24 Hours With Sid

They say that sometimes you can’t change a behavior until you’ve hit rock bottom. I hit rock bottom this week. We’re talking in the gutter, wearing your own puke rock bottom. That’s right… I caught myself watching Skating With Celebrities this week. I didn’t mean to watch it, and I’m blaming it on Mrs. F’er. I take that back, as I need to take responsibility for my own behavior. Here’s my story….

It all started with Super Bowl XXXIX – that’s 39 for all you that didn’t take Roman in high school or haven’t dated a big, strong gladiator like me. After the game last year, Fox decided to show the two-hour season premiere of XXIV (24). I didn’t see the first three seasons, but I finally decided to see what all the hype was about. Mrs. F’er looked on with disdain as I wiped the nacho cheese sauce from my chin and tuned in to my 12th consecutive hour of television that day. Desperate for some quality time with me, she reluctantly joined me on the couch and we introduced ourselves the men and women of CTU.

The show kept my interest for a few weeks after that, but I have the attention span of a gnat when it comes to most things and I slowly lost interest and focused my attention on more important activities such as tie-dying my underwear. However, guess who kept watching? That’s right, Mrs. F’er. At first I was amused, but then the Kiefer Sutherland screen savers started showing up on the computer. Then the posters and calendars began covering the house. The fan club membership including the honorary CTU badge and Chloe decoder necklace arrived in the mail. I went out of town one week last summer for work, and I’m pretty sure she spent 72 straight hours watching Seasons 1 – 3 on DVD, stopping only to check the Kiefer fan sites for updated photo galleries at the top of each hour.

That brings us to 2006. I suffered the physical abuse of being placed into a suffocating headlock after talking during the previews of the upcoming season. Needless to say, both televisions in our home were tuned into the season premiere, just in case one experienced an untimely malfunction. Desperate for some quality time with Mrs. F’er, I reluctantly joined her on the couch and tried to keep my mouth shut. It didn’t matter since I lost interest after about 23 minutes into the 1,440 scheduled. I found other important activities such as converting Neil Diamond lyrics into Morse code to amuse myself and avoid subsequent suffocating headlocks.

That brings us to last week. The tables are turned and Mrs. F’er has business out of town and leaves me alone at the house for a week. I’m pretty sure I spent 72 straight hours eating cans of cake frosting, stopping only to pray for a Growing Pains reunion show featuring Kirk Cameron since a Growing Pains reunion that doesn’t include Kirk cannot in good conscience call itself a reunion show. But I digress. Mrs. F’er called to interrupt the frosting binge and ask a small favor. It seems that her return flight happened to be scheduled during this week’s broadcast of 24 and she needed somebody to tape it. Ouch, bad planning, babe. I recognized my superior bargaining position and asked what it was worth to her, hoping that she would agree to a threesome with the brunette girl at the sunglasses store that looks like a younger Charlize Theron. Unfortunately, it was actually worth her not expending the energy of putting me in another suffocating headlock. So I grabbed a videotape and tried to figure out how to program the VCR since I’m 78 years old and nobody born before 1950 knows how to work them. Not wanting to risk screwing it up, I decided the best course of action would be to just turn on the damn TV, put the tape in, and hit the button that said “RECORD” in large red letters. The only remaining challenge was that whole crazy time zone issue, which caused me to turn on the damn TV one hour early. There I was greeted not by my nemesis Kiefer Sutherland, but by an extremely gay Scott Hamilton and the cast of Skating With Celebrities. Somehow I was instantly transfixed. I could not turn it off. I waited to learn the premise of the show and waited to see what would happen next. And I’ll review what happened in my next post.

Just so you aren’t left totally hanging, I did successfully record the said episode of 24. I was rewarded for my completing my challenge, but I still can’t figure out why she kept calling me Jack…

Sid Sweet Home

Believe it or not, the firm I work for convinces people to employ my services at what I’m convinced is an unconscionable rate. I know hookers that charge less than I do. Sure, their spreadsheets aren’t as pretty as mine, but I never thought my work would demand higher rates than poontang. But I shamefully digress.

