I asked Boris Yeltsin if he wanted to paint the town red. "No," he said, backhanding the wall. "We'll paint the town Boris Yeltsin." (He was infatuated with referring to himself in the third person and with inserting his name into idioms: "tilting at Boris Yeltsin"; "once upon a Boris Yeltsin"; "all Boris Yeltsins on deck.") I nodded as if I understood. He spoke perfect English. I was on primo hallucinogens but I never did detect an accent. We sipped and enjoyed two bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue and headed to the college bar scene.
It was a balmy spring night, and we wore khakis and pastel polos. It was beyond weird to see Boris Yeltsin in khakis and an apricot polo, but he made it work. "Perestroika? More like Pee-estroika," he said, wobblingly urinating behind a dumpster in a dim alley.
Boris Yeltsin didn't walk. He strolled down the sidewalk, his white hair shining under the moon and in the neon. He glided through swarms of collegians. Some looked askance at him. Others patted him on the back. Others made ignorant comments. "Welcome to Nebraska, Khrushchev!" "Watch where you're going, Gorbadouche." "I loved you on Gilligan's Island." "Joe Stalin, hey! What's Joe short for? Joseph?" Boris smirked and whispered, "Nebraska sounds like a Russian invective. 'Go Nebraska yourself.' 'Suck my Nebraska.'"
We barhopped like crazy. Boris Yeltsin was not a man who had two drinks in a bar. It was one and gone. I repeatedly offered to order him a White Russian. He continually refused, saying, "Boris Yeltsin is not a cliché, not a so-called good German. I want a screwdriver."
At one bar, he ordered a Guinness and proceeded to pour half of it on his left pant leg. The dark liquid beaded off and pooled on the floor. "Stain-proof! Stain-proof pants!" he beamed, before adding, "What's the greater invention: the hydrogen bomb or stain-proof pants?"
Two bars later, an accoster poked Boris in the chest and asked, "Why's your face so red? Is it because you're a flea-bitten commie bastard?"
"No," Boris said, his eyes hooded and glassy, "Boris Yeltsin is an alcoholic. Boris Yeltsin wets a duffel bag of whistles."
He had one glaring problem: He was unskilled with the ladies; however, chicks may did the long ball but they dig the titillating power to bombard Russian Parliament more. They were naturally curious, and Boris wasn't above a friendly graze here or an unplanned grope there. It wasn't exactly good, clean fun. In his immortal words, "A breast is a breast" and "Nipples need twisting." After exchanging pleasantries with a random woman, he'd say, "Boris Yeltsin wants to know if you have syphilis." Conversation over.
The bars closed at 1 a.m., and that's when his iPhone began blowing up. "I can't hear you!" he'd yell into the phone, "Where you at? You having after-hours? Boris Yeltsin makes after-hours happen. Holler." We went to an after-hours party which Boris deemed a sausage fest. He quipped, "What is this, the Ukraine?" We left and went to Perkins for pancakes, where his insatiable lust for liquor and women revved up again. He elatedly and wildly swigged from a flask, made none-too-smooth remarks to our waitress ("Unlike these pancakes, I'd smother you in more than syrup and powdered sugar"), knocked three forks on the floor, and left a $2,000 tip on a $20 ticket. Still, he couldn't convince her to quit her job, leave her husband, abandon her children, and join him for some "Easy Rider-like misadventures."
I dropped him at his hotel. "Let's do it again—tonight," he said with a wide, childlike smile, his face redder than a tomato in a glass of Merlot. "What happens in Boris Yeltsin stays in Boris Yeltsin."
May 28, 2008
May 13, 2008
A Smorgasbord of Irritation and Oddities
I really don't know what is or isn't funny—as if these blogs aren't comparatively indicative of that. This became very apparent on Sunday while in a dark theater; no, not a porn theater. The trailer for Hamlet 2 rolled. I smiled and chuckled throughout, thinking, Hmmm, looks absurd. I'd check out a matinee. When it ended, I was set to whisper to two friends, "What an ingenious premise. I'll illegally download it a week after it hits theaters." I didn't. Before I could, I heard a gentleman behind me gruffly mutter, "Looks stupid." Then I heard one friend say, "Looks dumb," which the other seconded. Not wanting to be seen as too nonconformist, I reverted to embracing the sound of silence.
Some of this prose, this logorrhea, this bluster isn't high comedy, illuminating, or even entertaining. The well of material is dry at this time, so yours truly is a rudderless writer. That said, I'll detail a few recent occurrences that I found amusing.
A. Thursday, May 8. 10:00 p.m. I was showering. A boom box on the floor played a CD I'd just burned. What song? Oingo Boingo's "Weird Science." My cell phone rang. Dandy thoughts of intoxication, tomfoolery, strolling the stroll, unhealthily fearing pickpockets like a paranoiac, fibbing the fib(s), and tan women in sundresses danced in my head. (I call any tomato, an "offensive" term that I use with love and affection, in a sundress "Sunny D" and am so looking forward to drinking in an orange grove's worth of Sunny D this summer.)
I shut off the water, flicked droplets off my hands, yanked back the curtain, and answered the call. I was more brusque than usual as I shivered and hummed and spun like a top. The night was a go. Hooray. Ended the call. Water on. New song: Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party"—yes, I burned consecutive Oingo Boingo songs on a CD. What's my major malfunction? Who answers a somewhat meaningless call while showering? It wasn't a hospital calling with the results of a biopsy. It wasn't a mandatory phone interview for a job. It could've waited. What's five or ten minutes between future alcoholics? Nothing. Ugh. Taking this call may've been life's low point, you know, thus far. Of course, it'll soon be topped, er, bottomed. But that night, it was, "Gents, bottoms up!"
