matt Ryan in the draft last weekend.

Let's be honest, Ryan isn't going to make anyone forget about Michael Vick. A pocket passer isn't going to get Atlanta to their feet. They want someone who freaks out when the first option is covered. They need a running back masquerading as a quarterback. A guy who will take the snap, pump fake and start breaking guys' ankles. At best, Matt Ryan will complete passes, but he won't put butts in the seats. No, the only hope for the Falcons is Barry Bonds.

Hear me out. We know he's an athletic freak. And we know the NFL is lax on steroids and the fans don't care if players use them. I'm not saying you make him your quarterback, but I'm sure there's a slot for him. Arthur Blank has plenty of money from selling power tools and potting soil. He could easily throw a couple million towards the "homerun king". Tell me the stands wouldn't be packed to see B. Lamar Bonds throw on an oversized helmet and lineup for an extra point. And his idol- Henry Aaron- lives right down the street. Barry Bonds and Falcons football. Crazier things have happened. Did you hear the greatest pitcher of the past two decades allegedly cheated to win and cheated on his wife with a country music star who was 15 at the time? See? Now Bonds in Atlanta would barely make the back page of the AJC.

A Diamond in the Rough

I have a new obsession and I hate myself for it. I'd almost rather admit to liking Yanni, than tell you what I've spent countless hours doing over the past couple weeks. It all started when my girlfriend went out of town for a bachelorette party. I came home that Friday night at a reasonable hour to an empty apartment. With nothing better to do and not tired enough to sleep, I flopped down on the couch and began the most famous of American pastimes- channel surfing. What I eventually landed on and am now addicted to, was DirecTv channel 233: Gems TV.

I know what you're thinking- it's home shopping for old ladies. But that's where you're wrong. I have flipped channels for over a decade past thousands of home shopping shows and have never been encapsulated like I am with Gems TV. What's remarkable about the network is that the reason I first started watching is not the reason I still check it out during commercial breaks. I paused on Gems TV out of sheer anger. The presenter was referring to the jewelry auctions as games. I couldn't believe that anyone would be dumb enough to go for it. But much to my surprise people were buying left and right.

The gimmicks didn't stop there. The quantity of items available were referred to as positions. The starting price was "crashed" some 80-90% a couple minutes into each auction. What can only be described as early house music plays underneath every game. And the camera often pans left quickly and cuts to a zoom shot of the item for sale. Not to mention the constant flash of information on screen and the presenter's ad nauseaum descriptions. And possibly my favorite part, no matter what time you buy the item during the auction, everyone pays the lowest price. My anger quickly turned to fascination and now I like to play along. I don't buy any of the jewelry though. The game I play is trying to guess the price they're going to crash to.

But last Saturday night my addiction grew as I discovered a new way to enjoy Gems TV. As an old friend and I downed copious amounts of beer during a power hour that turned into a century club, we learned that if you email the show they'll read them on the air. As the presenter gave a shoutout to "Biggie" (my old nickname), my friend and I high-fived each other and the new game was on. We spent the next hour emailing from every computer, blackberry and phone in the apartment trying to get our messages read. We succeeded three or four times. It was awesome. So the next time you find yourself pre-gaming with some friends or winding down from a drunken evening, give channel 233 a try and send an email to chat@gemstv.com. You might just be surprised how entertaining it can be. And whether you tell your friends about your new hobby is completely up to you.

You Can't Handle the Tooth

Had someone asked me the top five things I wouldn't be doing yesterday at 5pm, going to the dentist would have been near the top of the list. Like most people, I hate the dentist. I hate everything about it- the waiting room, the paperwork, the scraping, the suction tube thingy, the spit cup, and the condescending demonstration of the proper way to floss. It's a piece of string. You run it between your teeth. I get it. Going to the dentist isn't supposed to be an enjoyable experience, but it shouldn't be dreaded. I avoided it as long as I could. I brushed and flossed longer and harder in the past year than I ever have thinking I could avoid the dentist. I was wrong.

