I've got a few weekend tradations, one of them is drunk dialing. Drunk dialing is a true artform. It's got a basic structure, but upon this framework the dialer is provided the opportunity to express themselves.

There's only one rule of drunkdialing:
Don't dial unless you're happy drunk. If you're depressed or angry drunk, not only are you a shitty wingman, but you've got no business drunkdialing.

My personal style of drunk dialing is a little more nuanced, I like to think. Usually, I dial long distance. This makes it more of an event, becuase you're calling a friend that you probably don't see that often. Sometimes I'll dial family too, because the family that calls you drunk off their face at two am is the family that loves you. But most of the time I dial non-family folks. Like Jenelle.

Another thing I stick to is weekends. Although there's something to the weeknight drunkdial, it kind of makes you look like a soak if you're not on vacation. Plus, you can be pretty sure that if you drunk dial someone on Saturday night, they're probably not going to be too irritated with you since they don't have to work in the morning.

The length of the conversation is up to you. I tend to talk a long time, mostly because I'm drunk, but also because I'm just a windbag in general. If no one answers, I usually feel obligated to weave an extremely loud, obscenity laced screed that usually climaxes with an insuation that the callee's mother is a loose woman.

The other of my weekend traditions is cooking. Aside from the obvious benefits of cooking (having something to eat, thusly avoiding death by starvation), it's a great way to spend some time with people. With the amount of spare time in the weekends, it also affords one the opportunity to make a stock of leftovers from which to choose for weekday lunches.

This weekend, it's fried chicken. In the South, fried chicken is serious business; so it takes a little time to prepare. I just put it in the fridge for it's buttermilk soak. I have no idea why pepole do that, my grandmother showed it to me so I just do it. well, sort of. I've mutilated her recipe a little by adding hot sauce to the soak; but hey, that's progress for ya.

After soaking, it gets seasoned heavily with a blend of spices, coated lightly in flour, and fried in Crisco. Grandma always said that frying chicken in anything other than shortening was just plain old Yankee bullshit.

After frying, the peices are cooled and served. Grandma also said that eating fried chicken while it's still hot from the fryer is plain old corporate bullshit that KFC came up with to save money. I think it's just as fine either way, but it seems pointless to argue with a former Screven County Women's Baseball League pitcher who's holding ten pounds of cast iron kitchenware in her hands.

Why post about fried chicken and drunk dialing in the same post? Because absolutely nothing soothes a hangover like great fried chicken.

I’m not a big fan of nicknames unless they’re derogatory and used behind someone’s back. But what really tips me over the edge is people who decide they’re going to bestow upon themselves a nickname. And yes, adults do this.

There’s a big difference between legitimate and illegitimate nicknames.

Let’s say a guy buys a boat and tells all his friends about it. Eventually the friends go on the boat which is promptly run aground due to incompetence. The friends decide, spontaneously, to start calling the guy “Captain” much to his dismay. This is a legitimate nickname.

The other way is to pick a nickname for yourself (because you’re mildly retarded) and then try to put that nickname into play. I’ve seen this play a hundred times but two incidents come to mind immediately.

The first time I saw this phenomenon was in college. A guy stuck his hand out and said, “They call me Rebel.”

I was taken off guard and though I knew I was dealing with an asshole I couldn’t be bothered about it. The next time it happened I was ready for it. I was at a barbeque and a guy came up and stuck out his hand:

“They call me Crash.”

“But what’s your name,” I asked. He looked shocked.

“Everybody calls me Crash.”

“But you must have a real name? Is it Cecil or Hubert or something?”

He walked away fuming. Point, game, match.

I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself. Anybody who has the balls to start a sentence with, “They call me…” is going to get shit from me. Not to mention the fact that people with real nicknames never introduce themselves with it. Most wish it would go away.

For the common good, please stamp out self-imposed nicknames at every opportunity.

De ponders going underground. As someone who blogs in anonymity, I can tell you there are a few guiding principles. Some are obvious, others I had to break or fuck up to learn.

The first thing about blogging incognito is to actively limit your exposure. You only want certain types of friends reading your blog. Any member of the general public is fine, but don't run around telling everyone to keep in touch with you via yur blog. If they don't know you well, you're blogging is going to make them think your a nutcase or an asshole or both. Close friends, on the other hand, are already aware of these tendencies and don't really seem to care. My wife, sister, and I think occasionally my big brother read this blog. No one else who reads here could point me out in a lineup. It makes things easier that way.

Obviously, never use real names. Even real first names, regardless of their relative ubiquity. I made this mistake once, and an acquaintance from my past popped up one day to tell me he thought I was a dick, a betrayer of his trust, and that we were pretty much never going to hang out again. At the end of his little tantrum he, pouting and stomping his foot for emphasis, demanded I remove the post(s). I saved the writing because I enjoyed it, scuttled the site, and resurfaced on a different one. During my hiatus, I made the effort to go through the offending stuff and change the instance of every real name, using a the 'Find and Replace' function in MSWord. I don't even use fake names, because if you're going to go to the trouble to give someone a fake name, give them a really good fake name like Brick, Chowder, Slingshot, or Jean Luc Picard.

While we're on the topic of names, try to avoid identifying your employer. Employers and blogs have never made good bedfellows, just ask any of the number of people who've been dooced. Also, it's not a good idea to be specific about the city you live in.

Establish an anonymous email account via gmail or somesuch. You can use it as a proxy, so you can communicate with folks off the blog without having to send them an email from thisismyname@thisismyISP.whatever.

Blogging in anonymity is a weird thing. You want to connect with folks, but you want to do so without showing them your ass. The reason this oxymoronic dynamic arises is the amazing exposure you get via the web. You're not just writing in that free local rag, or reading poetry during open mic night at some hole in the wall. Anyone can read your blog, which means if you want to blog anonymously that you've got to put up a semipermeable membrane that allows you to control how much people know about you. Which, as any good anonymous blogger can tell you, should be nothing.

UPDATE:
Forgot this one. If you're already blogging and wish to start anew without losing some of your loyal commentariat; there's a loophole. It is possible to send emails out to your regular commenters (the ones who only know you through the blogosphere) telling them you're going under deep cover. Most of the time they'll respect your wish to be on the downlow because everybody loves being part of some big secret. Although they may occasionally slip. Look, I'M NOT PERFECT, OKAY!?

Today I was walking from my car to the office and there was a guy three cars down who was arriving at the same time. As he got out of his car I was able to smell his cologne from thirty feet away, outdoors. As usual, it enraged me.

What possesses people, both men and women, to swim laps in that shit everyday? Can you imagine working with this guy? Last week I was olfactorily offended at a restaurant by a woman four tables away. This has got to stop.

You shouldn’t be able to smell that shit unless you’re close enough to kiss somebody. Meanwhile I’ve got people at work who reapply that shit three times a day. It’s taking the goddamned paint off the walls. Have you ever had to sit in a conference room with someone who has bathed in perfume? Because I have and I’m here to tell you it’s migraine inducing.

Stop. Now. Before I start accosting you publicly

In my opinion, there's a lot of complete bullshit out there regarding men's grooming. Cleaning yourself is a pretty simple process, and there's an entire industry built on selling products to the public that do the vast majority of us no good at all. I'm beginning to lose interest in this whole 'How to be a Man' thing, so this'll be quick and dirty.

Showering - If you look in your shower and see more than two bottles, you're losing your grip on your own masculinity. A guy needs a bottle of shampoo, and maybe a bottle of conditioner or some kind of bottled soap instead of a bar. Let's be honest here, anything else is more effort than I'd want to put forth to get clean. You don't need a different kind of soap for every part of your body, either; so you can eighty-six the facial cleansers, moisturizing rubs, and exfoliating gels. Your face gets enough attention with regular soap and a shave.

Shaving - I prefer shaving with a blade as opposed to a handheld electric, but that's just me. My hair doesn't grow fast or thick, either; so I can usually go a day or two without having to shave. Plus, I think there are a lot of pleasant side-effects of shaving with a blade. I usually don't go with a scented shave gel or anything; I run a pretty run of the mill foam. My grandpa taught me how to shave, and he actually used the old-school method with a foam brush and everything; so there's a bit of nostalgia there for me. I recently picked up Gilette's new five blade razor, and have been pleased with it. It was inexpensive too, because I bought it (and a set of replacement blades) at a cheap introductory price when they first came out. It shaves nicely, and seems to last longer. Don't bother with the electric impulse BS either. That's just retarded. For more info on shaving, there's actually a ShaveBlog that will give you all the indepth info you could ask for.

Hair - I have short hair, so for me it stays pretty simple: shampoo, hair gel. I don't have a part either, when I get a haircut I just have them clean it up. A dab of gel in the morning the size of a pea, a little hand tousle; and I'm out the door. The less crap you put in your hair, the less you'll look like a complete ass. Loading up on hairspray, gel, mousse, and brillcream is only going to be harsh on your hair and give you the appearance of an uptight dillhole. If you have longer hair, I guess using a little conditioner might help; but I wouldn't know because I'm not a hippie.

