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 25, 2011
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Meaning of Life...Kind of
People like to say, "I wish I knew then what I know now." I'm calling bullshit on that one. If I knew "then" what I know now, I would have been a miserable prick for my entire life, (instead of just a miserable prick now.) I remember back in grade school and middle school when there was no pressure to make money, put food on the table, keep a roof over my head, stress about work, stress about family, stress about anything. The only thing I had to worry about was what kind of fun me and the neighborhood kids were going to have after school and in the summers, keeping the tires on my bike from going flat, doing well in baseball, football and occasionally school, and trying not to beat the shit out of my little brother.
High school comes along, and a little stress gets added, but also a whole new bag of fun, (I'm looking in your direction drugs and alcohol.) Making life-long friends, chasing girls, learning to drive, skipping school, and STILL having tons of time to hang out with your buddies. You might get a job and worry a little bit about what college you might want to attend or what you want to do after high school, but you still don't have to pay rent. Your parents might teach you some responsibility about money, but for the most part, you're happy if you have $60 bucks in your pocket to put some gas in your car and cause trouble or go to Burger King. You bitch about having to go to school for 6 hours a day and when you're a senior you can't wait for high school to be over.
During your college years, there is much added pressure, but let's face it, your late teens and early 20's were pretty fucking fun, no? College parties, trips to Cancun, hanging out with your friends...still. Maybe you have a serious relationship with a girl who doesn't cheat on you and isn't a completely crazy bitch. ( I know this is a far-fetched scenario since 99% of the 3.5 billion women on Earth are completely psychotic, but that's an entry for a different day.) Maybe you have a boyfriend who doesn't cheat on you and gives a shit about your "feelings." (Again, not likely.) The point is, chances are you're having a relatively decent time and your parents, if you're lucky, are helping you out with money and decision making and so forth.
If you're REALLY lucky, by the time you're done with college, or even if didn't go and you get around to your mid-twenties, you have some semblance of a good job, or a good, realistic plan for your future. You move into an apartment or buy a condo, and the stress starts piling on. You have a little less time for your friends, you have bills to pay, you have loans to pay off, you have to start getting up early. For most people, these are all manageable and there's still time for fun. Maybe you take up golf or fishing or snowboarding. Perhaps you go on some cool vacations and are able to leave your worries behind.
Eventually, you find yourself in a serious relationship. Some people get married. Some are lucky enough to get a good deal on a new house. Hopefully you have a good job or a budding career. More stress, more bills, even less time with your friends.
Some people fall on hard times. They lose their job or their significant other. Grandparents start to pass away. Some friends might get married or move to another part of the country. Things really start to change, sometimes not for the better.
I can't speak to anything much further than the above paragraphs. Hopefully I'll be able to check back in another 30 years with some additional insight. I know today that I wouldn't have had any fun growing up as a kid and living it up in my 20's if I knew "then" the things I know now...so I guess that makes me one of the few who is glad that I didn't know. It's fun looking back to those times when there was no pressure, and every single day of my life made me who I am today, and I'm obviously awesome.
No matter what course you travel in life, and how things turn out for you, good or bad, there's one thing that I know without question, 100%, no doubt about it. If you are lucky enough to have a kid, you get to live those years all over again. Not literally, of course, but you get the privilege of watching them grow up and the joy of shaping their lives and giving advice and seeing the innocent, pressure free existence in them that you wish you could grab onto just one more time, maybe for one more day.
Vinny Jr. turned two years old today. People warn you about how time goes by so fast that you have to really enjoy each day with your kids and sit back and take it all in. I can tell you that truer words have never been spoken and I've never been given better advice.
ALL THE BULLSHIT in life, all the hard times, all the money problems, death, divorce, work. Nothing else in life matters. Only your child. Everything that is done in my life, is now done for my son. NOTHING ELSE IN LIFE MATTERS. Once I saw my son pop out of his mother, (really fucked up and amazing by the way, I suggest you check it out if you get the chance), heard him cry, held his hand, looked into his eyes. Everything went away....and it was only him. Happy 2nd birthday to my world, my reason for living, my son. The best part of me....is you.
