Clubs

I'm not really one to go out to clubs. You could say I don't “frequent the club scene.” I don’t “go clubbin’.” Because I really “can’t dance.”

I don't think I'm extroverted enough to go up to a random girl I don't know and ask her to “cut a rug.” Maybe it’s because no one has said that since 1957, or maybe I'm a little weirded out by what that would actually mean.

I’m more of a stand-around-in-a-group kind of guy, maybe sitting if the mood is right. I wish clubs were more like junior high dances, where the genders are separated to opposite sides. And I’m just staring across trying to think of something clever to say to distract her from me stepping on her toes. (Oh, to be young again.) I am definitely not one to grind it out with the nearest girl to the newest rap song.
“Hey, I know you're a complete stranger, but could we go out on the dance floor and simulate sex?”
And then she says, “Sure, because I'm only basing this on looks alone any way and I would love it if someone I don’t know would hump me to a rhythmic beat.”
Great, that’s settled. Now I'm supposed to do the typical college guy dance, the only one any white guy has ever known... the crotch grind. This is the dance where I just move my hips every once in a while and just kind of… grind? Even my dog has more manners than that. She at least lets you pet her head or tries to lick your face before she goes at it with your leg.
Yeah, that's dancing. Anywhere else, it’s socially unacceptable to gyrate on someone to music. You're at a wedding and a five year old kid wants to dance on your shoes and instead you're a Tickle Me Elmo doll with a libido. But it’s ok at a club, because the techno music is on repeat and everyone else is dry humping around you.

And it’s difficult to start up a conversation based on the very short “relations” you just had out on the dance floor. After I get past the usual small talk (name, major, year), there's that awkward silence that follows.
I’m so uncomfortable I’m starting to become comfortable again, so I just spout something quickly. “So... you come here often?" Either response I get, I'm just going to be clueless as to where to go from there.
Her: "Yes. Yes, I do."
Me: “Oh... um... great. Welcome back.”
Or...
Her: “No. I’ve never been here before.”
Me: “Me either." (silence)
Smooth.

I have the most limited relationship with this girl, so the topics are... music... yeah, that's pretty much it. And oh-so-brilliant considering there’s music playing. But I can't tell her really how I feel because it would come out something like this: “Crap.”
And in a lot of the clubs, there is that DJ holding the headphones up to one ear and shouting out over-excited, over-rehearsed obnoxiousness into the microphone.
“This is dejaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Slimmy Slam Slim Slammity Slim, bringing you the latest, the greatest, and the stuff that makes you shake it, baby. Spinnin' the discs and pumpin' the beats, I'll be up in here all this week.”
Sometimes I want to go up and request the Bunny Hop. (Let’s see them grind to that.) Yeah, songs with instructions, perfect. It makes it that much easier on me, leader of the uncoordinated.

So if you ever suggest to me, “Hey, let’s go out to a club.” Just remember, I hate you.

Wizard of Oz Characters

I was always a little scared of the characters in the Wizard of Oz. And not the usual scary ones like the witch or the flying monkeys or the midgets.

I was scared of the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. The Scarecrow was just crazy. He was unpredictable and that was frightening in itself.

But I was especially scared of the Tin Man. He had no heart and a big axe. He could have chopped Dorothy into bits and he wouldn't have cared.

They would have been like "What the hell, Tin Man?" And the Tin Man would have been like "Dude, I don't care. I don't have a heart."

And the Scarecrow would have been like "Huh?"

PETA Cracks Down on Party Games

A spokesman for PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) made a statement today concerning the depiction of cruelty to animals at children's parties.
"We at PETA believe that parents are promoting the ill treatment of animals at parties and gatherings with irresponsible games and activities. We feel that this has gone on long enough. We urge that our fanatics everywhere speak out."

PETA is speaking primarily of the tradition of "Pin the tail on the donkey." The kids are blindfolded, spun an indefinite amount of times, and then asked to pin the tail on a picture of a donkey. Just the thought of puncturing the donkey multiple times for sport has PETA up in arms yet again. But they are more concerned with the fact that rarely does the pin actually go on the ass's ass. One mother and member of PETA said, "I went with my daughter to a party once at her little friend's house and they were playing this awful game. A little boy put the pin right through the donkey's eye! And he laughed about it! I was horrified."
The spokesman added, "And don't even get us started on the petting zoos that sometimes pop up at these events."