For about the past week, I had a little pain in my upper molar on the left side of my mouth. It only happened while eating and mostly sweet foods at that. It wasn't unbearable, but I knew a trip to the dentist was in order. As a child of the internet age, I went to 1-800-DENTIST.com. I filled out a little info and was given a few choices for local dentists. I read some of the reviews and chose an office. With some trepidation, I clicked for an appointment and waited for a call. A few minutes later, the receptionist called me and I told her I needed an exam and cleaning. I was thinking two weeks. She had just had a cancellation and was thinking 5 0'clock.

My main problem with going to the dentist office is actually the dentist. This may have stemmed from my childhood dentist who was an unapologetic Tarheels’ fan. I back the orange and blue of UVA, so our differences reached farther than my brushing habits. However my main problem with the DDS coalition is that they want to poke around in your mouth. The tools of their trade are a twisted array of metal picks and drills. The typical exam tray looks like what Arnold Schwarzenegger was tortured with in True Lies. There is something fundamentally wrong with anyone who wants to scrape plaque and tartar out of tooth crevices for a living.

That being said, I would rate my experience yesterday as not too unpleasant. The receptionist was extremely friendly. The paperwork was quick. I didn’t have to wait at all. My x-rays took a couple minutes and then my actual dentist did the cleaning. She was a fellow east coast transplant and we had some common stomping grounds near Washington, D.C. She kept it light. We chatted about my job. It was rather nice until she strapped on the mask and went to work. What came next was my fault, not hers. Although I said it was two years since my last cleaning it was actually more like four. What? I hate the dentist. She picked, scraped, polished and shined the bejesus out of my teeth. I’ve been running my tongue over them all morning.

I also found out that as an adult you don’t have to have the fluoride treatment. You know, that tray of goo you bite down on for twelve minutes with the suction tube jammed in between? Anyway, I was done. Less than an hour, relatively painless. I was halfway out of the chair when she said, “Now let’s take a look at those x-rays.” Damn. I’d forgotten about the minor tooth pain that spurred the visit. Sure enough, it was a cavity. And it had a brother. Both of the drill and fill persuasion. Just my lucky day. It’s a good thing my first visit to the dentist office of the second George W. administration wasn’t as dreadful as I thought because as it turns out, I get to go back in two weeks.

The Time I Went Blind

I've been busy lately. I finished up all the crazy travel between the east coast and west coast that spanned my spring and summer. I went to the beach. Twice. I got a promotion. I flew to Phoenix for a day to shoot a correspondent piece for work with Orlando Hudson of the Arizona Diamondbacks. Oh, I also went blind.

The last set of nuptials I attended came just after July 4th. My best friend, Kristen, got married in our home town of Newport News. It was a wonderful occasion, but a busy one for all parties involved. The ceremony and reception flew by and I got to spend just a few mintues with the bride and groom. Before I left, Kristen said that a select few were going to a bar across from the hotel. Even though my flight back to Los Angeles was at 5:45am, I couldn't say no to my oldest friend. Kristen and I have known each other for about 23 years.

Despite the lack of sight I experienced less than 12 hours later, I'm glad I went. Not only did I get to spend some time with Kristen and her new husband, but two other high school friends were randomly at the bar. We lived it up, drank it down and stayed until last call. I got back to my brother's house and in bed by about 2:30am. After sleeping in my clothes, I awoke a mere two hours later and headed to the airport.

My flight to Atlanta went without incident. I slept for the hour and a half, still pretty drunk. Once in the Peach State I had two hours to kill. Instead of drinking water or getting something to eat, I elected for more sleep in the corner of the waiting area at my gate. My cell phone alarm rang as they were boarding my flight to Los Angeles. Again, I passed on liquids or nourishment; a huge mistake.

