Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Earth Day

Yesterday was Earth Day, so as always I spent the day burning tires and pouring used motor oil down storm drains. Earth Day is just one of those days that has always bugged me. I went to college at UNH (New Hampshire) and it was simply filthy with hippies. It was so bad they almost converted me. There was even a guy we called Freedom John, I think, I just remember the Freedom part from the old "Freedom Rock" ablum they used to advertise constantly on late night TV. Anyway, this freak once yelled at me for flicking a cigarette butt on the ground. "Dude, that's not cool! I always put mine out and carry an empty container to put them in, you know?"
I was high and drinking, "That's great, pick up mine for me too, DUDE!" Needless to say he nor any of his group liked me. Fuck 'em, I didn't like them either. I was just trying to fuck the chicks they hung out with. Something about hippy chicks, free love...you get the idea.
I don't really like most holidays, except for the fact I don't have to work. Earth day is the worst to me because it has a politically correct theme with no historical precedent. I'd research the history of the holiday but I don't really give a fuck. Maybe the UN started it? I used to know back at UNH because it was force fed to us, luckily I've blocked all that out now. Or maybe it's because a solid 10% of my life is spent in an alcoholic black out. Either way, I'm happier not remembering.
I'll close with the shortest joke I know, "A baby seal walks into a club..."
Cheers Motherfuckers!

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Keith Moon

Shallon had a near death experience last night. I came home after what can only be described as a stellar evening. I got a check for $3,000 from a stranger for the beach house, watched the Bosox win, and did the worm in front of a punk rock band! Actually ended up carrying the lead singer around while he sang Rage. Just fucking awesome time. At the end of the night, I bummed $5 off buddies for a cab and went home. Shal had been to a bachelorette party for Karen. I actually ran into Karen at the bar where the punk band was playing upstairs. She was incoherent hammered, as is proper. It was her party, so cheers! I asked her about Shal's whereabouts, got a response along the lines of "Huh?" So I get home and find Shal buck naked and puking in her sleep. I immediately sobered up and contemplated calling 911. I slapped her around until she woke up. Thankfully she was alive. Puke fucking everywhere. I cleaned her up as best as possible and made sure she wasn't going to die. How fucking ironic would it be if she died of alcohol abuse? As I explained to her, that was my gig. I stripped the bed and gave her a new sheet. Then I promptly passed out.
Upon waking this morning, we had one of those joyous hung over moments where you're just glad to be alive. She kept apologizing to me and I kept reminding her that it was all okay. "We're both alive and will recover from this. I love you. I'm usually the drunken near-death one, you're the responsible one. You'll be okay. Now go wash the puke out of your hair." I was extremely forgiving. Until I found out she puked all over my couch. As I write this we are both nursing coffee and Baileys, and she is applying a copiuos amount of fabric cleaner to my couch. When I say "my couch", I mean the one I lay on and ash all over. Pukes the best thing that could have happened to that couch, it'll finally get cleaned.
The Keith Moon titile is basically just to make me laugh. I doubt Shal would have any idea who he was, though she did a great impersenation of him. (I can't figure out how to spell check this shit, lost a whole post yesterday trying. Suck it and all the misspellings.) Shal blames the low-carb diet for this mishap, I blame the rum and diet coke. Ever see rum, diet coke, salmon, and spinach puke? I have. It's awful. Keith Moon would have been proud of her. Just got a call from Jen C., she apparently had to walk Shal up the stairs of our place and put her on the couch. Shal was trying to sleep in the hallway. I couldn't be prouder of her. Wait, I just learned she was making out with people at Lois and Jerry's. Whore...
Enough about her chaos, more about me! We met the guy for the beach house yesterday, Andy. Mid-twenties, Korean, works in finance. Dead cool kid, I thought he was a little innocent until his fifth drink. At that point he began telling a story that prominently featured the term "cunt". I'm with Dan, an inappropriate lunatic if there ever was one. I'm just as bad, but both of us were trying to get Andy to tone it down. Andy, "So I'm like, 'I speak Spanish you cunt"" I can't even put this comment into context, it was just out of the blue. Dan and I are both doing the "Dude, easy with the C word." If Dan and I are trying to flag you...Let's just say it was extremely funny and awkward. We think Andy will be a fine edition. I guarantee you I will get him to tell that story in front of the elderly. I'm not sure if he even realized that cunt is offensive. I hope not, I hope I get him to say it regularly. Anyone being more offensive than me can only make me look better. Love foreigners!
After that meeting, Dan and I hooked up with Freddy Mac and Tom. Hung out at Hobson's and watched the Mighty Bosox. Flirted with babes, tried to sell my wedding ring, contemplated going to a rub and tug. Usual shit. The weak link was Fred. I love him but his idea of a wild time is Hooters. My version involves cocaine, transgendered hookers, and an undomesticated coyote. As Fred likes to remind me, "Different strokes for different folks." Fred has more integrity than me, I'm a fucking deviant. Speaking of deviants, Tony showed as well. Not sure of the name of the bar we went to next, but it was the joint with the punk band. They tried to charge me $5 to see the band, which I of course blew off. Waited until the bouncer turned his back then made a mad dash up the stairs. Two different lead singers were performing, some chick trying to be Gwen Steffani and a dude doing a Trent Reznor thing. Obviously I was more into Trent. I'm gay like that. Trent was tearing it up but no one was moshing. I tried to goad some folks into moshing but got no takers. The band kicked into "Killing in the Name of" and I could no longer restrain myself. If you know me, and to know me is to love me, (or hate me, whatever...Fuck off.) you know I'm not one to sit on the sidelines and let a good time pass me by. So I dive on the floor in front of the stage and start doing the worm. Did I mention I might have had a cocktail or two? Yeah...I was a little shitty. Anyway, the band fucking loves it. The crowd was generally shocked but started to get into my craziness. I jump up and Trent jumps off the stage into my arms. I march him around while he screams "Fuck you I won't do what you told me!" repeatedly. Good clean fun!
I got to wrap this up, it's beer time! Yanks lost again, Bosox rule, and the Celts are playing the knicks this afternoon. Spark it up Sparky!
Cheers Motherfuckers!

