One lost rudder, one busted mast, and one flaky daddy-son combo made for one long night scrambling to get ready for one competitive Raingutter Regatta. But in the end, chalk this up to one impressive victory.
Rental Property
I’m the kinda guy who likes to be left alone while visiting the little boys room, especially at work. I’m also fully aware that most people don’t really like to acknowledge that the people working in the restaurant they are dining in actually use the bathroom, so I generally am pretty intent on getting in and out with little fanfare.
Working in a bar, however, can offer it’s own unique obstacles that can interfere with my potty efficiencies.
Fast-forward to me, assuming the position at a discreet local which we will refer to solely as Urinal A, my head resting on my forearm that I have bracing myself against the wall, while my other is busy with, well, you know, when all of a sudden a unkempt gentleman with questionable hygiene announces his arrival by crashing into the bathroom and zig-zagging his way to Urinal B, nearly causing me to pee on my shoe when he bumped into me on his way.
I maintain my stoic gaze forward, trying to ignore the thick breathing as the guy tries to equip himself, when all of a sudden I hear a firehose-esque blast into the back of the porcelain, followed with a deep and satisfying sigh which made me wonder if a cigarette and some spooning might follow. Instead I can feel his eyes shift over to me and I hear,
“You know you can only rent this, right?”
I meet his gaze and noticed that while he is facing me his eyes have crossed over with a dreamy glaze and a curly smirk is plastered on his face.
Zipping up and preparing to stomp on his foot before tossing him head-first into wall, I calmly respond, “Excuse me, Sir?”
“The beer, bro. The beer. You know you can only rent this shit bro! For reeeeeaaal!”
I shoulda’ done it. I so shoulda’ done it…
Waiting for a Rally
Welcome to the Big Leagues
A few weeks ago our local minor league baseball team held a mid-summer promotion as a token of thanks for its sponsors. Because I convinced my restaurant to write them a check with a fair number of zeros behind it early in the spring, my invitation arrived in the mail, crisp and sealed, waiting for an RSVP.
The event had its fair share of appeal. Besides FREE food as well as FREE beer (though I was going to have to tap the Rockies or take a ride on the Silver Bullet, which is asking a lot of a manager of a brewery), they were also opening up the batting cage where we could take a few cuts and test our mettle on the same field where the soon-to-be-big-boys play ball. In all honesty, I could have cared less about batting practice- they had me at FREE food and FREE beer (I can stomach anything, after all). My wife, however, a varsity softball player herself, was intrigued. It was a date!
With all the FREE going around, we went ahead and brought along our son. No reason to deprive him of any discount-priced calories or the chance to see mommy crank a foul ball off her wrists, after all.
Dinner went down smooth, as anything does when you are able to lube it up with ballpark chili and chase it with banquet beer. My wife went down to get her name on the better’s list while I stayed put to get my money’s worth before making my own way down to support her efforts in the cage.
I tried to remain inconspicuous as I tried to find a seat, but at 6’4″, 250lbs and a few plastic cups in, incognito is difficult to do, and before I knew it I was recognized and on the list myself.
Damn.
Off to the dugout I went…
To loosen up and stretch…
…and wait for my intro music to play over the PA system before thousands (or tens) of my adoring fans (people patiently waiting their turn) raised to their feet in thunderous anticipation (drank their free beer and ate their free chili burgers and chips).
Let’s just saw I didn’t disappoint.
The first person to greet me at the steps of the dugout was my son. I picked him up and we celebrated my trivial moment with a big hug and kiss, when I looked deep in his eyes and said,
“Hey, buddy, let me put you down. Daddy really needs to pee.”
As luck would have it, there was a restroom at the end of the dugout. While taking care of business, I felt the door to the tight bathroom open into my back where my son peeked around it and let me know he needed to go as well. Suddenly I realized the opportunity had presented itself to allow me to pass along one of life’s great lessons:
“If you want to play in the Big Leagues, son, you must first pee were the Big Leaguer’s peed on their way to The Show.”
Life’s Little Lessons
We all have those little tidbits we live by– Those little pearls of wisdom we have acquired over the years, instilled in us either by those who raised us or by years of experience, that help craft how we view the world and how we interact within it.
Curious, I asked around a bit to discover a few of these “-isms” some of my peers hold close to the vest as they meander through this little game we call life. Here is just a sampling of the results:
“Do unto others (yadda yadda yadda- we all know where this one is going, BORING!)”
