Go hug your parents

Grib told me a story about how he thought his father was nuts because he used to come down in the morning for school and turn on the dining room light and find his father sitting there in the dark drinking a pot of coffee.

With three kids under 10, that sounds like reasonable behavior to me. Hell, that sounds like a great idea !

Over the course of the last 10 years i regularly find myself understanding, appreciating, and forgiving the behavior of my parents as they muddled their way through my you...and considering their ages when I was born...THEIR youth.

Yeah I know this is trite, but it doesn't make it any less true. And frankly, I'm all out of fart jokes today.

High roller lifestyle

With the popularity of televised poker, you can hardly flip throught the stations without catching some guys sitting around a table with a big crowd, hot waitresses, and tuxedo wearing dealers. As with most things on TV, "your results may vary".

Stud was the casino poker game of choice for 35 years, right up until Chris Moneymaker gave everyone false hope. Now it's all about Hold'em and its tough to find a Stud game live, so when I passed one with an open seat at the Taj Mahal I couldn't pass it up. I should have kept walking.

The guy to my right had an open wound on his gigantic nose. He dealt with this by wrapping the cut with scotch tape. So on the endof his giant nose was a giant ball of transparent tape. And of course, through the monstrosity you could still make out the vulgar wound.

Sadly, I had no choice but to look in his direction because the guy on the other side of me had just shit his pants. And I don't mean that as some code for farted or something, I mean he literally vacated his bowels in his pants.

The smell was unbearable. I looked at the younger guy* across the table from me sitting on the other side of Mr. Poopy pants and his eyes were bugging out as he gave me a shrug. (* I say younger because everyone else at the table was at least 147 years old)

Out of respect I figured I'd give the old man 2 more hands and then I was getting up. I wasn't going to say anything, but then again I wasn't going to sit there !

Finally, mercifully, he excused himself and scooted his little cart away from the table.

I looked over at the other dude across from me and before I could say anything he went..

BAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The friggen guy had been holding his breath for what musta been a Houdini like 4 minutes.

Yeah, the glamourous lifestyle of poker.

bletch - home sick today

Dick's sporting goods has poker tables on sale for $80 so Grib and I ran over on Sunday morning to pick a couple of them up.

While I paid for the tables, Grib led the two high school aged employees who were pushing the dolly out to the car.

I walked outside to find the two kids huddled under the overhang as it had started raining. I asked, " Hey where's my buddy ?"

Thing 1 answered, " Oh 'cause its raining he's going to pull the car around here."

I figured I'd mess with them a little, " DRIVING ! YOU DIDN'T LET HIM DRIVE DID YOU ?!?!"

That startled Thing 2 from his slumber, " Uh, yeah he said he'd be right back."

"Oh NO", I continued, " He's really hammered...you know really drunk. He can't drive."

Thing 1 asked, " This early ?". I was only 11:00 am.

" Well he's not hammered from today, we're still rocking it from last night".

"OOOhhh.", Think 1 frowned. Thing 2 nodded approvingly.

I went on, " Yeah, we stopped playing poker in order to come get more poker supplies. But he's down about a grand and been drinking hard...and sometimes when he gets like this he just freaks out. Where is he ? OH MAN WHERE IS HE ?"

Grib had looped around and I could see him off to the right, but I was looking desperately off to the left and describing the van. Things 1 and 2 were starting to get a little freaked out and were scanning the parking lot.

Finally Think 2 saw the van and started yelling like a kid finding an egg at Easter, " THERE HE IS THERE HE IS !"

And here came Grib from right to left following the traffic toward where we were standing. The thing was that the traffic was thick and in order for Grib to be able to pull right up to the curb, he needed to be moving from left to right with the flow of traffic. What he needed to do was to drive down the next row and loop back around. This might be obviously apparent if you were the guy driving the car, but maybe not so obvious if you were a freaked out high school kid.

The kids started moving toward the road and Grib drove right past them, made right and started driving down the aisle, away from the store. That's when I stuck the knife in..

" SEE !! SEE !! HOLY SHIT, HE GONE !! I TOOOOOOLLLLLDDDDD YOU !!! OHHHH MAAANNN."

Thing 1 just stared in shocked disbelief. Thing 2 started muttering, " This is bad...dude, this is fucked up."

Grib got to the end of the row and added to the drama by pausing then turning left away from us.

" Wow dude, he's just driving away."

Then Grib turned left again and you could see the two kids posture change. And I don't mean that figuratively...both of them were up on their toes. " HEY...HEY...HEY'S COMING BACK...LOOK LOOK !", they were so super psyched.

Grib, oblivious to all of this, pulled up the the curb to the three of us cheering and dancing.

Grib pooped the back hatch and Thing 1 and I grabbed a table and started to load it into the back of the van, his end first. Thing 1 stopped suddenly in his tracks. He turned back wide-eyed and gestured with his head toward the van...more pointedly, toward the baby seat in the van, and asked, " There's not a....ahhh...kid in there is there ?" He then looked over at Think 2 with a sort of nervous 'get-redy-to-call-the-cops' look on his face.