PETA doesn't seem to stop, just making outrageous statements whenever their extreme liberalism is ignored. They simultaneously launched a Latin American campaign against the sale of pinatas. "Pinatas shaped like animals," according to PETA, "are beaten senselessly by children around the world not thinking of what it really means. And then they scramble and fight for their innards when the animal is destroyed. Disgusting."
I asked a nearby Mexican boy what he had to say about pinatas and he said, "Muy bien."
So there you have it. A time-honored tradition locked in a vicious battle with animal rights crazies.

It seems that with the crack down on using the copyrighted "Birthday Song," the removal of party games, and the recent concerns with the dangers of 'Ring Around the Rosies' that children will be left with only one option on their birthday... hookahs.

Being One-Legged

Man, it is weird sometimes being one-legged. All sorts of crazy stuff happens to you that doesn't really happen to other people.
A normal person messes up their knee, they need surgery. I just drop it off for 24 hours and its all tuned up when I come in the next morning.
A normal person breaks their leg and they need an ambulance and a cast. I break my leg and I need an Allen wrench and some brake grease.
A normal person puts their pants on one leg at a time. I put my pants on earlier in the week and then slide the other leg in whenever its time to go out.

And when I say normal person, I mean a bipod. Us monopods qualify as quasi-handicapped. The kind of handicapped where if I'm wearing long pants you're like "Is he limping? Or just that cool?" The answer is both.

I feel bad sometimes stealing the handicapped space, like I'm maybe not handicapped enough. Like the next guy that comes along is going to be missing both legs. But he shouldn't be driving any way, Crazy No Legs. What a silly guy.

But I can spot a handicapped spot from a mile away. It's like a sixth sense I have. Like when blind people's hearing gets better. "Whoa, we don't have to park out here. There's a handicapped spot on the first row, second from the end. A geriatric has been pulling out of it since we left the house."

Though sometimes when I get out of the car people don't believe I'm handicapped. They want to see some sort of identification or handicapped membership card. Check out the plates. See that wheelchair guy? Yeah, that's me. I'm just walking a little more these days.
I get the "tsk tsk" or the skeptical glance as I walk off from my car. Thank you for protecting the parking spaces, Mr. Disabled Security Officer. What would we do without you? Wait, where's your badge? Oh, you don't have one either.
Sometimes it takes a bold approach to reach the slow ones. A wrinkled, grey hair over 70 is giving me the old "stink eye" and I'm supposed to response in a language that she might possibly understand before next Tuesday. "Here Grandma." Then I rip off my leg and hand it to her. "You hold this while I get some eggs. I'll be right back" and I hop in the other direction. She's left cradling an appendage while I'm hopping around the grocery store like the friggin' Easter bunny.

And at sporting events I can move right up to the front of the parking lot. It's like having a backstage pass at a concert and I know the band. We pull up to the rent-a-cop, who sees the blue hang tag, gives us the wave, and the "move along, sir." Right up to the front. People making fake IDs that say they're 21 AND have a deformity. Growing facial hair and dragging a limb.
I guess this is to make up for security check points at airports and stuff that redefines paranoia. Everyone else is putting their keys and cell phone in the tray. I'm just strolling through because I know when I get to the other side they're going to think I'm Robocop. "Why don't you just save yourself the trouble, because that wand is gonna beep from here down, pal." And full cavity search is an understatement. I feel like I have to get the person's number afterwards. "I'll look you up next time I'm in town. I had fun. You were a real gentleman."

There's always controversy over what people should call 'us.' In this overly politically correct world, everyone wants to make sure I'm getting called the right thing. "What is it like being... Well, what do you like to be called? Disabled? Handicapped? Walking challenged?" Here's an idea. How about Jeff? I don't ask you if you want to be called "fat," "obese," or "gigantic." I start with your name and keep the judgments to myself. And you should too, unless you want rubber, carbon fiber, steel, and titanium up your huge ass. In that order.

Some might say I'm being kind of cynical about the whole thing. But you would be too if everything was referred to as "easy as riding a bike" and you never got off training wheels because pedaling is harder than it looks. Or when your leg falls asleep you're basically screwed for a few minutes.