B. May 10. 7:30 p.m. Random thought: Clay Aiken is creepy. He looks like a mannequin or a post-op tranny.
C. May 11. 10:30 p.m. Hy-Vee on North 27th Street. Hy-Vee closes one of the electronic doors at ten, and two petitioners had set up shop at the only working entrance/exit. I wanted to elude them, but a collision was unavoidable. I growled and wheeled my cart out the doors. They bombarded me with "Will you sign this petition about electing candidates this November who are the most qualified and the best trained?" I begrudgingly said yes and filled out my information.
Small talk ensued. A shopper left Hy-Vee. The petitioners tried to cajole her. She said, "I'm not registered." That struck me as rude and odd. Was she lying to evade signing? If so, well done. Artful. People are shady like that. I asked, "What's the percentage of registered to unregistered voters?" A petitioner said, "Oh, probably sixty to forty." Wow. Whoa. Hold on. Timeout. Either Lincoln has a superabundance of fabricators, okay, stinking compassionless liars, or a superabundance of unregistered voters. I don't know what the true statistics are, but neither reality is at all comforting. Then the other petitioner said, "A lot of felons too."
Felons? What the flip?
I asked, "Are you serious?"
He nodded intently and said something like, "Yes. You wouldn't believe the number of people who said, 'Sorry, I can't. I have a felony on my record.' It's kind of startling."
My brain was mush by now. Oatmeal. After some forgettable jokes between us, I wished them a good night and left.
Well, I won't be squeezing fruit like there's no tomorrow in that supermarket anymore. Who knows how many ex-cons are carrying shivs in the cereal aisle while shopping for Frosted Cheerios?
D. May 11. 4:00 p.m. Relaxing outside The Mill, eating uncut, plain bagels that were supposed to be French toast-flavored. Overweight couple after overweight couple tramped up and down 8th Street, blocking the sun, waddling like crabs, and holding hands. Each planet—and that's what these walking soda and vending machines are, planets—needs to remain in its respective orbit. Why is Saturn palming one of Jupiter's moons?
I'm not much of a romantic. Chivalry is under the sod. PDA? Strictly for the birds. I understand literal handwringing but not literal handholding. What does it prove? Does it shout your love to the world? I'm lost. Adrian Monk these touchy-feely folks aren't. I'm naturally dismissive, so it seems that holding hands is a sign of insecurity. Oh, I'll hold your hand in mine. We'll lightly swing our arms to prove that, yeah, we're together. I'm with you. Hey, everybody, I'm with this person! That'll show 'em. Balderdash. Picture me hawking a loogie.
There should be a weight limit on couples desirous of holding hands. How about 300 bills? Is a two-chin max too mean? If you've been responsible for a solar eclipse in your day, you should hold a Slim-Fast shake and not the sweaty, fleshy paw of your indubitably obese enabler.
Some of this prose, this logorrhea, this bluster isn't high comedy, illuminating, or even entertaining. The well of material is dry at this time, so yours truly is a rudderless writer. That said, I'll detail a few recent occurrences that I found amusing.
A. Thursday, May 8. 10:00 p.m. I was showering. A boom box on the floor played a CD I'd just burned. What song? Oingo Boingo's "Weird Science." My cell phone rang. Dandy thoughts of intoxication, tomfoolery, strolling the stroll, unhealthily fearing pickpockets like a paranoiac, fibbing the fib(s), and tan women in sundresses danced in my head. (I call any tomato, an "offensive" term that I use with love and affection, in a sundress "Sunny D" and am so looking forward to drinking in an orange grove's worth of Sunny D this summer.)
I shut off the water, flicked droplets off my hands, yanked back the curtain, and answered the call. I was more brusque than usual as I shivered and hummed and spun like a top. The night was a go. Hooray. Ended the call. Water on. New song: Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party"—yes, I burned consecutive Oingo Boingo songs on a CD. What's my major malfunction? Who answers a somewhat meaningless call while showering? It wasn't a hospital calling with the results of a biopsy. It wasn't a mandatory phone interview for a job. It could've waited. What's five or ten minutes between future alcoholics? Nothing. Ugh. Taking this call may've been life's low point, you know, thus far. Of course, it'll soon be topped, er, bottomed. But that night, it was, "Gents, bottoms up!"
B. May 10. 7:30 p.m. Random thought: Clay Aiken is creepy. He looks like a mannequin or a post-op tranny.
C. May 11. 10:30 p.m. Hy-Vee on North 27th Street. Hy-Vee closes one of the electronic doors at ten, and two petitioners had set up shop at the only working entrance/exit. I wanted to elude them, but a collision was unavoidable. I growled and wheeled my cart out the doors. They bombarded me with "Will you sign this petition about electing candidates this November who are the most qualified and the best trained?" I begrudgingly said yes and filled out my information.
Small talk ensued. A shopper left Hy-Vee. The petitioners tried to cajole her. She said, "I'm not registered." That struck me as rude and odd. Was she lying to evade signing? If so, well done. Artful. People are shady like that. I asked, "What's the percentage of registered to unregistered voters?" A petitioner said, "Oh, probably sixty to forty." Wow. Whoa. Hold on. Timeout. Either Lincoln has a superabundance of fabricators, okay, stinking compassionless liars, or a superabundance of unregistered voters. I don't know what the true statistics are, but neither reality is at all comforting. Then the other petitioner said, "A lot of felons too."