For just a second on thought about it....I considered it...but then I realized that you can only push a man so far, " no dude, it's cool I only have custody ever other weekend." And we loaded up the stuff.

Open for debate

There are 6 people in line at the grocery store. The manager decides to open a second register.

1. Who should be the first person in the new line ?

2. If the douchebag who's last in line is the first person to run into the new line, what is an appropriate reaction ?

Thank you for your help.

taking the day off

I'm too tired to come up with anything to say today. Yesterdays nutsack story took a lot out of me. Check back Friday afternoon.

Hot Tub

I don't like the local heath club locker room.

Mainly I don't like it because there are always 100 naked dudes in there. I don't mean guys changing or showering, that I can take. I mean dudes just walking around, having conversations, shaving, demonstrating their golf swing....all naked. WTF ? It's that hard to put a towel on ? A pair of shorts ?

And the friggin girl at the front desk gets a kick out of making sure that I get the locker right in the middle of swinging dick city. I'm not being paranoid either. I went in there at 5:30 one morning. I was the second one in there and when I followed the number on my key it was to the locker right next to the other other guy in the place. And he was naked.

Anyway, the other thing that I find unsettling is public bathing. I don't think that I need to expand on that repulsive activity as it speaks for itself.

Knowing that, it would be odd that you'd find me in the health club locker room hot tub, but that's exactly where I found myself.

I'd been doing a lot of riding and running and was sore as hell. I had some more training to do and I knew that the only way that I had a shot at recovering was to get in a hot tub for about 20 minutes and stretch. So I went to the club near closing and I hung around for about 25 minutes until the place had emptied out. Showing a little modesty I put on my bathing suit, and when the coast was clear, I slipped into the hot tub to stretch.

About one nano-second after I hit the water some 80 year old dude come busting out of the sauna. As I had been laying in wait, I had to figure that he had been in that sweltering sauna for at least a half hour and he was all ashen and staggering. And, of course, he staggered straight for the hot tub.

Here I was finally relaxed and Mr. Old Sweaty naked guy came right over, climbed up the stairs and plopped is sweaty stinky ass right into the tub. Goddamn it.

And as soon as my my mojo was ruined and I couldn't possibly relax ever again, he decided he had enough of the hot tub and decided to get out.

Now this would seem like a good thing except the exposure to all that heat started taking it's toll on him. He got half way up the ladder and started to sway back and forth. As if it couldn't get worse it looked like the old naked bastard was going to fall backwards right into my lap.

Reluctantly I started to reach out, but before I could get to him he caught his balance and with great effort pulled himself another rung.

Then he bent over.

Now you'd think that being winked at by the anus of a droopy, elephant-skinned ass of an old man would have been the most disquieting thing about this encounter. But you'd be wrong.

The thing that really got me, the thing that will be forever burned in my consciousness wasn't what I could see above the surface, it was what was still in the pool.

This dude was standing almost entirely out of the water on the ladder, but his BALLS were still swimming around. Somehow the heat and his age had combined in a way that defied conventional anatomy. It was as if the Hindenburg had gone in nose first, but forgot to blow up.

He was done, but his balls were still hot tubbing.


Needless to say, I didn't use the jacuzzi on the cruise.

high test

As evidenced by yesterday's post, I would not recommend blogging after drinking 4 medium Starbucks coffees. In fact I'll just recommend that you don't drink 4 medium Starbucks coffees in any 24 hour period.

I was going to write this moderately interesting story about me having plouracy, but I'm not sure if the effects of the coffee have worn off yet and I don't want to start up on another schmeg riddled diatribe.

I'll check in after lunch.

catching up

I'm a little slow to post because I spent the better part of the last two days deleting emails. Based on the content of the 1700 messages I had to go through, there must have been a rumor started in my absence that involved my penis being small and not working properly. I'm happy to assure everyone that the rumor is false. Also, should anyone require 'wicked legal buds' or the most recent penny stock tips, I'm now the man with the inside connection.

With all the technology that's available from Ipods, to HDTV, to supercomputing, its odd that the item that I've really grown to appreciate my new mouse. The main reason I like the new mouse is that its a laser mouse without a ball in it. This means that never again in my life will I be required to spend 20 minutes digging mouse schmeg out of my mouse with a letter opener or paper clip. Mouse schmeg...how disgusting. I'm fairly certain that when all is said and done, that they'll find out 'patient zero' didn't contract AIDS from humping a monkey, but rather from mouse schmeg.

SCHMEG...i kinda like typing that word...schmeg, schmeg, schmeg...nice.

Everyone once in a while you come across a word that absolutely fits the object to which its referring. Schmeg....echo.....bumper...taint...you know what I mean.

I suspect girls named Meg don't like the word schmeg. If Card Sharks was still on and that host dude said, " We interviewed 100 girls named Meg. How many of those women indicated that they'd been called schmeg". I suspect you'd have to guess '100'.

Schmeg Ryan....Schmega millions.....ok, sorry. I'll stop.

Sea legs

The cruise was great, thanks for asking.