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Learn to Swim 4/8/2006

A friend of mine has been bugging me about writing more, so I'm trying. Mr. Nadeau, this is for you. Not to say that everyone who is reading this hasn't been pestering me as well, but daily myspace taunts from the incredibly obese Nadeau is inspiring. If a morbidly obese friend with a trach ring can take the time to bug me, the least I can do is spend a few moments to post.
I've been trying to behave better but have been failing miserably. Spent Friday drinking and assume I'll do the same today. I have to meet a stranger today at 2:00 for the beach house. Two shares are at stake, so it's important. Probably shouldn't have put Baileys in my coffee this morning, but I might as well show my true self. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my life. I love partying and being a dick. I sometimes worry about the health implications and my assinine behavior, but that happens mostly on Mondays and Tuesdays. I somehow managed to find a woman who loves me and actually wanted to marry me. I have to write about the whole Vegas/marriage thing at some point, not today though. Speaking of which, my absolute thanks to all who attended and those that sent their best wishes. Great fucking time. Kind of stressful for me, but that will be another post.
I really wanted to watch baseball today, but the only game on is the Mets and I couldn't care less. Bosox are 3-1 and looking good! Yanks are 1-3 and look fucked. Yanks don't play until 10pm tonight, at which point I'll either be asleep or blacked out. Hopefully. Bosox aren't on national TV. Go Bosx!
This whole beach house thing is a stress. We got three strangers in the house this year. One of them is a female named Fanny. We already got her check for a full share! She apparently has been to the house before on a random hook up, so she knows what she is getting into. Thats cool and a major coincidence, we found her on HobokenI.com. She recognized the house and one of last years members from photos while meeting with Shal. Too funny. Let's just say say the member in question has red hair and hasn't met a drug he doesn't like. 'Nuff said? Yeah...
So Shal already met the roommate of the guy we are meeting today. Thought he might be gay. Before I accept any checks I have to evaluate this. I have no problem with gay people, but gay sex in the room next to mine...It's bad enough having to hear Brown fucking. Though strangely arousing in a purely heterosexual way. Big, lithe, runners body...All sweaty and taut...Disturbing. Two guys going at it? Might be too much. Though they might let me jump in...I'll have to give this more thought. I hope he's cute.