Most people don't know how to deal with someone missing a leg. They don't know whether to say something or not. Because the only contact they've had with that is either:
A) pirates. Which there aren't a whole lot of. The only major booty around to plunder anymore is in J-Lo's pants. OHHHHHHHHHH SNAP!! I DID NOT JUST GO THERE!
or
B) Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump. So for the twenty-second time for all you uncomfortable people out there, yes I think he was a noble character. And thank you Gary Sinise for bringing the crippled to the masses. We salute you.

So, that information should help you next time you meet a one-legged person. You have a little insight into their barely different world. You don't have to run away in fear. Please don't. We can't keep up.


wow, two big ass jokes in one post. an unexpected bonus.

Quick Thoughts About the Dentist

Yeah, yeah. I know the dentist bit is overdone so I'll keep it brief.

After laying precariously in that chair under the interrogation light for enough time, making small talk like it was going out of style, it was time for the routine teeth cleaning.

This is where the hygenist takes a tiny circular sander to your teeth. This high-speed circular motion is supposed to make up for 6 months worth of crappy brushing.

But the best part is when she asks me what flavor I wanted. As if the flavor is going to change the fact that she is literally grinding a layer off of my enamel.

It was like Baskin Robbins' 31 flavors though! It was ridiculous how many flavors they had for cleaning my friggin teeth. She started out with the basics like mint or cherry. Then there was chocolate, chocolate mint, some orange crush one, cookie dough (no, seriously, there was), and on and on. But then I think she was just making them up after that, naming colors and shapes. It was early, so I may have misheard, but I could have sworn I heard a flavoring called "Fettuccini Alfredo." And when I stayed loyal to my roots (I know, bad pun, but its 9 in the morning) and chose mint, she realized she had to go get some more of them. Apparently no one ever picks mint, but usually pick something a little more fun from their extensive teeth-cleaning menu. People are so spoiled.

Tools

Home Depot is not my friend. Talk about being out of my element. I belonged in there about as much as I belonged in a Victoria’s Secret. It was like I was friggin' city mouse in the country. Only this was the mother of all country stores.

I was definitely the nerdy computer guy in a hardware store. They could sense it when I came in, with their confused looks and their sideways glances. I just kept on strolling, trying not to push my glasses up my nose too much.

Rows and rows of tools, gizmos, and gadgets, about 1% of which I could name or ever use. My usual reaction to the word “tool” is to say, “Yeah, they’re pretty good. I like a few of their songs” or “Yeah, I don’t like frat guys either.”

I tried to act nonchalant, like I knew what the hell I was doing. I even tried watching other people to see what they were doing, like when I’m dancing. Then I would pick up random items and examine them with all sorts of spontaneous tests that didn’t make any sense. It's like when you pick a piece of fruit. I tried bending the tool with my bare hands or holding it eye level and looking down it for straightness. I flipped over the box and checked out the stats on it. “Oh, its voltage is 7.2 amps. That’s a good amount of that.” I even tried an endurance test consisting of me dropping it on the ground… which I told myself was a test and not me just being clumsy.

And tell me this. When did screwdrivers evolve from the standard and the Phillips head? I mean, now there’s a whole set of screw turners for every sort of head and slot. I’d feel like Dr. Seuss just trying to name some of them.

Plus there are fifty kinds of saws, all of which… cut. But you know which saw I didn’t see? One of those two person lumberjack saws that fell trees in a see-saw motion. None.

I even asked one of the hundreds of elderly guys in the orange vests and he still looked puzzled after I repeated the description. He leaned close enough so I could smell the smoke on him from last night’s Bingo Bash Tournament of the Month, and I said, “Forget it. I was just curious.” Though he pulled a quarter from behind my ear. Thanks Gramps.

I was eventually escorted out though because I told someone I thought Bob Villa looked like a homosexual lumberjack. It was ok though because I had had enough emasculating for one day and I got what I came for.

Stupid tools.

Boy Scouts

Ah, the Boy Scouts. Brings back memories, doesn’t it? Of camping and camp fires and summer camp and campers and John Cougar Mellencamp. Well, not if you were a girl. I mean… are a girl. Whatever. You had the bastardized version of Boy Scouts, cleverly named Girl Scouts, where you would sew or make tasty things. But if you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about. And if you’re still a girl, you can just read along and laugh when appropriate.
Any way, boy scouts was a pretty strange time in my life that I have blocked out, for the most part. But its all resurfacing because I fell and hit my head on the toilet. And instead of coming up with a way to time travel, I pretty much just remember more things.