I never had an interest in going on a cruise, but I'd do it again. It's like a giant floating college campus. Its place where you never need to drive to go anywhere, good company, there's always stuff to do, always a place to get a beer, where someone else takes care of feeding you, and if you get really drunk you're only a short walk home to your room.

I played in a ping pong tourney, triva contests, poker games, did a climbing wall, learned how to fold towels into weird-ass looking animals, I ate good, drank good, played golf, went to the beach, and about 100 other things none of which included putting up with any nonsense.

Surprisingly, I somehow got through a week without my email, the newspaper, the internet, and only about 2 calls on my cell phone while I was in Boston. Apparently you can really get by without all those accessories.

The only drawback has been that since I've been back, everytime I sit still the room starts moving up and down. 7 days at sea with no problem and I'm getting seasick at my office desk. Weird.

Anyway I only have time for one quick story.

We went with a big family group which included among its numbers a guy who is a dwarf. I had met E-Rock before but i wasn't sure if my kids had seen a little person so I made it a point to pull them aside as we got on the bus and said, " Listen, there's a guy we're going with who's a little person. He's a regular guy and he's an adult and everything else is normal about him, but he's just short. I don't want you making a big deal about it, staring, or asking weird questions."

They all looked at me like I was a giant idiot for even suggesting that they'd do something so daft and my oldest said, " uh, yeah...well..duh, whatya think we were going to do?" then they all walked past me and got on the bus.

After sitting in traffic for an hour and a half we finally got to the terminal and it was complete pandemonium. 3500 people and all of their luggage getting off the ship and 3500 people and their luggage getting onto the ship, along with 3500 New York dockworkers yelling at each other and everyone in sterotypical fashion..."forgetabahdit".

So I was was a little freaked when, in the middle of all these cars, and trucks, and people we were told to get off the bus. I got out, made sure the luggage made it out of the bus and only the carrier and then frantically started trying to round up my kids. I held them all back until there was a break in the traffic and then stuck out my left and and grabbed the youngest girl. I reached out to my right and my son stepped a little away from me.

" Grab my hand." I instructed, but the boy was in his usually daze and refused to move.

I stuck my hand out further and said again, " Grab my hand !", still nothing.

Now I could see some cars coming and I was starting to get scared and impatient. Finally I let him have it, " DAMMIT, GRAB MY HAND !!!!"

A deep voice answered me and caused me to look down for the first time. Instead of my son, it was an indignant E-Rock starting up at me...

"Hey pal, I think you mean to be talking someone else, but either way I can cross the street on my own and I aint holding your friggin hand."

That's me. Mr. Smooth.

Why are our test scores so low?

BEST EVER NOTE HOME:

(To a Spanish speaking mother)

Reason For Detention:
"Marco pueste la cabeza de otro estudiante en la toileta!"


BEST EVER BATHROOM GRAFFITI:

"Suck My Duck!"

A Year in the Life of Gribbledy Greeb

This year my teaching position has changed so that I work with grades 4th-8th instead of 6th-8th. The 4th graders seem like they're about 20 years younger than the 6th graders, and I often try to think back on what life was like at that age in order to better pretend to be a teacher. Unfortunately, my life during 3rd-4th grade has nothing in common with theirs, and not for the usual reasons. This may have been the turning point for me. In other words, any hope of me turning out to be a normal human being was shot out of a cannon during my 3rd-4th grade years.

3rd grade began innocently enough. It was a drastic change for me that I had to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't an Indian, or a Native American. I spent most of the summer before 3rd grade dressed in leathers, wearing beads, a full headdress, and living in a miniature tepee in the living room. My suction cup bow and arrow was taken from me after I picked a fly off the wall just above my step-father's head. I imagine that many white 3rd graders these days have to come back to school dealing with the fact that they aren't black, and no matter how hard they try they can't be cool. A few more have to deal with the fact that they aren't asian, and will have to go through life with low test scores, low salaries, and no chance with asian chicks. I matured slowly, so I didn't realize these things until college.

My father spent most of my 2nd and 3rd grades working in Saudi Arabia. Up to this point, my father was possibly the meanest bastard alive. While in Saudi Arabia my dad had a series of life-changing experiences, and came back around Christmas of 3rd grade a completely changed man. We had weekend visitation, and he didn't kill me or any of my siblings, so life was looking up.

What I didn't notice about 3rd grade was that life wasn't sounding good. I gradually began to lose my hearing--gradually enough that I didn't really notice. By the time I was in 4th grade, I was almost completely deaf. Nobody else noticed either, because I was such a strange and quiet kid anyway. I'd follow ants around all day, trying to communicate with them. I was always seeing ghosts, which I think other kids did, but my ghosts moved furniture around the room and chased me with coat hangers. Ok, I make a retraction. I never had a shot in hell of being normal.

I also used to hang out in the back yard of some hippies across the street, because they had these huge bushes that always had praying mantises on them. I'd catch a praying mantis, keep it in a bottle, and feed it crickets. This is a pretty cool thing to do if you want to teach your kid some science. They'll also learn that giant radioactive praying mantises would really fuck us up. My mom used to always bitch about me hanging out at the praying mantis bushes, because she didn't trust the hippies. The problem was solved one day when the police and fire department surrounded the house and took all of the residents out in handcuffs. The fire department went out back and chopped down all of my praying mantis bushes and mowed the place down to the ground. I was horrified, but probably not half as horrified as the hippies. Those dudes were way ahead of their time with the organic gardening, though.