Shoes - I work in an office, which unfortunately means I have to wear ties and nice shoes. A nice set of shoes is a pain in the ass, because they need to be polished every week or so. My old man was military, and in my childhood I used to sit with him while he polished his shoes and polish my own. It's pretty simple, and can be done while watching a TV show or sitting on the porch with a beer. Supplies are cheap: a soft shoe brush, the appropriate polish (usually sold by color, I use parade gloss black), a soft peice of cloth (an old t-shirt works perfectly), and some edge/sole shine. Put one hand in the shoe, and use the brush or cloth in your other to remove any dust and loose debris from the outside shoe leather. After sufficiently clean, apply the polish to the entire shoe in circular strokes similar to the motion you'd use with car wax. Let it sit for a minute or two, and buff with the brush. For a higher shine, you can do a second coat and then buff with the cloth moistened. I've had military buddies who swear by heating the polis up with a lit match, but I think they just do that because it's an excuse to light something on fire.

Clothes - I'll admit, I have a simple approach to this. I try to by wrinkle-proof clothes when I can, but you have to be choosey with your brands here, as some wrinkle free stuff is made out of burlap. If you know how to iron, that's great for you. I don't. So I'm either subject to the kindness of my wife, or taking my pressable clothes to a dry cleaner. See, wrinkle-free is the way to go. Contrary to popular myth, you can wash coloreds and whites together. The father of my first college roommate ran a cleaners, and he knew all these great shortcuts for washing laundry. Using cold water will allow you to wash anything in the same load that's not brand new or prone to shrinkage. Although I must admit, whites come out better in hot water with a little bleach and detergent. Stain removal can be a bitch, but if you splash the area immediately with cold water, you should be straight. If that's not possible, hit it with a stain remover when you get home. 'Shout' has this great product that comes in a squeeze bottle and has a bristled applicator - and you can apply it and leave it on until you're ready to do laundry, you don't have to wash it immediately. Whatever you do, don't rub; dab. You don't want to push the stain further into the cloth, and you don't want to apply heat. Heat denatures the proteins in biological stains (blood, wine, other food related stains) and helps them set. Or something.

Oh, and clip your fingernails.

So this frickin 8-yr old girl just blew up a Steinway. Blew that fucker up. Here I am , trying to enjoy a plate of nachos and some mindless, bullshit reality TV; and this wonder walks on stage and shatters the competition. She literally has more talent in her fingertips than the rest of the competition put together. I mean, I watch this show because I think it's funny what kind of panhandling, unoriginal, freakish bullshit passes for talent in this country and this girl shows up.

She should win. She may not, but she should.

Goldstein, in true form, brings the front lines into our living rooms. Interstingly enough, though, was a quote in the page he links to at Hot Air that I disagree with:

A friend of mine just e-mailed to say he’s been discussing the situation with an Israeli analyst, who told him the problem with attacking Iran is that “you can’t scare a prostitute with a penis.”
To which I replied, “You can if it’s big enough.”

I humbly offer my correction: "You can if you put it in the right place. Hard."

Okay, this is simple. As a general rule; if it involves meat, flames, smoke, or sauce (strictly for meats or pastas); it's in safe man-cooking territory. Inappropriate dishes would include baked goods (cookies, cakes, muffins; however I'll make an exception for items like pot pie and shepherds pie), souffles, and anything involving whipped cream or a sifter. Your mileage may very, but there are at least a few items that are man standards; and should be mastered.

Sandwiches - Every man should posses the culinary skill to whip up a respectable sandwich. I don't mean PB&J either, I'm talking Dagwood Bumstead. A guideline I like to use is that a truly good sandwich can be eaten for any meal, not just lunch or breakfast. I usually start with some lightly toasted bread, and from there I just start pulling junk out of the fridge. The great thing about a sandwich is you can put anything on it. I usually stick to turkey (or ham), mustard, hot sauce, maybe some salad dressing, lettuce, tomato, banana peppers, bacon, eggs, black pepper, cheese, and the the occasional smattering of green olives. But obviously anything can be used; just aim for your favorite flavors. I like spicy, tangy foods; hence my aforementioned choices. The only rule is don't put garbage in your sandwich. Kraft Singles, Bacon Bits, Miracle Whip, turkey bacon, and tofu are all good examples of garbage. They're just shitty substitutes for the real thing. Although they may imitate the consistency of real ingredients, they taste like the package your real ingredients come in.

Grilling - Anything can be grilled. Show me a food that can't be grilled and I'll show you someone who's got no skills behind a Weber. Grilling is a post in and of itself and there are innumerable books, webpages, and even TV shows on how to grill properly. Even if you have only a little grilling experience, understand that the two most important factors are time and sauce. As for method, personally there's no debate between charcoal and gas - charcoal wins hands down. However, I have been known to use gas and even electric if I'm grilling during the week. But when you've got the time on the weekends, go with coals. The heat is more evenly distributed and easily controlled; as is flavor. And if it takes a little time, you might just have to force yourself to have a few beers and socialize. As for sauces, they are of even greater debate than the gas vs. charcoal discussion. Georgia, North Carolina, Kansas, and Texas all have radically different approaches to barbecue and rib sauces; and one man's grilled Mahi is another man's waste of a catch. Try a bunch of recipes and pick the ones you like; then meddle with them at home. I prefer vinegar-based BBQ sauces; the easiest of which is a storebought barbecue sauce mixed with a little hotsauce, mustard and white vinegar.

Stews - Here's another dish where time is important. More often than not, the longer the pot simmers, the better the flavor. The key is using a low enough temperature to avoid burning the food; but still cooking it through. That's why I recommend a crockpot. Man, you can throw your ingredients and spices into the crock pot; head to work, and come home to a hearty flavorful dinner. Most recipes tend to follow a standard framework with multiple variations. For beef stew, I like to stick with beef tips. Coat 'em in a little flour, lightly brown them, set them aside and deglaze the pot with a little broth. Add onions, carrots, celery, potatoes and your choice of spices. When the onions and celery start to get soft, top off with more broth, toss in the meat, and bring to a boil. From here, just bring it back down to a simmer, slap a lid on it and walk away. Well, not forever or anything; you can come back when you're hungry. The great thing about stew is it stores well, and you can put it in several smaller containers for lunch during the work week. A much better alternative than foraging the corporate savannah for egg Mcmuffins or fried chicken.

Chili - Similar to stew but with a tomato base; chili is a culinary wonder. A thick chili can be spread on sandwiches, a chili of milder consistency can be used as dip, and a soupier chili is great for taking to the office in a thermos (similar to stews above). And also similar to stews, it is a framework that has multiple variations. One of my favorites is a crock-pot version my friend came up with that he aptly calls 'Man Salad'. I know, it sounds weird; and the first time he asked me if I wanted to try his Man Salad I wondered if we really knew eachother all that well. But it is what it is. Which is basically peppers, onions, sausage, ground beef, tomatoes, and baked beans simmered in a sweet barbecue-type sauce. It's great on sandwiches and as a dip; a huge hit at football parties.

If you want more in depth info on cooking in general, there are a ton of resources out there. Check out allrecipes.com; probably one of the best recipes sites I've found. They have a searchable database; but you can also enter a few items you have laying around the house, and it will search for recipes with those ingredients. Also, Alton Brown has a TV show, 'Good Eats', on the Food Network that I highly recommend. His approach is basic but highly informed, and he's not impressed with useless trappings. As with all of the entries in the "How to Be a Man" category, none of these guidelines are written in stone. The point here is that cooking is not a domain that should be absent a little testosterone. At least now no one has the excuse that they didn't have a place to start.

I went shopping over the weekend. That’s not something I say with pride. Fact of the matter is I needed something and was forced to go get it. We walked into the place and my wife and I split up, her, naturally, to women’s shoes and I to menswear.

My mission was accomplished quickly enough and having no desire to hang around the women’s shoe department so I got to looking around. I saw it all. A pair of men’s jeans that cost $180. WTF? I’m not cheap and I was appalled. I can’t imagine the idiot that spends $180 on jeans but I’d like to meet him.

Next I went to sport coats which I’m always in the market for. I love me my sport coats. It’s amazing what will catch your eye when you’re not looking for something specific. And that’s just what happened because I glanced up and sitting there before my eyes was a seersucker suit. It was a thing of beauty. I reached up and touched the fabric and smiled.

The first thing that occurred to me was I would need a straw hat to go with it. The next thing that occurred to me was what a perfect ass I would look like wearing that thing. I stood there lost in thought for a few moments; it was as if my whole life was flashing before my eyes. Yes, if I wore that suit I would look like a pompous ass. The perfect ass. I immediately started looking for my size when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It was my wife.

“I’m buying this fine suit of clothes.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“On the contrary—“

“Stop. You realize that you’ll have to wear white shoes with this? Are you prepared to wear white shoes?”