Here’s how I remember it, let me know if you disagree. Be prepared.


Well, before you’re a boy scout, you’re a cub scout. You have to be a baby bear before you can become a boy. Sort of like a messed up Pinocchio, I guess. But it didn’t stop there. You were a cub, a bear, a wolf… You’re this animal. Now you’re this one. You’re in a pack, a den, a troop… Wait, you’re a tiger, a bobcat, a webelo… Hold on a second. A webelo? What in the hell is a webelo? Oh, I didn’t realize it was an acronym. I guess I wasn’t paying attention when I was awarded the gold and blue pin star badge medal that goes on your front left shirt pocket next to your order of the sacred Indian super patch.

And then you get to be a boy scout. You earn all those badges. You learn all those knots. And when it’s all over… you’re an eagle. What? I thought… but… I was an animal earlier.. and then I was a boy… can I be a man yet? No? Eagle? OK. But you can’t be an eagle until you’ve done that service project. You come all that way and earned all those silly pins and patches, but you have this project. You can’t put it on your resume until you’ve convinced some poor, unsuspecting church to let you build a rickety fort in their playground where it can collapse on future eagle scouts.

And I’m sure that “Eagle Scout” really works on the resume. “Well, it looks like you really have no experience and your grade point average is almost non-existent. But what is this? Eagle scout eh? Welcome aboard. We need someone that can use Morse code or survive in the wilderness. That’s the kind of man we need on our team.”

Hiking, which was basically walking around for a while carrying all of your stuff. And then when you got tired, you stop and put it all down for a while, take a nap, eat a little, and then pick it all back up and walk some more. I always hated it, probably because I teeter totter along like the monster from Frankenstein, and carrying crap on my back doesn’t help. I always thought “Why don’t you carry your stuff around and come back in a day or two? I’ll be here. With my stuff. Not walking. I don’t need to carry it some place else and then come back, because it’s already here. And I’m comfortable.” And it was almost required to carry a pocket knife. “Ok, you got your sleeping bag, your flashlight, your ridiculous outfit… wait… where’s your pocket knife? What if you need to cut small branches or tweeze things?”

But you couldn’t just carry the knife around and cut things whenever you damn well pleased. You had to have a whittling chit. What in the hell is a whittling chit? Never heard the word chit anywhere else in my entire life except when it was used in scout knife safety. Boy scouts just MAKING UP WORDS.

You could saw some wood or fell a forest, but you couldn’t whittle without a little card that said you knew the proper whittling technique. “Whoa there, Timmy, what are you cutting? Wait a minute, that looks like whittling to me. Where’s your chit?”

And then there was this whole scare recently about gays being in the Boy Scouts. And everyone was all surprised. “What? You mean, a gay person in the wilderness, I didn’t think that was possible.” I don’t know, I just thought they should have seen it coming. I mean, look at them. You’ve got colored handkerchiefs tied around your neck, flowing sashes like a Miss America pageant, and short shorts. Oh yeah, and it’s all male.

It was bound to happen. Some fruitcake learning knots and he figures out the sheep shank and goes “Ooh, naughty.”

And look at the parallels to the military. All the saluting, the badges, the medals, and the summer camps… just on a larger scale. The Boy Scouts are basically building a small army of boys with tiny knives. And at the time the military had just gone through its own bout with homosexuality and political correctness, where they basically ending up saying, “Shhhhh.”

I say we have a boy scout and Catholic priest mixer. Everyone all together in one big room, just “dancing” the night away.

Letter to Kobe

Kobe Kobe Kobe. All I can do is shake my head in a shocked state of complete denial. But I think we all have to come to terms with what this whole fiasco means. Our little baby's all grown up.
From the point where you said, "Hey, where do the high school girls hang out around here?" until now, where it looks like it may cost you the Olympics, you've started to become a man right before our eyes. And it brings tears to them. Granted, they may be tears of laughter, but we won't get all technical. Go Mavericks.

And you've really handled it like a class act, like a real adult. My favorite was when you made an appearance at the Teen Choice Awards. Maybe if you had given one teen a choice...

