I was let out of the house to go play poker last night with one directive, " bring me home a gallon of milk."
After 4 hours of cards, a six pack of strong beer, and a bag of salt and vinegar chips, I totally forgot about the milk.
I found myself at the convenience store this at 6:30 morning buying milk while hungover, bleery-eyed, and with a thick paste of salt and vinegar gunk coating the entire inside of my mouth.
I've spent the better part of the morning testing the corrosive qualities of coffee against the impenatrable properties of flavored potato chips.
After this I plan on spending the late afternoon looking to see if I can find a toilet that comes with a seat belt.
So, in short, no posting today. Have a good weekend and I'll see you Monday.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Classy
As a young gentleman with my first job out of school, I decided that I'd spend the new found wealth of my first paycheck on a young lady that I had been dating.
I had hoped to woo her with a fancy schmancy weekend at the shore.
We drove to Cape May, and playing 'grown-up' for the first time, checked into a beautiful bed and breakfast and then set upon the town. To further inpress my date I picked the fanciest restaurant I could find and did my best James Bond cool guy impression as we rolled up to the maitre d'.
" Good evening,", see how much cooler I was being than saying 'HOWDY', " We'd like a table for two."
" Very well sir. But the restaurant has a jacket policy."
I was a bit stunned, " A what ?"
" A jacket policy sir. All patrons much wear a dinner jacket."
AH SHIT. Here I was trying to impress this girl....ok screw it enough of the pretense...here I was trying to get laid ! and now this guy was laying some 'dinner jacket' bullshit on me.
He must have seen the look on my face because he followed up with, " But of course if you're here on vacation we do have a house jacket available for your service sir."
Obviously this guy had once tried to get laid himself.
The maitre d' walked went off the rescue me, but came back with a bit of a grim look on his face. He pulled me to the coat room away from my date, " sir, this is the largest jacket that we have, although I am concerned that it might be a bit short in the sleeves."
He held up the coat and I slipped it on. It was a little snug across the back but was doable. I held forward my arms and that's where we ran into trouble. The sleeves ran about half way up my forearms. I quickly put my arms to my sides and the sleeves slipped back down...not quite to my wrists, but if a slouched my shoulders a bit I could almost make it pass.
I looked at him with a hopeful look, " what do you think."
He was caught in a tough spot on this one. " Well, I dunno." the 'SIR' as well as all the affectation left his voice. We were now just two guys...one of whom was pretty well sunk...just having a conversation. " I think that if you try and keep your hands down by your sides you can probably get away with it."
So I put my arms down at my sides and we both put smiles on our faces and we went back out to the lobby. " This way ma'am", the maitre d' was back into character and lead my date out of the lobby with me lumbering in a stiff armed a gorilla walk through the restaurant behind her.
We sat at the table and rather than having to lift my arms out of my lap to look at a menu I went with one of the specials and ordered lamb chops. My date ordered the crab cakes. As we waited for the meals and sipped on the drinks, the anxiety over the jacket situation subsided and I relaxed and enjoyed my company and the surrounding atmosphere. Little else competes with the romance of an open-air dinner by the ocean and I was once again starting to feel like the king of the world.
Our dinners came out looking delicious. Oddly, in addition to bringing out our main course and side dishes, the waiter also brough out our deserts. My date had tapioka pudding and I had lime jello. The timing and the fact that we hadn't ordered desert seemed odd to me, but what the hell did I know. I'd never been to a fancy restaurant before. I didn't even own a jacket ! If they serve desert with the main course then that was fine with me.
I finished up my lamb and had successfully negotiated dinner with short arm motions that disgused the limitations of my jacket. To the trained eye I may have looked a little bit like a T-Rex eating, but at least I was a cool looking T-Rex. My date, who was growing more smitten with me by the minute, was too taken to have noticed a thing.
Then, in the middle of conversation, I reached over and took a heaping spoonful of the lime jello and stuffed it in my mouth.
As my date continued to make conversation alarms went off in my mouth. This was the most atomic jello I had ever had. And it wasn't lime. It was some sort of mint flavored horseradish 4 alarm jello...and my head was on fire. I still had a mouthful of the stuff and didn't know what to do. I very well couldn't spit a mouthful of the stuff onto a napkin...not unless I wanted to spend the night sleeping in the car...by myself. But I wasn't sure that I could swallow this mint flavored lava either. " Screw this", i thought to myself paniced, " down the hatch !". I took the stuff down with one big swallow and washed it down with a gulp of water.
I sat and pretended to be intently listening to my date's story. But after a while the profuse sweating and pallor of my face must have given me away.
" Are you OK ?", she asked, " you don't look very well."
" Oh I'm fine.", I sputtered and continued with my voice cracking a bit, " I think I just need a little water...everything's fine."
She summoned the waiter who rushed over, " Is everything OK sir ?"
" Yes, it's just that...oh my", I was really sweating by now and grabbed a fistfull of napkins and started mopping my brow...thus of course causing my jacket to yank all the way back to my elbow. At this point I didn't care anymore.
" It's just that this is the strongest jello that I have ever eaten in my life !"
The watier looked at me perplexed, " jello sir ?"
" Yeah this whoop-ass jello here is killer !" and I gestured to my bowl full of jello.
" Sir...ummm", he paused as if unsure to continue and then said apologeticly, " sir, that's not jello, that's a mint jelly. Our strong mint jelly is, of course, customarily served with our lamb chops as well as our leg of lamb."
Not knowing to leave well enough alone I pointed at my date's dish, " And her tapioka pudding ?"
" Tartar sauce sir"
" AH ! tartar sause. Yes of course."
So there I sat, in a romantic setting, with a beautiful young girl and the world before me...with my jacket up to my elbows, sweat pouring off of me, a belly full of jelly, and egg on my face.
I should have recognized it then as a portant of things to come.
I had hoped to woo her with a fancy schmancy weekend at the shore.
We drove to Cape May, and playing 'grown-up' for the first time, checked into a beautiful bed and breakfast and then set upon the town. To further inpress my date I picked the fanciest restaurant I could find and did my best James Bond cool guy impression as we rolled up to the maitre d'.
" Good evening,", see how much cooler I was being than saying 'HOWDY', " We'd like a table for two."
" Very well sir. But the restaurant has a jacket policy."
I was a bit stunned, " A what ?"
" A jacket policy sir. All patrons much wear a dinner jacket."
AH SHIT. Here I was trying to impress this girl....ok screw it enough of the pretense...here I was trying to get laid ! and now this guy was laying some 'dinner jacket' bullshit on me.
He must have seen the look on my face because he followed up with, " But of course if you're here on vacation we do have a house jacket available for your service sir."
Obviously this guy had once tried to get laid himself.
The maitre d' walked went off the rescue me, but came back with a bit of a grim look on his face. He pulled me to the coat room away from my date, " sir, this is the largest jacket that we have, although I am concerned that it might be a bit short in the sleeves."
He held up the coat and I slipped it on. It was a little snug across the back but was doable. I held forward my arms and that's where we ran into trouble. The sleeves ran about half way up my forearms. I quickly put my arms to my sides and the sleeves slipped back down...not quite to my wrists, but if a slouched my shoulders a bit I could almost make it pass.
I looked at him with a hopeful look, " what do you think."
He was caught in a tough spot on this one. " Well, I dunno." the 'SIR' as well as all the affectation left his voice. We were now just two guys...one of whom was pretty well sunk...just having a conversation. " I think that if you try and keep your hands down by your sides you can probably get away with it."
So I put my arms down at my sides and we both put smiles on our faces and we went back out to the lobby. " This way ma'am", the maitre d' was back into character and lead my date out of the lobby with me lumbering in a stiff armed a gorilla walk through the restaurant behind her.
We sat at the table and rather than having to lift my arms out of my lap to look at a menu I went with one of the specials and ordered lamb chops. My date ordered the crab cakes. As we waited for the meals and sipped on the drinks, the anxiety over the jacket situation subsided and I relaxed and enjoyed my company and the surrounding atmosphere. Little else competes with the romance of an open-air dinner by the ocean and I was once again starting to feel like the king of the world.
Our dinners came out looking delicious. Oddly, in addition to bringing out our main course and side dishes, the waiter also brough out our deserts. My date had tapioka pudding and I had lime jello. The timing and the fact that we hadn't ordered desert seemed odd to me, but what the hell did I know. I'd never been to a fancy restaurant before. I didn't even own a jacket ! If they serve desert with the main course then that was fine with me.
I finished up my lamb and had successfully negotiated dinner with short arm motions that disgused the limitations of my jacket. To the trained eye I may have looked a little bit like a T-Rex eating, but at least I was a cool looking T-Rex. My date, who was growing more smitten with me by the minute, was too taken to have noticed a thing.
Then, in the middle of conversation, I reached over and took a heaping spoonful of the lime jello and stuffed it in my mouth.
As my date continued to make conversation alarms went off in my mouth. This was the most atomic jello I had ever had. And it wasn't lime. It was some sort of mint flavored horseradish 4 alarm jello...and my head was on fire. I still had a mouthful of the stuff and didn't know what to do. I very well couldn't spit a mouthful of the stuff onto a napkin...not unless I wanted to spend the night sleeping in the car...by myself. But I wasn't sure that I could swallow this mint flavored lava either. " Screw this", i thought to myself paniced, " down the hatch !". I took the stuff down with one big swallow and washed it down with a gulp of water.
I sat and pretended to be intently listening to my date's story. But after a while the profuse sweating and pallor of my face must have given me away.
" Are you OK ?", she asked, " you don't look very well."
" Oh I'm fine.", I sputtered and continued with my voice cracking a bit, " I think I just need a little water...everything's fine."