A client in Chicago wanted to have a meeting, but the guy in our Chicago office that should be handling it is busy attending a soybean festival or something in Decatur that day. Since I have had the unique experience of having dated a girl from Decatur, Illinois and a girl from Decatur, Texas I was chosen as most qualified to take his place. The client balks at paying my travel expenses, thinking that I travel in a private jet flown by Buzz Aldrin and eat at exclusive restaurants featuring unicorn steaks served by Oscar winners (not including Michael Moore), while subletting Oprah’s condo for accommodations. Finally, it’s agreed that he’ll cover my travel expenses if I go via covered wagon, don’t bill him for my travel time, only eat rice cakes, and share a sleeping bag with the dude in the alley who thinks he’s Leif Garrett. Who knows, maybe it really is Leif Garrett. As usual, I’m already beaten down before I even book my ticket, but then I’m told it’s a Friday afternoon meeting. Normally this would be a bad thing, but with family in Chicago I can stick around for the weekend and satisfy familial obligations with no added cost. I book my return trip for Sunday and ask my sainted mother if she can remove the meth addicts boarding in my old room for the weekend, and the plan is in place.

I roll out of bed around 4:30 a.m. Friday morning so I can catch the first flight of the day to Chicago 802 miles away, because soybean boy can’t walk down the street a few blocks. Then I hop the train at the airport for the quick trip downtown. Rather uneventful except for the babe that got on at the Jefferson Park stop. She appeared to be a cross between my favorite CNN Headline News anchor Robin Meade and a yet to be identified Latina porn star. I offered her $50 to read me the headlines in a sexy voice, but instead just got gouged in the eye for free. I behaved myself the rest of the trip, dutifully exited at Washington and walked the 4 blocks to our Chicago office. Soybean boy had failed to tell his staff that I was coming, so when I walked in with my duffel bag they assumed I was a homeless guy that got past security and gouged my other eye before I could introduce myself. Eventually, my eyes quit tearing, I got the files I needed and was ahead of schedule, so I called our client to see if he wanted to have lunch before the official meeting. He already had plans, but invited me along so I braved the cold winds and made my way to his office. I was standing on the corner across the street from his office waiting for the light to change when I noticed a sign that said “Sears Tower Parking.” I didn’t realize it, but I had been standing within 25 feet of the Sears Tower. That’s not as oblivious as it sounds. Pretend you’re standing on the corner and Marty Casey walks up next to you. You would obviously recognize the boy, tell him you’re a fan, maybe take a picture with your camera phone, and try not to fart. But suppose Marty was 1200 feet tall. You might walk right up to that giant shoe and not realize you’re standing next to him. You might even fart, and then he would step on you like a smoldering cigarette butt and you wouldn’t even get a photo of his instep. But I digress.

I finally met up with the client and we strolled back over the Sears Tower and had lunch at some Italian place, and I didn’t get either eye gouged although there was a close call with a rampant breadstick.

We returned to his office, where we managed to stretch the meeting out to about 90 minutes after which I was dismissed for the weekend. Glad I could help.

My next assignment was to meet Mom at the train station where we would ride together out to the wild west suburbs and on to my sister’s house for a family dinner. About 12 of my relatives gathered there, but I think they really just showed up for the pizza. Then we celebrated my birthday 9 months late (or 3 months early) because my 2-1/2 year old niece likes cake and birthday parties. I also got to meet my 6 month old nephew for the first time, which is always uncomfortable since I don’t have any kids and have never been around babies. Surprisingly, he didn’t answer when I said, “Hey, Joe, what’s up?” He just made a weird face and spit up on my shoulder. I thought that might relieve me of baby duty, but they forced us to continue bonding. I told him about my meeting and he appeared to question why we didn’t take advantage of modern telecommunications to work more efficiently. I briefly explained the benefits of face-to-face client contact and the nuances that can be lost if one relies too heavily on technology. He nodded in agreement and spit up on my other shoulder.

The next morning I hotwired my mom’s car and met my uncles for breakfast. Nobody spit up on each other, so I guess it was a success. Back at mom’s house, I spent the afternoon rewiring the cables behind her upstairs television. To make it more interesting I pretended I was defusing a bomb in some blockbuster TV show and if I made the wrong connection it would set off a string of deadly explosions and the terrorists would win. Eventually, I successfully accessed the Lifetime channel, wiped the sweat from my brow and was the new household hero. As a reward, I was fed a nice Italian beef sandwich from the hot dog joint down the street since you can’t get those in Dallas. I think you need some sort of special permit in Texas to open a restaurant that doesn’t serve exclusively BBQ and they only issue 2 of them in election years.