Shal woke up at 7am today and is currently napping. Oops, she just woke up and I got to make breakfast. I'm a bitch...
Cheers Motherfuckers!

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Pregnancy

A fist fight at a baby shower would really be fantastic. As an added bonus, the expectant mother got punched! Sounds more like an Irish funeral to me.

http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2006/04/05/3_arrested_at_mass_baby_shower_brawl/

Speaking of pregnant women, I was recently asked to go and evaluate a woman who had just given birth to a still born baby. Her second. Somehow, this left her depressed. The fun part of this story is that they were telling me about this case in front of an 8 month pregnant woman. I am totally freaked out about this topic as it is, talking about in front of a pregnant woman...off the charts uncomfortable. The pregnant woman works days for Mobile Crisis, where I work evenings. She's about 24 and an Orthodox Jew. She wears the wig and is married to a Rabbi. She looks about 19 and too thin to give birth. She's already had bleeding and been put on bed rest but is now back at work. I won't even walk near her, pregnant women terrify me. I have this paranoia that I'll somehow bump into her or something and cause a miscarriage. "Thanks for killing my baby." My paranoia goes so far that I don't even like acknowledging the fact that someone is pregnant. "So you're having a baby?" "I was until you mentioned it, now I have to go the bathroom and miscarry!" Not only do I worry about the pregnancy going wrong, what if she has a mongoloid? Don't get me wrong, there is no greater source of humor for me than birth defects, but I don't want it happening to someone I know. "Wow, what a beautiful child!" Meanwhile the little fucker's head is three times too large and it's eating thumbtacks. Not to mention Sudden Infant Death! "How's the baby?" "Dead.." Fuck that shit, just introduce me to the kid when it turns 18. But I digress.

A little bit of info I learned from this evaluation is that if you have a still born baby, the hospital will dress it's little corpse up in baby clothes and take pictures. This is somehow good for the grieving process. The woman who I was evaluating, in her home, showed me these pictures. Dead newborn. There is literally not enough booze in the world to get these images out of my mind. Just for fun, imagine yourself in this situation and how you should react. I think I made some kind of noise like, "Awww..." Totally fucked up situation. Not much more to say about her, it was a pretty easy evaluation. "Two still born children? You're sad?" Yeah, you do the math on this one.

While on the topic, there is a Senator Santorum from Pennsylvania, a religious kook if there ever was one. He took his still born baby home to the family for a night. He's a hard core Catholic and has a big family, like 8 kids or something. I'd do a link but there are way too many. He's fucking hated. Google it for yourself. (I just did and found something about using his name for the after effects of anal sex.) I try to picture the family on the joyous day they brought home the dead baby. "This is your new sister/brother, say hello...say goodbye!" Must have been special, hope one of the young ones poked it with a stick. Ultra-religous upbringing, national spotlight, and having to pretend to show love to a dead baby? Those kids will be in rehab quicker than you can say Jackie Robinson.

Cheers Motherfuckers!

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Eugene L. Scott 1937-2006

Last Saturday Shal and I attended a Memorial service for Gene Scott, Shal's former boss and founder of Tennis Week magazine. It was at a church on the Upper East Side and was attended by thousands. There were only five speakers and two of them were John McEnroe and Billy Jean King. That was cool but not very emotional. Then Mrs. Scott and her two children took to the podium. The wife I'm guessing is in her 40's, the son is 9 years old, and the daughter is 11. After the wife spoke, the children took turns reading from a list of "Why we love our Dad". Holy fucking heart-breaking. Not a dry eye in the house. A man passed out near the front and had to be carried out by six other people. It was a very refined, WASPish affair, so everyone did their best to hold it together. It was literally exhausting. At the conclusion of the event, Shallon and I high-tailed it back to Hoboken and spent the rest of the day getting shitty. Really the only way to deal with it. I plan on writing more about funerals tomorrow, but it feels disrespectful to include it here.