I wasn’t. That was a show stopper for me. And gingerly, I put the suit back on the shelf. When I turned she was already walking away and I had to trot to catch up. She had already forgotten the suit.

Four days later, I have not. And this morning I found out that it’s permissible, even fashionable, to wear tan loafers with a seersucker. I’d been had.

These two co-workers walked into my office today and started speaking spanish to eachother. Normally it wouldn't bother me, but they basically sat at my desk and made themselves at home. Personally, I thought it was pretty damn rude.

So I stabbed them with my letter opener. Just kidding, but I did go over to their desks and 'crop dust' it. If you know what I mean.
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We do people insist on coming to bother you when you're obviously busy? Dude, I'm happy that you're able to get paid a salary for doing nothing of value; but I was not offered that job. So please, go take the trash out or something.
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How frigging hard is it to lay carpet? Why the hell is it taking 3 weeks to recarpet my office? Seriously, I'd be in a much better mood if I could have my door back. Then I wouldn't have to sit out here in this damn cubicle and get bothered by foreigners and lazy, clock-milking layabouts.
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24 days until I go on vacation. 576 hours. 34,560 minutes. 2,073,600 seconds.

And counting.

If you Google my real name (in paranthesis) and the appropriate sanctioning body, the only results that come up are my regional championship driver's points. How sweet is that?

However, if you just google my real name (in parenthesis) you get some Hollywood actor guy's official website. Frickin' wannabe.

I've had it with this metrosexual nonsense. This new fad is an attempt to take the grit out of manhood - to subtract from the essence of man. It's a crock of shit. James Bond, Frank Sinatra, Cool Hand Luke, The Duke - these men had grit. They also had style, but they didn't need designer clothes, facial cleansers, or spring salads topped with tangerine slices and walnut crumbles to achieve it. So I've decided to embark on a journey to remind us all that men don't need Paul Mitchell, The Queer Eye Crew, or pastel colors to be a modern man. We'll cover cooking, clothes, hygeine, music, all kinds of crap; so keep checking this category.

Dressing Like a Man
Firstly, take notes from the penultimate man heroes. Bond wore black and white tuxes - to everything. Don't worry about sprucing up your formal wear, man. Black and white is timeless, elegant, and is the masterful balance of unassuming yet sophisticated. As far as dress shoes go, I prefer a parade gloss black shoe or black and white wingtips. Sinatra wore wingtips. Sinatra. Wingtips.

When dressing for the office, stick to monocrhomatic shit. If you've got brown shoes, wear a brown belt. Black shoes, black belt. Easy to remember, right? Always go with neutral colors for pants - black, grey, off-white. Not only are these easy to find, but they'll go with just about any matching shirt/tie combo. I can't match colors for shit (probably because I have a set of balls) so I usually take my wife with me for shirt/tie shopping. Notice that you'll hardly ever find a straightup grey pair of pants; same with brown. They usually have little threads of other colors woven in. Find a shirt that hints at those colors, but isn't too dark. Then pick a tie that alludes to these same colors. It all sounds very complicated, that's why I suggest taking a wife or sister along. They just have an eye for that subtle color shit.

As far as casual wear goes; if you actually pick this kind of stuff out, you're beyond help. If any real man had his druthers, it'd be t-shirts and jeans for every occasion. Really, if you have to think about what you're going to wear on Saturday afternoon or something, you've been completely corrupted by BS. Pick a pair of old shorts, a grimy undershirt, and those sneaks you've had since you were in college and get your but out there and mow the lawn or change the oil. Please tell me you know how to do that.

Next time we'll cover grooming. Or maybe cooking. But who knows.

I used to make dinner and hotel reservations under fake names. Can't do that hardly at all anymore though.

Unfortunately, it seems to me that the vast majority of folks clogging the nations airports, highways, and vacation destinations have absolutely no frickin' clue when it comes to even the most basic do's and don't's of travelling. As someone who's travelled, moved, packed, unpacked, trekked and roadtripped an ungodly number of miles across this great nation; I figured I'd toss a refresher out there. Most vacations last a week or less; probably because none of us have the time for a much longer vacation, and when we do it's usually coupled with a relocation, retirement, or job change. In these instances there's so much other stuff going on, that no one would really consider them a vacation. Hence, they shall be ignored for the purposes of this...screed. So will special needs travellers; mostly because I do't really have any valueable advice other than what you might find elsewhere.

1. Pack light. A decent carry-on bag can be a real time saver when traversing long distances. If you've got connections or transfers, you don't have to worry about some bonehead handler tossing your bag onto the tram headed for Indonesia while you're headed to gate A24 for a flight to SeaTac. Something with wheels is always nice, and they also make convertibles with backpack straps tucked away behind a zipper. These are a real convenience when a wheel breaks or gets stuck. This happened to me once, and I had to drag/lug my carryon through O'Hare. What a pain.
When packing for a road trip or family vacation, packing light becomes nearly impossible. However, there are some workarounds. Stick to the one bag per person rule, and try to leave as many non-essentials at home as reasonably possible. Idiots from all over flock to the beach every summer in an endless stream of minivans with bicycles, luggage carriers, kiddie pools, and kayaks strapped to their bumpers, roofs, and trailers. Hello, these things can be rented at a fraction of the pain in the ass it must be to haul them hundreds of miles. Another way to save space is avoid bringing items that you can afford once you arrive. I've seen people pack coolers of groceries instead of just buying them at a local chain store. Unless you're going to a remote location, it's pointless to try and save money by bringing your 35 gallon cooler.

2. Accomadations. For week-long vacations, avoid getting a hotel room. Usually, a rental property can be found for a fraction of the cost of a hotel room; and come with more amenities. These places usually rent by the week, but can be had for weekends, especially if you or one of your companions is a member of one of those timeshare-points-dealies. Further, sharing a rental property with a few friends chops the cost up in peices, and still leaves one with plenty of personal space. These rental homes come in all price ranges and all levels of comfort; so don't be afraid to check places like VRBO.com or vacationrentals.com for listings in your destination area.
For shorter term vacations like three or four day weekends, it might be easier to find a hotel depending on specials, time of years, etc; but I've been in a few situations where it was still cheaper to rent for a week even though I actually was only going to be there for a few days.

3. Things to do. Before you leave, make sure you don't have some kind of distorted perception of what your destination is like. Vegas is not all glitter. It's actually only glitter for a block on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Washington, DC isn't all museums and monuments either; it's also homeless people on the mall. I'm just saying, if you're going somewhere because of the novelty; you're going to be pretty disappointed by day three, espeically if it's raining. Look up lesser known spots in the area, find hole-in-the-wall hangouts, scout the web for places of interest to you. Maybe there's a bar that your favorite writer hung out in; or a plant nearby that manufactures your favorite automobile. If worst comes to worst, you can always just go for a walk or ride the subway. Personally, I could never travel to a place without taking at least one day to simply wander. Never underestimate the adventures you can have by getting lost.

4. Companions. Some people are Planners - they have a predetermined itinerary and a tight schedule of the week's events. My old man is like this. He even goes to bed early, and help you Jesus if everyone else is out rabble-rousing all night and comes home late. Other people travel by the seat of their pants - even getting to the destination is a disorganized process. I've travelled several times with one friend, and I've never been anywhere on time with him. He stretched a four hour drive into an eight hour death march through tourist hell. It took us an hour just to get out of town; and we hit every outlet, niche restraunt, and old friend's house within an hour of our route. Either travel with people who match your style, or make arrangements that alleviate these differences. For example, I never share accomodations with my dad and I always make seperate travel arrangements than my buddy. This way I can travel with them without experiencing the overwhelming urge to punch them in the throat.

5. The return trip. Always leave a spare day between your return and your first day of work. Return trips are sad, depressing events. You're just coming back from the best vacation ever; you've got a bronze tan, some hilarious stories, and a seriously low tension level. Soon, you'll be back at work putting up with the relatively insipid morass of your chuckleheaded coworkers. At this point you usually start drinking heavily on the plane, in the airport, and/or in the car. You arrive home horribly depressed; you need a recovery day. I'm telling you, a free day will help you recalibrate and it'll take the edge off of the transition.

So hopefully I contibuted to the body of travel knowledge out there. If not, I'd wager that at least some of you got a kick out of the 'insipid morass of your chuckleheaded coworkers' phrase. Look for follow-up posts in this category on specific locations in the future.

This was a true story.

The class ring bit was a joke that apparently no one got.

Not only is it a true story but I glossed over most of it and completely left out the six hour emergency room visit and cleaning up of what seemed to be huge pools of blood (not mine).

The one thing I’ll never forget is how heavy my buddy’s head was. I remember learning somewhere that the average adult human head weighed sixteen pounds, but I’m telling you that thing was heavy when I was trying to pry it off the plate. I paid with my friend’s credit card because he’s the one who ordered the expensive (even for me) wine and then caused a huge scene. When I reflect back on the whole thing I view it as one of my worst days.