High school comes along, and a little stress gets added, but also a whole new bag of fun, (I'm looking in your direction drugs and alcohol.) Making life-long friends, chasing girls, learning to drive, skipping school, and STILL having tons of time to hang out with your buddies. You might get a job and worry a little bit about what college you might want to attend or what you want to do after high school, but you still don't have to pay rent. Your parents might teach you some responsibility about money, but for the most part, you're happy if you have $60 bucks in your pocket to put some gas in your car and cause trouble or go to Burger King. You bitch about having to go to school for 6 hours a day and when you're a senior you can't wait for high school to be over.
During your college years, there is much added pressure, but let's face it, your late teens and early 20's were pretty fucking fun, no? College parties, trips to Cancun, hanging out with your friends...still. Maybe you have a serious relationship with a girl who doesn't cheat on you and isn't a completely crazy bitch. ( I know this is a far-fetched scenario since 99% of the 3.5 billion women on Earth are completely psychotic, but that's an entry for a different day.) Maybe you have a boyfriend who doesn't cheat on you and gives a shit about your "feelings." (Again, not likely.) The point is, chances are you're having a relatively decent time and your parents, if you're lucky, are helping you out with money and decision making and so forth.
If you're REALLY lucky, by the time you're done with college, or even if didn't go and you get around to your mid-twenties, you have some semblance of a good job, or a good, realistic plan for your future. You move into an apartment or buy a condo, and the stress starts piling on. You have a little less time for your friends, you have bills to pay, you have loans to pay off, you have to start getting up early. For most people, these are all manageable and there's still time for fun. Maybe you take up golf or fishing or snowboarding. Perhaps you go on some cool vacations and are able to leave your worries behind.
Eventually, you find yourself in a serious relationship. Some people get married. Some are lucky enough to get a good deal on a new house. Hopefully you have a good job or a budding career. More stress, more bills, even less time with your friends.
Some people fall on hard times. They lose their job or their significant other. Grandparents start to pass away. Some friends might get married or move to another part of the country. Things really start to change, sometimes not for the better.
I can't speak to anything much further than the above paragraphs. Hopefully I'll be able to check back in another 30 years with some additional insight. I know today that I wouldn't have had any fun growing up as a kid and living it up in my 20's if I knew "then" the things I know now...so I guess that makes me one of the few who is glad that I didn't know. It's fun looking back to those times when there was no pressure, and every single day of my life made me who I am today, and I'm obviously awesome.
No matter what course you travel in life, and how things turn out for you, good or bad, there's one thing that I know without question, 100%, no doubt about it. If you are lucky enough to have a kid, you get to live those years all over again. Not literally, of course, but you get the privilege of watching them grow up and the joy of shaping their lives and giving advice and seeing the innocent, pressure free existence in them that you wish you could grab onto just one more time, maybe for one more day.
Vinny Jr. turned two years old today. People warn you about how time goes by so fast that you have to really enjoy each day with your kids and sit back and take it all in. I can tell you that truer words have never been spoken and I've never been given better advice.
ALL THE BULLSHIT in life, all the hard times, all the money problems, death, divorce, work. Nothing else in life matters. Only your child. Everything that is done in my life, is now done for my son. NOTHING ELSE IN LIFE MATTERS. Once I saw my son pop out of his mother, (really fucked up and amazing by the way, I suggest you check it out if you get the chance), heard him cry, held his hand, looked into his eyes. Everything went away....and it was only him. Happy 2nd birthday to my world, my reason for living, my son. The best part of me....is you.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Crackhead vs. Hot chick
So I'm out with this girl who I have no business being out with. I'm running my game like only Vinny Mic can-which is to say I'm drinking shots and feeding as much alcohol to my date as possible. We start off with a fancy dinner at Applebees. The conversation is flowing, the date is going great, and we're getting along nicely. After dinner, we hit this bar where a terrific band is playing, we continue to have some laughs and do some shots and there's no doubt in my mind that I'm getting laid that night. No doubt.
As the night progressed, and I became more inebriated, I realized...."Oh shit, I'm about to say or do something completely retarded", (it's ok, I have a retarded brother), so I start to panic. Believe me, I've ruined many a chance with women in the past mirroring this exact scenario.