Felons? What the flip?
I asked, "Are you serious?"
He nodded intently and said something like, "Yes. You wouldn't believe the number of people who said, 'Sorry, I can't. I have a felony on my record.' It's kind of startling."
My brain was mush by now. Oatmeal. After some forgettable jokes between us, I wished them a good night and left.
Well, I won't be squeezing fruit like there's no tomorrow in that supermarket anymore. Who knows how many ex-cons are carrying shivs in the cereal aisle while shopping for Frosted Cheerios?
D. May 11. 4:00 p.m. Relaxing outside The Mill, eating uncut, plain bagels that were supposed to be French toast-flavored. Overweight couple after overweight couple tramped up and down 8th Street, blocking the sun, waddling like crabs, and holding hands. Each planet—and that's what these walking soda and vending machines are, planets—needs to remain in its respective orbit. Why is Saturn palming one of Jupiter's moons?
I'm not much of a romantic. Chivalry is under the sod. PDA? Strictly for the birds. I understand literal handwringing but not literal handholding. What does it prove? Does it shout your love to the world? I'm lost. Adrian Monk these touchy-feely folks aren't. I'm naturally dismissive, so it seems that holding hands is a sign of insecurity. Oh, I'll hold your hand in mine. We'll lightly swing our arms to prove that, yeah, we're together. I'm with you. Hey, everybody, I'm with this person! That'll show 'em. Balderdash. Picture me hawking a loogie.
There should be a weight limit on couples desirous of holding hands. How about 300 bills? Is a two-chin max too mean? If you've been responsible for a solar eclipse in your day, you should hold a Slim-Fast shake and not the sweaty, fleshy paw of your indubitably obese enabler.
May 2, 2008
Yeah, I Called You a Racist. Tough!
"You're a racist!" she half-shouted at me last Thursday at Gecko's, er, Iguana's. Her portly friend, a real bowling ball, chirped in too, saying, "Oh, she called you out."
Bollocks. Uh-uh. Not a BombPop's chance in hell.
(She of the potty mouth and forked tongue—a friend's girlfriend whom I've wasted less than five minutes of conversational breath on in total since summer 2007—was an acquaintance at best. Look, I'm perversely happy that she slandered me. I instantly thought, "Well, here's a blog.")
I didn't deserve this putdown. I hadn't said anything racially insensitive. Other times? Sure. I'm as imperfect as broken glass. But I was on my best behavior. Not a peep of offensive material. Though I was in ultra-critical mode as always, she hadn't heard any of it. In point of fact: I'd hardly spoken a word to her. That's what was so queer about it. Her attack was entirely unprovoked. She said her group was going to Main Street and urged me to join them. I declined. Then with a devious grin, she tossed the racist frag at me. That is a label whose appropriateness I will dispute until I'm royal blue in the face.
Yeah, I could've berated her—and maybe cracked that "listening to you is worse than listening to Arianna Huffington"—but my all-important torpor was too great.
In a futile attempt to backtrack, she said something like, "I know my boyfriend's friends, and they're all racists."
I didn't know how to reply then. I don't know how to reply now. I still have lockjaw.
Look, you don't even know me, Geraldine Ferraro!
Bollocks. Uh-uh. Not a BombPop's chance in hell.
(She of the potty mouth and forked tongue—a friend's girlfriend whom I've wasted less than five minutes of conversational breath on in total since summer 2007—was an acquaintance at best. Look, I'm perversely happy that she slandered me. I instantly thought, "Well, here's a blog.")
I didn't deserve this putdown. I hadn't said anything racially insensitive. Other times? Sure. I'm as imperfect as broken glass. But I was on my best behavior. Not a peep of offensive material. Though I was in ultra-critical mode as always, she hadn't heard any of it. In point of fact: I'd hardly spoken a word to her. That's what was so queer about it. Her attack was entirely unprovoked. She said her group was going to Main Street and urged me to join them. I declined. Then with a devious grin, she tossed the racist frag at me. That is a label whose appropriateness I will dispute until I'm royal blue in the face.
Yeah, I could've berated her—and maybe cracked that "listening to you is worse than listening to Arianna Huffington"—but my all-important torpor was too great.
In a futile attempt to backtrack, she said something like, "I know my boyfriend's friends, and they're all racists."
I didn't know how to reply then. I don't know how to reply now. I still have lockjaw.
Look, you don't even know me, Geraldine Ferraro!
April 27, 2008
"I Can't Write for Shit but I Want Your Vote"
If you have a law degree but can't write coherently, satisfactorily, or cogently for that matter, I have to excoriate you. I must—especially when you're running for the Nebraska legislature! (Note: I refuse to capitalize "legislature." Sue me.) There's no gray area here. You're supposed to be educated. You're supposed to be more than an empty suit and a three-dollar haircut. Get your act together.
His name is Brent Smoyer. We went to the same high school; he was a year below me. While a genial fellow, he was an unpopular goof. Plays, choirs, and musicals occupied his time, not that there's anything wrong with that. He was the most ungainly football player ever. One gasser would leave him wheezing like a geriatric without an oxygen mask. He'd jog out to practice, and his face would already be as red as a maraschino cherry. His car? An Oldsmobile that looked like a beige outhouse. I mention this to highlight the fact that he failed to relate to anyone then. Toss in the nugget that people don't normally change drastically. So how's he supposed to relate to the populace now?
