Thursday, August 25, 2011

A Magic Mushroom Ride

I don't generally condone the use of psychedelic drugs, so let me start by letting you know that everyone involved in this story wound up OK...at least those that I know of.  In fact, just to make the story more "trippy" I'll try telling it in reverse, Momento style.

I woke up in my own bed, in my own house, with no random stranger, and no hangover.  My face hurt a bit, but that was it.  Right away I knew that either I won the night, or something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.  I sat for a minute at the edge of my bed, attempting to piece the previous night together.  I knew that I had caused some kind of trouble; but what?  I first checked my pockets and wallet to see what kind of financial damage I did.  I didn't appear to have put a big dent into my cash and my keys were in my pocket.  WINNING!!  This night was clearly unlike most others that I couldn't remember, which generally involves me penniless and missing multiple personal belongings.  I looked out my bedroom window to see what condition/parking position my vehicle was parked in.  Uh-oh...first sign of trouble.  My vehicle was unaccounted for.  In it's stead was my buddy J's car, parked askew in my driveway.

It was freezing out so I bundled up and went out to inspect the car.  It was unlocked and my buddy J was shaking and curled up in the fetal position in the back seat, near frozen vomit on the floor of the car behind the passenger's seat.  "Oh shit."

6 hours earlier:

I checked my face in the mirror of a dirty bathroom in one of the shadiest bars I had ever been in.  My lip was bloody and one of my front teeth was chipped.  I inspected my face more closely and realized that my pupils had engulfed my iris' completely and my cheeks were melting into my shoulders.  I let out a single "ha."

I walked out of the bathroom and even though I'm sure I opened the door with my hands, it felt like I swam through it.  It felt as though the eyes of every douche bag and ugly girl in this college dive were fixed directly on me.  I made my way towards the door where my buddies J and B were waiting to leave.  B had a black eye and a bloody lip.  J was a standing 8-count.  Passed out on his feet.  Within minutes of puking and basically being held up by B, (who's eyes were also saucers.)  B grinned like the Cheshire cat and proclaimed, "Time to go dude."  This was followed by a laugh that far exceeded the situation that it called for.

Off we went, out of the craphole and into the unknown hell which was downtown Providence, dragging J behind us.  The sky was purple and red and our steps were unsteady.  Everything was hilarious.  Being that this lame city closes just about everything by 2 a.m., we needed to find some food. Fast.  We found a crappy little pizza place that was crowded with the drunks that had spilled out of the nearby bars and clubs.  We got J to a booth where he slumped into a booth and slept as if he was in the comfort of his own bed.  Before B and I could get our food, J had managed to destroy the booth and the floor with some of the most vile vomit you'd ever have the displeasure of being around.

With everyone in the place, including the Mexican dishwasher, up in arms and about to give us a gang beating, we hauled ass out of there, dragging our passed out, puke-covered friend.  We hopped into a cab after the cabby asked if we were "Doug." 

"Yup, that's us, take us to our vehicle, kind cabby!"

We arrived at J's car and made the trek up I-95, feeling as though we were riding in a hovercraft.  J continued puking all over the backseat.  Somehow I managed to get B home and then myself back home.  I couldn't bring J to his house in his current state, so he came with me.  I was sufficiently convinced that he had puked up everything in his system, so I would let him sleep it off on my couch.  The problem was, he wouldn't get out of the car when we got home.  "Dude, you're gonna freeze to death if you don't come inside."  He was undeterred, and refused to budge from his spot in the backseat.  "Fine asshole, freeze. I'll be in my nice warm house."  I went inside, tucked myself in, and fell asleep.  I don't remember what I dreamt about, but they were colorful dreams.

3 hours earlier than before:

J, B, and I entered the shady bar in Providence and B immediately bumped into a small table that was loaded with empty and sandbagged beer bottles.  Every one of them crashed to the ground, most of them breaking.  The entire bar stopped what they were doing and looked at B, who is built like a brick shithouse.  He grinned and held his arms out.  "WHAT!!"  He laughed hysterically and nobody did a thing.  He wasn't even trying to act tough, he just recognized the hilarity of the situation.  It was then that we realized we owned this place and could do anything we wanted.  Not even the bouncers were going to mess with us.  It may have had something to do with the crazy look we had on our faces.  Maybe people DID care what we were doing, but we couldn't tell, because to me and B, everyone blended together into a colorful, moving blob, indecipherable from a 2 year old's finger painting.