Somewhere between 3rd and 4th grade my step-father flipped his lid. I think what really happened was that in the year it took to meet and marry my mom, he tried to only drink beer constantly to make a good impression. Once they got married, he gradually reintroduced Jim Beam. These days he only drinks beer for breakfast--he drinks Jim Beam on hot days, cold days, brushes his teeth with it, slicks back his hair with it, bathes in it, even waters his lawn with it in case he passes out face down. He started behaving at home much like you would expect Pauly from Rocky to behave, except with 6 kids running around. And my oldest brother was in junior high and starting to resemble The Incredible Hulk. Things were about to change.

By 4th grade, I was completely deaf. Nobody noticed or cared much, because I kept my mouth shut and had become proficient at reading lips. I did really well in school, and was a teacher favorite. I loved science class, and tried to be the first to answer every question, even though I couldn't hear the teacher. Luckily she taught from her desk at the front of the class most of the time--none of this moving around the classroonm bullshit that they try to get us to do these days. One weekend when my dad picked us up, he told us that he knew one of our teachers. All of the other kids tried to guess who it was, and I just sat there with my mouth shut. Eventually, when nobody guessed, I piped in with my teacher's name. Not only did I guess right, but I also figured out after a few weeks that they were dating. A few weeks more, and something really bizarre happened. My mom marched us all downstairs for a meeting and announced that we were going to live with my dad. Only we didn't move in with my dad--we moved in with my teacher!

About 4 months into their courtship, my dad married my teacher, and I had to go to class every day and address her as Mrs. Greeb. Then the bitch turned on me. Not only did my A+ go down to a regular A, but she figured out my secret. She started asking me questions at home, only not from the front of the room at an observable desk. She figured out that from behind, I didn't respond at all. After a few experiments, a trip to the doctor was arranged and I took a hearing test. The test was called off when I tried to guess when the beeps came and which ear they might test. I went to a specialist, who discovered that my tiny ear canals were severely impacted, and after a lengthy and painful procedure, my hearing was fully restored. That probably sounds great, but I remember it as the worst day of my life. I went from blissful silence to the amplified sounds of the world in a matter of minutes. The voices of the nurses and doctors pounded away at my eardrums, and I started bawling my eyes out. This is going to sound made up, but not only did a thunderstorm roll in on my way home, but I was driven home by my stepmother's friend in an old beat up Datsun with no muffler! I laid in the back with my hands over my ears and screamed the whole way home. I'm sure all of you married guys out there will echo this sentiment, but Fuck Hearing!

The last thing that happened in 4th grade is that my two friends and I were chased by a giant, 8 foot tall monster that lived in Derry Lake. I'm not fucking kidding, but this entry is already too long and boring to go on. Flick will be back soon if his wife hasn't thrown him off of the boat, so if I have a chance and I think it's good enough, I'll elaborate. If anyone else wants to write, just e-mail Phil Collins at Flick'sBasement.com.

-Greeb

Melding Minds

I'm a teacher. And there's what's wrong with education today. I went to grad school, worked quite hard, aced my Praxis exams, went through several induction processes, have attended thousands of hours of in-service training and seminars on differentiated instruction. But still, all I do is tell stories, make the kids laugh, and mix in a few tidbits from time to time to convince the kids that I'm in charge. I really can't claim to know what I'm doing, and I'm as organized as an orgy at the crackhouse. In short, I'm a principals wet dream.

Every year, the phone calls come in from parents. My Pennsylvania Geography lesson turns into "Why is Mr. Gribble telling stories about giant blue monsters chasing him?" My Geology lesson turns into "Why did Mr. Gribble have my son eat chalk?" My Middle East Current Events lesson turns into "Why did Mr. Gribble describe two Yemenese brothers knocking each other's teeth out for fun?"

So when Chucky asked me to tell a story for Algebra class today, I refused. The only good algebra story I have involves my teacher kicking me in the ass as I bent over and driving my head into the chalk board. I deserved it, by the way. The whole class pleaded for a story, and I told them to forget it--I'm done. Oh, the whining and weeping that ensued. So I explained--"You guys never get the point! I tell stories so you learn something. The Yemenese brothers, once they ran out of teeth, went through a renewal process and were able to actually accomplish something in peace. The chalk is a really just a form of limestone that neutralizes acid, such as that in your stomach. The blue monster, well, we did at least explore the hill-and-valley region and the Allegheny plateau, and besides, you actually paid attention to what I said for about a week!"

Chucky, not realizing he was shooting himself in the story-listening ear, piped in. "Yeah, but what about those stories about Larks throwing rebar through passing cars?" "Yeah" his buddy Jason added, "And what about Larks quitting his job because the cows were staring at him?" "Hey" piped in Mindy "Isn't that the guy who got his dog stuck in a tree and tried to go golfing in his living room?" "What was the lesson from any of those stories, Mr. Gribble?"

