So Lazy I'm Stupid

I miss him.

He was bright, confident and full of life.

Now he's lazy, retreading the same old stories, losing aspiration, shedding dreams because their weight becomes a heavier burden each passing year.

Inspiration quickly transforms from tool to dagger.

I need him again.

Perception wanes, intelligence fades and time passes quickly without improvement.

Appreciation and interpretation yield to what's real.

She loved him.

He did and does deeply love her.

He wants to be needed.

This is a painting of two people dancing in the rain.

Lost Vegas

At least that's what I did.

Although, I did see a lost and found in the casino of my hotel and thought about letting them know I'd lost an assload of money...

Not much to report.

Wasn't all that exciting, although we had a good time with Jefferson and Bridget. We stayed at the Luxor and they at the MGM. Both were very nice.

Let's see...the highlights:

The Horse Game at the MGM:

Jefferson and Bridget introduced us to this gem. It's really quite simple. You sit at this glass topped table that has mechanical horses inside of it, bet 25 cents at a time and sit there for hours as the waitress brings you free drinks. Once in a while you win, but all the while, drinking occurs.

The Fremont Street Experience:

Trixie had never been Downtown before, and since it's something everyone should smell, err, see at least once, we subjected her to the dregs of society gambling money they don't have. She summed up her visit with two words - Tangible Desperation.

The Tournament of Kings:

HUZZAH! Jefferson and Bridget accompanied Trixie and I to the Tournament of Kings at the Excalibur. For the uninitiated, think Medieval Times from the move Cable Guy. She and I had both been before, but Jefferson and Bridget fully immersed themselves in the chivalry and pagentry that is the greatest show in Las Vegas. Thanks again for a good time My Lady and My Lord. (Pic of Trixie and I above)

Satchel:

Satchel is one of Van's best friends.

Let's go through this chronologically.

On the flight to Vegas, Satchel is selected to have his baggage opened and checked by the TSA. He arrives in Vegas to find a note explaining the search in his bag, and his clothes dusted in menthol fresh talcum powder.

On Saturday night in Vegas, he imbibes in the proximity of alcohol that staying at The Golden Nuggett allows you. He had a number of liquor filled "footballs" and was blind drunk, yet still managed to win over $300 playing blackjack at Binion's Horseshoe.

Later that evening, when the party was breaking up, he became quite panicked and told everyone "Wait! Don't leave...you're my ride!"

They were staying across the street.

After falling in the casino and being warned numerous times not to lean on the glass near the roulette wheel, Satchel stumbled out to the street and made his way back to the Nuggett.

Satchel made a love connection with a sinewy stripper earlier in the evening, and she paid him a visit in his room later that night.

He woke up the next morning with an empty wallet.

I suppose that's the price you pay when you engage the services of a professional and allow yourself to fall asleep while she's there.

It's a shame too. He's a good guy. He just makes bad choices...all the time.

The Coupe de Gras:

Piling into the parking lot shuttle just after landing in St. Louis, the driver turns to the seven of us along for the ride and asks us, with all sincerity "Anyone know the score of the baseball game?"

Viva Atomic Liquors

"I'm leaving...on a jet plane...I don't know when I'll be back again..."

Actually, I'll be back on Wednesday.

Heading out to Van & Meredith's wedding in Las Vegas.

I hope to accomplish the following:

1. Indulge the bride on her last "free night".
2. Eat like Elvis.
3. Cheer on my Knight in the Tournament of Kings at the Excalibur.
4. Find Elizabeth Shue and play the role of Nick Cage.

See ya'll next week!

My Evening

So, I'm headed home yesterday evening.

I need to stop at the Post Office for some stamps.

I hate the Post Office.

It is the most hideous display of inefficiancy and government slovency the world has ever had thrust upon its stage.

So, I'm waiting in line of about ten people. It's maybe 4:45 in the afternoon.

You know, the time of day when working stiffs like you and I just want to get home to have a beer, shake hands with the unemployed or play Jenga with the cat...you know what I'm talking about...fucking relax.