J, the responsible one of our little group up to this point, began rifling down shots of Jack.  B and I ordered beers, but they were mainly just for show.  We were all set.  "Dude, punch me in the face!"  B implored me to do this.  Some college guys and girls standing nearby heard him boisterously make this odd request.  He is twice my size, but in my current state, he didn't have to ask twice.  I reached back and gave him what probably amounted to a 3/4 strength right hook to his cheek.  This instantly horrified everyone who could see us.  "OK dude, give me one back."  I braced for impact and felt his fist make impact with my mouth. Although it caused some damage, it didn't hurt, and my face seemed to sink into itself.  We bled and laughed like hyenas.  The bouncers, thinking a fight was going on, approached us to break it up.  "Nah dude, it's cool...check this out."  I punched B back, a little harder, splitting his lip open.  More laughter.  B jabbed me in the face and took a chunk out of my front tooth.  The bouncer, not knowing what to do, asked us to leave.  Apparently my face was bleeding pretty good, so the bouncer made me go to the bathroom and clean myself up.

4 hours before before:

Me, J, and B were sitting in my basement, trying to decide what to do with our night.

Me: "We could go to Providence."

J: "That's lame."

B: "I don't feel like driving down there."

Long pause.

Me:  "I got these shrooms...."

J:  "I'm not eating those, but I'll drive and just drink a bit. I got shit to do tomorrow so I can't get too messed up.  Then you two clowns won't have to worry about driving home feeling like you're piloting the space shuttle."

I already knew that B would travel down this dark, dangerous road with me by the look on his face.  "You sure J?  You'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Nah, you guys go ahead."

As you already know, J was the one who got the most fucked up, couldn't drive us home, and wound up having to blow off his obligations due to the ridiculous hangover he had.  I wound up driving the hovercraft 20 miles home.  B and I somehow managed to destroy a dozen beer bottles and beat the shit out of each other in the middle of a crowded bar with zero consequences, and neither one of us were hungover the next day.

The moral of the story? Sometimes you're just better off tripping on mushrooms.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Did You Just Hit A Bird?

Within my group of friends, there was one in particular who just couldn't seem to drink as many beers as the rest of us.  Naturally, after he threw up all the time after 2 or 3, we just called him a pussy and busted his balls for about 4 strait years.  It was automatic.  The rest of us could really put them down, and here was Beansy, perpetually in the bathroom puking after just a couple.  It just became commonplace to the point where it didn't even bother anybody anymore.  We had taken his dignity and sent it back to his family.  It was just accepted.

That's not to say he didn't correct the problem or he couldn't drink.  He made the switch to vodka and was fine.  Nobody could understand this dynamic until years later when he was diagnosed with Celiac Disease.  Celiac Disease, for those who don't know, is a genetic, gastrointestinal disorder that affects the intestines.  It's an intolerance to gluten, which is found in wheat, grain, and barley.  You know what beer is brewed from, so there ya go.  Beansy has an excuse for all those years of being a bitch and puking all the time. 

I'm of the opinion that he should have just kept drinking beer and eating gluten so he was still skinny and didn't look like a pregnant guy, but what are you gonna do?

There WAS one such occasion where no amount of Celiac Disease could be used as an excuse.  Beansy and I had gone out to a nice Irish pub with another buddy and a couple of girls that we went to high school with and had known for a long time.  We hung out, had a good time, watched a Red Sox game, listened to a band, caught up.  It was a fun night.  We drank beer.  Beansy drank beer.  Beansy happened to be the designated drunk driver that night, so after the drinks were paid for, we staggered out of the bar and made our way to the small black sedan that he owned at the time.

Aside from Beansy, there were two guys and two girls, including myself.  His car didn't have the ideal interior space for 5 people, but we made it work.  To this day, I'll argue that I called shotgun first, but somehow one of the two small girls wound up in the front passenger seat while us two guys and the remaining girl squeezed into the back of this shitbox.  We began swerving home and we distracted each other with drunken conversations when an explosion of what appeared to be blood, guts and brain matter plastered the entire windshield.  The conversation quickly stopped as Beansy pulled to the side of the road, unable to see out the windshield, without missing a beat.