"The lesson is, don't throw rebar through cars, or you'll become a deranged, paranoid lunatic and work in a junk yard and break out all of your windows."

Ah, well. I'm sure I'm not on my way to being teacher of the century, but what do you remember from school? At least these kids can keep a few details in memory, and the other teachers are doing a good enough job that we still get by on the "No White Child Left Behind Act" standardized money making scam tests.

I did have the good sense to turn myself into the principal for my latest. I convinced one young head-in-the-distant-nebula type kid this morning that, by taking every sub-atomic element apart and stripping down the tiniest building blocks of matter, you would end up with nothing. And if you end up with nothing, then everything is made of nothing, which means we don't exist. And if we don't exist, why do we have to do things like homework and science crossword puzzles? I knew I shouldn't have said that last part, but it all came out in my explanation somehow. The kid asked "Do you think that will work on Mr. Adams? I really don't wanna write a research paper." Of course I righted the situation--"Suuuure, it'll definitely work. Mr. Adams will give you a zero, which doesn't exist anyway. And if you're lucky, he'll give you a detention which doesn't exist, which will lead to your parents taking away your video games that don't exist, and you won't get to go to the dance with Heather, who doesn't exist."

I'm pretty sure the kid is going to write the paper, and may even swap spit with Heather. But just in case, the nonexistent principal is going to have a conversation with the nonexistent lad.

Proctology 101

Just before vacation, Flick came up with a few good quotes. The young Flick lad was eager to leave, and was in the front lawn proudly displaying his freshly chopped hair from the local butcher. As Flick and I came outside from a successful (for me) game of darts, the boy began dancing with glee, despite the fact that he was already in mid-chug from a big cup of water. Since he is a chip off the ol' lunatic, his dancing (how would a music critic say this?) unsuccessful meshed the worlds of mambo, jumbo, hip-hop, hop scotch, The Croatian Shuffle, and punk-a-billy with the mating rituals of an epileptic walrus. I stood there somewhat stunned at the staggering amount of absurdity contained in such a small amount of time. It was as if all of Rocky Balboa's lines were simultaneously delivered by Don Knotts impersonating Olive Oyl. Flick didn't bat an eye, but simply muttered "go find yourself a village."

The second, more powerful quote was in response to the Flick wife and kids suddenly (after 5 months) discovering the endpoint for the cat's digestive tract. Once again Flick was able to utter a cluster of words that will make it through eternity without ever being repeated.

"And they all gathered around his asshole like the yule log at Christmas."

The Cat's Away

As Flick left for vacation yesterday, I, Gribble, will be filling in for him.

Any of you familiar with Flick's previous vacation rampages know that he started on a manic trajectory about a week before, ensuring that his 3-hour mininvan trip to NJ would beat him about his hung-over head with the wailing of children, the driving anxiety of Mrs. Flick, and the occassional death blow from Chloe the imaginary bastard child.

Friday afternoon, I lured Flick to my work happy hour. Two of my coworkers are attractive mid-20's women, and they brought with them a newly engaged friend. Since Flick works mainly with ear mite infested trolls and such, he jumped at the chance to engage in conversation with women who smile, drink, and listen to stories about people who defecate on churches. Occassionally Flick is able to endear himself with his charm and wit, and the happy hour started out with much enthusiasm and the healthy flow of conversation, laughs, and Octoberfest. Unfortunately, the man has a weird sort of social anxiety that causes him to occassionally blurt out the most uncomfortably disturbing thing that occurs to him (and there's plenty.)

(Sidebar--Halloween night Flick dressed up as an inflatable obese fitness trainer. Worried that his slightly overweight neighbor would be offended, he tried to avoid the guy for most of the night. Finally, when he and the neighbor finally met, the neighbor asked what was with the costume. Instead of just spitting out "fat personal trainer" and hoping for a laugh, Flick's mouth somehow formed words indicating that he was the guy's cousin.)

Ok, back to happy hour. Flick had settled into a sort of semi-confrontational but fun mingling with coworker A, and managed to get her at least one heifiweizen past her stated limit. When she begged off, explaining that her dog had obedience classes to attend, Flick went into a mumbling meandering sales pitch to try to get her to stay longer or come back afterward. At least, that's what I thought he was trying to do. Somewhere in the course of the pitch he mentioned that this was his "last chance" before he, his wife, and three kids left for vacation. I can't recall all of the details, but I believe the young lady may have said something like "quick, look at that diversion!" and headed for the door. The engaged girl commented "nice approach--very original!" Her friend laughed, and Flick stood there perplexed. "Wha...Huh...Wha'd I say?"

"UH, you just asked the girl out in the same breath as you introduced your wife and kids. Most dirty old men wait a month or two before spilling their guts!"

Always one to make a small mess into a major environmental disaster, Flick immediately went into the backpedaling, guilt-ridden, hand-wringing, over-analyzing tornado that we all like to watch on our Weather Channel of Human Torment highlight films. Flick was so flustered at what he had done, that he walked into his house still redfaced enough for his wife to ask what was up. "Nothing, honey. I just asked Gribble's 25 year-old hot friend out for drinks tonight."