Five points each to:

Clancy
Casey
Victor
Tiffani

And while I’m at it I owe Trey Givens and Orgoo five points each from a few months ago. Jim, when you find the time, would you do the honors? I have no idea how.

I always wanted to learn fencing. Ever since I saw Errol Flynn play Robin Hood in the classic film. I knew it was off base, even as a kid. In the 12th century they didn’t use fencing foils they used big ass two handed swords. But it didn’t matter to me; I wanted to be a swashbuckler. The original heavy swords were used against armor, and with the decline of people wearing armor (gunpowder), lighter, faster weapons like the rapier were developed and carried by the gentry.

Fencing is a sport associated with high culture, mainly because in the heyday of high culture a gentleman was expected to defend himself or the honor of a lady. As the use of the sword diminished in real world situations, the art of the sword remained very much alive but developed into a competitive sport. Fencing is a direct descendant of the duel.

There are many styles of fencing, most notably Italian, French and Hungarian. The original fencing weapons were the Épeé and the Sabre. The Épeé was a pointed rapier while the saber was a military cutting sword. Eventually the Foil was developed as a safer version of the Épeé and is used as the introductory weapon most of the time.

Fencing is an extremely demanding sport. Speed and stamina are huge factors and those not in top physical condition stand little chance. Like most other martial pursuits, footwork plays a very important role in fencing.

There are rules and scoring systems involved but I’d have to look them up and I’m lazy and frankly it’s getting tiresome typing this out. I suppose the point to this, if there is one, is that the sword arts were traditionally taught to the privileged and for the most part it remains that way today.

A few years ago I decided to try fencing just to have some fun. The idea of bringing a sword down on the wrist of an opponent does have a certain appeal. Christ, was it complicated. And absolutely exhausting. It was a very brief affair for me and I’m not generally a quitter. I do have training in martial arts, high level training in fact, and while they don’t have the romance of the sword they are a great deal more practical, and in today’s world they have replaced the rapier when it comes to defense of a gentleman or a lady’s honor.

Martial arts is a topic I don’t like posting about for a multitude of reasons, but I will give the fine readers here a few tips.

Footwork is the most important aspect of fighting. I don’t mean kicking, I mean footwork. Parries, blocks and strikes are intended to be used in conjunction with footwork and I have found over a great many years that it is overlooked by 90% of practitioners. Poor footwork causes problems with critical distance and weighting. Lunging will leave you overextended and at the hands of an experienced man you’re doomed. Footwork sets up the critical positioning needed for the hands to work.

Kicking is highly overrated. When I see people kicking to the face I start belly laughing. With two feet on the ground you have a root and balance. Lift one leg up higher than the waist in real fight and I promise I will break your back. Literally. Using high kicks originally designed to dismount a man from horseback, is ludicrous. Stay away from “sport” martial arts which teach this nonsense for point scoring. Kicking is best used for entering on an opponent, and they should be kept low.

Here’s your chance for some points. Five SBD points for a correct answer.

Circa 1990

A friend and I were at an outdoor beach bar trying to work off a hangover. We’d found that if you went about three o’clock you’d get to see the majority of the hotties standing up, shaking the sand off and showering away the salt before heading home for the day. The outdoor bar, part of a hotel actually, was located directly across from the little shower and in close proximity.

My friend and I were the only patrons that afternoon until a lovely girl in very short shorts walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Soon a conversation developed and before long I was plying this girl with rum-runners toped with Bacardi 151. And while I was engaging the young lady my friend became rather bored. There was just the one girl and business was business. Since he was driving he couldn’t really leave me there until I had radar lock.

My friend was somewhat depressed by the developing situation and decided he should start doing shots of various types and before long he could barely stand up. But he was a happy drunk.

“Let’s go out to dinner,” he slurred. “I’m buying.”

So the three of us, with me behind the wheel, went to an overpriced seafood place on the water. Here’s where it starts getting fuzzy. We ordered all kinds of expensive shit. My friend continued to hammer drinks while I continued to work the broad, who was very attractive and at that point, pretty drunk as well. I felt a hand on my thigh. Then I felt it moving up under my shorts, at which point I told my friend we’d be right back and went out to the car.

On the way out there I had a moment of clarity and began to wonder what I was getting myself into. I had only known the broad about an hour and she was making it perfectly clear that I was going downtown. Even in my haze I was aware that any girl willing to go legs up after knowing someone for an hour (and in broad daylight) had a pretty high skank factor. I began to question my judgment. She was fairly young, but you never knew where people had been and I had no condoms. To make a long story short, I restricted the activities severely, and the next day I couldn’t find my class ring, but that’s another story.

A short time later we were walking back into the restaurant when I saw the maître d' running towards us.

“Sir, I need to have a word with you.”

I just stood there looking at him.

“There is a problem with your friend. The other diner’s are complaining.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. I had a good idea of what the problem would be.

When we got back to the table my friend was sitting there passed out with his face buried in what looked like a plate of grilled mahi-mahi with yellow rice. I could see how this would be a problem. All of our entrée’s had arrived and the broad was already eating and there I stood wondering what the hell I was going to do next. I tried shaking him but he was really out. I eventually stood behind him and used all my strength to pull his face up out of the plate by his hair. I held it there for a moment, covered in rice and whatever sauce was on the fish, and then let go again. It plopped back down into the plate.

There was no rousing him. I looked up and noticed that every customer and employee in the place was staring at us. I made the international hand sign for the check and tried to wake up Sleeping Beauty but had no luck so I wrenched his wallet out and paid the bill with his credit card, leaving a ridiculously high tip. It took a lot of effort to get my friend up and on his feet but I managed to do it, much to the relief of everybody in the place. He still had food all over his face. So I’m trying to get him out the door and the broad, who was not phased by any this, went into the bathroom and I decided the best thing to do would be to fucking flee while she was in there.

So I’m in a rush trying to get away from the peculiar woman and my friend, who by the way had never acted like that before or since, is staggering severely and as I’m guiding him he starts hurling on a car and the scene continued for some time afterwards but you get the idea.

I've had it with all these health products that are sold as panaceas. Someone I know was talking about how they went on this '30-day cleanse' and lost all kinds of weight. Yeah dude, I had a friend that tried that right after we finished up a 12-day backpacking trip. It's fucking called giardia.

Or the guy on TV selling a book of home cures for everything from high blood pressure to erectile disfunction. Hey, I got an idea I'll sell you: QUIT HAVING A SODA AND A BIGMAC AT EVERY MEAL, YOU WILDEBEEST! Really people; if you're so concerned about your weight or your health; take a look at your shitty lifestyle and maybe cutdown on the bonbon's or something.

Or the pills that are basically ten glasses of juice condensed into a capsule. People go out and buy all this shit that's supposed to be 'natural' or organic or whatever. I mean, if you want to be naturally healthy maybe you should try, I don't know, eating some fruits and vegetables. Maybe a little fish too. "Step away from the SlimJim and no one gets hurt."

And don't get me started on diet sodas. That's like smoking light cigarettes - all the cancer, and only half the fun. If you're going to drink soda every day, just drink theregular shit; because when your adult-onset diabetes develops, at least you can say it tasted good.

People fuckin' baffle me. If you're a lazy fucker who stuffs your face with shitty foods and doesn't exercise; you're gonna get hopelessly fat. Trying to circumvent this by giving yourself a month-long case of the shits or taking a few vitamins isn't going to change the fact that you're a lazy fucker who stuffs your face with shitty foods and doesn't exercise. There's no pill for that.

On some crappy reality show recently they had this obese girl who wanted to be thinner, right? The course of the show is like 40 days or something. I'm not sure what kind of logical association disorder this girl has; but woman, you're not going to drop 150lbs in 40 days. We could put you on an all-crack diet and we wouldn't get those results. To me, even airing the show just reinforces for some people that weight can be dropped easily. Listen, even Jared had to walk to Subway everyday. Let's try and be honest with ourselves, okay?

Yesterday I posted some things about bloggers that annoy me. I realize now that I left out a big one. Some bloggers like to inflate their megalomaniac egos by letting on that they know “a secret.”

The secret is can be something involving national security, but usually it’s about another blogger. “I got a call last night and found out what the story is on Phil.” Yeah? Well no one knows who Phil is except for you and your three incestrous readers. You need to get dressed and go outside. Get yourself a 7-Eleven burrito or something.

All of these traits that are so prevalent in blogging are important. Adding up all these annoying little things over time will eventually be the sum total of a bloggers mental illness.

I suspect psychologists will be using blogs for diagnosing patients soon. I predict that within the next five years whenever you go to a shrink’s office the first question they’ll ask is, “Do you have a blog?”

It’s all there isn’t it? A year’s worth of posts would be gold for a shrink. High points, low points, paranoia and especially delusions of grandeur. And that’s just the small stuff. Add in multiple personality disorders and manic depression and now you’re really rolling.

The first shrink who thinks of this will probably get the Nobel prize.

You cannot tell me I’m wrong. I can look at three posts and tell if someone’s crazy. Hell, crazy makes for entertaining reading. But not everyone has a blog. Next questions, “Do you read or comment on any blogs?”