"Did you just hit a bird kid? What the fuck happened?"  Beansy, appearing unfazed by the "exploding bird" was remarkably calm as the car came to a stop.  The three of us in the back seat were perplexed by what could have caused such a mess.  What the hell did he hit, a fucking bald eagle?  Was it a person? Did we just become accessories to vehicular homicide?

"Turn your wipers on asshole."  My fellow backseater suggested.  Seemed logical to me.  It was a big mess, but at least blast some washer fluid on it and get to a gas station so we could clean the carcass from the windshield completely.  Still speechless, Beansy calmly opened his door and puked out onto the street.  Not unusual considering his history.  I mean the kid WAS drinking beer all night and there WAS a disgusting mess all over the windshield. 

The three of us in the back seat were still a bit confused by what was going on, as it happened fast and our brains were moving slow.  The smart-ass girl who stole the front seat from me; however, knew exactly what happened, because it happened all over her legs.  And by "it", of course, I meant the projectile vomit that Beansy had splattered all over the INSIDE of the windshield with such force that I literally was convinced we would be scraping a body of some kind off the front of the car.  It had finally dawned on us in the back what had happened.  "How's the front seat working out for ya now, hahahahahaha!!" 

I forget exactly how the substantial mess was cleaned up, but I know three things:  I didn't help clean it, we didn't go to a gas station, and there were no windshield wipers involved.  Most disgusting thing I've ever seen, and I've seen some nasty shit.  If you've read my post titled "My Friend's Brush With Death,"  Beansy also happens to be the friend that almost wound up splattered all over a windshield, which makes me laugh for some twisted reason.  Sweet irony.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived

If you know anything about the history of the American past-time, this won't even be an argument in your mind.  Hitting a round ball travelling at either 90+ miles per hour, curving, sliding, sinking, or cutting as it comes towards you, with a cylindrical stick, is far and away the most difficult thing to do in all of sports.  The man who did this the best in the history of the game of baseball was Ted Williams.

"Teddy Ballgame", "The Kid", "The Splendid Splinter", "Mr. Red Sox," "The Thumper," "The Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived."  The last man to hit over .400 in a season, 521 career home runs, 2,654 hits, and 1,839 RBI.  He was selected to 19 All Star games.  He won the American League MVP twice. His #9 will never be worn by any Red Sox player again, and he was elected to the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame in 1966, during his first year of eligibility.  Not to mention he was one of the baddest sumbitches you'd ever hope to meet.  John Wayne based many of his movie roles after the persona of Williams.

By the way, he put up these numbers while committing nearly FIVE YEARS of his PRIME BASEBALL YEARS to the U.S. armed forces during World War II and the Korean Conflict.  During the Korean Conflict, he crash landed his jet on it's belly, without landing gear, and just hopped out of the cockpit like nothing happened, minutes before the jet burst into flames.

In 1941, in Ted's 3rd Major League Season, he was hitting an unspeakable .413 in Mid-September.  By the last day of the season, his average had dropped to .39955.  The Red Sox had a double-header scheduled for that day.  Had Ted Williams elected to sit out the final two games, his average would have been rounded up to .400.  Williams explained to his manager, Joe Cronin, that if he sat for the final two games, he felt that he wouldn't deserve to hit .400.  He went 6 for 8 in the last two games, raising his average to .406 to end the season.  Nobody has hit over .400 since, and it's possible nobody ever will.  That same year, Joe DiMagio had a 56 game hitting streak, and won the American League MVP, with Williams finishing 2nd.  (The media, who happened to vote for this award, disliked Ted for the most part, and is most likely the reason he finished second by a vote of 291 to 254.)

His numbers would have been absolutely staggering if he didn't spend these years at military bases and overseas as a Marine pilot.  He spent the '42, '43, '44 and most of '45 seasons in the military.  And what did he do the very next year after coming back from WWII in 1946?  He hit .342 with 38 home runs and 123 RBI, AFTER 3 and a half years completely away from baseball!  Are you kidding me?  He won the American League MVP by a landslide. 

Ted didn't care about the media, in fact he hated most media members around town, he had a love-hate relationship for most of his career with the fans, and he didn't play defense very well.  He hit the baseball. That's all he cared about.  He made it a science.  He made it an art form, and he was a master craftsman at his art.  He was tall in stature, but I promise you this, he didn't have the physical prowess that today's sluggers have, and he sure as shit didn't use any steroids.  There was no off season training programs like they have today.