Since everybody thinks kids are cute, I was offered the opportunity to babysit that evening but I was running out of clean shirts. Fortunately my uncle and cousin took me out to shoot some pool. I warned them that I took a billiards class in college, but they didn’t seem to care. I even confessed that I got a B in the class, which is technically “above average” but it still didn’t shake their confidence. After we got kicked out of a couple bars since my cousin is still technically underage, we finally found a table in the lounge at the local bowling alley where they didn’t seem to care as long as you weren't vomiting in the ashtrays. As if it made a difference, we tried to find a cue stick that wasn’t as warped as your typical reality show star and racked them up. We must have appeared racist because the only ball we were pocketing seemed to be the white one. Eventually, some other players showed up to put us out of our misery and we retreated back to mothering bosom of their home for some poker.

I was never a big card player and have resisted the latest poker craze, instead waiting patiently for the Old Maid craze to begin. And waiting. And waiting. But I digress. We added another cousin and a couple friends and suddenly had a game. They briefed me on the house rules, which included no eye gouging, thankfully. Turns out that Lady Luck was in my pants that night and I won the first round and pocketed $20 in winnings. We played another round and I got my ass kicked, but was still up $15 big ones. Apparently Lady Luck had left me to go watch SNL in the other room or something.

Next morning, Mom bought me breakfast because I think she’s under the impression that I’m still making minimum wage and my wife is selling Chiclets downtown to help pay for food. We stopped by my sister’s again, where my niece presented me with a gift of colored sand in a small bottle. I asked her what the hell I was supposed to do with it, and she replied, “Screw you, Uncle Sid,” and wiped a glob of non-toxic paste in my hair. Actually, I graciously accepted her gift and carefully packed it in my carry-on, waiting for airport security to grill me about the unidentified chemical reagents in my bag. Then I remembered they would be easily distracted by my nail clippers and allow me to breeze through.

My bottles of sand and I made it safely home that day, and they’re proudly displayed on our mantel right next to my 5th grade bowling trophy. The End.

Sid, Neve & Gliz - Torino 2006

Crap. I’ve been alerted by Neve and Gliz that the Winter Olympics begin next month and I haven’t even started training yet. Neve and Gliz are the official mascots of the 2006 games. Neve is supposed to be a “soft, friendly and elegant snowball” but really appears to be a cross between Lemonhead and the Cingular Wireless logo. Gliz claims to be a “lively and playful ice cube” that is obviously a hybrid of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and the AOL guy. Some Portuguese artist actually won the competition with those drawings, but I allege it was fixed and demand that the judging panel be drug tested. But I digress.

It’s not looking like I’ll be there for the opening ceremonies in 2006, but maybe it’s for the best. You see, I’m a dirty two-timing bastard. I’ll explain in a minute.

Way back in the old days when the athletes were still wearing fur togas and participating in primitive events like the icicle toss and the hardest nipple competion, Moist Rub and I were sitting around watching Olympic coverage. It was that or attempt some Theoretical and Applied Mechanics homework. Being the patriotic type, I donned my red, white and blue skin suit and dutifully tuned into the proceedings. Seeing as my career in engineering wasn’t working out as planned, I considered life as an Olympic athlete and began to peruse the events.

Skiing
Downhill: I have the feeling that these guys get all the chicks. While this aspect intrigued me, I realized that I really didn’t have a chance competing against an Austrian guy whose mother gave birth to him on a chairlift and who completed his first run before the umbilical cord was cut. So all alpine events are out. Alpine events include any events in which gravity will likely kill me while trying to chase down guys named Franz. I went skiing last year and my 62 year old instructor suggested I stick to snow angels while she worked with Mrs. F’er. Just as I had swept out a perfect angel, they both came skidding in and covered me and my angel in a pile of fresh powder, laughed, and then went to drink hot chocolate at the chateau with some charming studs with French accents.