In my tequila soaked brain, I made the only decision that would save the night, or so I thought. Hot chick, who was now becoming increasingly flirtatious, excused herself and went to the restroom at this very busy bar. I executed the only game plan that I thought would salvage my chances at a later date. I left. No goodbye, no nothing. I just snuck out and left her there. (Don't worry, she drove herself, so she wasn't completely abandoned.)
As I exited, I ran into a young black chap in the parking lot who was completely freaking out. (I'm not racist, mostly, but the fact that the kid was black is an integral part of the story...bare with me, ok?) Anyways, the dude is yelling and screaming something about a ride or being abandoned because his friends took off without him or some such shit. I was blasted so I forget exactly what the hell he was screaming about. First of all, I kind of laughed a bit at the irony that I, myself, just ditched MY hot lady friend no more than 30 seconds ago.
Normally, I would not have given a shit about this poor soul. I would have entered my Audi A8, (pause for laughter), driven off, and honestly not cared about whether or not this crackhead made it home or not. Shit, to be honest, I would not have really cared if the dude lived or died. In my drunken state, I elected to not ignore the situation, but to engage the situation dead on.
I walked up to my soon-to-be new friend and attempted to diffuse the situation. "Whoa, whoa! What seems to be the problem, citizen?" Crackhead looked at me, his pupils the size of half dollars, with a sense of disbelief that my white ass even approached him in the first place. "Man, my friends left without me...I gotta get home and I'm stuck here!" My first thoughts-taxi cab? cell phone? fucking jog? He obviously had crack super powers and the energy to get home by foot.
"You're in luck my friend, I happen to be heading in the same direction...hop in bud!"
After offering to suck my dick, (not true) Crackhead called across the parking lot to his 300 pound, white-trash girlfriend. "Yo boo, we got a ride!!" His excitement was palpable. Though I felt at the time happy to help my fellow man in need, a sharp panic crept into my soul when I saw this tank begin to walk towards my car. Crackhead hopped in the front seat and his girlfriend opened the rear passenger door. She placed a large piece of plastic on the back seat, and settled in for what was sure to be the most interesting ride home in history. I still don't know what the plastic was for. Did she shit her pants? Fall in mud? It's a mystery to this day.
As soon as I fired up the Audi, Creedance Clearwater Rivival began blaring from my c.d. player. Yes, I still listen to c.d.'s. I quickly reached for the stereo, embarrassed by my whiteness, and turned it to a rap channel, not wanting to freak out Crackhead any further. We began our journey to our destination, making small talk as we departed the parking lot.
Now the only way I knew to get to Crackhead's house, was through a rural, wooded area. Out of nowhere, over the snoring of the Tank in the backseat, who was now passed out, Crackhead turned to me, terror in his silver dollar eyes, and asked, dead serious...."Hey man, this is some backwoods shit, you gonna jack us?"
After processing this ridiculous question, I retorted, "Nah dude, are you gonna jack me?"
"Why, cause I'm black?"
"NO! You just seem like the kinda dude that might be carrying a weapon of some kind."
Crackhead paused for a minute, stared at me, and proclaimed, "Man...you're a fucking racist." I couldn't help but laugh and told him. "Buddy, if I was racist, you sure as shit would not be in my car right now and you'd still be bugging out in the bar parking lot." Understanding that my logic held up, Crackhead nodded and said, "Ya know what....I'm just kidding you cracker motherfucker, hahahahaha!"
This is the point where I started to realize that I just left an incredibly attractive girl at a bar, without saying anything, in order to go completely out of my way to drive this maniac home. The good news, I made it alive and without getting shanked, there was no shit stain on my back seat, and I even made $4 that backseat Tank crumpled up and threw into the front seat before they both exited at Crackhead's shack, never to be heard from again.
After gathering my composure, I checked my phone and realized I had three angry texts. "Where the fuck did u go?" "Did u get sick?" "Call me 2morrow and let me know you made it home, k?...I can't believe you took off w/o saying anything!!"
What I took from the texts? "Nice! She wants me to call her tomorrow!"
As it turns out, it didn't work out between us.
As the night progressed, and I became more inebriated, I realized...."Oh shit, I'm about to say or do something completely retarded", (it's ok, I have a retarded brother), so I start to panic. Believe me, I've ruined many a chance with women in the past mirroring this exact scenario.