He hit so well because he perfected one of the most beautiful swings you could ever see and had a perfect eye for strikes.  He very rarely swung at pitches outside the strike zone, (kind of like J.D. Drew except not a talentless pussy.)   These skills, as well as his knowledge of the physics of pitches being thrown his way allowed him to hit a baseball with more precision than any other human in the history of mankind.  Ted would often bring his bats to the post office so he could precisely weigh them to his preference.

Hitting baseballs was Ted Williams' life.  During his playing days, it's all he cared about.  He was surly, he swore all the time, he spoke with a booming voice that everyone in a room could hear, he wasn't a particularly good family man.  He hit baseballs, and he did it better than anyone. 

Imagine this for a minute...being conservative, using the math from his average season, if Ted Williams hadn't missed 4 full seasons of baseball, his lifetime numbers would have been as follows:  3,213 hits; 631 home runs; and 1936 RBI.  These are conservative numbers, remember, but go ahead and compare those numbers with any other player.  No steroids.

Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Ted Williams, 1999 All Star game."  If you don't get chills, you probably don't have a pulse.

Ted Williams stated, when asked what his career goal was, "I want people to point at me as I walk by and say 'There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived."  Mission accomplished.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Feisty Irish Butterflies

The definition of feisty is as follows:  #1.  Having or showing exuberance and strong determination.  #2. Touchy and aggressive.  The way I look at it, the two definitions are somewhat contradictory.

I think anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm all of the above.  I've lost jobs, girlfriends, wives, and family members due to the above "qualities."  Maybe because I'm a Scorpio? I don't know, I'm not real big into that shit, though that's what people who are tell me.  I'm definitely feisty though, that's certainly not a question.

When I'm at my best, (definition #1), people love to be around me.  I excel in all things.  I climb the corporate ladder like a fucking spider monkey, wherever I am.  I'm the boss.  I'm the commissioner of our fantasy football league.  I'm the organizer of group trips or concert outings.  I take on responsibilities that I have no business taking on, and somehow pull them off.  I'm outgoing. I am a "quotable friend" as someone put it.   I coin phrases that make sense to only a few people.  I strive to be the best at everything that I do, and usually I am.  I'm smart, athletic, confident, witty, charming, charismatic, and family oriented.  I'm a great boyfriend or husband.  I'm the best father I know.  I obviously love myself!

When I'm at my worst, which isn't very often, (definition #2), I alienate my friends.  I get fired from jobs.  I sit in my apartment and delegate tasks to others even though I could clearly take care of them myself.  I get my balls busted for being a "bitch,"  even by those closest to me.  I'm introverted.  I'm anxious.  I say stupid shit.  I do stupid things. I'm lazy, mean, rude and not a very good son or brother.  I break up with girls who mean nothing to me, most of the time for no reason, though sometimes justifiably.  I get divorced, (twice.)  I miss my daughter's softball game.  I can't stand myself.

I'd like to think that as I get older and wiser that I'm much more #1 then #2.  I can still be touchy and aggressive at times, but my life experiences have tamed me exponentially.  Becoming a father to my kids, as I've posted before, is a big reason, but I've gotten into that enough.  Another big reason for becoming more exuberant and determined are those "lightning strike" moments in your life.  These are few and far between, unfortunately, especially for a feisty soul such as myself.  These moments make people incredibly hopeful for the future, as opposed to pessimistic and touchy and aggressive.

When they happen, those things that give you butterflies in your gut, (not the kind from getting punched in the nuts; see previous post).  I'm talking about that huge job offer that you get.  I'm talking about that huge bass that you land.  I'm talking about your kid learning how to talk and learning how to hug you or make his first baseball team or just generally make you proud.  I'm talking about the girl or guy that you meet, after so much bullshit and so many false, faulty relationships.  The person that when you look at your phone and see their name, hear their voice, see their smile...your heart races, those butterflies show up, you smile and you know that you caught something great.  Lightning in a bottle. 

You can't force these things to happen.  Usually they do when least expected.  I sure as shit know that if you're a feisty one like myself, you have a much better chance of catching the lightning when you're acting like a feisty go-getter rather than a feisty asshole.  A little bit of Irish luck doesn't hurt either.