I had the window seat, next to a nice couple with a baby they passed between them the entire flight. At this point the wonderful affects of alcohol had worn off and the ill affects had settled in. I was getting hot and cold flashes and attempting to sweat out any water still left in my body. I tried to sleep but couldn't. I couldn't read. I couldn't listen to music. I was fidgety and uncomfortable. I thought to myself that I'd never felt so bad in my life. Then I went blind.

At first my vision went fuzzy, sort of like when you rub your eyes to hard. Then it tunneled. Then it went black. I blinked for the first thirty seconds just waving my hand in front of my eyes. I have no idea what the people next to me thought, but I must have looked crazy. I started to panic and felt around for the stewardess call button. When she arrived, I could barely gasp, "Water." I slugged down a couple glasses, but still no vision. I refrained from alerting anyone to my problem for fear the plane would be diverted to somewhere like Kansas City and I'd end up on the news.

A few minutes went by and the idea of running up and down the aisles screaming was looking better and better, diversion be damned. As a last resort I felt around in the seat-back pocket for the vomit bag. I breathed in and out, trying to calm myself back down. Miraculously, some five to seven minutes after I'd gone Stevie Wonder my eye sight returned. It was slow at first. A little gray here. The outline of the seat. Then everything slowly came into focus. I was so happy I could've cried had there been any liquid left in my body. I stayed awake the rest of the way home, afraid to close my ears. I sucked down a few more glasses of water and had a few bags of pretzels. So in short, I've had a good summer. Lots going on. Really looking forward to the winter.

Wedding Season

I love weddings. Love them. First off, I look damn good in a suit/tuxedo, and that’s really the only opportunity I get to wear one. Second, the food is always fantastic. I have yet to leave a nuptial spread unsatisfied. Third, there is usually enough booze per person to kill a donkey. Last, but certainly not least, there is dancing. And I don’t mean, rave, glow stick, sweaty, rolling on “E” dancing, I mean real dancing. Not the type of dancing your girlfriend always wants to do at bars, but waltzes, foxtrots, jitterbugs, and the electric slide. From the flower girl to the brides’ grandparents, everyone hits the dance floor no matter what skill level they are. I could go on, but those four reasons alone are more than enough to justify my love of weddings.

And it’s a good thing I love weddings because I have four this spring/summer. The first of which was last weekend. My good high school friend, Brooke, got married at a destination wedding in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Next, my college roommate and former L.A. roommate, Spencer, is getting married Memorial Day weekend in Richmond, VA. The very next Saturday, my best friend from high school, Austin, is also getting married in Richmond. A month later on 7/7/07, my oldest friend (as in length of time known, not age) Kristen is getting married in my home town of Newport News. It’s truly a whirlwind four months of travel back and forth across the country.

A word of warning to everyone who invited me to their wedding: I’m going to dance and I’m going to drink. Lord sweet pappy Johnson with an erection I will drink! Not to the point of excess, mind you. Not like the old Adam. Not like the Adam who first moved to Los Angeles and may have broken a toilet and blamed a visiting “fat girl.” I’m going to have some liquor, charm the pants off your friends and waltz with your aunt. It’s standard operating procedure. Just let it happen.

Also, according to wedding etiquette, I have a year to get you a present. Funds are tight. Cross country flights ain’t cheap. Neither are rental cars and hotels, so for the time being sit tight. You’re going to get something awesome, from the heart and not a gravy ladle. I’ll think about everything we’ve shared and come up with a thoughtful gift. For instance, I got my friend Bryan and his wife some nice wine from a place I visited in Napa Valley. Seems generic on the surface, but if you know us, it makes sense. I drank wine in high school and was made fun of mercilessly, mostly by Bryan. Cut to a year after college and he’s slamming Chardonnay at his apartment as a quick way to get drunk before going out. I’d like to think he’s more refined now, but after our power hour-induced Vanilla Ice rap session, I know that’s not the case.