Freestyle: The Winter Olympic Committee was having a breakfast meeting trying to figure out how to increase the ratings, when one of them glanced over at the Wheaties and noticed a gymnast on the box. “Those gymnasts always get all the attention!” he declared, and vowed to bring the acrobatic grace to the slopes. Unfortunately, the dope smoking slackers that signed up for the freestyle skiing competition weren’t nearly as endearing as the diminutive pixies of the mats. I think I could handle the dope smoking part, but I’m not sure I could land on my feet while altered. Better not take any chances.

Ski Jumping: Face planting into the side of a mountain is pretty low on my list of things to do before I die. Also pretty low on my list of ways to die. I need to update that list. Each year a few additional ways occur to me and they must be properly ranked. That way people can consult the list after my demise and decide how much to grieve. If someone tries to tell Mrs. F’er, “That’s the way he would have wanted to go,” she can just pull out the list to confirm and punch them in the nose as needed.

Cross Country: Eliminates the threat of gravity, but seems too much like jogging in really crappy weather. I don’t even like jogging in nice weather. I don’t even like jogging on a treadmill in a temperature controlled health club with a cold bottle of water by my side while watching Full House reruns on a color TV in the corner. I did a 10k once that was part of the Cowtown Marathon in Fort Worth. If you go slow enough, stop for all the water breaks, and take a couple cigarette breaks you can finish about the same time the first marathon runners are coming in and people will mistake you for one of them. At least they might if you aren’t wearing a velvet track suit and Princess Reeboks. I don’t care how bad my country needs me, I’m not signing up for this event.

Nordic Combined: A combination of ski jumping and cross country. Weren’t you listening when I said I’m not doing cross country? Or face planting into the Alps?

Biathlon: Combines cross country skiing with… I told you I’m not doing… wait, what did you say….? I get to shoot stuff? Like bad guys? Wild turkeys? Just targets? Nevermind. See above. Besides, it’s probably a real pain in the ass to get your rifle past security on the flight to Italy, then you have to try to jam that and your skis into the overhead bin. Besides, I don’t think I’d like to participate in any event where the competitors carry artillery. I’m sure there are rules against capping the competition, but I just don’t want to take that chance.

Snowboard
I’ll be going snowboarding at the end of this month. If anyone is short of cash, meet me there with a digicam and I’m sure I’ll provide you some footage that will lock up first place on America’s Funniest Home Videos of Cute Babies, Hilarious Pets, and Stupid People Being Severely Injured. I have a fear of being tethered to stuff. I think it started when Greg Brady got hit in the head with his own surfboard after mistaking the dangerous Tiki idol as a good luck charm in Hawaii. Then I hit myself in the head with a racquetball racquet and became the first person to draw his own blood in that sport. So I’m not holding out hope that the Olympic Committee is going to be recruiting me anytime soon for this event.
Besides, I’m an old man and don’t know what the hell Jim McKay is talking about when he starts throwing down terms like whoops, waves, banks, kickers and spines during the half pipe competition. I thought that’s what they had to smoke before starting their run.

Skating
Figure Skating: Any activity that requires wearing sequins is not a sport, and I’m not wearing sequins. However, some of those skater chicks develop quite the little cupcake asses, so I might be talked into the pairs competition if you can hook me up with one of them hotties. But then there’s always the chance that a jealous Mrs. F’er will club me in the shin with a lead pipe and then I’d forever have to watch a clip of myself on television crying in an ice rink in my poofy sequin shirt. I’ll never live that down with my buddies down at the steel mill.

I’m not sure why Ice Dancing is in the Olympics, but if they’re going to include it they need to raise the difficultly level so that there are more crashes. Or maybe set themselves on fire. I heard they were going to eliminate this silly event, but then they saw the ratings for Dancing with Desperate Out-of-Work Stars and Skating with Fringe Celebs and decided “what the hell - those dumbass Americans will watch.”

Speed Skating: I almost joined a speed skating club one winter, but hockey looked like more fun. Then I got hit in the ankle with a puck and the speed skaters laughed at me while I sobbed in a snow bank. Bastards.

Ice Hockey
I don’t want to play any sport in which it’s considered a miracle if the US wins.
They added women’s hockey at some point, but I don’t think anyone noticed.