Either way, welcome to the big leagues, Kobe. You may have been in the NBA since 1996, but now you're a true NBA player. Wow, your first real scandal. It's kinda of exciting in a scary, you-could-get-life-in-prison sort of way.

You have joined the ranks of all the other professional athletes now. But don't worry, it has happened to the best of them. Even the great Michael Jordan has had some problems. But they all eventually get out of it, because they're stars and that's what they do. I mean, look at O.J.

When I heard the news back in July, I immediately thought, "Say it ain't so, Kobe! Say it ain't so!" And you did on July 12, 2003, when you said "I would never do something like that." I then wiped my brow and thought "Whew, I'm glad that's all cleared up." It's crazy to think that a 24-year-old basketball super star with millions of dollars and an equal number of female fans would do such a thing. But let's examine the facts:

Kobe Bryant, 24, great athlete. Likes women.

A 19-year-old girl, described by her friends as "fun-loving, outgoing and emotional." Doesn't like to be sexually assaulted.

Sounds to me like we have a real case on our hands.

ESPN reports that you, who lead the team in points, assists, and steals, plan to play basketball ON the court when you're not IN court. And I applaud this. What better way to take out aggression and humiliation from the press than to play around in the spotlight some more, backed by the newest Dream Team of bought players.

A fan of the team, paid sizably by the Lakers to remain a supporter, said, "He was just trying to bring the funk. He just got a little carried away." Whatever it was that you were doing, or not doing, it is sure to impact absolutely nothing as far as NBA viewers, who are now immune to the player's antics.

And we can only hope that in a few years we'll all be talking around the water cooler about the new LeBron James scandal. I'm taking bets. Murder or rape gets odds.

Rouge Lemonade Stand Shut Down

A six-year-old girl named Abagail Shaw learned that it’s not easy being an entrepreneur on Wednesday, June 18, in Naples, Florida. Her lemonade stand was shut down due to a lack of permit required for temporary businesses. A complaint was filed by a nearby neighbor, causing the cops to follow procedure and follow up on it.
The police officers arrived on the scene to find that the complaint was true and a rogue lemonade stand was illegally exchanging quarters for Dixie Cups filled with “lemonade.” The liquid was confiscated and taken to the lab for testing, where it was confirmed that it was made from real lemons.

The cops, upon learning that she was operating without a permit, wasted no time in throwing Abagail to the ground and placing handcuffs around her wrists. The handcuffs were said to have slipped off, resulting in her being hog tied and tossed in the squad car. When later interviewed about the arrest, the officer explained, “I felt the force was necessary because of her insubordination and obvious attempt to escape.”

An onlooker in a wife-beater described the incident as like nothing he had seen before. But he added, “The lemonade was overpriced and wasn’t very good.”

The department chief said, “We’ve had a lot of problems with the children in this area. We’ve arrested dozens for playing pretend army games, illegal games of ‘house,’ and mostly recently this criminal lemonade ring. This total disregard for the law is unacceptable.”

Abagail Shaw was charged with operating a stand without a permit, running a monopoly on that particular street, and bribing a police officer with a free cup of lemonade.

The girl was returned to her stand after the city “played Mr. Niceguy.” A permit was issued, allowing her to resume business as usual. All other fake charges that I made up were also dropped.

She is said to have since tripled business because of the publicity. This allows her to pay the cops for protection under her tiny plastic table.

Actor/Actor

I think the hardest job has got to be being an actor... that plays another actor.
Not only do you have to act like your character, but you have to act like your character acting like ANOTHER character. You’re all wrapped up in a web of multiple personas, trying not to slip into schizophrenia. It’s like walking a tight rope, only harder.
Some would say a brain surgeon or a teacher. But they have schools for that. They don’t have schools on how to be an actor/actor. Sure, they have acting classes. But you can’t be taught this skill. You have to be born with the talent to act like you’re acting.

Few actors undertake such a daring feat because of the potential dangers involved. It has to be trying on the mind wrestling with the personalities. Nothing can be as tough as being THREE PEOPLE AT ONCE. Matt LeBlanc does it occasionally on the set of Friends and supposedly there is a rescue team standing by at all times. I really respect his bravery. Not even the Hollywood greats, like John Stamos or Tony Danza, would attempt such a ludicrous role.

It takes a lot of talent to be an actor/actor. So think about that next time you see an actor… acting like an actor. And think of his kids.