So for all of you who have just gotten engaged or are about to, don’t forget about me. I’ve already got an informal “save the date” marked on my calendar for my old roommate Kent’s wedding next January. This marriage has been about seven years in the making so I hope it lives up to the hype, and by hype I mean crab cakes and Bud Light. As for the rest of you, keep the wedding invitations coming. My address is 1510 S. Wooster Street, Los Angeles, CA 90035. I’ll even accept invites from strangers. The only thing I need to know is the time, place and which of your aunts has both original hips.

(P.S.- I have no idea who the people in that picture are.)

Taxes Two Step

I hate taxes. I hate them because they’re everywhere. If I make money, I pay income tax. If I spend money, I pay sales tax. It seems to me that I should be taxed once and then what’s mine is mine. As the saying goes, “nothing is certain but death and taxes.” Yet, now the two are more intertwined than ever. Even when you die, the government gets a chunk of your money on its way to your relatives thanks to the Death Tax. They are inescapable. But the good news is I have a plan.

Most people who hate taxes feel that the government is not putting the money to good use. They disagree with the billions spent each day on the war or want to see education receive more funding or hit the same pothole at the end of their street on the way to work each morning. Sure I’d like to see all those things change, but that’s not my main beef with taxes.

The worst part of taxes is knowing how much you would really have if the government didn’t take a chunk out of your paycheck. It’s right there on your pay stub every Friday. You can’t miss it. The joy of getting paid always comes with the mixed emotion of seeing some of it taken immediately. That’s why I propose the first-ever Blind Tax. Take whatever you want, just don’t tell me about it. Let me be happy with what I have. This would also make doing your taxes a lot easier.

Each January I get a bunch of forms in the mail. W-2. 1099. 1099-Div. 1098 A. 1098 B. R2D2. The stack is enormous and doesn’t make any sense to me. Evidently if an account I started when I was a kid and have never touched makes three cents annually I have to fill out 12 pages. Even if you just have a W-2, filing your taxes can take hours. From your employer’s Tax ID number to your Adjusted Gross Income, you have to fill out blank after blank and even one mistake could lead to an anal probe from the IRS.

I sat down yesterday afternoon and did my taxes. I file them electronically. It costs my $9. Here are the two interesting things I learned from the experience. First, anyone who owned, used or practically looked at a phone last year was eligible for some credit. I’m not sure how much it was, but I took it. Secondly, no matter how much I make, I’m always going to get the same amount back. Last year, the year before, this year- it’s all the same within like fifty bucks. And just so you don’t think I’m a moron, I’ve made different amounts of money over those three years, with the government taking larger chunks, but my refund remains the same.

I never thought I’d say this, but Montana has it right. They are one of a small number of states that don’t have sales tax. Making things cost what the price tag says is step one in my new tax plan. Don’t charge me $19.99 either. Round up. I don’t want your penny. The second step is the all-important Blind Tax I laid out earlier. Let it start with employers. Make my salary match my paycheck. You deal with the government. Leave me out if it. Thirdly, when it comes time to file taxes- let’s not. Save the paper, save the stamps, save my time and just send me a check at the end of April with the same amount I always get. Thanks.

How was Vegas?

The question is asked with such promise. No one cares about your trip to Ft. Lauderdale. Outside of your parents, no one really wants to hear about your honeymoon. Your summer vacation to the Grand Canyon? No thanks. Everyone knows what your average vacation entails. That’s why people can’t wait to ask, “How was Vegas?” There is nothing average about Sin City. No other place on earth has the potential that Las Vegas has. You could win enough money at the tables to quit your job. You could also lose your house. You could meet the woman of your dreams. She could give you crabs. Any trip to The Strip is filled with endless possibility and that’s why everyone wants to know what happened. Your friends, family and co-workers will never accept that “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” They want to know and you’ve got to tell them something.