She summoned the waiter who rushed over, " Is everything OK sir ?"
" Yes, it's just that...oh my", I was really sweating by now and grabbed a fistfull of napkins and started mopping my brow...thus of course causing my jacket to yank all the way back to my elbow. At this point I didn't care anymore.
" It's just that this is the strongest jello that I have ever eaten in my life !"
The watier looked at me perplexed, " jello sir ?"
" Yeah this whoop-ass jello here is killer !" and I gestured to my bowl full of jello.
" Sir...ummm", he paused as if unsure to continue and then said apologeticly, " sir, that's not jello, that's a mint jelly. Our strong mint jelly is, of course, customarily served with our lamb chops as well as our leg of lamb."
Not knowing to leave well enough alone I pointed at my date's dish, " And her tapioka pudding ?"
" Tartar sauce sir"
" AH ! tartar sause. Yes of course."
So there I sat, in a romantic setting, with a beautiful young girl and the world before me...with my jacket up to my elbows, sweat pouring off of me, a belly full of jelly, and egg on my face.
I should have recognized it then as a portant of things to come.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Crazy Ole Melanoma Head
Last night was "Art Night" at the kid's elementary school.
They display a couple of pieces of each kid's artwork in a seemingly random fashion. Then packs of parents and screaming kids wander around in some sort of twisted Easter-egg hunting type ritual, all trying to find their kid's painting of a fruit bowl among the hundreds of other paintings of the exact same fruit bowl.
Oddly enough I find the entire thing kind of entertaining.
Anyway, I successfully found a piece my son had made and excitedly gestured to Mrs. Flick who was down the hall. When I got her attention in the crowded hallway I pointed to the right, where the artwork was, and almost hit some lady in the side of the head and startled her.
" Oh I'm sorry", I apologize, " I almost.....
and with that she turned around to look at me and right there in the center of her face was this gigantic nose.
and so I finished..." ...I almost poked you in the nose."
Meanwhile it was apparent to both of us that, clearly, I didn't come anywhere close to poking her anywhere near her nose.
There was a very awkward pause as both of us stared at her nose for a second. Then I mumbled something about it being really crowded and ran away as fast as I could.
The situation reminded me of this....
At 1:57 I start laughing uncontrolably... every time.
Genius.
They display a couple of pieces of each kid's artwork in a seemingly random fashion. Then packs of parents and screaming kids wander around in some sort of twisted Easter-egg hunting type ritual, all trying to find their kid's painting of a fruit bowl among the hundreds of other paintings of the exact same fruit bowl.
Oddly enough I find the entire thing kind of entertaining.
Anyway, I successfully found a piece my son had made and excitedly gestured to Mrs. Flick who was down the hall. When I got her attention in the crowded hallway I pointed to the right, where the artwork was, and almost hit some lady in the side of the head and startled her.
" Oh I'm sorry", I apologize, " I almost.....
and with that she turned around to look at me and right there in the center of her face was this gigantic nose.
and so I finished..." ...I almost poked you in the nose."
Meanwhile it was apparent to both of us that, clearly, I didn't come anywhere close to poking her anywhere near her nose.
There was a very awkward pause as both of us stared at her nose for a second. Then I mumbled something about it being really crowded and ran away as fast as I could.
The situation reminded me of this....
At 1:57 I start laughing uncontrolably... every time.
Genius.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Ball Cheese
I have a buddy who screens calls and it's a total pain in the ass.
I've been at his house and seen it in action. They turn the ringer all the way down so that you can barely hear it and they have the volume up on the answering machine speaker. So you'll be sitting around watching TV and suddenly you'll hear a BEEP and then some booming words, like the voice of God, reverberating through the house leaving an awkward message.
If they're not doing anything and want to talk to the caller, then one of the two of them picks up the phone. This isn't any less awkward because..
* This startles and confuses the person in the middle of leaving the message
* The person never knows whether to repeat what they've already said to just to continue
* The person had to go through the mental checklist wondering why they were getting screened and what made them unscreened-worthy
The situation, in my opinion, breeds inefficiency, distrust and bad feelings. Every time you call you never know if they're home or screening you... whether you should begin to leave a message or just wait for them to pick up. If they don't pick up...why not ? Are they sitting there chuckling at you ?
See what I mean ?
At some point I decided not to play the game any more. Actually that's not true. What I decided to do was to play my own game. When I called there I just started to leave annoying meaningless gibberish phone messages. I started making noises so annoying that if they were there, they'd be forced to pick up rather then endure. And if they weren't there, they could just turn off the message as soon as they realized it was me and could call me back to see what I really wanted. It was a foolproof plan, or so I thought.
One day I was pretty sure that they were home when I called to chat. Instead of the pick-up I got the usual machine message and readied myself for an onslaught of fart noises, snorts and clearing of my throat that had become my signature.
At the last moment something moved me and I decided to switch it up. Instead of the typical fare I thought I'd spice it up a bit. For reasons still unbeknownst to me the word "ballcheese" popped into my head.
Upon hearing the beep I let loose with a litany of ballcheeses.
BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......
I started out slow and steady like the teacher from Ferris Beuller's day off saying Ferris' last name over and over.
BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......
After I while,when they hadn't answered the phone I thought I'd pick up the pace a bit.
BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE ( and the finisher) BAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLCCCCCCCHHHHHHHEEEEEEESSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !
The still hadn't answered and I figured that they just weren't home. I was going to stop there, but the words just kept flowing off my tongue...
BALLCHEESE
it was just so fun to say, so fun to play with..
BALLCHEESE
I messed with the inflection
ballCHEESE and BALLcheese
I went stucatto
BALCHE....BALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBLACHEBALCHEBALLLCHEEEEEZZZZZ
I giggled like a school girl and went on and on filling up the tape with every variation and twist imaginable.
BAZIZZLE my CHIZZIZLE
And then the coup d'gras. I did a rendition of Sinatra's "Fly me to the Moon" replacing every other word with either 'ball' or cheese'.
“ Fly me to the ballcheese, I want to ballcheese among the ballcheese…” etc, etc, etc
Finally, mercifully, and with tears of joy in my eyes I signed off, " ahhhhhhh, this is Flick, please give me a call".
About 6 hours later I got a call from my buddy.
" Hey, whassup", I answered.
He was whispering and got right to the point, " Listen man I only have a second, my wife is in the other room. DO NOT call here again."
There was some laughter in my voice as I thought he was kidding, " like my message eh ?"
He wasn't kidding, " no, I'm not talking about don't leave any messages, I mean you can't call here anymore. I've forbidden to talk to you for, well, forever. But I think if you lay low for like 6 months or so this might blow over. Just don't call. Call me at work. Here she comes..."
I sat in stunned silence and was baffled until I was finally able to get him at work and get the rest of the story.
He explained, " You know how my wife's mother thinks we're too immature and wants my wife to be more proper and all ? Well she took her Mom out shopping and to lunch on Saturday and for the first time in a long time they had a nice afternoon. So nice that she invited her mother back to the house for some tea. They were sitting conversing when the answering machine went off. At first they both tried to ignore it, figuring you'd hang up after a second. After a minute it was too distracting to they just stopped talking and waited for it to be over. After 5 minutes of you screaming ball cheese at the top of your lungs they just gave up. She said her Mother politely excused herself and went into the bathroom. A little while later, after the reign of terror had subsided, her mother came up with some sudden excuse and left."
" They didn't find anything funny about it ?” ,I hoped against all hope.
" No “
“ Not even the Sinatra part ?”
“ Not even. “
“ Oh. That’s bad then.”
“ Yeah…… Bad.”
To this day I remain on probation. I leave only very polite, very succinct messages on their machine. And I avoid, at all costs, say either the words 'ball' or 'cheese' in her presence.
I've been at his house and seen it in action. They turn the ringer all the way down so that you can barely hear it and they have the volume up on the answering machine speaker. So you'll be sitting around watching TV and suddenly you'll hear a BEEP and then some booming words, like the voice of God, reverberating through the house leaving an awkward message.
If they're not doing anything and want to talk to the caller, then one of the two of them picks up the phone. This isn't any less awkward because..
* This startles and confuses the person in the middle of leaving the message
* The person never knows whether to repeat what they've already said to just to continue
* The person had to go through the mental checklist wondering why they were getting screened and what made them unscreened-worthy
The situation, in my opinion, breeds inefficiency, distrust and bad feelings. Every time you call you never know if they're home or screening you... whether you should begin to leave a message or just wait for them to pick up. If they don't pick up...why not ? Are they sitting there chuckling at you ?
See what I mean ?
At some point I decided not to play the game any more. Actually that's not true. What I decided to do was to play my own game. When I called there I just started to leave annoying meaningless gibberish phone messages. I started making noises so annoying that if they were there, they'd be forced to pick up rather then endure. And if they weren't there, they could just turn off the message as soon as they realized it was me and could call me back to see what I really wanted. It was a foolproof plan, or so I thought.
One day I was pretty sure that they were home when I called to chat. Instead of the pick-up I got the usual machine message and readied myself for an onslaught of fart noises, snorts and clearing of my throat that had become my signature.
At the last moment something moved me and I decided to switch it up. Instead of the typical fare I thought I'd spice it up a bit. For reasons still unbeknownst to me the word "ballcheese" popped into my head.
Upon hearing the beep I let loose with a litany of ballcheeses.
BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......
I started out slow and steady like the teacher from Ferris Beuller's day off saying Ferris' last name over and over.
BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......
After I while,when they hadn't answered the phone I thought I'd pick up the pace a bit.
BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE ( and the finisher) BAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLCCCCCCCHHHHHHHEEEEEEESSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !
The still hadn't answered and I figured that they just weren't home. I was going to stop there, but the words just kept flowing off my tongue...
BALLCHEESE
it was just so fun to say, so fun to play with..
BALLCHEESE
I messed with the inflection
ballCHEESE and BALLcheese
I went stucatto
BALCHE....BALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBLACHEBALCHEBALLLCHEEEEEZZZZZ
I giggled like a school girl and went on and on filling up the tape with every variation and twist imaginable.
BAZIZZLE my CHIZZIZLE
And then the coup d'gras. I did a rendition of Sinatra's "Fly me to the Moon" replacing every other word with either 'ball' or cheese'.
“ Fly me to the ballcheese, I want to ballcheese among the ballcheese…” etc, etc, etc
Finally, mercifully, and with tears of joy in my eyes I signed off, " ahhhhhhh, this is Flick, please give me a call".
About 6 hours later I got a call from my buddy.
" Hey, whassup", I answered.
He was whispering and got right to the point, " Listen man I only have a second, my wife is in the other room. DO NOT call here again."
There was some laughter in my voice as I thought he was kidding, " like my message eh ?"
He wasn't kidding, " no, I'm not talking about don't leave any messages, I mean you can't call here anymore. I've forbidden to talk to you for, well, forever. But I think if you lay low for like 6 months or so this might blow over. Just don't call. Call me at work. Here she comes..."
I sat in stunned silence and was baffled until I was finally able to get him at work and get the rest of the story.
He explained, " You know how my wife's mother thinks we're too immature and wants my wife to be more proper and all ? Well she took her Mom out shopping and to lunch on Saturday and for the first time in a long time they had a nice afternoon. So nice that she invited her mother back to the house for some tea. They were sitting conversing when the answering machine went off. At first they both tried to ignore it, figuring you'd hang up after a second. After a minute it was too distracting to they just stopped talking and waited for it to be over. After 5 minutes of you screaming ball cheese at the top of your lungs they just gave up. She said her Mother politely excused herself and went into the bathroom. A little while later, after the reign of terror had subsided, her mother came up with some sudden excuse and left."
" They didn't find anything funny about it ?” ,I hoped against all hope.
" No “
“ Not even the Sinatra part ?”
“ Not even. “
“ Oh. That’s bad then.”
“ Yeah…… Bad.”
To this day I remain on probation. I leave only very polite, very succinct messages on their machine. And I avoid, at all costs, say either the words 'ball' or 'cheese' in her presence.
Monday, March 26, 2007
smack down
My wife called me last week to tell me that the school called our home to say that our son was involved in some fisticuffs at school.
This was a surprise because, as I've mentioned before, the boy is pretty passive. I won't go so far as to say that he's a pushover, but more often than not he’s content to just go with the flow and follow whomever is being assertive.
I should also point out that the boy is gigantic. He's the biggest kid in 1st grade, and almost the biggest kid in second grade.
He can also pack a punch. When he was taking karate he had a board breaking class. When he was getting ready for his competition he put on hit get-up and took out some sort of modified boxing glove for breaking boards.
I said to him, " go ahead give me your best shot."
He laughed and gave me a tap.
" No, I'm serious", I said, " go ahead."
" My teacher says I should never hit anyone unless they're attacking me."
" No, its ok, its just for fun. Show me what you got."
And with that the boy shrugged his shoulders, wound up and cold clocked me right on the tip of the chin.
For the next half hour I was completely punch drunk and my left eye stuck out like Marty Feldman.
So, in short, he's a gentle giant. So when we heard he was in a fight, it took us by surprise.
The principal explained that no only did he get in a fight, but that the boy he hit had to be picked up by his parents and taken to a dentist because his lip was busted up and his teeth were a little loose. The school also called to say that our son was beside himself that he had hurt the boy.
My wife asked if anyone figured out what had happened and the principal said that the boy who was hurt told her, " I kept picking on the boy and he kept telling me to stop, and I kept teasing him anyway....and then he just leveled me."
So, surprisingly, the school was pretty cool about the whole thing. They were calling us to tell us, but considered the matter closed..."boy-will-be-boys and all".
Of course, the school was the least of my concerns. My bigger worry was going to be calling the parent of the other kid. In my job I see my share of unreasonable people. And when you're kid is involved, people can get real unreasonable, real quick.
I called over to the house and the father answered. I introduced myself and expressed our concern for their son and explained that I had a talk with the boy. I readied myself for whatever was going to come and then was pleasantly surprised by the response. The father said, " I appreciate your concern. From what my son told me he had been teasing your boy on the playground. And after your son asked him to stop of few times, he clocked him. I've told my son a dozen times that if he keeps running around teasing people sooner or later someone is going to clock him. He's fine. The dentist said everything was ok. This will be a good lesson for him, don't worry about it."
I about fell out of my chair. There's still a little bit of old school left in the world.
And you know what, the dude is 100% right.
The incident brought me back my own youth. I remember going to the high school dances in 8th grade. Despite knowing all about being polite, a gentleman, and all the other stuff they try and teach you in Catholic schools, 8th grade boys sometimes can't get past the intense desire to pinch an ass now and again. And copping a feel is exactly what me and my cohorts were doing on Friday night in the crowded dance hall when a older, scarier, and much bigger guy came up to me with his girlfriend standing behind him and pointing.
" So which one of you dipshits grabbed my girlfriends ass ?", the large scary dude asked, looking right at me.
" IT WAS HIM !", she said pointing at me.
And it might as well have been. I was definitely one of the ass-grabbing offenders that night, but that didn't stop me from trying to plead my case,
" Well, you see..."
That's as far as I got before everything went white.
The next thing I saw when I came to was the ceiling. Then a second later the big dude's face appeared over top of me, "Maybe that will help you to remember to keep your fucking hands to yourself." And with that, cool as the other side of the pillow, the dude strolled away.
And you know what ? That dude was also 100% right.
It took getting slugged in the face, but at that moment I came to the realization that you should always treat people with respect. And perhaps more importantly, it taught me that in life there are consequences for your actions. Anytime I start to forget that lesson I have a little scar over my left eyebrow to remind me.
As for the young kid on the playground, I'm glad he's ok and I hope he takes something from the incident. For my son, I think he'd bought himself a couple of years before anyone decides to give him any shit.
This was a surprise because, as I've mentioned before, the boy is pretty passive. I won't go so far as to say that he's a pushover, but more often than not he’s content to just go with the flow and follow whomever is being assertive.
I should also point out that the boy is gigantic. He's the biggest kid in 1st grade, and almost the biggest kid in second grade.
He can also pack a punch. When he was taking karate he had a board breaking class. When he was getting ready for his competition he put on hit get-up and took out some sort of modified boxing glove for breaking boards.
I said to him, " go ahead give me your best shot."
He laughed and gave me a tap.
" No, I'm serious", I said, " go ahead."
" My teacher says I should never hit anyone unless they're attacking me."
" No, its ok, its just for fun. Show me what you got."
And with that the boy shrugged his shoulders, wound up and cold clocked me right on the tip of the chin.
For the next half hour I was completely punch drunk and my left eye stuck out like Marty Feldman.
So, in short, he's a gentle giant. So when we heard he was in a fight, it took us by surprise.
The principal explained that no only did he get in a fight, but that the boy he hit had to be picked up by his parents and taken to a dentist because his lip was busted up and his teeth were a little loose. The school also called to say that our son was beside himself that he had hurt the boy.
My wife asked if anyone figured out what had happened and the principal said that the boy who was hurt told her, " I kept picking on the boy and he kept telling me to stop, and I kept teasing him anyway....and then he just leveled me."
So, surprisingly, the school was pretty cool about the whole thing. They were calling us to tell us, but considered the matter closed..."boy-will-be-boys and all".
Of course, the school was the least of my concerns. My bigger worry was going to be calling the parent of the other kid. In my job I see my share of unreasonable people. And when you're kid is involved, people can get real unreasonable, real quick.
I called over to the house and the father answered. I introduced myself and expressed our concern for their son and explained that I had a talk with the boy. I readied myself for whatever was going to come and then was pleasantly surprised by the response. The father said, " I appreciate your concern. From what my son told me he had been teasing your boy on the playground. And after your son asked him to stop of few times, he clocked him. I've told my son a dozen times that if he keeps running around teasing people sooner or later someone is going to clock him. He's fine. The dentist said everything was ok. This will be a good lesson for him, don't worry about it."
I about fell out of my chair. There's still a little bit of old school left in the world.
And you know what, the dude is 100% right.
The incident brought me back my own youth. I remember going to the high school dances in 8th grade. Despite knowing all about being polite, a gentleman, and all the other stuff they try and teach you in Catholic schools, 8th grade boys sometimes can't get past the intense desire to pinch an ass now and again. And copping a feel is exactly what me and my cohorts were doing on Friday night in the crowded dance hall when a older, scarier, and much bigger guy came up to me with his girlfriend standing behind him and pointing.
" So which one of you dipshits grabbed my girlfriends ass ?", the large scary dude asked, looking right at me.
" IT WAS HIM !", she said pointing at me.
And it might as well have been. I was definitely one of the ass-grabbing offenders that night, but that didn't stop me from trying to plead my case,
" Well, you see..."
That's as far as I got before everything went white.
The next thing I saw when I came to was the ceiling. Then a second later the big dude's face appeared over top of me, "Maybe that will help you to remember to keep your fucking hands to yourself." And with that, cool as the other side of the pillow, the dude strolled away.
And you know what ? That dude was also 100% right.
It took getting slugged in the face, but at that moment I came to the realization that you should always treat people with respect. And perhaps more importantly, it taught me that in life there are consequences for your actions. Anytime I start to forget that lesson I have a little scar over my left eyebrow to remind me.