“You’ll always have job security as long as you’re not the biggest retard.”
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Never date a girl who wears orange shorts (I have witnessed the truth of this first-hand).”
“Whatever kind of beer Jesus would brew it would be right.”
“Don’t stick your fingers where you wouldn’t stick your face.”
…and of course…
“Fuck it.”
All this begs the question of what I respond with when asked about my golden rule? That’s easy:
Never, EVER, trust a man wearing loafers with no socks.
This douche is even wearing basketball shorts- SATAN!
Nothing good will EVER come from trusting a man wearing loafers with no socks!
That’s mine. What’s yours?
He was a she, so i didn’t get the job
Can you blame me? I had a miserably long Sunday at work, complete with drunken NFL fans getting all up in my mix with their sour breath and wearing their beer-stained jerseys, coupled with a dining-room full of wannabe pirates drinking a rum-soaked English IPA and singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” complete with references to homosexual roosters (could I seriously make that up even if I tried?). I needed and deserved a cocktail or two ten once I threw my keys on the kitchen table and kicked off my shoes.
Fresh out of beer and not feeling some wine, I cuddled up on the couch downstairs and spooned with a newly-opened bottle of Bombay, who had the courtesy of inviting her friends tonic and a wedge of lime. The four of us enjoyed each others company while upstairs my son slept innocently in his top bunk and my wife watched reality television in our room, both oblivious (not really) to my transgressions taking place in the room directly beneath them.
As the evening transitioned into late night, my nite-owl (my spelling–I think it adds some funk) instincts kicked in and my buzzed sense of calmed quickly twitched itself into a nagging restlessness.
Earlier in the week I finished my feature article for Rails-to-Trails magazine (The Winter 2011 edition due out newsstands across the country in Novemeber, or visit railstotrails.org for more info!), and also finished-up a woodworking project for a restaurant in Denver, and for the first time since I graduated, I don’t know, Prairie Middle School (lemmie hear you, A-Town!) I didn’t have a single extra-curricular activity going on to help distract me from the nagging voices in my head.
“Completely Unacceptable!” I proclaimed out loud (I was drunk) and stumbled to my computer. I somehow rationalized that the tingle in my fingertips was a sign not that I was tanked, but rather that I needed to type, and decided to send out some query letters and land a new project.
I would have been content after sending out out the first two until I realized a bit late that I had a glaring typo in the first five words of my letter that would most likely prevent me from ever hearing from those publications again in my lifetime. But rather than wave the white flag and retreat off to bed, I decided to send out one more, this time perfect and void of any hint of grammatical error, and shoot for a publication that I would have never dreamed of querying if I were sober.
I awoke the next morning feeling like my skull had been cracked open like an eggshell and I had swallowed two small kittens.
“Oh Shit!” I proclaimed, again out loud (I was hungover), as I shot out of bed to go check my email.
Finding this in my inbox, oh shit was right:
Hmmm...(and I really need to learn some basic photoshop)
Thank you for the writer’s lesson, Mr/Ms editor chick/dude. I will go ahead and look elsewhere.
Wordless Wednesday
Don't tred on my flamingo, man...
A Really Expensive Peep Show
The good brother that I am, for the past forever, I have been helping my sister rehabilitate a money-pit investment property that she bought during a momentary lapse with the crack-pipe.
She immediately dubbed it, “The Farm,” a term I think helped convince her of what she believed to be the property’s potential. Something called “The Farm’” after all, can’t help but evoke images of cute grazing goats and magnificent galloping stallions, bountiful gardens, fresh air, and John Deere.
I, on the other hand, quickly embraced a much more realistic if not more snarky nickname for the property. Something that highlighted a bit of its, shall we say, opportunities rather than solely its potential. “A-Rusty-and-Cursed-Tin-Can-of-a-Singlewide-in-the-Middle-of-a-Useless-Five-Acre-Lot-with-Bad-Juju-and-Stray-Cats-in-the-Crawl-Space-who-would-Tear-into-your-Arm-for-Dinner-and-Claw-at-your-Eyes-for-Dessert” seemed to roll of the tongue after a few weeks of hard labor. Eventually I would have to shorten it to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” for the sake of conversation, but you get the point.
"The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED"- A deal at any price!