Make it a point to think positively and be opportunistic.  Let the butterflies in when you get that big job, go to your boy's first little league game, see your daughter all dressed up for her prom, meet that person that makes and keeps you happy. 

Leave your bottle closed, be a "bitch," feel sorry for yourself, and you'll never be happy.  Keep your bottle open, and you'll catch that lightning.  It's the best feeling in the world. If you do the right thing with it, you'll find that lightning to be the best part of your life, whatever it may be.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Ball Taps and Haymakers to the Nuts

My friends and I often backhand each other in the nuts.  Not hard, not to cause too much physical pain, but more so to make each other flinch.  It's actually pretty fun and not gay at all.  Occasionally you get caught right in a bad spot and you double over for a minute with that shooting pain up your gut, but it doesn't last long.  Inevitably, once you ball tap your buddy, you are on your guard for the rest of the day due to the impending retaliation. 

We've perfected the ball tap to allow ourselves to conduct this childish game in nearly every setting, public and private.   My buddy was attempting to bang some chick that he picked up at a club in some weird motel room nearby.  My other friend and I, drunk off our asses and on who knows what else, weren't about to let this go down smoothly.  We concocted a plan.  There was a fire extinguisher nearby, which we were somehow able to get out of the wall.  (Why do they make them so hard to operate?  The fucking place would be ashes if there was an actual fire and our dumb asses were trying to remove the thing from the wall.)

Anyways, we got ahold of it, busted into the hotel room like maniacs, I sprayed the fire extinguisher into the room to the point of terrifying both our horny friend and the unfortunate skank he was with.  My friend put an orange into the microwave and turned it on.  He then ball tapped our friend's bare balls and we ran out of the room.  The poor bastard was just a guy in his early twenties trying to get laid, and he wound up covered in white residue, (not the kind he planned), a mess of an orange all over the place, sore balls and a limp dick.  I'm pretty sure he never wound up talking to the girl again.  No, wait...I'm sure.

We waited in my friend's car, knowing that it wouldn't be long for our sure-to-be enraged "friend" came limping out of the motel room.  He had a smirk on his face, cause let's face it, that shit was kinda funny.  He entered the back seat of the huge white caprice that we were "rollin' in."  He said nothing.  What could he say?  What could WE say? 

About half way home, I asked my friend in the back seat.  "So how'd you make out?"  This immediately sent me and my partner in crime, who was driving, into a frenzy of laughter that we'd been holding in for at least 20 minutes.  Surprisingly, there was no laughter coming from the back seat.  I turned around and looked back at him.  There was still white powder on his face making him look like a damn crackhead.  He looked blankly out the window, clearly not amused.

A decade passed, the occasional ball tap given out to our group of friends, always generating some good natured ribbing and retaliations.  I eventually got engaged and on my wedding night, everyone had a great time and got drunk and did all the wedding shit and took funny pictures and all that.  At the end of the reception and before the after party, I stood outside and helped load gifts into cars and say goodbye to family and friends and thanked them for coming.

The friend who we had been so thoroughly embarrassed some 12 years ago walked out of the reception hall and began walking in the direction of me and my partner in crime, who happened to be my best man and standing right next to me at the time.

He walked right up to the both of us, held his hand out for me to shake it as he smiled and said, "Nice wedding Vin, had a great time!"  Right before our hands met for a shake, he dropped to one knee, pulled his right hand back as far as he could, and delivered a haymaker to my nuts that dropped me like I was just pummelled by Tyson.  His short ass stood over me, my in laws watching in horror, and yelled, "How's that for a ball tap bitch!"  He finally had his revenge, and this time, it was he who got the last laugh.  My best man looked at him as if to say, "What the fuck dude!"  My vengeful friend looked back at him, pointed in his face; an evil smile on his lips and a little bit of crazy in his eyes, and spoke in a voice we had never heard before..."Just wait until you get married, cause you're next."  He then walked away, victorious.  The only thing he DIDN'T do was pump his fist like Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club.

As I remained firmly rooted to the ground, barely able to breathe, I looked up and my best man's face was white with horror.  He tried to help me up, but I was going nowhere.  Sex with my new wife on my wedding night?  Nope.  Blood in my urine for three days. Yup.