Curling
You know those guys at the gym that just do curls all the time and have huge biceps so they can wear tiny shirts and impress chicks, but never work out the rest of their body and have those skinny disproportionate legs? It’s not that I’m checking them out, but they crack me up. But I digress and it’s not that kind of curling. Olympiad curling is just like hockey except you can’t hit the other team, and instead of firing high speed shots at the other team’s goal while on skates, you just kind of walk around the ice in your loafers and play shuffleboard with a broom. Kind of looks like a janitor’s convention at an ice-age bowling alley. I’ll pass.

Skeleton
What we used to call sledding when we were kids. I painted “Rosebud” on the deck of my bad-ass sled, but none of the other kids got the reference. Dumbasses. Other kids showed up with the round plastic disc sleds that were fast, but had no steering mechanism and usually ended with a fiery crash into the monkey bars at the bottom of the hill. OK, so they weren’t fiery, but it wasn’t pretty. It ain’t pretty after the pretty leaves you ass up in the snow. The third class consisted of the poor kids that would raid the garbage of the more debt ridden families for the discarded boxes of large Christmas purchases and use the flattened boxes as makeshift sleds. Worked pretty well unless it was a wet snow which would leave one sitting dejectedly in a pile of wet pulp, until one of the disc riders knocked himself out and allowed his disc to be commandeered.

The skeleton competition is all about speed, so you have skinny guys in aerodynamic skin suits lying head-first upon a light-weight carbon cookie sheet attached to razor sharp speed skating blades going about 130 km/hr. That’s about 80 mph for those of you that never adopted the metric system. Kind of makes the Olympics a pain in the ass. The course appears to be a juiced up water slide at Wet n’ Wild except the water is frozen and instead splashing into a refreshing pool at the end, you crash into a sheet of ice if you screw up. The rough ice and friction shred your skin suit, burn off your skin and other necessary body tissues, leaving just a pile of bones; hence, the name skeleton. High penalty for failure, so I’m out.

Luge
Looks about the same as skeleton, except these wusses go down feet-first because they’re scared. Instead of medals, they should just give them chests to pin them on. Huh?

Bobsleigh
This incorporates the same Roid Rage Water Park that skeleton and luge use, but with a little more protection offered by the sled. This could work. All I needed was a teammate. I recruited Moist Rub and the US Bobsled Dream Team was formed. We would start our training right after happy hour next Friday. Surprisingly that didn’t work out, but the dream lived on as we attempted to build our own sled out of the plethora of emptied aluminum Stroh’s cans scattered amidst the house using only a staple gun and a psychology textbook. We never got to try it out, but it was probably for the best. I’m also thinking that there might have been some sort of issues concerning commercial endorsement. Not from the Olympic Committee but from Stroh’s for denigrating their brand.

A few years later (probably four, to be exact), LA Ray and I were sitting around watching Olympic coverage at the local tavern. It was that or get off our stools and play darts at the local tavern. LA Ray began to extol the greatness of curling. I was skeptical at first, but after careful thought I realized he was onto something. It doesn’t require much physical training. Low risk of death. Canadian chicks dig you. And you can probably drink beer while competing as long as you keep it hidden in a brown paper bag. That night the US Curling Dream Team was formed. We would order our brooms after happy hour next Friday. Surprisingly that didn’t work out, but the dream lived on.

To date, approximately three Olympiads have come and gone. Neither Moist Rub nor LA Ray has called, so my double dealing has not been exposed. But now I’m just afraid they’ve gone behind my back and have plans to form their own 2 man luge team. Sure it’s a little gay looking, but I just don’t like being left out. I hope the wife didn’t throw out the skin suit.

Improv Rub

So StivOO and I were walking around the city, looking for unexploded fireworks left over from Thanksgiving, and all of a sudden, we were at Piper’s Alley, the home of Second City. There, some weird lady, wearing an ironing board as pants and wire hangers for curlers in her hair, lured us in with a sign that said “Free Sex and Money”. StivOO and I made a pact to go for the money only because we would be able to pay for sex with it, which is always more fulfilling than getting sex for free. When we walked in, to our astonishment, there was neither free sex nor free money. Immediately, we were swooped upon and placed before an improv training recruitment officer. After twenty minutes of berating, spitting, bull whipping and orifice violating, StivOO and I had enrolled in the beginner’s level of improv training offered by Second City. That’s right, they wouldn’t let us in unless we violated some of their orifices, including light sockets.