As for the young kid on the playground, I'm glad he's ok and I hope he takes something from the incident. For my son, I think he'd bought himself a couple of years before anyone decides to give him any shit.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Max Dirt BikeWednesday, March 21, 2007
manic thoughts
On the drive home last night I saw a guy brushing his teeth while driving. If that wasn't weird enough in an of itself...he was brushing his teeth by holding his toothbrush still and then shaking his head "no" as fast as he could. I almost turned the car around to follow him. A guy like that has to be interesting.
One of my toes ( I'm thinking the second toe on my right foot) must be weird because I keep getting a little hole in my socks. Always in a bad spot and always only on one sock. It's really freaking annoying. It just happened to me again this morning and was making me crazy so I put 9 staples in my sock to close the hole. I'd rather deal with scraping my toe with metal than have it poking through the hole.
I think my co worker is coming in my office and fucking with my stapler. There's a little metal piece that the staple slams into the turns the points of the staple either in or out ( I'm serious, check it out) and it seems like my metal plate is always turned out. And I'm pretty sure that I keep turning it in. I was going to confront him about it but thought that if I'm wrong he's going to think that I'm totally insane..you know confronting him in a paranoid way like that...so I decided on a different course of action. I offered to buy the office donuts and gave him a $10 bill and sent him out to go buy the donuts. While he was out I went into his office and fucked with both of his staplers. If it was him, he'll get it. If it wasn't, then he probably won't think anything of it.
My wife never throws anything away. I throw everything away...except books. I was tossing out a gigantic pile of all my kids shit the other day and I came across a pile of stupid little kid books that no one will ever read and I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. It just felt wrong. I finally tossed out a couple of books that had ripped pages or torn covered, but I kinda felt bad about it. Sort of like killing a fly after you spent a couple of minutes after politely trying to shoosh it out the door without having to kill it. Finally you get tired of the moral conflict and say fuck it and start smashing shit.
Coloring books are the exception. I have no problem throwing out coloring books...i actually find them to be somewhat offensive. To run with the anology, think cockroaches.
A lesson poker has taught me: If you want people to be predictable, then you have to be predictable. If you act erraticly, then they'll act erraticly. People are much easier to deal with when not acting erraticly.
Poker lesson 2: Chicks are a lot more aware of the power of their breasts than they ever let on.
OK, I better stop there. The rest of the stuff in my head is a lot more disturbing...better to keep that under wraps.
One of my toes ( I'm thinking the second toe on my right foot) must be weird because I keep getting a little hole in my socks. Always in a bad spot and always only on one sock. It's really freaking annoying. It just happened to me again this morning and was making me crazy so I put 9 staples in my sock to close the hole. I'd rather deal with scraping my toe with metal than have it poking through the hole.
I think my co worker is coming in my office and fucking with my stapler. There's a little metal piece that the staple slams into the turns the points of the staple either in or out ( I'm serious, check it out) and it seems like my metal plate is always turned out. And I'm pretty sure that I keep turning it in. I was going to confront him about it but thought that if I'm wrong he's going to think that I'm totally insane..you know confronting him in a paranoid way like that...so I decided on a different course of action. I offered to buy the office donuts and gave him a $10 bill and sent him out to go buy the donuts. While he was out I went into his office and fucked with both of his staplers. If it was him, he'll get it. If it wasn't, then he probably won't think anything of it.
My wife never throws anything away. I throw everything away...except books. I was tossing out a gigantic pile of all my kids shit the other day and I came across a pile of stupid little kid books that no one will ever read and I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. It just felt wrong. I finally tossed out a couple of books that had ripped pages or torn covered, but I kinda felt bad about it. Sort of like killing a fly after you spent a couple of minutes after politely trying to shoosh it out the door without having to kill it. Finally you get tired of the moral conflict and say fuck it and start smashing shit.
Coloring books are the exception. I have no problem throwing out coloring books...i actually find them to be somewhat offensive. To run with the anology, think cockroaches.
A lesson poker has taught me: If you want people to be predictable, then you have to be predictable. If you act erraticly, then they'll act erraticly. People are much easier to deal with when not acting erraticly.
Poker lesson 2: Chicks are a lot more aware of the power of their breasts than they ever let on.
OK, I better stop there. The rest of the stuff in my head is a lot more disturbing...better to keep that under wraps.
Monday, March 19, 2007
St. Patrick's Day Miracle
Saturday I woke at 7 am, still drunk.
I went into the bathroom and as I was pulling down my pants noticed I had a small hole in the waistband of my underpants. After finishing up, instead of pulling up my pants I just pulled up my underwear and looked in the mirror to see how big of a hole RickRubin put in my drawers when giving me a wedgie.
Sure enough, right under the waistband, there was the dime sized hole that I could feel. What I hadn't noticed, but was now clearly visible in the mirror was that below the dime sized was a small swatch of cloth...below the cloth was my pimply white ass. The entire ass of my underpants was completely blown out.
I was so hung-over, and still drunk, and just couldn't deal with it. I pulled up my pants, threw on some boots, and went out front to shovel...blown out ass and all.
I came in about an hour later much worse for the ware. Mrs. Flick came downstairs and had no mercy. She immediately started outlining the activities for the day. The itinerary was as follows:
* Drive down to Conestoga
* Pick up 4 year old daughter
* drive daughter over to Wal_Mart
* shop for birthday presents
* Take kid to 4 year old birthday party
I started to protest then thought better. I was a dead man either way, I might as well take my lumps.
Due to the weather and my condition, it took me an hour to get to Conestoga. Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish. I had the mini-van rocking and by the time I got there I was green as a leprechaun. I tossed the girl in the car and started my way out of the river hills...Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish.
When we got to Wal-Mart I was done. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it. I was sick, I was tired, my head was ready to explode. I couldn't see any way to shop, let alone go to a party.
Now I'm not a religious person....generally speaking, I don't believe in miracles or divine intervention...but the series of events that occurred next have lead me to reconsider my position. What occurred next made me think that St. Patrick himself stepped up and directed the holy spirit to have mercy on my soul. They say that it takes 3 miracles to make a saint and as far as I'm concerned, St. Pat made his bones with me.
#1 - As we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot I saw my daughters head slump forward and she fell asleep. I gingerly pulled into a spot so as not to disturb her. Her sleeping bag from her sleepover sat in the passengers seat next to me. I leaned over and placed my head on it and immediately went out. I think I only slept for about 15 minutes, but it was all the difference in the world. It gave me the boost I needed and I went in, bought some " My Little Pony" crap. Got some cards and gift bags and was on my way.
#2 - We got to the parking lot of the party. I put the gifts in the bag, stuffed it full of paper, and got the cards ready. The party was for twins, so I had to identify which present was for which kid. The problem was, when I left for the party my wife gave me explicit instructions which included the names of the girls who's party it was. Pretty much that was the ONLY thing I was supposed to remember. Now I was sitting outside of the party and had no idea.
I asked my daughter, " what are your friends names ?"...." they're twins daddy."..."yeah, but what are their names ?"..." um, I don't remember."...." how can you NOT remember...the girls in the class that are twins..come on"...." Daddy, you're being mean..you're going to make me cry"...." no, no, no.....don't cry...cause Daddy's going to start crying in about two seconds"
Just then the door of the party placed opened. Out walked a teenaged girl carrying a sandwich-board sign. She put the sign down, pulled out a big felt tipped marker, and wrote in giant letters that I could see from the parking lot. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAGARETTE AND ISABELLA. Bingo !
Miracle #3 - I was doing a little better but I was not out of the woods. I still was going to have to endure 1 and 1/2 hours of screaming kids and birthday folly. We went into the party and the mother of the girls walked up to me...." Thanks for bringing your daughter, see you in a while."
Huh ?! I thought I might still be drunk and getting delusional.
She must have seen the confusion on my face... "You don't need to hang out with all us women, if you'd like to go, just come back in about an hour. We're good here."
Stunned, I walked out front into the cold air figuring I'd just sleep in the van for a while. Then I looked up and saw it....I don't know how I had missed it earlier...I was standing across the street from the off track betting parlor.
Instead of doing the hokey-pokey and singing "happy birthday" out of tune.....I spent the next hour eating a big lunch, drinking a gallon of coke, and resting quietly in a dark corner. I also hit the 3 - 5 - 8 trifecta for a dollar boxed in the 4th race at Tampa and walked out of the place with more money than I walked in with.
Like I said... a Saint Patrick’s Day Miracle.
I went into the bathroom and as I was pulling down my pants noticed I had a small hole in the waistband of my underpants. After finishing up, instead of pulling up my pants I just pulled up my underwear and looked in the mirror to see how big of a hole RickRubin put in my drawers when giving me a wedgie.
Sure enough, right under the waistband, there was the dime sized hole that I could feel. What I hadn't noticed, but was now clearly visible in the mirror was that below the dime sized was a small swatch of cloth...below the cloth was my pimply white ass. The entire ass of my underpants was completely blown out.
I was so hung-over, and still drunk, and just couldn't deal with it. I pulled up my pants, threw on some boots, and went out front to shovel...blown out ass and all.
I came in about an hour later much worse for the ware. Mrs. Flick came downstairs and had no mercy. She immediately started outlining the activities for the day. The itinerary was as follows:
* Drive down to Conestoga
* Pick up 4 year old daughter
* drive daughter over to Wal_Mart
* shop for birthday presents
* Take kid to 4 year old birthday party
I started to protest then thought better. I was a dead man either way, I might as well take my lumps.
Due to the weather and my condition, it took me an hour to get to Conestoga. Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish. I had the mini-van rocking and by the time I got there I was green as a leprechaun. I tossed the girl in the car and started my way out of the river hills...Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish.