He's chasing a fairy tale and losing ground.
It's as clear as day: Besides being a wannabe, he's just another callow, jerkwater politico, albeit one with the language skills of Danny Bonaduce.
His error-strewn "Issues" page:
www.brentsmoyer.com/Issues.html
What is this dross? And it is dross. Is it a first draft?
It's redundant. It's schlocky. It's infantile from alpha to omega. It's categorically boring. Where's the flair? You have a law degree, and this pabulum is you putting your best foot forward? Forget that. You're not earning, or getting, my vote. You're earning my contempt. This isn't quantum physics. How can you sleep at night? Reproach yourself this instant!
(I'll forgo adding a [sic] to all of his oversights. There'd be far too many of them. They'd bog down the writing. I'll just get it out of the way: [sic].)
Ever heard of a hyphen? No? Okay. Didn't think so. "Ever growing need"? "High caliber universities"? "Well being"? Dude, it's a blasted noun. Hyphenate it already! That is sad and pathetic. Hemingway was a drunk who ate a load of buckshot but he respected and employed the hyphen. Correctly using a hyphen can be a gratifying experience. But I'm talking jabberwocky right now, aren't I? Hyphen. Hy-phen. Not hymen. Hyphen.
Understand the rules of a period? Nope? Not surprising. Here's a free lesson: Always, always, always, always, always, always place a period (or a comma) inside the quotation mark. Is "always" too vague for you? Too ambiguous? The Unabomber was a deranged (and violent) stargazer but he cared about his manifesto's grammaticality. He cared. Why don't you? Hmmm, perhaps I'll cast a write-in vote for Teddy Bear Kaczynski.
Here's you: "family".
Here's me: I'm now flaccid.
Here's civilized society: "family."
"Nebraskan" is singular. "Their" is plural. "Child"? Singular. "Them"? Plural. "Them" cannot refer to "child" and "their" cannot refer to "Nebraskan," yet you nonchalantly do it. Repeatedly. Interminably. Strangely. Unprofessionally. Vexingly. Is it pathological? It's as if you think the—what you see as negligible—difference between singular and plural is pure semantics reserved for stuffy grammarians in ivory towers. Are you ignorant or just careless?
Did you write this tripe or did one of your surrogates, say a toddler on the refrigerator door with crayons?
Looks like someone skipped remedial English many summers ago to put on a fantabulous rendition of Guys and Dolls at the Piccadilly Dinner Theatre. I hope you enjoyed your curtain call. It was surely your last.
His name is Brent Smoyer. We went to the same high school; he was a year below me. While a genial fellow, he was an unpopular goof. Plays, choirs, and musicals occupied his time, not that there's anything wrong with that. He was the most ungainly football player ever. One gasser would leave him wheezing like a geriatric without an oxygen mask. He'd jog out to practice, and his face would already be as red as a maraschino cherry. His car? An Oldsmobile that looked like a beige outhouse. I mention this to highlight the fact that he failed to relate to anyone then. Toss in the nugget that people don't normally change drastically. So how's he supposed to relate to the populace now?
He's chasing a fairy tale and losing ground.
It's as clear as day: Besides being a wannabe, he's just another callow, jerkwater politico, albeit one with the language skills of Danny Bonaduce.
His error-strewn "Issues" page:
www.brentsmoyer.com/Issues.html
What is this dross? And it is dross. Is it a first draft?
It's redundant. It's schlocky. It's infantile from alpha to omega. It's categorically boring. Where's the flair? You have a law degree, and this pabulum is you putting your best foot forward? Forget that. You're not earning, or getting, my vote. You're earning my contempt. This isn't quantum physics. How can you sleep at night? Reproach yourself this instant!
(I'll forgo adding a [sic] to all of his oversights. There'd be far too many of them. They'd bog down the writing. I'll just get it out of the way: [sic].)
Ever heard of a hyphen? No? Okay. Didn't think so. "Ever growing need"? "High caliber universities"? "Well being"? Dude, it's a blasted noun. Hyphenate it already! That is sad and pathetic. Hemingway was a drunk who ate a load of buckshot but he respected and employed the hyphen. Correctly using a hyphen can be a gratifying experience. But I'm talking jabberwocky right now, aren't I? Hyphen. Hy-phen. Not hymen. Hyphen.
Understand the rules of a period? Nope? Not surprising. Here's a free lesson: Always, always, always, always, always, always place a period (or a comma) inside the quotation mark. Is "always" too vague for you? Too ambiguous? The Unabomber was a deranged (and violent) stargazer but he cared about his manifesto's grammaticality. He cared. Why don't you? Hmmm, perhaps I'll cast a write-in vote for Teddy Bear Kaczynski.
Here's you: "family".
Here's me: I'm now flaccid.
Here's civilized society: "family."
"Nebraskan" is singular. "Their" is plural. "Child"? Singular. "Them"? Plural. "Them" cannot refer to "child" and "their" cannot refer to "Nebraskan," yet you nonchalantly do it. Repeatedly. Interminably. Strangely. Unprofessionally. Vexingly. Is it pathological? It's as if you think the—what you see as negligible—difference between singular and plural is pure semantics reserved for stuffy grammarians in ivory towers. Are you ignorant or just careless?
Did you write this tripe or did one of your surrogates, say a toddler on the refrigerator door with crayons?