When it comes to Vegas I give very detailed descriptions of two things: food and what I did while the sun was up. I’ve never had a reason to lie. This past weekend I had the worst meal I’ve ever had in the state of Nevada. The Veracruz Seafood Hot Pot was $60 worth of Cambell’s tomato soup with a rubbery lobster tail floating in it. However, the Brazilian Steakhouse from Saturday night more than made up for it. I conservatively ate 2 pounds of various grilled meats. It was quite the display. As for my daytime activities, I watched some March Madness, enjoyed the pool and did a little gambling.

Some Vegas lies are easy to see through. “I lost a little at the tables.” No, you lost about a grand. A quick check of your cell phone will easily reveal the 3am call to Bank of America asking them to let you take more money out than the $300 daily limit. They don’t build casinos with giant gold lions out front from people winning their money back. Still, you recount one good winning hand at the black jack table; splitting nines against a six, getting two twos and doubling down on both. Then you hit a “bad run” but didn’t lose “too much.” Right. Personally, I lost about $20, which is a huge win for me. Usually, I lose $100 in about 7 minutes and have to hover next to the table until my “free” drink comes.

The trickiest part of any Vegas trip is talking about the nightlife. I think we all know about the sheer volume of excess available. It’s not called Sin City for nothing. If you want to do it, you probably can. This part of Vegas stays in Vegas. I’m not saying everyone who goes there does an 8-ball off a stripper while two hookers do things you can’t mention in The Aristocrats’ joke. I’m just saying it’s possible. It’s also possible for someone to stay in their hotel room and watch the Discovery channel.

There’s plenty that goes on under the bright lights that you can tell your family. (Speaking of families, don’t bring your baby to Vegas unless you’re planning on selling it. It’s no place for kids. There’s nothing for them to do. There’s a reason I don’t drink at Chuck E. Cheese. I don’t want to be drunk around children. Leave them at home.) From bachelor parties to fashion conventions to shotgun weddings, people want to know about the trip. The bottom line is this: ask the question, but be satisfied with whatever answer you get.

Dear Mr. Fantasty

I have to apologize for not posting yesterday. I know that I normally update the site with a new nugget of wisdom or funny anecdote every Wednesday, but I wasn’t able to. My dream didn’t come true yesterday. I didn’t win the lottery. I was crushed. I had spent the previous two days figuring out how I would spend $370 million and it was hard coming to grips with the fact that I had to go back to work. Not winning the lottery was like losing that jackpot, not just the dollar I used to buy the ticket. What is it about the lottery that makes everyone believe they can win?

The odds of winning the Mega-Millions drawing are roughly 1 in 175 million. If everyone in the entire United States bought a ticket, less than 2 people would win. Those aren’t just bad odds, they’re terrible. Yet, we keep playing. We gladly hand over the cost of a fast-food burger for the opportunity to own Belize. It’s $1 for an unfathomable amount. Who wouldn’t take that deal? And that’s why the lottery is so attractive, addictive and heart breaking.

From the time you buy your ticket to the time of the drawing you become more and more convinced that you’ll win. I buy quick picks and never even look at the numbers, yet I’m sure they’re winners. I can’t believe how awesome it’s going to be to turn four quarters into hundreds of millions of dollars. I work myself up into such a frenzy when I play the lottery that I can’t even imagine not winning because I just know it’s my time. That’s why I couldn’t write yesterday, because my fantasy didn’t come true. All the plans I had for my new found wealth were shattered. But since I’ll never be able to play them out in person, I’ll share them with you.

I’ll only briefly mention the standard moves like buying your loved ones houses and cars and making sure they are taken care of. I’d like to do it in a fun way, surprising everyone and throwing keys at my parents and brothers like Oprah does. Sure, I’d give back to my Alma Mater and various charities too. I wouldn’t be one of those jerks who say they won’t quit their job just because they won the lottery. I’d take a dump on the rug, shout “that’s real ultimate power” and speed away in my new Jaguar. I’d spend the money in small amounts doing crazy little things. I’ve always wanted a room filled with plastic balls like at Chucky Cheese. I’d have an entire refrigerator filled with proscuitto. I’d have a KFC/Taco Bell/Pizza Hut in my living room. And I’d have a penguin.