Being the overworked and driven to cram Americans we are, we tend to also "stop off" to attend to household tasks on the way home.

Hence my trip to the Postal Palace.

Of the two available postal employees, one is helping someone send an odd-shaped package to Houston, and the other, well the other should have told her customer to fuck off and come back tomorrow.

Occupying the time of one of two available employees is a hulking mound of rotted flesh inquiring about collector's stamps.

He wants to know

What are the ones on the wall?

Oh, What's the one with the dogs?

Oh, spay and neuter your pets, huh?

Hey Mr. Flabtabulous! The rest of us are trying to get home for the evening and have REAL BUSINESS to conduct here! Move it along or I'm going to neuter you!

Instead of appealing to her good senses and alluding to the growing line, the postal princess continues to help Flabby Collector by looking through books to see what stamps are coming out next year.

My number is finally called.

Great, I can proceed to the smiling geriatric attendant.

All I need is a roll of stamps.

This should take five seconds.

I tell her what I need and hand her my credit card.

"I'm sorry, I can't take your card. It isn't signed."

I start to protest, explaining that you're right, it isn't signed, that's because I want people to check my I.D..

I then remember that I'm talking to a tray-slapper and just flip the card over and sign it.

She takes the card and swipes it.

Does that make ANY fucking sense?

Oh, and later, Trixie and I went to eat Chinese buffet and were sitting in a booth behind a couple I'll call Brontosaurus and Triceretops.

He, festooned in jersey material shorts, revealing his shriveled sack, she adorned in pajama pants and a ripped t-shirt. Fat ankles all around.

The grunts, groans and waves of approval emitted loudly from the table throughout the meal's duration.

It was smooth sailing until, after her third tapioca pudding (I know, weird, huh? Chinese pudding?) and a dash to the General Tso's chicken that the couple hit a bump in the road.

She asked the waiter for a TO GO BOX.

When told she couldn't have one, she was indignant.

After all, she'd paid for the food she'd consumed over the past two hours (they were there when we arrived and when we left).

If I ever reach a state in my life where I'm

A) 75 years old and working at the Post Office
B) So fat I need a cane and ask for a TO GO BOX from a buffet

just drag me naked through the cobblestone streets of St. Louis.

Aloha - It's Your Birthday

So, I woke up this morning, on my 31st birthday, and found another fucking grey hair.

It's all good though, I bought myself the birthday present to end all birthday presents.

This morning, I downloaded the entire Elvis Aloha From Hawaii Via Satellite live concert.

It's allright mama.

It's Back! The Picture of the Every Once in a While, Formerly the Picture of the Day!

So, what, were they fucking people before?

Breakin' For Soccer

It was 1985.

I was in the Fifth grade.

My life revolved around a tragic mixture of Michael Jackson, St. Louis Steamers Soccer and Breakdancing.

So, when an opportunity arrived to combine Breakdancing, a Michael Jackson impersonator and St. Louis Steamers Soccer presented itself in the venue of the Bernard School Winter Dance, naturally I moonwalked to the ticket counter, pronto.

The contest was a breakdancing contest and the prize was two tickets to the Steamers game.

Now, I had been gracing the flattened boxes of former fridges and washer & dryers for some time on the playground at recess. We had a "crew" that competed against another "crew" for the title of Best Breakers. Festooned in our finest sleeveless 80's shirts and parachute pants, we'd "break" for prestige, we'd "break" for pride. So revered were my abilities that a number of students found it necessary to autograph my 1985 yearbook with comments like "the best dancer" and from a City Transfer Student "good for a white dude". You get the picture. You go up against me, and you better bring your A-Level dance sucka.

Since the contest involved a competition of an individual nature, the "crews" decided to suspend all playground "dance-offs", so we could all work on our routines.

The night of the dance was one of great anticipation.