Hell if I was a shrink I’d be cruising the blogs all day looking for customers and writing emails.

Dear Tequillajohnny,

I was going through your archives and I couldn’t help but notice…

My work is done here. Thesis complete.

Look at these beauties. 100% guaranteed not to make your ass explode.*

Yes, Victor. That is charcoal. I'm all grown up now.

* Though some of my sauces have been known to make asses burn.

I don’t see the point of criticizing others unless it’s done it jest or the person really deserves some grief, but there are a shitload of bloggers I can’t stand. Some of them are popular but most of the people on the list aren’t especially high traffic sites.

The Great Pretender
I have a lot of pet peeves and a lot of things annoy me. One of those things is when people pretend to be experts on things or talk about things as if they had a great deal of knowledge, experience or insight when in fact they’re completely off base or just plain wrong. I’m not talking about opinions, which are subjective, I’m talking about facts. There’s an old saying…A Chinaman can say anything about kung-fu and be believed, no matter how ridiculous. The same is true for the Internet.

The One Trick Pony
Yawn.

A Dollar Short
Some bloggers become obsessed with a post they write or a topic that amuses them. Temporarily. They then try and milk it for a week before they decide no one gives a shit but them. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. These people have more false starts than the 400 meter event at a school for the hearing impaired.

The Shockblogger
Self explanatory. This sleight of hand technique is used to misdirect you from the absence of actual writing.

The Tin Men
Here we go round the mulberry bush. Some people would shoot their mother for a hundred more hits a day. Trying too hard reeks of desperation and is terribly sad. I recommend a drive in the country or perhaps a good prescription drug.

I don’t think I need to point out that these are not mutually exclusive.

Feel free to add your own in the comments or take a shot at me. I’m thick skinned.

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That’s what I see when I visit some blogs. It’s not browser trouble.

The paragraph above is actually more interesting than most of the stuff I’ve read in the past few days. Sorry.

So my buddy grilled some spareribs on the 4th; and there was a bunch of leftovers. Since we hosted the barbecue, I naturally claimed some of said leftovers for myself. Of course, I hadn't had any that day either, so I was eager to try some later. Well, Sunday I heated a half rack up for a late breakfast/early lunch treat. An hour later, I was pissing out my butt.

Let me tell you, bad pork just doesn't fool around any more. I mean, it just wouldn't let up; literally, I was shitting so hard I was sweating. For at least three hours I couldn't be more than a room away from the toilet. Eventually, my butthole was hurting so bad that I just refused the urge to shit anymore. I just clenched it; deciding that I was going to force my body to hold it in until the lower intestine got off it's ass and started absorbing water. I guess I held it for about an hour, when the wife arrived.

She's a nurse, so she knows a crapton more about how a body works than I could ever pretend to. When she walked into the living room and found me curled into the fetal position biting a wooden spoon and covering my ass with both hands; she advised me to just take some Immodium. Unfortunately, you have to take the pills after having a 'movement'.

(Note: I hate that some professionals and literature refer to them as 'movements'. This word, for me, conjures up maybe a ballet, or a couple minutes of Vivaldi. What I was doing was shitting. Spraying raw sewage out of my butt is neither graceful, beautiful, nor moving - ergo, it is not a movement. Let's not be flowery when describing the decidedly unflowery aspects of the human experience.)

So I crawl back into the bathroom, and release what the flood gates had been holding back. It hurt so bad. By mid evening, my a-hole felt like 100 microscopic miners had been filing away at it with 100 tiny rasps. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand; it was a bad day to be my butthole. After I finished, I went straight into the shower. I mean, six hours of the squirts makes a guy feel a little dirty.

After the shower, I took the meds; and my bowels haven't so much as quivered since. We're talking easily 24 hours without a #2 here; and I've swung to the other side of the panic pendulum. No longer do I worry that I may die on a toilet; I do, however, worry that I may die from poop backup. Of course, compounding this problem is my reluctance to do anything to encourage a deuce; for fear that it may lead to another bout of those uncontrollable, violently powerful, and immensely painful shits.

...That soccer players are just as rowdy as the fans. Even the French ones, mind you.

Of all the haunts I frequented over the years Barney’s was always a favorite. The place has a long history and a great vibe. It’s the kind of place where you’d see all walks of life on any given day. Yeah, you’ll see celebrities, but they’re usually dressed like bums and keeping the lowest possible profile. There’s not exactly a VIP room in a place like Barney’s.

When the place opened in 1920 it was on the glory end of Route 66, not far from the end of the line. It was basically a shanty. In the 40s they had a lot of regular customers like Errol Flynn, Bette Davie and Clark Gable.

The greatest thing about the place is the food. They have a huge menu printed on newssheets but the chili, burgers and sandwiches are what most people come for. They have something like 40 kinds of chili and about 100 different beers and a combo like that is tough to beat.

Eventually it became a hangout for the counter-culture. The likes of Dennis Hopper and Charles Bukowski were regulars as well as a host of musicians. Location had a lot to do with it as well, live music clubs like the Troubadour just up the street. Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando could be seen sitting next to Frank Zappa or Jim Morrison. The Doors offices and Elektra records were around the corner it became a hangout.

Over the years the place never lost it’s cool.

“During the '90s, films such as The Doors and Out of Bounds featured Barney's Beanery as a location. As the altrock.com and independent film generation emerged, scriptwriters such as Quentin Tarintino would hole up in one of the multi-colored padded booths, ordering chow from the extensive, newspaper-like menu, to write such epics as Pulp Fiction. Controversy can still surround the place, as when Drew Carey formed a public protest in 1999 against California's smoking ban by inviting press and television cameras to the bar at Barney's Beanery, to watch him and his pals light up a few cigarettes.”

It’s one a the few places I sorely miss since I moved from L.A.. One of those places you could go hungover and dressed like a hobo and nobody cares. A place where could see almost anybody from the movie business with no one asking for autographs. A place where you were almost guaranteed to a couple of weirdoes talking to a guy in a business suit. I love that place.

So there I am, sitting head to head with the steadiest hand north of Reykjavik. I'm a little nervous becuase this guy's known world 'round. And I'm a lot nervous because I've got the small stack in a head to head game. Not good. But I can see his tells; the long-john wearing freak. Every time he bluffs he pulls at his stupid white beard. The only thing is, every time I get a good hand he backs out.

I'll have you know, I'm seasoned. I play poker like I'm sleeping off a hangover; so I find it hard to believe that this fat red bitch, for all his jolly grandeur, can possibly be reading me. I mean, we're talking about a fucking slob who probably works a day a year; and is, as we speak, drunker than shit. Fucking slurping at the tit of welfare.

I just can't figure it out. How is this sloppily drunk a-hole figuring out my bluffs? I mean, we're playing in his damn barn for chrissakes! His wife has been asleep for three hours, and the only witnesses to this embarassing asswhooping are a few bales of hay and a bunch of fucking rei-

Reindeer.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. And that red-nosed henchman of his, Rudy, is standing right behind me. These bastards were working the whole damn night! I'm pissed now, but every good player knows you never let 'em know you've got their tell.

I decide to play the next hand blind; because I'll be goddamned if they're gonna hem me up again with this crappy road game they've got going. Old Man Christmas doubles the ante after I check. I can see in his eyes that Rudolph ain't giving him shit. Which is good. I lay my face down on the table and peek at my cards. Flop aces.

I call, knowing Rudy ain't seeing shit of my hand, but also knowing he's the kind of lackey that fears his boss enough to act like he's in the know. Father Christmas calls me all in. I pause, make a fake look at the cards, fiddle with some chips. And that's when I set the hook: I beg him to throw me a house line to cover his bet, and I'll call him all in; the Great White North motherfuck!

He glances at his elf, then looks at me. 'Cept I know he ain't looking at me, because he's looking behind me to see what kinda nod Rudy's gonna give him about my hand. Like I said, that antler-festooned freak didn't see shit about my cards, but he sure doesn't want to fire up the bossman. Santa allows the house line and I pull him in. The community drops.

9.

Ace.

Jack.

I give a forlorn look and Santa grins behind his beard menacingly. My betting betrays the pocket pair, and my current look fools that fat Norweigan bastard into thinking I've lost it all to possible pair of Jacks. What he doesn't know won't - oh wait, yeah. He's all in. Maybe I will give him a sting; except I've nothing else to bet.

Mmm...maybe I do.

"So, you fat red bastard. I'm throwing in that prized red-nosed reindeer of yours."
"HA! But it's mine, you fool!"
"Yeah, but you two've been playing a road game on me all night. And probably been doing the same to others for countless years. He's mine to bet, or I spill the beans and every bankroller from here to Key West is going to be looking for your fat sleigh-riding ass."
Shock. Timidty. Silence. Rudy finally saunters from behind me for the first time all night. Santa's been called out to the front yard and he's got no cover.
"Fine," he says. "Lay it down. Your flop pair was worthless from the start."
Rudy snorts and sits in the hay, as the dealer drops the last two cards.