When we got to Wal-Mart I was done. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it. I was sick, I was tired, my head was ready to explode. I couldn't see any way to shop, let alone go to a party.
Now I'm not a religious person....generally speaking, I don't believe in miracles or divine intervention...but the series of events that occurred next have lead me to reconsider my position. What occurred next made me think that St. Patrick himself stepped up and directed the holy spirit to have mercy on my soul. They say that it takes 3 miracles to make a saint and as far as I'm concerned, St. Pat made his bones with me.
#1 - As we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot I saw my daughters head slump forward and she fell asleep. I gingerly pulled into a spot so as not to disturb her. Her sleeping bag from her sleepover sat in the passengers seat next to me. I leaned over and placed my head on it and immediately went out. I think I only slept for about 15 minutes, but it was all the difference in the world. It gave me the boost I needed and I went in, bought some " My Little Pony" crap. Got some cards and gift bags and was on my way.
#2 - We got to the parking lot of the party. I put the gifts in the bag, stuffed it full of paper, and got the cards ready. The party was for twins, so I had to identify which present was for which kid. The problem was, when I left for the party my wife gave me explicit instructions which included the names of the girls who's party it was. Pretty much that was the ONLY thing I was supposed to remember. Now I was sitting outside of the party and had no idea.
I asked my daughter, " what are your friends names ?"...." they're twins daddy."..."yeah, but what are their names ?"..." um, I don't remember."...." how can you NOT remember...the girls in the class that are twins..come on"...." Daddy, you're being mean..you're going to make me cry"...." no, no, no.....don't cry...cause Daddy's going to start crying in about two seconds"
Just then the door of the party placed opened. Out walked a teenaged girl carrying a sandwich-board sign. She put the sign down, pulled out a big felt tipped marker, and wrote in giant letters that I could see from the parking lot. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAGARETTE AND ISABELLA. Bingo !
Miracle #3 - I was doing a little better but I was not out of the woods. I still was going to have to endure 1 and 1/2 hours of screaming kids and birthday folly. We went into the party and the mother of the girls walked up to me...." Thanks for bringing your daughter, see you in a while."
Huh ?! I thought I might still be drunk and getting delusional.
She must have seen the confusion on my face... "You don't need to hang out with all us women, if you'd like to go, just come back in about an hour. We're good here."
Stunned, I walked out front into the cold air figuring I'd just sleep in the van for a while. Then I looked up and saw it....I don't know how I had missed it earlier...I was standing across the street from the off track betting parlor.
Instead of doing the hokey-pokey and singing "happy birthday" out of tune.....I spent the next hour eating a big lunch, drinking a gallon of coke, and resting quietly in a dark corner. I also hit the 3 - 5 - 8 trifecta for a dollar boxed in the 4th race at Tampa and walked out of the place with more money than I walked in with.
Like I said... a Saint Patrick’s Day Miracle.
St. Patty's Weekend Top 10
10 - Number of drinks I had, minus shots, between 1 pm and 5 pm on Friday.
9 - o'clock, when I mercifully passed out in my living room.
8 - as in inches...as in the size of the hole in my underpants after I lost a wrestling match that turned into a uber-weggie. And yes I'm almost 40 years old and yes, I'm probably gay, get over it.
7 - Time I woke up and shoveled the driveway...still drunk.
6 - Number of guys that we started with at the bar at noon.
5 - The number of those guys that did NOT end up in the hospital at the end of the night. ** tip to self - stop encouraging the diabetic to do shots.
4 - Number of times I called my buddies wife to tell her, " Don't worry I'll make sure he gets home safely."....which of course it came out, " doanworryboutit...imakedahomesabbly", which I'm sure was terribly reassuring.
3 - Number of irish car bombs I drank.
2 - Number of pairs of fat pants that I broke down and bought. That's right, size 38 waist.
1 - Number of times I begged my wife to not make me go to a little kids birthday party on Saturday afternoon. Coincidently, also the number of times she said, " You're going...idiot"
Thank goodness it only comes once a year.
9 - o'clock, when I mercifully passed out in my living room.
8 - as in inches...as in the size of the hole in my underpants after I lost a wrestling match that turned into a uber-weggie. And yes I'm almost 40 years old and yes, I'm probably gay, get over it.
7 - Time I woke up and shoveled the driveway...still drunk.
6 - Number of guys that we started with at the bar at noon.
5 - The number of those guys that did NOT end up in the hospital at the end of the night. ** tip to self - stop encouraging the diabetic to do shots.
4 - Number of times I called my buddies wife to tell her, " Don't worry I'll make sure he gets home safely."....which of course it came out, " doanworryboutit...imakedahomesabbly", which I'm sure was terribly reassuring.
3 - Number of irish car bombs I drank.
2 - Number of pairs of fat pants that I broke down and bought. That's right, size 38 waist.
1 - Number of times I begged my wife to not make me go to a little kids birthday party on Saturday afternoon. Coincidently, also the number of times she said, " You're going...idiot"
Thank goodness it only comes once a year.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Golf Story
I grew up near a 9 hole municipal golf course that was built, in part, as a recreational facility for the steel workers just outside of Levittown.
The course is affectionately referred to as ‘ the goat path’ and it lives up to it’s billing. It floods on a regular basis, the tees are just the regular grass cut a little shorter, and the fairways and the rough are indistinguishable except that the fairways seem to actually have grass in among the weeds. Perhaps the most troubling thing about the course at this time this story is told, is that a mild winter had encouraged a flock of Canadian snow geese to stop their migration and as we moved well into the summer the bird just never left. Between the feathers and the turds, the course was turning into the bottom of a parakeet cage.
Despite its limitations, for years the course has been the source of fun and camaraderie for people of the community and a great learning ground for youth players many of whom have gone on to play golf in college, or as is the case with my brother, onto the professional ranks.
About 10 years or so ago, a bunch of the regular players decided that the club should have a championship. They agreed upon a format and set at date. At my parent’s, that date was circled with a big red market and written in the box was “ the Club Championship”.
My Mom had taken on a part time job at the course and for my father, this was heaven. You see my father is a golfing addict, and my Mom had then become his dealer. Free golf from dawn till disk and my Dad took advantage of every opportunity. Dad had become obsessed and if beating the goat path had turned my father into Lancelot then this tournament was to be his Holy Grail.
For day after day that summer he toiled out in the open sun honing his game. He learned the nuance of every green on the course, he had yardage and club selection down pat, and in case of emergency he become one of the few, if not only, people to learn how to hit out of the hard packed dirt that occupied the bunkers.
Finally the tournament day came. Actually the tournament was to be held over two weekends. In the first weekend the golfers were to play two rounds (18 holes), then the top 8 scores would qualify for the finals. The finals would be the following weekend and were set up in brackets like the NCAA pool everyone got a seeding according their scores and 1 played 8 and 2 played 7 etc etc in 9 hole match play competition ….Until the final two players would contest a final 18 hole round head-to-head to determine the champion.
After the first day, things went as planned. My dad won the medal play and was seeded in first place. The other eight were an assortment of local blue collar regulars as well as an unknown outsider, James Woo who was seeded 4th. My Dad cruised through both and second round matches….the man was on fire. He was tee to green perfect and all the putting practice had paid off. The first match was over by the 6th hole when he was 4 up with 3 to play. And the second contestant made it 7 before going down 3 and 2. In an act that was more hopeful optimist than hubris a small area was cleared above the TV stand that night, and Dad went to bed on Saturday with only Mr. Woo and 18 holes of match play between him and the Cup.
The final match was epic. The two men chased each other all over the goat path matching each other stroke for stroke. Dad went up one with a great putt on 3 only to have Woo get back even on the next hole with a birdie. Back and forth it went and the tention of the game grew as did the size of the gallery of locals following the match.
After 18 hard fought holes to two men found themselves tied.
It was getting to be the end of the day and the sun was just beginning to settle and the air beginning to cool. The two men took a brief break at the clubhouse for a soda and a trip to the bathroom and then they headed out. It was agreed that they would go back out to the first hole and then play a sudden death format. The first player to win a hole would be declared champion.
By this time, most of the other groups had finished thier play for the day and lined up along the first tee to watch the playoff. The crowd was obviously partisan. When Mr. Woo hit his drive there was barely a murmur. My Dad lined up, and his tee shot down the middle of the fairway was met with thundreous applause. It seemed that the " you-da-mans!" were going to be reserved for the hometown guy.
1st hole - both players in the fairway...both on the green...and two putt pars put them off to hole number two.
As had been the case all day long, the tee shots on the 20th hole had both players within yards of each other, both in the fairway....neither conceeding a thing to their opponent. However, the second shot finally saw the pressure of the situation cause a small crack in the armor. Mr. Woo hit a shot that landed short, checked up and trickled onto the very edge of the green. It was on the dance floor but as far away from the hole as you could be. Instead of taking advantage of the mistep, Dad had a lapse of concentration and pulled the ball leaving it 30 yards right of the green.
The gallery formed around my father's ball with a reverent silence. Men who hadn't prayed in years quietly chanted in their heads..." please God, the trophy has to stay here at the club. I promise that I'll cut back on the drinkin' and blaspheming...just don't let the Chinaman take our Cup away."
Oblivious to the crowd, the world around him, and even to the geese running around freaked out by all comotion, my father stepped over his ball with the focused concentation of a spinal surgeon. He laid the face of his loft wedge open and made a big slow arching backswing. At the very top of the swing it seemed as if the whole world paused for the briefest of moments along with his club and then TWWWAACCCCKKKKKKK ...he came down across the ball sending it in a high arching orbit into the pinkish dusk sky and onto the green....... 2 inches from the hole.