I fretted over spiking my hair just right, and must have tied my Rising Sun Bandana ten times around my knee before getting it right. Slipping into my red Merry Go Round Parachute Pants and stepping into my Red and Black Air Jordans, I was one to reckon with. Lastly, I draped my gold chain around my neck and then I told my mom I was ready for a ride to the dance.

The scene was intense. Crews were trolling about, trying to gague the competition for the night.

The Michael Jackson impersonator finished his number and the contest was ON.

This was single elimination...WINNER TAKE ALL.

TWO TICKETS TO THE STEAMERS.

The beats were pulsating as sweat dripped down my breakin' body.

The catepillar.

The wave.

The knee-spin.

I was making history.

Soon the contest was whittled down to three dancers, with yours truly among those still hittin' it.

The two suckas dancing against me were posers.

I'd beaten them before and besides, I had a "secret move" I was planning to unveil to cinch the prize.

Victory was in my sights.

Then it happened.

Greedily, I attempted a wave to knee-spin to back-spin combination.

Somewhere between the wave and the knee-spin I lost my balance and CRASHED to the floor, landing on my arm.

I tried to dance, but couldn't.

Then the overwhelming "I'm going to hurl" sensation came over me.

Sweat.

Watery mouth.

OH SHIT!

I ran to the bathroom.

LOCKED.

The principal spots me and quickly offers the use of his private bathroom.

He calls my mom as I hurl in his toilet.

A trip to the emergency room nets a sling and a month-long stint on the break dancing disabled list.

As if a broken arm wasn't bad enough, it was later ruled that I forfieted the contest, thereby losing my lunch, my pride and my fucking Steamers tickets.

He's Got His Own Horse

CONTENT WARNING! NOT FOR THOSE EASILY OFFENDED

So, I have a good friend that was once a social worker in Tennessee.

She told me of a particular case she was assigned that while it was serious and required close attention, was funny in a sick way.

She got a call from the neighbor of a thirteen year old boy one afternoon. The boy was a client.

The neighbor demanded that she come out because he was sneaking into his barn and having sex with his horse.

The authorities were called, and as luck would have it, the social worker and the police caught the boy in the act.

They took the young man next door to his house and told the father about what they caught him doing with the neighbor's horse.

The father's reply?

I don't know why he'd do that. He's got his own horse.

Hey Pilgrim Boy!

Okay, so there was one time, back when I was probably in First or Second grade when I, along with the rest of the class, was asked to dress like a Pilgrim at school.

So, me, never being one for details, quickly tuned out and went about planning my Pilgrim get-up.

I went home that evening and told my mom I needed to be a Pilgrim the next day and that she needed to make me a costume...you know, like right now.

So, we quickly assembled a hodge-podge of items laying about the house.

My black shirt, pants and cape (never mind it was lined with red taffeta) from the Dracula Halloween costume were employed as the outfit's base.

A white over-the-shoulders thingy was fashioned from something or another and draped over my shoulders.

Being the early 80's, in the haze of Urban Cowboy madness, we added my cowboy boots to the mix.

Now for a hat...hmm...construction paper and a Quaker Oats box will do the trick...

A hatchet and shoe buckles were made from construction paper.

We were done!

I had it!

I barely slept that night, excited about having the coolest Pilgrim costume ever to wear to school the next day.

Bright and early next morning, I donned the masterpiece of creation.

I walked to my bus stop, and nobody else was dressed up!

Lame man, really lame. You guys have NO SPIRIT!

I rode the bus, and again...I was the only one Pilgrimed Up!

Cruising down the hall and to my class...FUCKING BULL TITS! AM I THE ONLY PILGRIM HERE???

I then begin to endure a verbal assault so piercing I still to this day cannot talk about it without a drink in my hand. (I keep whiskey in my desk drawer...I'm coping as I'm writing)

HEY PILGRIM BOY!

You get it..HARSH for Second graders...

I make the way to my class, dodging the volleys being launched in my direction.

It's then that it happens.