Let’s fast-forward a couple of years to this summer. Long story short, but rather than return “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” back to its former glory and cash in on the bustling real estate market, my sister has decided to actually reside in it for a while after her pending exodus from New Mexico.
But there was still an issue of a leaky roof that needed to be addressed as well as some other (obvious) details, and with her still living in another state and me having about eighteen jobs in addition to my role as a loving husband ans doting father, we agreed on the need to find some help to get it done. I began to ask around, when one of my friends mentioned his handyman uncle was unemployed and just needed something to keep him busy and pick up some extra cash in the process.
I bit, and Billy, err, Steve came out to work with me a few time so I could get a feel for where he was at. Though by no means a rocket scientist, I got a good vibe that at least he kind of knew what he was doing so I set him free. Armed with a detailed list of things that needed to get done, a few days later Billy err, Steve gave me a call letting me know that he “had just a small section of the roof to go” and was wondering if I could float him some of the cash I owed him when he was done.
Now, in my defense, he was related to one of my best friends, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But sure enough, the next time I made the trek out to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED,” expecting to find a finished product, the roof wasn’t even half done, the part that was looked like a blind monkey did it, and inside I found this-
Funny, there didn't used to be a HOLE IN THE CEILING!!!
and this-
No, I don't think that was meant to be an outdoor shower, either.
And to top it off, Billy err, Steve seems to be halfway to Mexico to boot.
***sigh***
So there I was a few days later, festering about being nearly a thousand dollars of my own personal savings deep into my sister’s investment, filling up a dumpster full of a porous roof, a collapsed ceiling, and tiny little bits of my shattered spirit. That was until I stumbled across this gold mine:
Sorry about the resolution, but then again, how graphic do you need it to be? Pervert...
And now I sit eagerly awaiting a phone call from National Geographic, confident that I will get a handsome return on my own investment, and then some!
A Threatening Realization
Restaurant manager training can run havoc on a girl’s figure, even if that girl happens to be a dude built like a retired linebacker. I knew going in that six weeks of systematically tasting every little bit of deep-fried and butter-bathed goodness on the menu was not going to do much for my waistline, but not until feeling my belt pinch while watching television on a day off halfway through did I realize how bad things might get.
In the spirit of being a good trooper I refused to weigh myself until my training was through; until tonight when I made my triumphant return to the gym to confront the carnage of having had to go UP a belt notch for the sake of my professional development.
+11lbs–SH!!!!!!!!!!!!T
So why am I so sensitive?
The first weekend after moving to Colorado Springs after my promotion to General Manager of the local Hooters (allow me to allow you a few moments to snicker…That never really gets old, does it? Let us continue), two gentlemen were trashed at my bar in the middle of the afternoon. As his companion basically sat comatose with his face nestled comfortably into my bartop, his buddy tried to order another round of shots from my bartender. I stepped in and politely informed the personal hygienically-challenged patron that we would be unable to serve him another drink but would be happy to serve him a 20 piece with hopes that he choke on a chicken wing while the hot sauce melted a hole in his throat- I worded it a bit different, but you get the point.
It may have started innocently enough, but dude turned angry QUICK!
Anyways, needless to say said patron go a bit upset, shot off his stool sending it bouncing backwards off the floor, and started some kind of long tequila-induced spanish-voodoo curse that ended with the only words that I understood:
“I WILL DRAG YOU OUT INTO THAT PARKING LOT AND KICK YOUR FAT FUCKING ASS!!!”
Dude continued to loose his mind, and eventually with the aid of mall security my cooks, I was able to get him out the door with no harm done. Except to my psyche, of course…all I could think about, all I kept hearing in my head, was not the threats of this guy even as he was escorted out in an arm-bar, but the fact he called me F-A-T!
Well, that was the motivation that I needed, and a few months and 50lbs later I was finally back to repectibility (and could run a mile without needing to stop and vomit after 2 minutes). And I suppose I have the tequila-sweating, spanish-voodoo drunk guy to thank for helping me get there. In fact, if anyone knows where I might find him, let him know i still got a 20 piece with his name on them.
Oh, I still got his chicken, alright
Now if you will excuse me, I have to get to bed. I have an early-morning spin class to get to.
Wordless Wednesday
Congrats to my sister who is out with the old...
...and in with the new. ***Disclaimer***- Nobody was hurt in this post. Well, kinda. But all is better now so we can look back at it and laugh a bit. The new one's a nice shade of pink, huh?