The crowd went nuts.
Mr. Woo conceeded the putt and was going to need to make the hole in two putts in order to force another playoff hole. My dad went from danger to the driver seat in one miraculous shot. He trotted up to the green retrieved his ball and ran back to the group with a series of high fives and atta-boys as Mr. Woo stepped walked to his ball.
Mr. Woo was rattled. He grimaced and stepped over his putt nervously knowing that he had to get it close. The fluid putting style that he had shown all day was gone he took a stabbing jab at the ball that was too hard and obviously too wide and the ball careened off the putter at a queer angle. A sea of poorly hidden smiles broke out across the gallery as they tracked the ball now flying across the green.
Then the unthinkable happened.
As was customarily necessary at the goat-path, Mr. Woo had cleared a path of the goose dropping and feathers from his putting path. The gave him a clean line at the hole. His ball, however, was no longer heading toward the hole and therefore no longer on that cleared path.
The ball, which was on a path to end up a long 10 feet left and another 10 feet past its mark suddenly hit the biggest, fattest goose turd on the course. On making contact with the bird poo the ball hopped a foot in the air. The ball checked up, slowing down considerably, and ( skid mark and all) jutted back to the right. You could hear the collective gasp as the ball returned to the putting surface. It rolled another 4 feet, hesitated, and then disappeared into the hole for ( appropriately enough) a birdie...and the win.
Respectfully, if quietly, Mr. Woo was presented with his trophy at the clubhouse in a small ceremony. He loaded his stuff into his Honda and drove off into the evening with the Champions Cup and a satisfied smile. My Dad never let the situation break his spirit and I've never heard him complain about his bad fortune...that's not his style. He congratulated his opponent, moved on, and he's continued to improve his game shotting in the low 80's and into the 70's on a regular basis. But despite his stoic extrior, I sense there's exists a small spot on his heart, as spot just about the same size as the small area still cleared on the mantle above the TV stand.
The course is affectionately referred to as ‘ the goat path’ and it lives up to it’s billing. It floods on a regular basis, the tees are just the regular grass cut a little shorter, and the fairways and the rough are indistinguishable except that the fairways seem to actually have grass in among the weeds. Perhaps the most troubling thing about the course at this time this story is told, is that a mild winter had encouraged a flock of Canadian snow geese to stop their migration and as we moved well into the summer the bird just never left. Between the feathers and the turds, the course was turning into the bottom of a parakeet cage.
Despite its limitations, for years the course has been the source of fun and camaraderie for people of the community and a great learning ground for youth players many of whom have gone on to play golf in college, or as is the case with my brother, onto the professional ranks.
About 10 years or so ago, a bunch of the regular players decided that the club should have a championship. They agreed upon a format and set at date. At my parent’s, that date was circled with a big red market and written in the box was “ the Club Championship”.
My Mom had taken on a part time job at the course and for my father, this was heaven. You see my father is a golfing addict, and my Mom had then become his dealer. Free golf from dawn till disk and my Dad took advantage of every opportunity. Dad had become obsessed and if beating the goat path had turned my father into Lancelot then this tournament was to be his Holy Grail.
For day after day that summer he toiled out in the open sun honing his game. He learned the nuance of every green on the course, he had yardage and club selection down pat, and in case of emergency he become one of the few, if not only, people to learn how to hit out of the hard packed dirt that occupied the bunkers.
Finally the tournament day came. Actually the tournament was to be held over two weekends. In the first weekend the golfers were to play two rounds (18 holes), then the top 8 scores would qualify for the finals. The finals would be the following weekend and were set up in brackets like the NCAA pool everyone got a seeding according their scores and 1 played 8 and 2 played 7 etc etc in 9 hole match play competition ….Until the final two players would contest a final 18 hole round head-to-head to determine the champion.
After the first day, things went as planned. My dad won the medal play and was seeded in first place. The other eight were an assortment of local blue collar regulars as well as an unknown outsider, James Woo who was seeded 4th. My Dad cruised through both and second round matches….the man was on fire. He was tee to green perfect and all the putting practice had paid off. The first match was over by the 6th hole when he was 4 up with 3 to play. And the second contestant made it 7 before going down 3 and 2. In an act that was more hopeful optimist than hubris a small area was cleared above the TV stand that night, and Dad went to bed on Saturday with only Mr. Woo and 18 holes of match play between him and the Cup.
The final match was epic. The two men chased each other all over the goat path matching each other stroke for stroke. Dad went up one with a great putt on 3 only to have Woo get back even on the next hole with a birdie. Back and forth it went and the tention of the game grew as did the size of the gallery of locals following the match.
After 18 hard fought holes to two men found themselves tied.
It was getting to be the end of the day and the sun was just beginning to settle and the air beginning to cool. The two men took a brief break at the clubhouse for a soda and a trip to the bathroom and then they headed out. It was agreed that they would go back out to the first hole and then play a sudden death format. The first player to win a hole would be declared champion.
By this time, most of the other groups had finished thier play for the day and lined up along the first tee to watch the playoff. The crowd was obviously partisan. When Mr. Woo hit his drive there was barely a murmur. My Dad lined up, and his tee shot down the middle of the fairway was met with thundreous applause. It seemed that the " you-da-mans!" were going to be reserved for the hometown guy.
1st hole - both players in the fairway...both on the green...and two putt pars put them off to hole number two.
As had been the case all day long, the tee shots on the 20th hole had both players within yards of each other, both in the fairway....neither conceeding a thing to their opponent. However, the second shot finally saw the pressure of the situation cause a small crack in the armor. Mr. Woo hit a shot that landed short, checked up and trickled onto the very edge of the green. It was on the dance floor but as far away from the hole as you could be. Instead of taking advantage of the mistep, Dad had a lapse of concentration and pulled the ball leaving it 30 yards right of the green.
The gallery formed around my father's ball with a reverent silence. Men who hadn't prayed in years quietly chanted in their heads..." please God, the trophy has to stay here at the club. I promise that I'll cut back on the drinkin' and blaspheming...just don't let the Chinaman take our Cup away."
Oblivious to the crowd, the world around him, and even to the geese running around freaked out by all comotion, my father stepped over his ball with the focused concentation of a spinal surgeon. He laid the face of his loft wedge open and made a big slow arching backswing. At the very top of the swing it seemed as if the whole world paused for the briefest of moments along with his club and then TWWWAACCCCKKKKKKK ...he came down across the ball sending it in a high arching orbit into the pinkish dusk sky and onto the green....... 2 inches from the hole.
The crowd went nuts.
Mr. Woo conceeded the putt and was going to need to make the hole in two putts in order to force another playoff hole. My dad went from danger to the driver seat in one miraculous shot. He trotted up to the green retrieved his ball and ran back to the group with a series of high fives and atta-boys as Mr. Woo stepped walked to his ball.
Mr. Woo was rattled. He grimaced and stepped over his putt nervously knowing that he had to get it close. The fluid putting style that he had shown all day was gone he took a stabbing jab at the ball that was too hard and obviously too wide and the ball careened off the putter at a queer angle. A sea of poorly hidden smiles broke out across the gallery as they tracked the ball now flying across the green.
Then the unthinkable happened.
As was customarily necessary at the goat-path, Mr. Woo had cleared a path of the goose dropping and feathers from his putting path. The gave him a clean line at the hole. His ball, however, was no longer heading toward the hole and therefore no longer on that cleared path.
The ball, which was on a path to end up a long 10 feet left and another 10 feet past its mark suddenly hit the biggest, fattest goose turd on the course. On making contact with the bird poo the ball hopped a foot in the air. The ball checked up, slowing down considerably, and ( skid mark and all) jutted back to the right. You could hear the collective gasp as the ball returned to the putting surface. It rolled another 4 feet, hesitated, and then disappeared into the hole for ( appropriately enough) a birdie...and the win.
Respectfully, if quietly, Mr. Woo was presented with his trophy at the clubhouse in a small ceremony. He loaded his stuff into his Honda and drove off into the evening with the Champions Cup and a satisfied smile. My Dad never let the situation break his spirit and I've never heard him complain about his bad fortune...that's not his style. He congratulated his opponent, moved on, and he's continued to improve his game shotting in the low 80's and into the 70's on a regular basis. But despite his stoic extrior, I sense there's exists a small spot on his heart, as spot just about the same size as the small area still cleared on the mantle above the TV stand.
Monday, March 12, 2007
why I drink
Why do I drink ? You see it's simple.
I'll give you Saturday night for an example.
I started a poker league. Its a year long series and Saturday was the first event for the year. I invited a bunch of players, had a couple of people coming from out of town, and was excited to get the thing started.
A couple of weeks after setting the whole thing up, two good friends decide to hold suprise birthday parties for their spouses at the same time, on the same night. Obviously bad timing for me. So I'm between a rock and a hard place and a week out I'm already stressed about how to try to fit in all in. So after some quick math, I work it out and tell the host that I can get to the first party and I'm good until 7:30...then I can get home in time for everyone to arrive at my place.
I got to the party early. Like 20 minutes early, which considering who I'm married to is understated. That's like saying that Doogie Houser graduated high school early. Unfortunately we sat at the bar for 25 minutes until everyone got there.
Now I was trying to enjoy myself and be polite but the clock was running and I realized that by the time that we got seated and got menus and people showed up, that I was going to have to leave just as everyone was getting settled in... and I was going to look like a douchebag. So by showing up, I'm a bigger asshole than if I didn't come.
I should note that I'm a socially manic person. Severely. Either I'm entirely comfortable ( rare and often facilitated by copious ammts of alcohol) or I'm disturbingly uncomfortable and paranoid, especially in groups. Let me just say that I wasn't drinking and you can derive your own conclussions as to my state of mind.