In my tequila soaked brain, I made the only decision that would save the night, or so I thought. Hot chick, who was now becoming increasingly flirtatious, excused herself and went to the restroom at this very busy bar. I executed the only game plan that I thought would salvage my chances at a later date. I left. No goodbye, no nothing. I just snuck out and left her there. (Don't worry, she drove herself, so she wasn't completely abandoned.)
As I exited, I ran into a young black chap in the parking lot who was completely freaking out. (I'm not racist, mostly, but the fact that the kid was black is an integral part of the story...bare with me, ok?) Anyways, the dude is yelling and screaming something about a ride or being abandoned because his friends took off without him or some such shit. I was blasted so I forget exactly what the hell he was screaming about. First of all, I kind of laughed a bit at the irony that I, myself, just ditched MY hot lady friend no more than 30 seconds ago.
Normally, I would not have given a shit about this poor soul. I would have entered my Audi A8, (pause for laughter), driven off, and honestly not cared about whether or not this crackhead made it home or not. Shit, to be honest, I would not have really cared if the dude lived or died. In my drunken state, I elected to not ignore the situation, but to engage the situation dead on.
I walked up to my soon-to-be new friend and attempted to diffuse the situation. "Whoa, whoa! What seems to be the problem, citizen?" Crackhead looked at me, his pupils the size of half dollars, with a sense of disbelief that my white ass even approached him in the first place. "Man, my friends left without me...I gotta get home and I'm stuck here!" My first thoughts-taxi cab? cell phone? fucking jog? He obviously had crack super powers and the energy to get home by foot.
"You're in luck my friend, I happen to be heading in the same direction...hop in bud!"
After offering to suck my dick, (not true) Crackhead called across the parking lot to his 300 pound, white-trash girlfriend. "Yo boo, we got a ride!!" His excitement was palpable. Though I felt at the time happy to help my fellow man in need, a sharp panic crept into my soul when I saw this tank begin to walk towards my car. Crackhead hopped in the front seat and his girlfriend opened the rear passenger door. She placed a large piece of plastic on the back seat, and settled in for what was sure to be the most interesting ride home in history. I still don't know what the plastic was for. Did she shit her pants? Fall in mud? It's a mystery to this day.
As soon as I fired up the Audi, Creedance Clearwater Rivival began blaring from my c.d. player. Yes, I still listen to c.d.'s. I quickly reached for the stereo, embarrassed by my whiteness, and turned it to a rap channel, not wanting to freak out Crackhead any further. We began our journey to our destination, making small talk as we departed the parking lot.
Now the only way I knew to get to Crackhead's house, was through a rural, wooded area. Out of nowhere, over the snoring of the Tank in the backseat, who was now passed out, Crackhead turned to me, terror in his silver dollar eyes, and asked, dead serious...."Hey man, this is some backwoods shit, you gonna jack us?"
After processing this ridiculous question, I retorted, "Nah dude, are you gonna jack me?"
"Why, cause I'm black?"
"NO! You just seem like the kinda dude that might be carrying a weapon of some kind."
Crackhead paused for a minute, stared at me, and proclaimed, "Man...you're a fucking racist." I couldn't help but laugh and told him. "Buddy, if I was racist, you sure as shit would not be in my car right now and you'd still be bugging out in the bar parking lot." Understanding that my logic held up, Crackhead nodded and said, "Ya know what....I'm just kidding you cracker motherfucker, hahahahaha!"
This is the point where I started to realize that I just left an incredibly attractive girl at a bar, without saying anything, in order to go completely out of my way to drive this maniac home. The good news, I made it alive and without getting shanked, there was no shit stain on my back seat, and I even made $4 that backseat Tank crumpled up and threw into the front seat before they both exited at Crackhead's shack, never to be heard from again.
After gathering my composure, I checked my phone and realized I had three angry texts. "Where the fuck did u go?" "Did u get sick?" "Call me 2morrow and let me know you made it home, k?...I can't believe you took off w/o saying anything!!"
What I took from the texts? "Nice! She wants me to call her tomorrow!"
As it turns out, it didn't work out between us.
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