Looks like someone skipped remedial English many summers ago to put on a fantabulous rendition of Guys and Dolls at the Piccadilly Dinner Theatre. I hope you enjoyed your curtain call. It was surely your last.
April 23, 2008
Don't Accost Me in a Restroom!
Whosoever accosts a stranger in a Gold's Gym restroom/locker room deserves unequivocally callous scorn. Last night, I was said stranger. The no-neck, tatted-up, partially cross-eyed accoster was a redheaded stepchild if I've ever seen one.
It was 11:15 p.m. I was blowing my nose after running about four miles. Sweat saturated my shirt. MP3 player blared Phil Collins' "Something Happened On the Way to Heaven."
In walks the goon with the cartoonish mass, acting as if the room were too small for his gigantic muscles. (C'mon, you have to save that swagger for O Street!) He wore sweatpants and a blue wifebeater. His left arm was one continuous tat, with the U.S. flag emblazoning his shoulder. "You're looking at a patriot. Get my patriotism in ink. I was a special-needs student throughout school. Do you do tramp stamps? I want a rainbow." A pro-wrestling reject, I thought. His underdeveloped mustache looked as if he'd smeared Dorothy Lynch under his nose. His eyes had this slow-on-the-uptake glaze about them. Dopey-looking—that's the choice descriptive.
I'd shaved off my mini-afro earlier in the day and was/am rocking a cut that a friend calls the Jack Shephard, and the lastingly wretched sunburn on my forehead had warped my face into a grimace. I didn't exactly look like the kindest, most approachable fellow in the gym.
Meathead was unfazed. He asked, "Have a nice workout?"
I said something like, "I work hard and have overactive sweat glands. It's the perfect storm."
Curtains. Or not.
(The following one-sided conversation occurred with about ten feet between us. He was still in my personal space, and I was out of my comfort zone. He was a body language abecedarian, okay, know-nothing. He sure as heck couldn't read mine. I often glanced away. I twirled my earbuds. I discreetly tapped on my left wrist where a watch might be. No difference.)
He launched into a gassy monologue that was as self-serving as it was unintelligible. Besides "Cool, man," "I see," "Good luck with that," "Oh," and "That sucks," I couldn't get a word in edgewise. He inconsiderately prattled for about three minutes—it seemed like three years—about tearing a rotator cuff and a bicep, some bone protruding somewhere, and bodybuilding competitions. (Bodybuilding? He had breasts! C cups. He needed a "mansiere.") This wasn't/isn't his fatal flaw. The motormouth could not enunciate. No enunciation, period. He'd spit out a paragraph like it was one word. I could maybe understand every sixth word. (Insert your own "Hooked on Phonics" joke.) "Body" was the only word you'd find in a dictionary.
It was highly perturbing. I wanted to bail but didn't want to be overtly rude. Why couldn't I be more of a fire-eater? "Enough out of you! No one cares how many steroids you injected today? You're not Lyle Alzado." I couldn't do it.
He said he has three jobs, I think, one as a bouncer. Of course. A person with piss-poor to no people skills should work with people, and unthinking, sodden, dissatisfied ones at that. Makes sense.
My breaking point came, and I walked past him. He was still crowing illiterately about powerlifting, bronzing, and pose-offs. I waited for him to take a breath and said, "Dude, I'm not gay."
Interaction? Flatline.
It was 11:15 p.m. I was blowing my nose after running about four miles. Sweat saturated my shirt. MP3 player blared Phil Collins' "Something Happened On the Way to Heaven."
In walks the goon with the cartoonish mass, acting as if the room were too small for his gigantic muscles. (C'mon, you have to save that swagger for O Street!) He wore sweatpants and a blue wifebeater. His left arm was one continuous tat, with the U.S. flag emblazoning his shoulder. "You're looking at a patriot. Get my patriotism in ink. I was a special-needs student throughout school. Do you do tramp stamps? I want a rainbow." A pro-wrestling reject, I thought. His underdeveloped mustache looked as if he'd smeared Dorothy Lynch under his nose. His eyes had this slow-on-the-uptake glaze about them. Dopey-looking—that's the choice descriptive.
I'd shaved off my mini-afro earlier in the day and was/am rocking a cut that a friend calls the Jack Shephard, and the lastingly wretched sunburn on my forehead had warped my face into a grimace. I didn't exactly look like the kindest, most approachable fellow in the gym.
Meathead was unfazed. He asked, "Have a nice workout?"
I said something like, "I work hard and have overactive sweat glands. It's the perfect storm."
Curtains. Or not.
(The following one-sided conversation occurred with about ten feet between us. He was still in my personal space, and I was out of my comfort zone. He was a body language abecedarian, okay, know-nothing. He sure as heck couldn't read mine. I often glanced away. I twirled my earbuds. I discreetly tapped on my left wrist where a watch might be. No difference.)
He launched into a gassy monologue that was as self-serving as it was unintelligible. Besides "Cool, man," "I see," "Good luck with that," "Oh," and "That sucks," I couldn't get a word in edgewise. He inconsiderately prattled for about three minutes—it seemed like three years—about tearing a rotator cuff and a bicep, some bone protruding somewhere, and bodybuilding competitions. (Bodybuilding? He had breasts! C cups. He needed a "mansiere.") This wasn't/isn't his fatal flaw. The motormouth could not enunciate. No enunciation, period. He'd spit out a paragraph like it was one word. I could maybe understand every sixth word. (Insert your own "Hooked on Phonics" joke.) "Body" was the only word you'd find in a dictionary.