Have a nice vacation, pal.

the costume shop

First...click here for the Traditional Holloween Story


The modern costume shop is quite the scene.

There's a giant wall of photos of super hot chicks in slutty outfits. You have the traditional french maid in a push-up bra, high heels and a mini skirt, the nurse in a push-up bra, high heels and a mini shirt, and well just about anything you could shove into a push-up bra, high heels, and a mini skirt. They should rename the holiday stripper-ween.


You know what I'm talkin 'bout.

Anyway just in front of the wall o whores are a rotating gaggle of high school and/or college girls ( sadly I can't tell the difference any more) all picturing themselves in various shades of undress, trying to figure out if they can pull it off.

The rest of the scene is like something out of a bad kidnapping movie. You know the scene where the parents are supposed to make the drop and the entire square is filled with police in disguise all doing a really shitty job of pretending NOT to be watching what's going on. In this case you can replace 'police' with 'middle aged fathers'. All around the shop there are 35-45 year old guys who've sprategically placed themselves at an angle so that while the are intently studying the possibilties of purchasing some colored hair spray or some holiday themed paper plates, they JUST HAPPEN to be able to watch the girls contemplate how much beaver they're going to show.

You'd think that the manager would be asstute enough to take advantage of this profit generating fallout. If he put his mind to it he could make as much as he does in costumes if he's set up some bleechers and sold $4 drafts. Then again, I suppose he's got his hands full drilling peep holes in dressing room walls.

It's all about priorities.

howling at the moon

When my buddy Tom first graduated college he started dating this girl he worked with.
She was a beautiful fun girl and they really hit it off. The only obstacle with their relationship was that she still lived with her parents.

So at 24 years old he was still doing the same stuff he had been doing back in high school....going over to he house, getting the once over by her father, having to get her home at a respectable hour, etc etc. As you might imagine, this situation made "hanky-panky" a bit comlicated. Their jobs and her parent's house were both in the city, meanwhile Tom's apartment was 20 minutes out into the suburbs. On a typical night, getting off work and driving back and forth, in and out of the city, and then getting her back home at a decent hour was cumbersome. Oh don't get me wrong, two healthy 24 year-olds would walk to 15 miles barefoot on glass if that's what it took. I'm just saying it was cumbersome.

Due to a variety of factors ( holiday, schedule change at work etc) about a week went by without Tom and his girl being able to make their regular jaunt out to the countryside. As you might imagine, a week at that age is just about at the limit of human endurance. So when Tom went to drop her at home after a late dinner and she invited him in, it was almost physically impossible for him to refuse.

With the parents asleep upstairs, the two sat on the living room couch making out with the scene becoming increasingly more, shall we say, 'involved'.

Finally, she whispered into Tom's ear, " Lets go up to my room"

" No way," he answered, " not with your parents up there." Tom had a healthy respect for parents and a healthy fear of very large fathers who owned very loaded handguns.

" Well, we're not doing it down here, so its either upstairs or we have to stop. ", she said, going right to her trump card.

So reluctantly, fearfully, Tom tiptoed behind her up the stairs and into her room.

Whatever excitement the girl had shown downstairs was somehow amplified by the danger of having her parents across the hall. She tore off her jeans and started passionately tearing at Toms clothes.

Tom's fears were temporarily put aside by this good turn of events, but he was snapped back into reality when in mid...errrrr...stride his girl let her emotions get the better of her and she started moaning rather loudly.

OHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......MMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Tom stopped. Frozen.

" What are you doing ? Don't stop.", she purred.

" You were being kinda loud. You gotta be quiet. I don't want to get shot", he whispered quiet as a church mouse.

" OK' she agreed and pull him closer.

Two minutes later...

OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH......UUUUHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH...AAAAHHHHHHHHHH

She was at it again.

He paused...although pausing this time was much more difficult.

" No, no, no don't stop I'm so close...I promise I'll be quiet", she begged.

What's a brother to do ? Tom started in again.

Sure enough as soon as he started, SHE started....OOOOHHHHHHHHHH.

Now Tom figured he could either stop all together or he could just go as fast as he could and just get it over with...that's to say he really only had one choice. So Tom went at it intensely as he could...a man on a mission. And she responded in kind..

YYYYYEESSSSSSSSS ! OOOHHHHH GODDDDDDD YESSSSSSSSSS ! At the top of her lungs.

Finally she finished and they collapsed in a heap. Tom stared at the door and readied himself for the father to come bursting in six-guns a'blazin.

The two of them lay there in the dark listening. Tom terrified and planning his way out the window, his girl in blissful half slumber. By the grace of God nothing happened. Maybe the parents were heavy sleepers, maybe he was just paranoid and she wasn't being as loud as he thought. In any case, Tom counted his blessing and slowly and quietly slipped out of bed, slid his clothes on and tip-toed downstairs relieved.

The house was totally dark and silent and he smiled at his good futune.

But as he went to leave, the note taped to his jacket wiped the smile from his face. It read....

NEVER AGAIN !