Jack. My heart throbs. I'm in it now if that sorry nothern fuck has one.

Ace. My heart stops. I know I've won but I continue to stare at the Jack in disbelief.

"HO, HO!" howls the nordic fucker. "You couldn't cover my three of a kind; you little punk!" He's pactically hopping, the big bastard. I just keep staring. I'm actually relishing his foolish posture. Then he leans into my face.
"Well, how does it feel; ye spunky rapscallion?" and laughs.
Personally, I hate it when he talks like that. Like being older than god's shit gives somebody the right to speak like some kind of fucking Hollywood pirate.

"I tell ya, it doesn't make me feel to bad," I say as I flip over my pocket rockets; "You fucking artic prick. Now I'm taking this measly pot home, and you're prized reindeer. Merry Fucking Christmas, eh? I hope that crapbox of yours has foglights, because I think it might be time for a good old fashioned reindeer roast. Oh, and might I get some lessons on driving this red-nosed freak back to my place? I'd hate to damage the goods before I had time to tender them up."

Yeah, and that's the story of the time I sat with the best and walked away. Hey, that bitch had it comin' to him a long time. Cocky fucker.

I'm sorta the king of snap judgments. When I know what I want, I don't want to have to wait for it, or beat around the bush, or be strung along like some fucking halfwitted dunce. Cut the shit, because if this line of shit is your way of telling me my offer isn't acceptable, then counter-offer and let's finish this up.

Like car shopping. I do a lot of preliminary independant research before I go car shopping; so you can beat your bottom dollar I know everything about the car before I ever even show up at the dealership. But car salesmen are the fucking worst people to deal with. Most car salesmen don't know shit except the rules of Frustrating Negotiation. Chances are, the salesman you're talking to has been selling cars for years at all kinds of different dealerships; so when you ask him a question (Is this a totally new model, or was it sold in overseas markets before it came to the US? Does it share a platform with any other model?) he's probably going to be clueless. These people have effectively masterd the art of generalization. I don't even bother talking to them unless I'm buying a used vehicle. When I want something new, I bring in my trade and a couple grand and get the hell out. Oh, but shank, what about incentives? Dude, those are predetermined and they're going to give you every single one you qualify for. Of course, to do that, you'd have to be a senior citizen who's a retired military vet and a teacher with Farmer's Insurance. But most of the time they'll offer about 3 grand in dealer incentives off the price of a car with a 27K or more sticker price. I'm telling you, talking to these people is like talking to Mickey Mouse - they just smile and shake their heads.

My big brother, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He's got the persistence of a Bangkok watch salesman and the calm perseverance of a kindegarten teacher. I went shopping for trucks with the guy once (on a whim mind you, he wasn't even seriously considering a purchase) for four fucking hours. Four hours! Towards the end I became hungry, which meant I was a scowling little bitch. Our search for the right truck with the right motor and transmission and the right kind of seats and the right kind of bed spanned probably 70-80 miles of driving, three dealerships, and what must have been a parade of these asshole salesmen. One of them was so shitty, we ended up using the damn sales manager as a go between.

Of course, being a snap judger means sometimes I have to acknowledge that I made a mistake, or that I jumped too soon. But that's okay with me, because I figure that's good for a person - gives them a sense of humility. Which a guy like me really needs sometimes since I'm always so goddamn right about everything.

Yesterday afternoon I was flipping through the channel guide on TV and as I was scrolling down I something caught my eye. CSPAN 2, otherwise known as the Ambien channel, was showing coverage of the fucking Daily Kos convention.

Now I don’t read that shit, nor do I read other political blogs because life is too short and the assholery that goes along with it insults my intelligence. But I couldn’t resist. I had to take a look at this. When I tuned in there was a panel of assholes and some tenured prick was droning on about something, I have no idea what. Then they panned to the audience—Holy Mother of God.

I’ve never met another blogger in real life, but if that’s what bloggers look like I hope I never do. Half of them looked like the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons and the other half looked like leftovers from a Star Trek convention. I’ve never seen so many freaks outside of a circus tent. A couple of them got up to ask insightful questions like, “I don’t think it’s possible, but can you help me hate Bush even more than I already do? Because it’s the focus of my life and I put that before my children.” I couldn’t believe the shit was on CSPAN.

Anyway I’m getting away from what these people looked like, which is the point of this post. I hate to be shallow, but if you look like those people I don’t fucking want you here. For all I know it might rub off like those people who look like their dogs.

You have no idea how tiresome this has become. Note to self—no more extended blogging commitments.

Let’s start with a question this week. Why are so many people hostile towards the arts?

Here’s a good example:

Back in high school I had a part time job working for some rich people. The old man was okay but his wife thought she was the fucking Duchess of York. They were fairly new in town and it was a very affluent area. I was probably the poorest person living there. Anyway, this old broad desperately tried to ingratiate herself into the well-established circles of society and they were having none of it.

She acted as though she were a great patron of the arts and an expert in all things cultural. The problem was she was a fraud, and feigned knowledge is always exposed over time. They were nuevo riche and personally I see nothing wrong with that. As they say, it’s riche part that really matters. Yet she felt it necessary to give the impression that she was from a family of distinction or some shit. Now, if you haven’t been to finishing school, have little education and no social contacts it’s extremely difficult to buy your way into society. A lot of wealthy people are bored shitless and like nothing better than asking leading questions about your family and education and there’s no way you have the right answers. They’ve seen it all before.

Meanwhile, I was working for these people and the frumpy bitch thought she’d try to educate me. It was a painful experience. She’d put on NPR and they’d be playing Vivaldi and she’d say, “You should listen to this! Do you know what this is?” and before I could answer she’d say, “That’s Mozart, one of the greatest composers that has ever lived!” As you can imagine it was a painful experience, but the old man wasn’t cheap so I persevered. I always thought a proper horse fucking would have set her straight, but I wasn’t about to suggest it.

That horrible woman would have turned me against anything remotely cultural had I not had more pleasant experiences prior to our meeting. I think that when most people think of the arts the image of this woman or one like her come to mind because it’s become a cliché.

Most people who pursue the arts aren’t rich. They don’t travel in social circuits and they don’t go around talking about it all day. I know a lot of beer swilling, farting, regular guys who like classical music. Well, maybe not a lot, buy several. Same with painting. Not everyone who can appreciate the impressionists, or are painters themselves act like assholes. They don’t all hang around art galleries. I know a guy who paints. He’s good, and if he would have put some effort into it he probably could have become a big deal. He’s also a collector, though he’s not rich and his “collection” is insignificant to all but himself. He doesn’t sit around eating fucking canapés, either. He plays poker with us once a month and he’s a Dorito eating, gin drinking slob. He also likes opera and his house is littered with old Penthouse magazines.

I think I’ve made my point.

I'm not sure how many of you caught Dan Simmons' post last April. I found it to be a particularly riveting peice of short fiction; and it seemed to get visceral responses from many people.

So I guess I wasn't surprised after all the blog hubub that he came back this month with a decidedly non-fiction peice that revists many of the ideas and supporting thought that went into Dan's original story. I found it to be at least as equally riveting as the first.

Considering the commotion the first peice caused, and Dan's thorough rebuttal; I highly recommend them both. The pretty much refute for me any moral equivalency arguments against the war; but also clarify what kind of enemy we're at war with, exaclty; as well as how we should approach such transformational faiths and ideologies that threaten society by seeing other human beings as means to their ends rather than as ends in themselves. As Dan would say.

I'm telling you, it's a real eye opener; and you'd be doing yourself a disservice by not giving it some time.

Someone keeps searching this site for the words “throat yogurt.” Another big search here seems to be “urination stories”.

I guess we all have to make decisions about what to do with our spare time on the Internet.

I can just picture these people too, sitting in some mold infested, filthy apartment with Jerry Springer on in the background.

Or a balding guy in a suit overlooking central park, typing away at Google, searching for the mother load. He probably had a sandwich for lunch. I’m thinking pastrami on a rye, brown mustard, a fountain drink with too much ice. Hasn’t bought his own underwear since college. His wife, who settled, probably still buys three packs of Hanes when they’re on sale. What a fucking momo.

My imagination is really too active for my own good.

Happy with it?

I’m a big believer in the fact that we control our own destiny. Cause and effect. If you drink too much, you’ll get drunk. Run in into traffic, get hit by a car. Yet every day I’m amazed at people when they declare they don’t know why XYZ happened to them.

I fucking know why—you need to pay your bills before you start boozing it up or flying to Jamaica on a credit card. I know I’ve said this before, but if you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you really can’t afford it 19%. It’s almost like going to a shy for the money.

However I’m no longer stunned when I hear people say, “It must have been God’s will.” I’m not a believer, but many people are. I’m genuinely happy for them because psychologically it’s probably very healthy in the right doses. Yet some people use God as an excuse. They fuck something up, either through stupidity, laziness or otherwise through their own volition and then they tell you it was God’s will.