It was highly perturbing. I wanted to bail but didn't want to be overtly rude. Why couldn't I be more of a fire-eater? "Enough out of you! No one cares how many steroids you injected today? You're not Lyle Alzado." I couldn't do it.
He said he has three jobs, I think, one as a bouncer. Of course. A person with piss-poor to no people skills should work with people, and unthinking, sodden, dissatisfied ones at that. Makes sense.
My breaking point came, and I walked past him. He was still crowing illiterately about powerlifting, bronzing, and pose-offs. I waited for him to take a breath and said, "Dude, I'm not gay."
Interaction? Flatline.
April 21, 2008
Am I Trying to Sabotage This First Date?
I behave stupidly. Ergo, I do stupid things. To understand why I do stupid things, I may as well do stupid things.
My brainlessness was on full display yesterday—during a first date. At one point, I even thought, Am I trying to sabotage this? During this meltdown for the ages, I riddled my feet with lead. Though I was a gaffe machine, the date still seemed to go well, somehow.
The Litany of Blunders
1. The previous week, I'd emailed her various songs. These included Buckcherry's "Lit Up," the Stones' "Let's Spend the Night Together," and Stone Temple Pilots' "Sex Type Thing."
2. The yolky sun arcing over Saturday's Red-White Spring Game and its temperate rays terribly seared my lily-white skin, so my nose, forehead, and cheeks were glaringly rosy. The tops of my knees and the bottoms of my thighs looked as if I'd colored them with dullish red chalk. I was in such pain that I'd been popping Aleve like they were Chewy Runts. I wasn't nervous. No. I was in exorbitant agony from all the melting flesh. Thus, no yips.
3. I showered but moronically chose to wear the same clothes from the night before when I was a walking sales rack for American Eagle. I likely reeked of Budweiser and Michelob Ultra.
4. We tried to eat at The Green Gateau. This was Sunday at noon, so it was packed. We tried to eat at Bison Witches. What a zoo. We went next door to The Coffee House. Thankfully, the place was dead. I was down to my last strike.
5. After making a platitudinous comment to the barista about "muffin tops," I ordered two "giant" muffins, blueberry and pumpkin. Muffins? Really? Can a man—okay, I'm not a man; I'm a lad in a man's body—order muffins on a first date? Isn't this tantamount to a man ordering a salad at a restaurant on a first date?
6. I somewhat rudely chastised her for trying to pay for her food and drink. She pulled her purse from her bag, and I said, "Put that away! We're not going Dutch." The total cost was $7.92. Yep, I looked like a real cheapskate.
7. We sat down and began eating. The muffins were disintegrating like wet sandcastles. I was making a mess. Crumbs everywhere. And I was talking with my mouth full.
8. I was dehydrated from three nights of insobriety so I ordered water and chomped away on ice cubes. My date? A future dentist. She duly and politely called me on it. I unabashedly continued crushing those glorified hailstones.
9. I yammered about Nazi Germany and how it was a good thing that my ancestors fled to Russia decades earlier. I said, "Who knows what the Nazis would've done with my ancestors...probably put them on a train to Auschwitz-Birkenau." (Germans exterminating other Germans? What?) Boy, you're some conversationalist. Will you wise up?
10. I told her I'd shaved my legs on Saturday and said, "Go on. Feel 'em." She did. I said, "I'm just not that hairy," and delved into this story: "It was junior year of high school. I was jogging out to football practice when some, like, seventh-grade girl goes, 'Hey, do you shave your legs?' 'No!' I shrieked. She almost reduced me to tears." By now, I'd completely, if not irrevocably, emasculated myself, but the self-destruction was far from over.
11. I mentioned how I'm set to apply to the Iowa Writers' Workshop. "I used to be like, 'I know I can write at that level.' Now it's more like, 'I think I can write at that level.' I'm not as arrogant as I once was." A short while later, I blurted out, "I've wasted prodigious talent." Gee. That's attractive. That's what every woman wants to hear.
12. I waxed nostalgic about my days as an opinion columnist for the Dakota Student newspaper—the old Dakota Stupid—when I was "the most reviled columnist at any student paper in the country." I said that the students created a Facebook group. It's name, you ask? "Jake Beideck...I Use Big Words to Feel Smart." I added that they labeled me a pompous ass.
13. Then I brought up abortion. "I'm pro-life with an asterisk, because if a woman is raped, she should have every right to an abortion." Was I brain-dead? Bless her heart for changing the subject.
14. We left and walked to my truck in the parking garage across from BDubs. I walked around to the passenger side, saying, "We open doors in my family!" I motioned to insert the key into the lock and saw that she hadn't locked it. (I may've made a snide remark. "You didn't lock your door." I don't recall. I did say, "We lock doors in my family!") Then I didn't bother opening the door for her.
15. I drive a '98 Dodge Dakota. It has a tape player. Led Zeppelin's "Misty Mountain Hop" played as I started the ignition. I proudly said, "I made this tape on Friday. I'm the last person on Earth who still makes tapes." She laughed. "I made this tape" guarantees a laugh—but it's usually out of sheer pity.
16. We drove by the Cornhusker Hotel. I said, "[Redacted] once pulled a Keith Moon in one of their hotel rooms. You know, throwing lamps and stuff." (She got the reference, which I thought was hotter than hot.) How does sharing this off-center anecdote further my cause?
17. Finally, I realized I'd forgotten to tell her that she looked beautiful, which she most certainly did. So I wrote it in an email.