156.25 - first draft

156.25 miles.

That’s the distance from Philadelphia to Atlantic City and back. It the length of six and a quarter marathons, or for more traditional sports fans…about 250,000 football fields. More pointedly, for those cyclists who come to Philadelphia each June to fulfill a promise of a year’s training 156.25 miles is also the measure of a man.

For athletes used to racing in events like the Snake Alley criterium in Burlington, Iowa or torturing each in the deserted mounts of New Mexico’s tour of the Gila, Philadelphia is Bob Barker’s Showcase Showdown.  Mo other event in north America provides this type of live television coverage, this much money, or this much prestige. 

This event also has spectators, and a lot of them. Where most events might stretch at 500-1000 spectators, over 100,000 rabid drunken fan…Philly Fans…turn out for what is dubbed as the East Coast’s biggest block party.

About 30,000 of those fans were screaming so loudly that I couldn’t hear my mechanic trying to get my attention in the seat behind me. Finally he had tapped me on the shoulder and drew my attention away from the drunken bikini clad girls with half filled plastic cups that adorn the slopes of the Manyunk Wall every June. What he pointed to was the figure of a rider losing contact with the breakaway and starting to fall back through the caravan of cars that follow the race.  Other than the oppressive heat of a Philadelphia summer the biggest obstacle of this bicycle race is the Manyunk Wall. The wall rises at a 17% grade for about 3/4s of a mile and then pitches to about 22% for the last 600 yards. The riders do this climb half way through each of the 15 mile laps for a total of 11 times. Starting around the third lap, every time up the hill the race requires the offering of a human sacrifice. 

This was lap 3.

Each time up the hill, a year of pain and travel and crashes and loneliness of the road , a season of going to bed early, of not eating while hungry, of hundreds of hours of solitude in riding in all weather, of suffering through questions about when you’re going to get a “real job” ….all of that gets sacrificed to the gods of gravity. And in front of the ravenous South Philadelphians in mid-day bender, professional bicycle racer Trent Klasna was the sacrifice.

I moved to the car slightly to the right to offer him a little more room and the tall handsome Californian drew up along side our car for a couple of moments. He was in intense pain and equally intense concentration. We had just hit the steepest section of the climb and with only 600 yards to go he hadn’t given up hope. Despite being at his physical limits, he hadn’t ‘cracked’. He still had hope, and he still had fight. It’s the great tease of cycling…” If I can just get to the top of the hill…if I can just get to down the next descent…if they just ease up for a second.”   But just as quickly as he came into view, he slid back behind to the next car and then slowly out of site.

Bicycle racing does not mourn its dead, at least not very long. And where there were once 26 cyclists 5 minutes ahead of the 100 rider chasing group, there were now 25. What goes up, must come down and the riders and team cards weren’t thinking about what was behind them. 

Seemingly by design, the only quiet section of the races comes about 1 mile after the white-knuckle ‘fall from the wall’. For a stretch of about a mile and a half the race uses some flat back roads of Fairmont Park  This stretch gives the riders a chance to sit up and how many riders are left .  It also gives the team cars a chance to pick up all the wheels and water bottles than flew all over the inside of the vehicle while flying down the corners back from the hilltop.  That’s exactly what we were doing when I heard the BEEP BEEP. Two quick beeps is shop talk for “ There’s a rider coming up through the cars. In addition to the cars serving a rolling water stops/ bike shops, the cars also serve the purpose of providing safety and shelter to the riders. When a rider has a mechanical or requires feeding, he’ll come back to the cars, get what he needs, and then jump from car bumper to car bumper, drafting his way back to the shelter of the field. The beep wouldn’t usually surprise me, but I hadn’t seen any rider go back for food or water.  When I checked I the mirror I was surprise to see the green and blond figure of Trent Klasna fighting his was back into the race. 

“ If I can just got over the hill…..if they just ease up…”. This time, also out of respect, I DID make eye contact, “ great job Trent” and off he went, forward this time, and out of sight into the safety of the flock.

This was Trent Klasna’s last year. He had been a professional since 1998 when he took up cycling to help straighten himself after a few troubled years of partying around the beaches of Southern California. One addiction for another. However good he may have been at rolling joints and drinking Bud pounders, he was much better at this bicycle racing thing. Almost immediately he rose through the ranks of amateur cycling and into a job with Saturn, the most dominant team in North America. In 2001 he was the US Time Trail Champion and the Overall Champion of the National Series. But then came a series of injuries, bad luck, and the demised of the big budget Team Saturn. When 2003 ended Klasna found himself a forgotten hero and out of work . Like I said, cycling doesn't mourn its dead.

With a new house, newly married, and the hopes that he still had one more good year left in him, Klasna took up the 2004 season with the new and inexperienced Sierra Nevada Cycling Team. For the beer sponsored team, signing Klasna was a boon. His addition brought instant credibility to the team and with that came access to bigger races and some respect in the pecking order of the controlled chaos of the racing peloton. Klasna honored the contract with strong performances in early California races like the Redland Classic and Sea Otter at Laguna Secca. But once he started losing the benefit a mild California winter it started becoming apparent that Trent was no longer the champion who dominate the scene from 1999-2002. As April turned into summer Klasna was having trouble hanging in the field and was being left behind by riders who should have been asking for his autograph.