Here is a link to his obituary.

http://www.sportsmediainc.com/tennisweek/index.cfm?func=showarticle&newsid=14974&bannerregion=

This prompted me to repost an old email I wrote pre-blog. This email was originally written in August 2000. I'm posting it unedited.

Last night Shallon took me to the Roger Smith Hotel in the city for the
opening night of Artennis, an art exhibit for charity put on by her former
boss at Tennis Week. It was in the penthouse and a pretty fancy gig (I even
wore a suit), with the obligatory wine and hors' douvres (I have no idea how
to spell that, but Tom, it's a fancy word for appetizers). John McEnroe was
there for about twenty minutes, wearing a Stanford b-ball cap, shorts, and a
tee-shirt, but he's really rich and famous, so what can you do? The
nuveau-rich can be so crass. Anyway, he sure as shit didn't talk with me,
but we were next to him when he saw a portrait of himself done by Tico
Torres, who is the drummer of Metallica, I think. McEnroe HATED it, but
such is the life of a rock superstar. As McEnroe left, George Plympton
walks in. (FYI: He's a writer, mostly sports related, but quite famous in
those circles. Always on TV for one thing or another.) I'm standing with
Shallon and Heather (sexy redhead, used to live with Shallon on Monroe St.)
and they insist I talk to him. I freeze up cause I don't want to bug him,
so they call him over. I open up with a little discussion about Sid Finch,
the fictional pitcher for the Met's that he did an April Fools story about
for Sports Illustrated 15 years ago, and just recently re-visited in the
"Where are they now?" issue of SI about a month ago. I am on! I know all
about Sid Finch because I thought it was hysterical then and now. English
born, raised by Tibetan monks, throws 168 mph while wearing one boot, and I
remember talking with my father about whether or not it was a goof (Hi
Dad!). So I buttered up Mr. Plympton and then got down to brass tacks: His
long realtionship with my hero, Dr. Gonzo himself, Hunter S. Thompson!
Boom! He just got back from Owl Ranch, Aspen, CO, where he had been
interviewing HTS. We talk for almost twenty minutes about HTS, and various
misadventures they had together. He said the interview earlier this week
went on for 24 hours straight! He was cracking up talking about the tapes
of the interview, cause all you can hear in the backgroud is "hacking coughs
from the hashish pipes and marijuana cigarettes, the clinking of ice from
HTS's glass of Wild Turkey, and the sound of, eh, inhaling nasally of
various recreational drugs." I was in heaven, and needless to say made a
brief but unsucessful inquiry as to how I could hear such tapes. He went on
to talk about midnight golfing with HTS about 15 years ago under the
influence of "various recreational drugs". He said they could never find
their balls but it was the funniest thing he'd ever done, until HTS pulled a
shotgun out of his golf bag! He implied things got pretty horrofic after
that...There is a lot more to this part of the story, but those are the
highlights. He left shortly after that and we raided the red wine and
munchies. As a coup de grace (Tom, it's like saying the "icing on the
cake") for the evening, I was invovled in a discussion with the remaining
folks left at the party, and the woman who designed the display held the
floor. She was mid- to late- 20's with long, straight black hair, a black
low cut blouse, and black leather skirt. She was talking about how a writer
described her as a "Junior Morticia Adams", and she complained that she had
no where enough of a chest for that description (she didn't). She went into
this rap a second time and gestured to her chest as she did so. Not missing
a beat and without even thinking, I respond, "Well, that must be the junior
part." Pause. Everyone cracks up, I'm turning beat red and can't believe I
said this. Shallon's former Boss and wife, who are very elegant, high
society people, laughed the loudest, thank God, and I was not man handled
out of the party, as is so often the case. The night ended with me being
accosted by a Nigerian man in a white robe, who I believed to be drunk, but
it may have been his accent. He claimed to be fast friends with Shallon and
knew alll about me. It took about five minutes for me to extract my hand
from his, and ruined my gracefully departure, but hey, it was a hell of a
night. Best wishes all, Jay

4/6/06 Holy run-on sentences! I promise more tomorrow concerning the various styles of funerals, memorials, and burials/cremations. I hope to make it funny and not as morbid as that last sentence would imply. Cheers Motherfuckers!