My teacher, the pig faced bitch, asks me why I'm dressed as a Pilgrim.

Because you told us to.

Yes, I did tell you all to.

Tomorrow.

Today's Tuesday.

The blood flushed from my face like never before.

Chills.

Sweat.

I think my intestines gurgled...

Quickly, I ran to my cubbie hole to find my gym clothes.

Gone.

At home, in the laundry.

In the time before political correctness and over sensitivity, what was I forced to do all day?

You got it...sit in my buckles, hat and cape.

Fucking Pilgrims.

Coachlight Friends

Trixie loves frogs.

At last count, there were over 110 frog statues, figurines, notepads, lamps, etc. scattered throughout the house.

So, when we moved in to the new house and she saw a couple of frogs on the driveway, she was thrilled.

Every night, one particular frog sits on top of one of the coachlights fronting the garage, and catches bugs.

He's cool because he turns darker to blend with the brick and the light.

So, last night, I walked outside to let Baron do his business and saw TWO frogs sitting on the light.

Naturally I had to tell Trixie, and being the husband I am, took a series of pictures of them...

Clarity is a Gift

So I had a day yesterday that included me uncharacteristically unravelling and screaming at my boss that if things didn't change, he'd be without me.

Then I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much I hate my job and how I should act on the opportunities that are currently being floated and that my problems begin and end with my job.

What a bunch of bullshit.

I reacted emotionally to something that was said, and I blew up.

It's so unlike my professional demeanor. (My private life, however, is full of spontenaity and lacks discipline) I am emotionally detached, diplomatic and calculating.

And it pissed me off that I lost it.

It was only after I got home, sulked for an hour and talked with Trixie that I came to the realization that the problem was ME.

I ran from my last job to this one because I was being forced out politically and when I discovered I didn't like this job, I went running to look for another.

It's time to stop running.

Even if I do take the job that's wafting under my nostrils, I can't run to it. Not for more money. Not for more responsibility. It's got to be for the right reasons. And at this point, I don't know what those reasons are.

"You Ain't Gonna Jacuzzi Nobody!"

"I knew ya'll was fags..."

I audibly laughed last evening as I had a WE, Oxygen or Lifetime (take your pick, face it, I was a fancy lady) moment sitting in the jacuzzi in my bathroom.

The dog just sat in the doorway with a quizzical and suspicious look on his face.

Now, has anyone seen my poofy sponge?

Mean Old Man In Training

HEY YOU KIDS! GET OFF MY DRIVEWAY!

Oh, let it begin.

After three months of neighborly bliss in my no longer quiet cul-de-sac, the neighbors from hell may have moved in...

Trixie and I have enjoyed the peace that is having only one neighbor and now it's over.

When we moved in, one neighbor, our next door neighbor, Dolph, existed.

Dolph has four kids, but they're great kids. They play in their yard or in their driveway and are the kind of kids I hope to raise...polite, intelligent and mindful of adults.

About a month ago, Tolstoy and Keats moved in with their four kids. Decent kids. I do remember the day after they moved in, their little girl, who's maybe 10 stopped in front of my house, which at that time had no sod, and asked me if I had moved in yet...

This weekend Mark Twain and Jane Austen moved in directly across the street, with their four kids...who are un-fucking-controllable.

They ride their bikes in front of cars.

They ride their bikes on the neighbors lawns.

They ride their bikes on my lawn.

They play in other people's driveways.

I came out and saw them playing on MY driveway.

The parents? Oh, they're watching all of it.

That's right, I'm the Mean Old Man in training.

I realize families like the Cul-de-sac.

And, I don't hate kids.

I hate parents who assume that everyone loves their kids, so therefore their kids can run amock.

A kid is only as good as their parent has raised them.

And the next time I'm awakened on a hazy and hung over Saturday morning by one of their God damn kids next to my house or in my driveway, so help me God I will set up a barbeque, radio and beer tubs and invite two dozen of my friends over at 2:00 a.m. to imbibe in their front yard.