I tried to stay focused and make conversation where appropriate and then my phone started to ring off the hook. People were calling to cancel, calling to ask if they could come, or asking directions to my house. I self-consiously excused myself, handled the calls, finally turned off my phone. Then went to the bathroom, took a leak, washed my face and collected myself. "OK", I thought to myself " stop getting worked up, everything is fine...just go back out there, relax, enjoy myself, make some conversation and when you have to leave, politely excuse yourself and do what you have to do. No one will even notice that I'm there or that I've left"
Somewhat calmed I started back to the table.
Then I could see HIM. Wearing, of all things, a bright orange shirt, like the color of a DOT workman or a hunter. I could see him from the other side of the restaurant. And he was seated in the chair right next to me. It was the doucheblogcyclist , my arch-nemisis.
This guy has a PHd in fucking with people. He has a annoying tic. I don't mean he has a tic that I find annoying. I mean his tic is being annoying. He has super powers that allow him to find whatever thing makes you the most uncomfortable...then he focuses in on it, and keeps pushing that button until you crack.
And in this situation I was wearing I giant " fuck with me" button right in the center of my forehead.
I took a deep breath....this was going to be fine...I'm overreacting...we're all adults now...I'm sure he's going to be polite. As inconspiculously as possible I slid back into my seat and offered a polite hello.
" HEY FLICK ! I DON'T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT, YOU'RE NOT THAT FAT !!!"
Everyone stopped their conversation, turned to see what all the commotion was, stare at the two of us, and I suppose, assess just how fat I've gotten.
So much for people not knowing that I was there.
Of course my natural instinct was to find a snow shovel or a broom handle and start swinging. But out of respect for the birthday girl and out of a desire to be as invisible as possbile I just smiled, started eating a roll and didn't say shit for about 15 minutes.
After a while I started feeling awkward for not saying anything, so I tried to make idle conversation with the side of the table away from my tormentor. I mentioned that a mutual aquaintence had just won a poker tornament for $115,000. That prompted a joking comment about when I might win a tourament and make some money. As I began to explain that I play for pennies and for fun, a voiced bellowed from behind me..
" FLICK IS GOING TO WIN THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER ...HE'S ALMOST A SEMI-PROFESSIONAL !!!! HARDEE HAR HAR HAR !!!"
That was all I could take. I gathered up my shit, shaking with with self-conscious embarassment trumped only by rage, and got up to leave.
I looked over to Mrs. Flick who, for the first time all week was sitting there with a beer and a smile on her face. Just because I was on the verge of committing a felony, there was no reason for her to leave. I quietly told her, " I'm going, you should stay". Of course, she said, " No, I'll go with you." and her friends said, " no, stay stay" and then it all started up.
Instead of slinking off into the shadows, I was standing in the middle of the room engaged in 5 differnt conversations, " you should stay", "how will I get home ?"..." I'll get you"..." Where's he going ?"..." I think he's going to play poker"..." Do you think he has a gambling problem"..." You don't want you to come back and get me"..." I don't mind"..." gambling problem ? I hear he's a semi-professional hardee har har"
I finally said, " call me when you want to come home and I ran out of there. I went directly to the pizza shop across the street, ordered a large draft and chugged it.
You'd think the story would end here. You problably wish it would. Me too.
I got to my house and we started playing. Then my phone rang...the caller ID read 'doucheblogcyclist". In the middle of the hand I picked it up....no one there. Two minutes later it rang again...now the guys at the game started giving me shit, " dude, what's with the phone calls are you playing poker or what". Doucheblog again. Hang-up again.
Now I excused myself and called him, " WHAT ?"
" Heh heh heh. I didn't call you."
Two minutes later phone rings again. Now I'm pissed, " WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ?"
It was Mrs. Flick. Oops.
" I'm sorry to bother you" she said, " I'll take a cab." then I could hear everyone in the background saying " no, we'll drive you...he's not coming to get you ?", meanwhile, I hadn't said shit.
" NO, I'm coming to get you like I said I would, it's no problem I'll be there in a minute"
I excused myself from the tournament, costing myself some chips but no big deal, and set off to fetch my wife.
When I got to the restaurant it was pouring rain. The parking lot was not only full, but all the arrogant assholes who were too good that have to park and walk in the rain had parked in the fire lane, and all the other paved areas anywhere near the front doors. I was going to have to park a quarter mile away. " fuck this" I thought, " She's right there waiting for me."
I double parked in the middle of the parking lot and turned the flashers on and ran to atrium. No Mrs. Flick. I went inside to the sitting area. No Mrs. Flick. I walked trought the packed bar...nada. Finally I ran upstairs to where to party was and she was sitting there at the table drinking a beer. " Umm, hun we gotta go."
" Oh HI. Thanks for getting me. Let me finish my beer and say goodbye."...she was killing me. I was pretty sure that by this time I was either getting towed or someone I had parked in was tearing the wiper blades off my windshield.
" I am double parked, I have to go outside now. We have to leave", I started down the stairs and she soon followed.
So after all of that. After going when I really didn't have time to go, after doing my best to be polite while someone is riding my ass, after trying to be a decent guy and have my wife stay and enjoy herself, and after leaving my game to drive back and pick her up, I get this IM this morning....
GM: douchblog told us that you were rude at the party and inconsiderate to your wife on Saturday night.
That's what I got.
So there. That's why I drink. I drink to stay alive.
In fact, I think I'm going to have to stay a little bit alive a lunch this afternoon....and then stay a whole bunch of alive when I get home tonight.
I'll give you Saturday night for an example.
I started a poker league. Its a year long series and Saturday was the first event for the year. I invited a bunch of players, had a couple of people coming from out of town, and was excited to get the thing started.
A couple of weeks after setting the whole thing up, two good friends decide to hold suprise birthday parties for their spouses at the same time, on the same night. Obviously bad timing for me. So I'm between a rock and a hard place and a week out I'm already stressed about how to try to fit in all in. So after some quick math, I work it out and tell the host that I can get to the first party and I'm good until 7:30...then I can get home in time for everyone to arrive at my place.
I got to the party early. Like 20 minutes early, which considering who I'm married to is understated. That's like saying that Doogie Houser graduated high school early. Unfortunately we sat at the bar for 25 minutes until everyone got there.
Now I was trying to enjoy myself and be polite but the clock was running and I realized that by the time that we got seated and got menus and people showed up, that I was going to have to leave just as everyone was getting settled in... and I was going to look like a douchebag. So by showing up, I'm a bigger asshole than if I didn't come.
I should note that I'm a socially manic person. Severely. Either I'm entirely comfortable ( rare and often facilitated by copious ammts of alcohol) or I'm disturbingly uncomfortable and paranoid, especially in groups. Let me just say that I wasn't drinking and you can derive your own conclussions as to my state of mind.
I tried to stay focused and make conversation where appropriate and then my phone started to ring off the hook. People were calling to cancel, calling to ask if they could come, or asking directions to my house. I self-consiously excused myself, handled the calls, finally turned off my phone. Then went to the bathroom, took a leak, washed my face and collected myself. "OK", I thought to myself " stop getting worked up, everything is fine...just go back out there, relax, enjoy myself, make some conversation and when you have to leave, politely excuse yourself and do what you have to do. No one will even notice that I'm there or that I've left"
Somewhat calmed I started back to the table.
Then I could see HIM. Wearing, of all things, a bright orange shirt, like the color of a DOT workman or a hunter. I could see him from the other side of the restaurant. And he was seated in the chair right next to me. It was the doucheblogcyclist , my arch-nemisis.
This guy has a PHd in fucking with people. He has a annoying tic. I don't mean he has a tic that I find annoying. I mean his tic is being annoying. He has super powers that allow him to find whatever thing makes you the most uncomfortable...then he focuses in on it, and keeps pushing that button until you crack.
And in this situation I was wearing I giant " fuck with me" button right in the center of my forehead.
I took a deep breath....this was going to be fine...I'm overreacting...we're all adults now...I'm sure he's going to be polite. As inconspiculously as possible I slid back into my seat and offered a polite hello.
" HEY FLICK ! I DON'T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT, YOU'RE NOT THAT FAT !!!"
Everyone stopped their conversation, turned to see what all the commotion was, stare at the two of us, and I suppose, assess just how fat I've gotten.
So much for people not knowing that I was there.
Of course my natural instinct was to find a snow shovel or a broom handle and start swinging. But out of respect for the birthday girl and out of a desire to be as invisible as possbile I just smiled, started eating a roll and didn't say shit for about 15 minutes.
After a while I started feeling awkward for not saying anything, so I tried to make idle conversation with the side of the table away from my tormentor. I mentioned that a mutual aquaintence had just won a poker tornament for $115,000. That prompted a joking comment about when I might win a tourament and make some money. As I began to explain that I play for pennies and for fun, a voiced bellowed from behind me..
" FLICK IS GOING TO WIN THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER ...HE'S ALMOST A SEMI-PROFESSIONAL !!!! HARDEE HAR HAR HAR !!!"
That was all I could take. I gathered up my shit, shaking with with self-conscious embarassment trumped only by rage, and got up to leave.
I looked over to Mrs. Flick who, for the first time all week was sitting there with a beer and a smile on her face. Just because I was on the verge of committing a felony, there was no reason for her to leave. I quietly told her, " I'm going, you should stay". Of course, she said, " No, I'll go with you." and her friends said, " no, stay stay" and then it all started up.