Our first class was Thursday, January 5. Upon arriving, we received our official Second City Training Center Student ID card (pictured). As you can see, this card tells us that Second City does not have a graphic designer on staff, as a lemur with a lisp could have designed a more professional card. I would have expected at least a caricature of Steve Carell on it. My card expires March 5th. This way, if I’m no good, they can keep me out of their hallways after putting up with me for a mere two months. That is assuming my talent doesn’t earn me another card for the following session. And by talent, I mean two hundred and sixty dollars.

StivOO and I entered a windowless training room, which, as we learned later, also serves as the staging area for the Second City skybox stage. I spent the first ten minutes sniffing the carpet and walls hoping to get a wiff of Tina Fey sweat from years gone by. All I could sense were gallons of Rachel Dratch residue, which, I’ll admit, is funnier, but not as sweet smelling as Tina’s. Our instructor, Jackie, eventually showed up and told me to get my nose off the wall and have a seat.

Jackie entertained us with about fifteen minutes of introductory yak yak. Then she demanded that we partake in our first exercise. I don’t know how much actual improv we’ll end up doing in this class. I think it’s more wax on, wax off type training. Before we know it, we’ll know how to inflict karate on unsuspecting whale watchers. The exercise consisted of the eighteen of us trainees meandering around the room, making eye contact with others and saying “hi”. I, being the overachiever when convenient and easy, chose to say “hello” and “howdy, pardner” to some of my fellow classmates. They seemed to enjoy it and I can tell they really, really like me a lot. StivOO and I avoided each other, as we have made eye contact plenty of other times and have even said hello to each other on occasion. Next, Jackie expanded on that motif and told us to continue doing the promenade, but this time, introduce ourselves and provide a one sentence statement about ourselves. This is where I was thrown off, a little. I stuck to the rules, stating things like, “I have shoes”, “I get itchy when bowling”, and “I’ve never been eaten by an alligator.” Consequently, I rifled through the entire class. Classmates I met tried conversing with me, but the rule was to say one thing, so I turned my back on them right quick after their first comment. Then I noticed everybody was paired up and talking. That wasn’t the direction. We were only supposed to say one thing! And, Jackie did nothing to prevent it. So, I went back to sniffing the carpet until the next exercise commenced.

Next, we circled our blossoming improv chuck wagons. Jackie instructed us to shout out our names while accompanying it with a unique physical movement. She demonstrated by shouting her name and doing a karate type kick. We were to all repeat what she did, using her name and movement. So we did. People decided to follow the rules this time, if you can believe it, which was good because sniffing the carpet was starting to make me gag. Then, we began doing our own with the group repeating the name and movement. I screwed mine up. I attempted to do the Brady Bunch “Keep On” single knee kneel-down with the flamboyant arm circle, but it came out more like an around the world bowling move. I have never been more embarrassed the entire month. StivOO chose to go with the classic 213 Thumper move. I won’t describe it, but he did it wrong, too. I corrected it when it came around to me. We were both failing miserably as improv-ers. Jackie turned that ordeal into a game where one person would start with her/his own name and move and then say another persons name and do their move. That person would pick it up and lay it down to pass it to another person, and she told two friends, and they told two friends and so on and so on. I presume the intent was to get us to learn each other’s names and loosen up in the process. I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think it worked so well since the only people's names I can remember are Crotch Grab, Nipple Tweak, Squat Kick and Take Your Leg Off (amputees are welcome at Second City, by the way).