End
"Yep, I'm a real man. I'll prove it to you by gnawing on ice cubes, eating a delicious pumpkin muffin, and flaunting my smooth legs. Call me."
My brainlessness was on full display yesterday—during a first date. At one point, I even thought, Am I trying to sabotage this? During this meltdown for the ages, I riddled my feet with lead. Though I was a gaffe machine, the date still seemed to go well, somehow.
The Litany of Blunders
1. The previous week, I'd emailed her various songs. These included Buckcherry's "Lit Up," the Stones' "Let's Spend the Night Together," and Stone Temple Pilots' "Sex Type Thing."
2. The yolky sun arcing over Saturday's Red-White Spring Game and its temperate rays terribly seared my lily-white skin, so my nose, forehead, and cheeks were glaringly rosy. The tops of my knees and the bottoms of my thighs looked as if I'd colored them with dullish red chalk. I was in such pain that I'd been popping Aleve like they were Chewy Runts. I wasn't nervous. No. I was in exorbitant agony from all the melting flesh. Thus, no yips.
3. I showered but moronically chose to wear the same clothes from the night before when I was a walking sales rack for American Eagle. I likely reeked of Budweiser and Michelob Ultra.
4. We tried to eat at The Green Gateau. This was Sunday at noon, so it was packed. We tried to eat at Bison Witches. What a zoo. We went next door to The Coffee House. Thankfully, the place was dead. I was down to my last strike.
5. After making a platitudinous comment to the barista about "muffin tops," I ordered two "giant" muffins, blueberry and pumpkin. Muffins? Really? Can a man—okay, I'm not a man; I'm a lad in a man's body—order muffins on a first date? Isn't this tantamount to a man ordering a salad at a restaurant on a first date?
6. I somewhat rudely chastised her for trying to pay for her food and drink. She pulled her purse from her bag, and I said, "Put that away! We're not going Dutch." The total cost was $7.92. Yep, I looked like a real cheapskate.
7. We sat down and began eating. The muffins were disintegrating like wet sandcastles. I was making a mess. Crumbs everywhere. And I was talking with my mouth full.
8. I was dehydrated from three nights of insobriety so I ordered water and chomped away on ice cubes. My date? A future dentist. She duly and politely called me on it. I unabashedly continued crushing those glorified hailstones.
9. I yammered about Nazi Germany and how it was a good thing that my ancestors fled to Russia decades earlier. I said, "Who knows what the Nazis would've done with my ancestors...probably put them on a train to Auschwitz-Birkenau." (Germans exterminating other Germans? What?) Boy, you're some conversationalist. Will you wise up?
10. I told her I'd shaved my legs on Saturday and said, "Go on. Feel 'em." She did. I said, "I'm just not that hairy," and delved into this story: "It was junior year of high school. I was jogging out to football practice when some, like, seventh-grade girl goes, 'Hey, do you shave your legs?' 'No!' I shrieked. She almost reduced me to tears." By now, I'd completely, if not irrevocably, emasculated myself, but the self-destruction was far from over.
11. I mentioned how I'm set to apply to the Iowa Writers' Workshop. "I used to be like, 'I know I can write at that level.' Now it's more like, 'I think I can write at that level.' I'm not as arrogant as I once was." A short while later, I blurted out, "I've wasted prodigious talent." Gee. That's attractive. That's what every woman wants to hear.
12. I waxed nostalgic about my days as an opinion columnist for the Dakota Student newspaper—the old Dakota Stupid—when I was "the most reviled columnist at any student paper in the country." I said that the students created a Facebook group. It's name, you ask? "Jake Beideck...I Use Big Words to Feel Smart." I added that they labeled me a pompous ass.
13. Then I brought up abortion. "I'm pro-life with an asterisk, because if a woman is raped, she should have every right to an abortion." Was I brain-dead? Bless her heart for changing the subject.
14. We left and walked to my truck in the parking garage across from BDubs. I walked around to the passenger side, saying, "We open doors in my family!" I motioned to insert the key into the lock and saw that she hadn't locked it. (I may've made a snide remark. "You didn't lock your door." I don't recall. I did say, "We lock doors in my family!") Then I didn't bother opening the door for her.
15. I drive a '98 Dodge Dakota. It has a tape player. Led Zeppelin's "Misty Mountain Hop" played as I started the ignition. I proudly said, "I made this tape on Friday. I'm the last person on Earth who still makes tapes." She laughed. "I made this tape" guarantees a laugh—but it's usually out of sheer pity.
16. We drove by the Cornhusker Hotel. I said, "[Redacted] once pulled a Keith Moon in one of their hotel rooms. You know, throwing lamps and stuff." (She got the reference, which I thought was hotter than hot.) How does sharing this off-center anecdote further my cause?
17. Finally, I realized I'd forgotten to tell her that she looked beautiful, which she most certainly did. So I wrote it in an email.
End
"Yep, I'm a real man. I'll prove it to you by gnawing on ice cubes, eating a delicious pumpkin muffin, and flaunting my smooth legs. Call me."
It's four a.m. Time to buy a gun.
Well, it happened again. I was in Wal-Mart in the wee hours and overheard two sows, er, associates in requisite grody blue vests talking about "some guy in sporting goods making a scene because he can't buy a handgun." (I giddily smiled like Larry Craig in a men's room.)