Some of these people are assholes; some of them are not. A lot of folks are just plain stupid, regardless of religion or lack of it and we shouldn’t confuse the two. Some truly believe that God has laid out a plan for their life, right up to what they’re having for dinner every night. They are having meatloaf tonight because God has willed it. Pee on the toilet seat? No need to clean that up, that’s God’s will.

Before that vein in your neck bursts let me say that I’m not anti religion. I grew up going to church and so did almost everyone else I know and nobody was leaving pee droplets on the toilet seat. Normal, intelligent people. Using God as an excuse would never occur to them. I was never really into it personally. My family faked it pretty good except for the old man, who refused to go to church. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen they felt like they did their best and finally relaxed and said fuck it, the jig is up.

I have a lot of respect for religious folks so long as they aren’t selling or telling me how I should live my life. I’m glad they found something, because a lot of people are looking and the alternatives are sometimes scarier than we like to think.

Some people believe in both God and luck. Somehow I can’t reconcile that one. Some people pick and choose which aspects of a religion appeal to them and ignore others. Some people are only religious when it’s convenient for them. And some people are genuinely pious, humble folks. I don’t wish to offend the latter.

This post was inspired by an incident this morning where a guy told me it was God’s will that something work-based happened, which has pushed me over the edge.

I knew it was going to be trouble the day before. Somebody in my neighborhood was lighting fireworks. No big deal, right? Except it was almost one in the morning and the shit was loud. My kid was sick and every time she fell asleep…”Kaboom!”

Finally I had enough. I got out of bed in a fit of rage and started pulling on clothes.

“What are you doing?” my wife said.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing.”

She intervened and there was a brief but tense altercation before I acquiesced and got back in bed, under the condition of if I hear one more, and I mean one more, nobody’s going to stop me.

Thankfully it was quiet after that.

On the actual 4th of July I expected all hell to break to break loose with fireworks so I’m not too unhappy when the entire neighborhood starts shooting shit off around seven in the evening. By eight o’clock it was intense. I was trying to watch Platoon and I swear the sound from outside was louder than my home theater system.

Still, it was no big deal. It’s the 4th and everything so who am I to complain.

10:00 PM: It now sounds as though my house is under siege. I was getting jumpy. I had looked around outside to see if they were good fireworks or just noisemakers and I couldn’t see anything, but they sounded close.

10:30 PM: My discerning ear tells me that someone a few houses down has gotten hold of at least a few hundred dollars worth of M-80s. They were tossing them into the street one at a time, nonstop. I start to ponder how bad it would be if I lived in a shitty neighborhood. I can’t imagine.

10:45 PM: The barrage of shells going off from every quadrant is astounding. I can’t fully describe the sound. This shit is LOUD and I’m experienced in fireworks. I can’t imagine what they’ve gotten their hands on. Fearing my perimeter has been breached I go outside for a look. I can’t see who is lighting shit off, but it’s coming from every direction. There were so many rounds going off at once, and for such a long duration, that I cannot fathom the thousands of dollars spent. It sounded as if twenty families had each spent a week’s paycheck on fireworks and decided to shoot them off simultaneously, with no breaks whatsoever, for as long as they would last.

11:00 PM: If anything it’s intensifying. I’m praying the kid doesn’t wake up and start coughing again. I put my shoes on go outside for a look and my wife gets that look on her face.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to make sure I know who is doing it.”

“Why?”

“Retribution. Not anytime soon, but I’m gonna be egging some houses in the future.”

12:30 PM: I’m in bed reading a book, as is the wife. All is quiet except for one asshole. Every once in a while he lights an M-80. Kaboom! I look over at the wife.

“You realize what this is, don’t you?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Karma. Do you know how many times you’ve been on the other end of this? And the worst part is I’m always included in your karmak paybacks…by proximity.

This is a prime example of why I hate people. Whenever I try to help someone it turns out exactly like this.

Happy birthday America!

I hope you're all out there on the beach or barbecuing or shooting off those illegal fireworks. I love this country, and my family's shed blood on this land to ensure that it was not only ours, but free. As much as some of the people who live here annoy me, I wouldn't ever let my homeland leave my heart.

Further, to read words in this regard makes me want to dig out my grandfather's old hunting boots and go stomping a mudhole in someone's ass. Some people take everything for granted; to such an insane extent that as they curse their own nation, they don't realize that the great thing about their nation is that they're allowed to curse it in public.

To those little twats, I say: Pack your crap up and move. If you want to dish the poop out on my country on a day like today (or any damn day for that matter); then take your ass somewhere else that you think is better. Not only will you never find such a place; but when you come back, we all get to rochambeau you. Hey, them's the rules.

BRB, I gotta go 'slpode some stuff.

I got an emailed question regarding food in bars. Oh man, this is a tough one, because it's highly subject to some very nebulous criteria. Firstly, when I go to a bar I'm not chasing down a meal. The bar at Outback Steakhouse is not a real bar - it's a way for them to cram more people into their restraunt. Bar food is limited to something one can eat while in a bar - a bar being a place where people converse, shoot pool, play darts, watch TV, or punch each other in the nuts. My bar doesn't have a menu; they've got potato chips and pork rinds, slim jims, hot pockets, and microwaveable corn dogs. It's a bar people, let's remember that. I wouldn't be averse to a plate of cheese fries or maybe some quesadillas; but here we skirt the line. A bar shouldn't offer a whole host of finger foods, prepared side items, and salads. I'm sorry, that's just not what bars do. Bars serve drinks, good times, and that's it.

Off the topic of 'good' bars, Paul hit on something that I'm a strict believer in. A bar, for me, has to have a story. As commercial as Sloppy Joes has become, I'll always spend at least one night there every time I'm in Key West because I like the history. And dive bars go a long way with a guy like me. The Wife and I had our late-night after party at a local beach dive that most people don't even know exists. The best part is they've built a refrigerated big-rig trailer into the bar itself that acts as the beer room. You walk in, pick a beer from easily 150 bottled brews (domestic, international, micro, etc) and bring it to the bartender. The place is decorated with swap meet furniture, 4x6 prints of past summer parties, and items from ships that sunk off the Cape Fear river in the last hundred years or so. The floor, where there is one, is brick laid right down on the sandy ground. There's a backyard with a big steeldrum barbecue and what must be the world's largest black lab.

These are just my opinions of what a good bar is, and many times I'm in different types of bars; as Paul mentioned he does. Understand here that a good bar isn't defined by myself, but by the people who make it their joint and how well you gel with those people. I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you think either of us are wrong on what a 'good bar' consists of; that's okay.

Even though you wear a striped shirt and your favorite drink is a jello shot. You toolbag.

See Shank’s post below for the background.

I enjoy different kinds of bars depending on my mood.

Category I

Dive bars. These are places where derelicts abound and anything can happen. I don’t frequent these types of establishments any longer, but when I lived in Los Angeles at least once a month a group of us would drive around and have a drink at maybe six or seven great dives. There was mystery involved and a tolerable degree of danger. In LA a lot of the dives used to be decent places, a lot of them famous at one time or another. Seedy can be fun.

Category II

The standard tavern. I tend to lean towards the standard tavern as my personal favorite. I don’t want fancy decorations and spinning lights. I want a dark cave with semi-articulate banter and frequent buy-backs from the staff. I don’t want to see people drinking fucking umbrella drinks in my tavern.

Category III

I like a small jazz club where people sit in on the bandstand and the place is totally absent of “hip, fashion conscious assholes.”

I shall not talk about “meat markets” as they have their place in society. But the absolute worst, and I mean worst possible drinking establishments, are the fucking “Cookie Cutter Bar” chain places. I cannot abide franchised bars, especially as I see them taking over across America.

How people can drink in a place with no soul is beyond me. I like some history in a bar. I’ve had cocktails in the same place where Jim Morrison got clocked on the head with a Jack Daniel’s bottle by Janis Joplin. I’ve done shots in the same place Sinatra and Errol Flynn had done the same. I’ve spilled beer in the same places as some of the founding fathers of this country.

It need not even be famous history. It just has to have soul. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Hard Rock Café. I want old beer signs on the wall advertising beer that doesn’t even exist anymore. I want a bartender that buys back after three and doesn’t have to log in with a fucking ID card with the cash register being monitored online from some corporate headquarters in Omaha. If I want food while I’m at a bar, I want the bartender to send a runner to the sandwich place down the street, not read me the fucking specials. There is no mango salsa in a real bar. And it doesn’t hurt if I can get a bet down while I’m there.

For many people, surviving a week in this crazy world of ours without a good bar would be impossible. For those of us who know our bars, there is a short list of "Must Have's" that a bar must meet to even be considered. It's an important decision, choosing a bar; because nothing upsets the balance of a soul like suffering through a drink at some shitty bar.