Once that was over, we maintained our circle. It’s a symbol of unity and it promotes ensemble behavior, which is a cornerstone in improv communities. OK, I don't know what I'm talking about, but it may be correct. We did stay in the circle formation in order to play a game called Time to Start Sweating and Hurt Yourself. You may know this game by its other name, Kitty Wants a Corner. To play the game, one person starts in the middle of the circle. Jackie volunteered since the rest of us didn’t know how to play. The person in the middle of the circle, the Kitty, is supposed to go up to one of the people on the perimeter and say, “Kitty wants a corner.” The person spoken to was to instruct the Kitty to ask one of his/her next door neighbors and point to which one. Then the Kitty would go to the person next to the first person, as instructed, and ask the same question. The point here is to show how stupid cats are, since circles have no corners. Not in this dimension, anyway. While this was going on, the other people on the perimeter were supposed to be trying to make eye contact with each other. Once two people achieved that, they had to attempt to run across the circle and switch places. The Kitty’s goal was to usurp one of the switchers and commandeer an empty spot on the circle, causing a new Kitty. The people on the perimeter had no incentive to switch places, but that didn’t seem to matter. I guess the incentive was to try to screw over one of your fellow classmates by causing them to become Kitty. So much for the ensemble unity. This is where the sweating and injury came in. Cinderblock walls surrounded three quarters of the circle. In order to get to the opposite open space without crushing my skull, I had to accelerate and decelerate faster than a driver’s ed student on the first day. My metabolism didn’t like that very much, so I began to drip. My knee didn’t like that very much either, so I began to think, in between the intense pulses of pain surging underneath my knee cap, about having reconstructive surgery . My pain was eased when I later learned that StivOO twisted his ankle. What a dork. Old people shouldn’t play improv games. I never had to be Kitty, so I guess I won. It helps when you stop switching places halfway through the game because you’ve blacked out from trauma shock. Besides teaching us why cats are retarded, this game got our blood running and facilitated some incidental collisions and fondling, otherwise known as foreplay, further promoting the ensemble unity.

Finally, Jackie stopped the insanity with an endearing, “Game Over.” Before I could go take a shower, Jackie had us splitting up into pairs. I ended up with Ron, otherwise known as Belly Scratch with Tongue Out. He’s a fifty-year-old orchestra leader. Nice guy. StivOO, conveniently, ended up with one of the four women in the class. I’m sure it was coincidental and the fact that she has the body of a professional athlete (soccer player) had nothing to do with it. His partner was Erin, aka Put Your Leg Behind Your Head. This exercise was boring so I won’t get into it too much. It involved intensely examining your partner, turning around, closing your eyes, and turning back around to try to figure out why your partner’s zipper was undone and he was wearing a shoe on his head. I like to think I won that game, too, since I didn’t fall down and I stopped sweating. The fact that it wasn’t a game doesn’t matter. I won.

After a short break, we all took a seat around the room. Since we did such a fine job in the prior exercise, Jackie asked us to pair off again, where your partner was the person sitting next to you. As luck would have it, Erin was sitting next to StivOO. I was also sitting next to StivOO, but I was on the wrong side of him. Erin and StivOO were partners, again, amazingly. I turned to look to my left to find Richard, the ADD, attention-deprived, trust-funded, unemployed spaz sitting next to me. Also known as Point at Yourself. Our task was for one partner to listen while the other partner told her/his life story in five minutes. Then, the listening partner would summarize the life story to the class in one minute. After half the class’s stories were told, we switched and the listener in each pair got to tell his/her life story to the other. I finished recapping my life to Richard about a minute early. It’s not that there isn’t much to tell. I don’t pay attention all the time, so I’m not sure what happened in my life. Consequently, my story was pretty boring. Luckily, Richard lives in his own little world, and the class now thinks I co-starred with Mel Gibson in Braveheart, I’m a champion dart player and I make up two of the six children in my family. Richard was so all over the place with his story to me, it was hard to keep track. I ended up keying my portrayal of him on an incident in high school where he quit the wrestling team because a teammate was leering at his tallywacker in the shower. After living through that, I’m guessing anything else that happens to him is trivial. And then there was StivOO and Erin. Oh, they are both so cute and successful. They had a grand ole time relaying each other’s stories. It made me sick. Physically sick. I had to re-swallow some puke, I tell ya. Of course, StivOO brought up Marty, which brought about some interest from the class. However, there were only about three or four people in the class that were familiar with him. And it turns out Erin is the granddaughter of hall of fame baseball player, Red Schoendienst. Relatives of famous people, isn’t that cute? But the worst part was that StivOO had the numbskullity to tell Erin that he and I are friends and that I am the funniest person he knows. And, she remembered to tell this to the class. Thanks a lot, StivOO. Nothing like setting everybody’s expectations of me super high so they can scorn me when all I got is poo comments when we get to the improv stuff. I would have run right out of there if my knee hadn’t been swollen to the size of rutabega. Besides ruining my improv career, the point of that exercise, as far as I could tell, was to give a chance for people to brag about themselves through a proxy. I tried to brag, but my fireman coloring trophy in kindergarten didn’t seem to stand up to the Iron Man triathelete chemical engineer with an MBA, or the woman with five thousand college degrees writing a mystery novel, or the computer wizard dude who designed his own coding language when he was twelve and whose hobby is to use one hundred dollar bills as post it notes.