I heard a similar conversation at a similar time in the same Wal-Mart in 2003. One associate said, "No good comes from buying a gun at four in the morning." Amen to that. The smartest thing a Wal-Mart hump ever said! If she'd have said, "It's not like Biggie Smalls said. Quote, 'I never thought it could happen, this rappin' stuff. I was too used to packin' gats and stuff,'" I would've barebacked her with closed eyes while feverishly burning, inhaling, and hacking on an entire pack of Marlboro Reds. I made a Taxi Driver joke—"Travis Bickle wants his insanity back"—that didn't land whatsoever and trudged away.
Why would a man suddenly need a heater at four bells? Perhaps desperate times call for gunplay.
I've puzzled over this for days and can't make heads or tails of it. I don't know if there's something in the water in Lincoln, if Wal-Mart is the honey to every bee of a wacko, if every nutter in town hits the streets under a full moon like in the "Thriller" video, or if alcohol propels these schizos to believe they're characters in any Grand Theft Auto game, craving ballistic mayhem and fantasizing about pistol-whipping streetwalkers.
(Nothing is sacred—not even inappropriate and crass fictitious dialogue about gun violence.)
"Yeah, my ex's cat puked on my favorite bedspread. Gimme a Glock. Now."
"I love the phrase 'hail of gunfire.' I'd very much like to do that. Call me crazy. So yeah, I want that gun and that box of bullets."
"Any gun will suffice. Just hand me a bullet and a gun and look the other way, friend. Please. This is such an upside-down world. How can Santa Claus not be real?"
"The six degrees of Kevin Bacon is a thought that continues to keep me up at night. Well, not any longer."
"I've had it with people abbreviating everything. Les Mis? I mean, what is that? I'll take that shiny six-shooter. Then it'll be like, Les Comatose."
"There's a man from Great Britain who likes Nebraska, and the Lincoln Journal Star figured it was worthy of a column in yesterday's paper. I'm going to put a stop to this." (The Journal Star actually wrote this column in August 2004. Blockheads.)
"I'll take that snub-nosed piece. This isn't Dirty Harry. I'm not Billy Rosewood in Beverly Hills Cop II. My gun doesn't represent or overcompensate for my phallus. It's just, you know, my in-laws are staying with us. Hey, I'd also like to practice first. Do you guys sell bowling pins?"
"Listen, I've seen weeping willows before. Did they look like they were crying to you? I'll give them something to cry about."
(Speaking like Lumbergh) "Yeah, hi. My boss wants me to come in on Sunday. If I have to come in on a Sunday, I'm coming in heavy. M'Kay?"
"I told her I'm not getting a vasectomy. She's out of her gourd! Damn her. I need a gun with stopping power. I'm gonna empty that sucker, and she'll be on Dancing with the Slugs. Oh yes, she'll be doing the dance all right."
I heard a similar conversation at a similar time in the same Wal-Mart in 2003. One associate said, "No good comes from buying a gun at four in the morning." Amen to that. The smartest thing a Wal-Mart hump ever said! If she'd have said, "It's not like Biggie Smalls said. Quote, 'I never thought it could happen, this rappin' stuff. I was too used to packin' gats and stuff,'" I would've barebacked her with closed eyes while feverishly burning, inhaling, and hacking on an entire pack of Marlboro Reds. I made a Taxi Driver joke—"Travis Bickle wants his insanity back"—that didn't land whatsoever and trudged away.
Why would a man suddenly need a heater at four bells? Perhaps desperate times call for gunplay.
I've puzzled over this for days and can't make heads or tails of it. I don't know if there's something in the water in Lincoln, if Wal-Mart is the honey to every bee of a wacko, if every nutter in town hits the streets under a full moon like in the "Thriller" video, or if alcohol propels these schizos to believe they're characters in any Grand Theft Auto game, craving ballistic mayhem and fantasizing about pistol-whipping streetwalkers.
(Nothing is sacred—not even inappropriate and crass fictitious dialogue about gun violence.)
"Yeah, my ex's cat puked on my favorite bedspread. Gimme a Glock. Now."
"I love the phrase 'hail of gunfire.' I'd very much like to do that. Call me crazy. So yeah, I want that gun and that box of bullets."
"Any gun will suffice. Just hand me a bullet and a gun and look the other way, friend. Please. This is such an upside-down world. How can Santa Claus not be real?"
"The six degrees of Kevin Bacon is a thought that continues to keep me up at night. Well, not any longer."
"I've had it with people abbreviating everything. Les Mis? I mean, what is that? I'll take that shiny six-shooter. Then it'll be like, Les Comatose."
"There's a man from Great Britain who likes Nebraska, and the Lincoln Journal Star figured it was worthy of a column in yesterday's paper. I'm going to put a stop to this." (The Journal Star actually wrote this column in August 2004. Blockheads.)
"I'll take that snub-nosed piece. This isn't Dirty Harry. I'm not Billy Rosewood in Beverly Hills Cop II. My gun doesn't represent or overcompensate for my phallus. It's just, you know, my in-laws are staying with us. Hey, I'd also like to practice first. Do you guys sell bowling pins?"
"Listen, I've seen weeping willows before. Did they look like they were crying to you? I'll give them something to cry about."
(Speaking like Lumbergh) "Yeah, hi. My boss wants me to come in on Sunday. If I have to come in on a Sunday, I'm coming in heavy. M'Kay?"
"I told her I'm not getting a vasectomy. She's out of her gourd! Damn her. I need a gun with stopping power. I'm gonna empty that sucker, and she'll be on Dancing with the Slugs. Oh yes, she'll be doing the dance all right."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