Still, Klasna was a professional and he had a job to do. His name alone meant press coverage and TV time in Philly. His experience and attitude was an asset the young riders of his team. His best hope was to get up the road early and his attack initiated the early (suicidal) break that went away at the 5 mile mark. At the very least with the motorbike camera catching his return to the break he was providing his human billboard return on investment for the folks at the brewery who signed the check each month. Of course once you’re back in the race anything can happen. In 1995 the suicidal move went away at the start, got 35 minutes, and never came back. It could happen. Those were the thought going through the minds of Trent Klasna and the other escapees as they ate, drank, and prepared for lap around the track.

The next 5 times up the wall were a repeat of the same. Each time up Klasna would get dropped, usually with one or two other riders. And each time across the flats of Fairmont Park I’d hear the BEEP BEEP and see the lone figure of the cagey veteran making his way back to what was left of the break…” one more lap…one more time up the hill…maybe my legs will come back”.

But with just a few laps to go, news of the inevitable came across race radio. The Dutch powerhouse CSC had enough of the games and was driving the chase from behind. The lead group, which was down to about a 15 riders was losing 20 seconds a mile and their lead evaporated from 7 down to 3 minutes across the start/finish area. As the breakaway entered downtown Manyunk, their lead was just over a minute and the riders pressed on knowing that if they could get over the wall before getting caught, they might have a good chance of finishing the race hour of racing with the front group. As we hit the lower slopes of the Wall with the chase breathing down our neck the riders put everything they had into the climb. Immediately Klasna got popped. Just as he had all day, he lowered his head and pressed on. But this time as he went by there was no faking it….he was cracked. 

As we rounded the corner at the top of the hill you could see front of the chase group starting to swarm Klansna on their way to eating up everything in their sights. Now the break was caught, the pretenders and their false hope put away, and the stars were battling it in what was shaping up to be an exciting final 40 miles. 

Our team ( among those pretenders) lost its last rider in that same surge.  With all of our riders out of contention, t there was not point in driving the car around for the last hour and a half. After dropping the car off at the feed zone and tending to our riders, we ran the two blocks back to the hotel to watch the closing 10 miles.

With everyone out watching the race live the bar was empty except for a bored bartender and one lone patron with his head in his drink. We saddled up to the bar, I ordered a couple of beer and asked the bartender to turn up the TV as my mechanic shared a much needed cigarette with the guy sitting to his left. The race was in full cry with five riders holding a slim 20 second lead to a chase group of around 40 riders. The bartender asked what was going on.

“ Well those five have got to try and hang on another few miles”, I answered.

The bartended asked, “ Do you think they can do it ?”

And before I could answer, the guy at the end of the bar spoke up with a half slur, “ Bahhh, NO WAY.  You need at LEAST 40 seconds coming off Lemon Hill. And Horner isn’t going well. If he felt decent he’d be waiting for the sprint.”

Stunned, we all turned to around to see what kind of barfly knows so much about bicycle racing, and the bartender asked, “ You sure seem to know what you’re talking about pal. What are you, a pro biker ?”

Trent Klasna, freshly showered and three beers in looked up over his pint and took a drag from his cigarette, “ Nope.” He said with an exhale, “ not any more.”

out of mouth of (little evil) babes

The five year old this morning...

" Hey Dad "

- good morning princess

" yeah....Elivis died on the toilet"

- nice segue

What up cuz, what up blood, what up gangsta

For reasons not worthy of explination I attended a gang educational seminar at the local elementary school. As we were told, " It's never too early to prepare you kids for the dangers out there." which I roughly translate to mean, " Its never too early to freak out a bunch of suburban upper middle class white soccer moms."

Lets be real. By definition, the child of anyone attending that meeting is already at low risk.....well with the exception of my kids I suppose. In a community of less than 5% minority representation and household incomes over 70K you don't need gang seminars. Now you probably do need a symposium titled " Why my husband surfs internet porn " or " What to do when Mommy is whacked on Prozac and is banging our Mexican gardener" but that's a discussion for another day.

Anyway, what made the entire experience particularly entertaining for me personally was the the squareness of it all. Some local detective got up and warned the masses against the evils of gangs, this scarey evil thing called MYSPACE, and vicious gangsta rappers like Ice-T. ICE fucking T ?!?!? Ice-T is on Law and Order for christsake...hes a GRANDPA ! And this Tupac fellow is quite shady apparently...oh how so 90's.

The grand finale of it of course was a 3 minute slideshow presentation of pictures and myspace pages of " actual local teens " !!! My god ! Actual local teen gang memebers being outted. After this I swear Im getting a cell phone with a camera built in. The three minutes that followed were like a Eminem look alike pagent. Goofy ass white nerds, standing in front of their Dad's middle aged crisis Mustang, with a blunt hanging out of their mouths, holding a BB gun and flashing 'gang signs'.

I am just so greatful that my picture didn't show up.

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