Sure, those things don’t take millions of dollars to have, but I think that’s the underlying lesson that comes with playing the lottery. We let our thoughts run wild about what we’d do and spend, but most of the things we come up with are within our grasp. Maybe you can’t buy your relatives a house, but you can do other things that send the same message that you care. You may never own a Chucky Cheese, but you can buy a kiddie pool and a few thousand plastic balls for a couple hundred bucks. You can fill a mini-fridge with cured ham for half that. As for my penguin, it turns out they’re protected and it’s illegal to sell or purchase them. So, I’m just going to have to steal one. And my penguin and I will keep playing the lottery. After all, it’s only a dollar.

Gym Crow Laws

If you've ever been to a gym, then you've probably ranted about a gym. Sure they're a great place to get exercise when you want to be indoors and surrounded by strangers, but there are some drawbacks. Who hasn't dealt with the 5 o'clock cardio rush only to find every treadmill filled by people completely ignoring the 20 minutes when busy rule? And how many times have you stalked your way to an empty machine, sizing up other potential users and cutting them off through the free weights, only to find the bench covered in sweat? As for unnecessary nudity in the locker room, what can I say that hasn't already been said? Grab a towel. Don't stretch without pants on. Have some shame.

No, I have a totally different set of issues I'd like to raise with the gym-going population. I'd like to first address the gym rats and I'm talking guys here. You know, career exercisers who happen to be at the gym no matter what time you go. If you're there on Wednesday morning, they're there. Ditto if you show up Thursday at midnight. Now, I have no problem with these macho-types working out a lot. More power to them. I simply have a problem with their attire. If I can see your nipples head on, what you're wearing doesn't constitute a shirt. I understand you want to show off your pecs, but do it at appropriate places like the beach or the prison yard.

My criticism of attire isn't limited to the fellas. There is a very large subsection of the female gym crowd that never seems to break a sweat. Their workout clothes are designer and hug every curve of their already toned bodies. They walk on the treadmill at the same pace as a DMV line while talking on their cell phones not burning the number of calories they ingest from a Mentos. Again, if that's your regimen and it works, great, just don't get mad at me for staring. I'm looking for two reasons. One: I think you're an idiot for coming to a gym and essentially doing nothing. Two: You're hot. When I'm done working out I'm closer to discovering fire and dragging a woman back to my cave than walking out of the pages of GQ and offering to buy you a drink. I'm going to look. Stop getting mad at me.

This next PSA is for those who frequent the community hot tub. Let's just get out of the way the fact that it's gross. Hair. Skin. Old people. Band-aids. The stuff that floats around the whirl pool is disgusting. And yet I still use it. Why? Because I've weighed the pros and cons and decided that having a nice soak after my workout is well worth having to scrub off the first few layers of my skin afterwards. What I don't need is anyone to make the experience any grosser or more uncomfortable than it is. I'm talking to you, old guy who pretends to be stretching but is actually just positioning his balls next to one of the jets. I know what you're doing. You're not fooling anybody. I understand that by the nature of the swirling water, most of it is going to contact the area around your speedo that houses your nugget pouch, but for God sake's don't make all the water rush past it on the way to me!

Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention at least one problem in the locker room. I'm usually breathing kind of heavy when I'm done. It's the sign of a good workout. My lungs need oxygen and that requires deep breaths. What my lungs don't need is your spray deodorant. It seems like every time I walk in the locker room it's fogged in like the Golden Gate Bridge in June. Let off the nozzle! Those cans aren't single use. Mix in a stick of Degree and save the planet. That goes for you cologne addicts too. It's concentrated shit, just use a drop. You know why I don't wear Tag Body Spray? Because I hate it. Consider yourselves warned. I'm going to get one of those bird flu masks and start carrying cans of Raid and hold the nozzle down as long as you do. Now if everyone would just take these points into consideration our collective gym experience would be a whole lot better.