The most overiding component when choosing a bar would have to be the 'people mix'. If you can't feel comfortable with the regulars, then don't even bother; because technically, your aim is to become one of this crew. A good regular always pays their tab, always tips well or better, never breaks the bar rules, and when someone else breaks the rules, will always side with the bartender. Notice, I didn't say a regular couldn't be irritating. Every bar has any number of raging alcoholics who are there every day when they aren't sleeping or working. Every good bar will have two, maybe three, but no more. And it's important to note that these drunks are of the harmless variety. They don't start fist fights, though they need to be quieted; and they mostly just ramble on like crazy people. Bartenders should be friendly, but not falsely so. They should have a good repetoire of dirty jokes, as well as a conversational current events and political affairs acumen. The bartender should be someone who deserves your respect as a peer and a pop-intellectual. Good regulars already know the following unspoken rule, but as an aside; don't hit on the bartender. Her husband is one of the regulars and he finds it somewhat irritating when people hit on his wife, then realizing her husband is sitting right next to them, proceed to tell him how lucky he is and how he should treat her well. That shit is lame. Is that supposed to be some kind of sage advice or something? Most importantly, a good 'people mix' can pretty much outweigh any of the following concerns; and should always be the key factor in picking your bar.

A good bar will always have gaming tables. Be it billiards, darts, cards, fooseball, or arcade machines; they must be there. I prefer shooting pool, so my small bar has about 8 regultion nine-footers; but they also have fooseball (an odd game that I've never really understood), pinball, darts, and arcade bowling. Take it upon yourself to loosely pick up at least one of the available leisure activities and become relatively competent. You don't need to be a champ or anything, but competency will help group cohesiveness. The quality of the gaming equipment shouldn't be shabby, but expect some wear and tear.

There should be at least three TV's within view no matter where you're standing in the bar; and a decent jukebox should be available. I'm not a serious sports fan, but I do love watching a good game with friends. Sports can drive a lot of conversation, and if you really get into watching the home team or a championship series; it can be lots of fun and excitement. Hell, sometimes at the bar we'll watch 'Family Guy'; and there's a group of guys who come to watch 'Battlestar Galactica' together. I've never seen that show, but that's probably because I'm too busy getting laid, something that I would assume rarely happens to 'Battlestar Galactica' fans, Trekkies, and that guy who played Bilbo Baggins in 'Lord of the Rings'("RU-dee RU-dee!"). As far as jukeboxes go, modern advances have made them quite satisfactory. Gone are the days of lame, outdated records stuck in rotation. Modern jukeboxes are patched into a network, and instead of playing records or disks, hold the music in mp3 files. The jukebox itself will provide a standard bank of about 50-100 albums that change frequently via the network depending on parameters set by the bar ownership. An added benefit of the network is that it allows listeners to download selections not in the standard rotation at a somewhat higher price. These downloadable titles include just about everything ever made; including the little known fusion version of "My Favorite Things" that Coltrane did. No, not the one you've probably heard, there's another one. I call it heroin jazz, because that's what happens when you mix heroin and jazz. Try not to get the two confused, because if you do; you'll inadvertantly subject yourself to 25 minutes of sonic hell. Damn you Coltrane!

I tend to prefer more intimate, less 'clubby' settings, so as far as size is concerned I try to stick to a place with a maximum capactiy of 100-150 persons. Check the fire marshall's certificate hanging on the wall to get an idea of how crowded it gets in a bar on busy nights. Also, I tend to go for less mainstream places - I don't want to have to wait in line to get into my bar, and I sure as hell won't pay a cover charge to hang out with my friends. Granted, the downside to these type of places is that there's not ever any live music; but that doesn't bother me too much.

A good bar will have a decent to excellent selection of beverages and mixers. For Pete's sake, if you don't care about selection just hit the grocery store for some Bud Light. Personally, I'm not big on beer from a tap versus beer from a bottle. Sometimes keg beer is mixed improperly in the lines and comes out tasting like it's been cold filtered through a goat's asshole; whereas bottled beer is fairly consistent. However, I'm not stuck on one or the other; especially depending on the brew being served. Also, a good bar will consider recommendations by regulars on future products; so if you settle into a bar that doesn't carry what you like, mention it politely a month or so down the road.

Lastly, as a little peice of info, don't be afraid of a nominal yearly membership fee. I'll explain how this works. You walk into the bar and the bartender will ask if you're a member. You're not, so you can either pay the nominal yearly fee (say three bucks) or one of the members can sign you in under their name. If you're a cheapskate and an ass, you'll probably balk at having to pay a fee; followed by some obnoxious remark, probably create a small scene, and leave. At which point the patrons would raise their glasses to each other and toast to Good Riddance. If you're not a cheapskate or an ass, and someone in the bar can tell it by looking at you; they'll sign you in under their name and you're in for the night. If you're not a cheapskate or and ass and no one knows that yet, you'll probably say to yourself "Damn, it's only three bucks." In which case you'd pay the fee, and ask the bartender what's with the silly three bucks. The reason bars do this, your new bartender will explain, is that in some states bars must serve a certain percent of sales in food. However, by charging a yearly fee the bar becomes a 'Members Only' institution; and these organizations don't have to sell a certain percent of sales in food. Moreover, notice the interesting dynamic of clientele control and asshole screening that a membership fee puts in the hands of the bartender and the regulars. If some scuzzy looking bum comes in, no one will sign him in. It also allows the bartender to 'bar' patrons who break the rules from ever returning to the bar. The whole thing creates a dynamic where the regulars and the bartenders kind of police each other. Don't explain it to everyone though, because then we'll never know who the cheapskates and asses are until they're already members. And then we'll just have to bar them.

If you have any questions or comments, or feel I've been to ambiguous in explaining things; please feel free to post them below or email them to me. I'll be happy to address them, as I take this kind of thing very seriously.

Much to the dismay of my wife, I have recently come into a family heirloom. It’s an oil painting of me done when I was about ten years old. It was painted by an artist of some note and it’s top quality work.

In the painting I look quite handsome and athletic. Once when I was in high school some friends came over and saw it hanging over the fireplace. One of them, a guy with a large bag of weed in his sock, stepped closer and studied it for a while before stating, “You know, it looks like you could have turned out to be a real asshole.” It was a memorable moment in my life.

This particular painting has been the cause of much controversy since it’s first showing. My sister was not a big fan of it.

“Why the hell is his picture on the goddamned mantle?”

Good question actually. I was certainly not the favored child in my opinion, but who knows. I guess it is pretty obnoxious to hang an oil painting of one of your children in a prominent place while the other looks on.

Now the picture is in my possession and causing problems again. This time with my wife.

“So now we’re going to start hanging large pictures of ourselves?” she said, clearly appalled.

“It’s not a snapshot from Six Flags, it’s a fucking portrait in oil!”

“What difference does it make? You can’t hang portraits of yourself in your own house!”

“I rather like it and I can’t see stuffing the only real piece of art we have into a closet.”

“The only real piece of art we have? What about—“

“The only real oil painting we have.”

She stared at me for a long time before laughing quietly and dismissing me with her hand. Her show was back from commercial.

I can’t fully explain my hatred for them. I can’t complain about the way they maintain their house or their landscaping, it’s almost perfect. They don’t have parties, they’re not too noisy and they pressure clean the sidewalks. But they are indeed strange people.

I’ve been in this house about five years now and up until last month we’ve never really spoken. Almost every time I’m coming or going I see one of them skulking over there. I always wave and smile, just in case, because that’s the kind of guy I am. If they happen to glance up they will return a wave but you can tell it’s taxing them. Some people just don’t exude warmth.

I’ve always suspected they’re up to no good. For one thing they’re always pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of they’re house on the phone. It’s not a cell phone either; it’s just the cordless phone from the house. And though I’ve heard them speak English they also mumble in a tongue that I can’t identify, though I suspect it’s Greek.

In the last week I noticed an addition to the family. An old man in a wife-beater that sits in a lawn chair out front all day. It’s very classy. Of course there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s no bi-law in the HOA rules that says an old man can’t sit out front in his undershirt all day like a fucking Turkish coppersmith or something. And now that the long summer evenings have arrived the new ritual is for the whole clan to bring their lawn chairs out back every night, face them towards my house, and watch me barbeque. They simply stare at me. The first time I go out there I’ll give a quick wave and one of them will return it, but that’s the extent of our communication. I can’t begin to tell you how uncomfortable it is.

One night about two years ago I overheard an argument while I was taking out the trash. It was one of the few times I actually heard anything from that direction. It was the younger one and he seemed to be dressing down the rest of them. The one clear statement I heard, repeated twice, was, “That’s worshipping false idols!” He was screaming it at the top of his voice.

On that note I retreated to the relative safety of my couch and wondered if I should fire a couple of warning shots through their front bay window. Kind of a preemptive strike on whatever brand of insanity may have brewing been over there. My wife reasoned against it as she’s wont to do on those infrequent occasions when I become agitated.

Since then I have suspected they are some type of Christian crazies. Whenever I hear a family argument about “worshipping false idols” I suspect the worst. One of them probably bought a garden gnome or something and it set off the crazy factor.

I remain vigilant.