Instead of slinking off into the shadows, I was standing in the middle of the room engaged in 5 differnt conversations, " you should stay", "how will I get home ?"..." I'll get you"..." Where's he going ?"..." I think he's going to play poker"..." Do you think he has a gambling problem"..." You don't want you to come back and get me"..." I don't mind"..." gambling problem ? I hear he's a semi-professional hardee har har"
I finally said, " call me when you want to come home and I ran out of there. I went directly to the pizza shop across the street, ordered a large draft and chugged it.
You'd think the story would end here. You problably wish it would. Me too.
I got to my house and we started playing. Then my phone rang...the caller ID read 'doucheblogcyclist". In the middle of the hand I picked it up....no one there. Two minutes later it rang again...now the guys at the game started giving me shit, " dude, what's with the phone calls are you playing poker or what". Doucheblog again. Hang-up again.
Now I excused myself and called him, " WHAT ?"
" Heh heh heh. I didn't call you."
Two minutes later phone rings again. Now I'm pissed, " WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ?"
It was Mrs. Flick. Oops.
" I'm sorry to bother you" she said, " I'll take a cab." then I could hear everyone in the background saying " no, we'll drive you...he's not coming to get you ?", meanwhile, I hadn't said shit.
" NO, I'm coming to get you like I said I would, it's no problem I'll be there in a minute"
I excused myself from the tournament, costing myself some chips but no big deal, and set off to fetch my wife.
When I got to the restaurant it was pouring rain. The parking lot was not only full, but all the arrogant assholes who were too good that have to park and walk in the rain had parked in the fire lane, and all the other paved areas anywhere near the front doors. I was going to have to park a quarter mile away. " fuck this" I thought, " She's right there waiting for me."
I double parked in the middle of the parking lot and turned the flashers on and ran to atrium. No Mrs. Flick. I went inside to the sitting area. No Mrs. Flick. I walked trought the packed bar...nada. Finally I ran upstairs to where to party was and she was sitting there at the table drinking a beer. " Umm, hun we gotta go."
" Oh HI. Thanks for getting me. Let me finish my beer and say goodbye."...she was killing me. I was pretty sure that by this time I was either getting towed or someone I had parked in was tearing the wiper blades off my windshield.
" I am double parked, I have to go outside now. We have to leave", I started down the stairs and she soon followed.
So after all of that. After going when I really didn't have time to go, after doing my best to be polite while someone is riding my ass, after trying to be a decent guy and have my wife stay and enjoy herself, and after leaving my game to drive back and pick her up, I get this IM this morning....
GM: douchblog told us that you were rude at the party and inconsiderate to your wife on Saturday night.
That's what I got.
So there. That's why I drink. I drink to stay alive.
In fact, I think I'm going to have to stay a little bit alive a lunch this afternoon....and then stay a whole bunch of alive when I get home tonight.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
The Grand Marnier Story
I took Mrs. Flick to Philadelphia last weekend and we treated ourselves to a couple of children-free days for food drink and merriment.
We ate at the finest steak restaurant in all of Philadelphia on Saturday night...Smith and Wollensky. It was, as it always is, supurb. But when I got the bill I was shocked to see that my Manhattan was $11, her Bud Light draft beer was $7.50, and adding some lobster tail to my steak left our dinner check at the same price as our car payment.
Getting away occurs once in a blue moon, so I'm not going to balk at a couple of bucks for a fun night out, but the situation reminded me of an old story that I don't think I've told here...the story of the Grand Marnier.
My buddy Charlie is one of the last Old School Gentlemen. And by Old School, I don't mean RUN-DMC...I mean in the all-class Cary Grant kinda way.
So when it was time to celebrate his mothers 65th birthday Charlie pulled out all the stops and made arrangements for private dining at Le Bec-Fin , one of more posh restaurants in the city.
Charlie saved up all his pennies for the dinner and they pulled out all the stops...H'Oderves, fine wine, a five course meal, private dining area, top shelf everything. Charlie's father had died a couple of years earlier and Charlie really want this to be a special day for his Mother. This was going to clean him out financially for a little while, but the smile on his mothers face made it all worth while.
At the end of the evening, the waiter came to the table and asked if anyone wanted a
degestif . Charlies wife declined as did his mother who was nursing her coffee. The idea of an after dinner drink appealed to Charlie and he requested a menu.
Charlie opened the drink menu and at the top of page one it read Cuvée Speciale Cent Cinquantenaire...which roughly translates to Susquecentennial Special. That refers to a special batch of Grand Marier made to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Alexandre Marnier-Lapostolle's first distilling the liquor. To provide you with some perspective, the drink has been marketed under the slogan, "Hard to find, impossible to pronounce, and prohibitively expensive."
This being the finest meal Charlie had ever eaten, knowing that he might not have another opportunity, and wanting to cap off a perfect evening, Charlie overlooked the $65 A GLASS price. Sure he'd have to work overtime or a couple of weekends, but when you're in this far...you're in all the way...he ordered the drink.
Well the waiter lit up, " What and excellent choice sir ! As you may know the Speciale was awarded a Gold Medal at the Salon des Arts Ménager. It is made with 50-year-old cognacs sealed within hand-finished frosted glass bottles. Its has a deep flavor with just a hint of organge. I'm sure that you will find it excellent." and with a big smile turn and started to walk away.
Just then Charlies mother, who had been sitting there attentively enjoying the floor show piped up. " Ummmm, that does sound yummy. I'll have one of those too."
Charlie didn't do a double take, he did a tripple take. Knowing full well the situation, the waiter paused and looked to Charlie for direction. Charlie struggled for an out " Ah, Mom, don't you think you'd like something a bit more tame than a cognac ? It's really strong...more like a whiskey. How about if I have him bring you a Sambuka or how about a nice Brandy ?"
She thought for a second, " No, that orangey thing sounded good. I'll have one of those too."
Defeated, Charlie glanced to the waiter and gave him the nod, " Ok, we'll have two."
Moments later the waiter brought the drinks out. Charlie swirreled the liquor in his glass to aerate and took a sniff. He took a small sip and let a drop sit on his tongue filling his mouth with the flavor. As he went to place his still full glass on the table to settle he saw some movement to his left. He turn to the side just in time to see his mother grab the glass off the waiters tray, kick her head back, and toss the 'shot' down in one gulp.
" Ahhhhhhhhh," she smacked her lips and broke out in a big smile, " that was pretty good."
Charlie could only sit and pray that she didn't ask for another.
We ate at the finest steak restaurant in all of Philadelphia on Saturday night...Smith and Wollensky. It was, as it always is, supurb. But when I got the bill I was shocked to see that my Manhattan was $11, her Bud Light draft beer was $7.50, and adding some lobster tail to my steak left our dinner check at the same price as our car payment.
Getting away occurs once in a blue moon, so I'm not going to balk at a couple of bucks for a fun night out, but the situation reminded me of an old story that I don't think I've told here...the story of the Grand Marnier.
My buddy Charlie is one of the last Old School Gentlemen. And by Old School, I don't mean RUN-DMC...I mean in the all-class Cary Grant kinda way.
So when it was time to celebrate his mothers 65th birthday Charlie pulled out all the stops and made arrangements for private dining at Le Bec-Fin , one of more posh restaurants in the city.
Charlie saved up all his pennies for the dinner and they pulled out all the stops...H'Oderves, fine wine, a five course meal, private dining area, top shelf everything. Charlie's father had died a couple of years earlier and Charlie really want this to be a special day for his Mother. This was going to clean him out financially for a little while, but the smile on his mothers face made it all worth while.
At the end of the evening, the waiter came to the table and asked if anyone wanted a
degestif . Charlies wife declined as did his mother who was nursing her coffee. The idea of an after dinner drink appealed to Charlie and he requested a menu.
Charlie opened the drink menu and at the top of page one it read Cuvée Speciale Cent Cinquantenaire...which roughly translates to Susquecentennial Special. That refers to a special batch of Grand Marier made to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Alexandre Marnier-Lapostolle's first distilling the liquor. To provide you with some perspective, the drink has been marketed under the slogan, "Hard to find, impossible to pronounce, and prohibitively expensive."
This being the finest meal Charlie had ever eaten, knowing that he might not have another opportunity, and wanting to cap off a perfect evening, Charlie overlooked the $65 A GLASS price. Sure he'd have to work overtime or a couple of weekends, but when you're in this far...you're in all the way...he ordered the drink.
Well the waiter lit up, " What and excellent choice sir ! As you may know the Speciale was awarded a Gold Medal at the Salon des Arts Ménager. It is made with 50-year-old cognacs sealed within hand-finished frosted glass bottles. Its has a deep flavor with just a hint of organge. I'm sure that you will find it excellent." and with a big smile turn and started to walk away.
Just then Charlies mother, who had been sitting there attentively enjoying the floor show piped up. " Ummmm, that does sound yummy. I'll have one of those too."
Charlie didn't do a double take, he did a tripple take. Knowing full well the situation, the waiter paused and looked to Charlie for direction. Charlie struggled for an out " Ah, Mom, don't you think you'd like something a bit more tame than a cognac ? It's really strong...more like a whiskey. How about if I have him bring you a Sambuka or how about a nice Brandy ?"
She thought for a second, " No, that orangey thing sounded good. I'll have one of those too."
Defeated, Charlie glanced to the waiter and gave him the nod, " Ok, we'll have two."
Moments later the waiter brought the drinks out. Charlie swirreled the liquor in his glass to aerate and took a sniff. He took a small sip and let a drop sit on his tongue filling his mouth with the flavor. As he went to place his still full glass on the table to settle he saw some movement to his left. He turn to the side just in time to see his mother grab the glass off the waiters tray, kick her head back, and toss the 'shot' down in one gulp.
" Ahhhhhhhhh," she smacked her lips and broke out in a big smile, " that was pretty good."
Charlie could only sit and pray that she didn't ask for another.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
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