Jackie finally dismissed us. I put my head down and limped out. On the way back to my car, the spirit of John Candy appeared in front of me and said, “You should have gone with the One Handed Cartwheel instead of that weird bowling move.” It wasn’t a bowling move, John Candy, Mr. Dead Smarty Pants! This is going to be a long eight weeks.

Moist Rub Legal

As many of you may know, I am a high powered investor in the stock market. In fact, it comes so easy to me, and I’ve made so much gad durned money doing it, I’ve taken to investing in only one share at a time in order to even the playing field with the other investors. Sure, it’s difficult to earn money doing this, but I told you, I’m good, plus I have plenty of money left over from my soap opera days (You may remember me as the suave veterinarian, Dr. Dizzy Havaids, on "As the Chimp Yearns". It was a big hit in the late seventies/early eighties, riding the Every Which Way But Loose and BJ and the Bear anthropomorphic ape fad.) Recently, I found myself in a bit of a legal telephone pole climbing competition with some litigious gutter snipes from the shareholder service of a given company of which I owned one share. Apparently, over the years that I owned this share, the company was bought and sold a number of times. Eventually, supposedly since my one share was raking havoc on their books (but probably they feared my presence was a takeover threat) they asked me to cash out and pocket my $32.43. Since the stock price had not yet hit my sell point, I continued to hold. So, they sent me the stock certificate. And then they foolishly sent me an undeserved additional one. I filed both documents appropriately by placing them somewhere on my bar.

Time past, supposedly correspondences were sent to me, phone calls were made, parties where had utilizing my bar, things were spilled upon, information was learned and forgotten and forgotten again, and then sort of remembered, but not really, and maybe a deja vu here and there, and all of a sudden, I received a FINAL REQUEST letter, via Fed Ex, from some brie-eating, clean-shit-smelling pseudo-legal type fellow demanding that I return the ill-gotten stock certificate or they would kick me down and pester me with "herewith"s and "nisi prius"es until I caved. This irked me for two reasons. First, lawyers suck. Second, their FINAL REQUEST was the first I heard about this heinous matter. And third, (I lied, there are three reasons) it’s only one goddam share!

Below is the FINAL REQUEST letter I received from the corporate legal weasel. Below that is my response to him. My hope is that others can benefit from my experience, as I will be living in a shoe horn box in the street soon, unless justice (as if there is any for oppressed, little people like me) prevails.

**********************************************

VIA FEDERAL EXPRESS

November 23, 2005


FINAL REQUEST

Moist Rub
Some Huge Castle
Chicago, IL 60010

Re: Give us back our stock certificate, you sniveling little nobody

Dear Mr. Rub:

As indicated in prior correspondence, you were sent certificate #38393 for 1 share on or about September 2, 2005. You were not, in fact, entitled to the shares. To date, you have failed to respond to our requests for the return of certificate #38393. If you continue to fail to respond, we will have no alternative but to take legal action to recover funds that are the subject of this demand. Such legal action may include referral of this matter to a collection attorney or the filing of a lawsuit or both. We look forward to your response within sixty (60) days of the date of this letter. If you do not respond within that time, we reserve the right to take any legal action to which it is entitled under applicable law.

Please remit certificate #38393 to us in the enclosed, postage paid envelope (ed. note: remember this for later). Once we have received the certificate, we will release you from its claim.

Please forward that correspondence to Asswipe Shareholder Service, Personal/Confidential: Attn: Willie Fukyerass, Esq., 3rd cubicle on the right in the basement, Canton, MA 02021. Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Willie Fukyerass
Assistant Counsel

Cc: Some other bitch that will sue you if I’m unsuccessful

**********************************************

January 2, 2006

Re: Blow me

Dear Mr. Fukyerass, Esq.,

I received your threatening letter regarding stock certificate #569857. Very nice. Asswipe Shareholder Service (ASS) screws up and may or may not have sent me something they shouldn’t have, and I’m the one that gets threatened with a law suit. This is such a wonderful legal system, undoubtedly built by frog-assed lawyers.

As you stated, I was "not, in fact, entitled to the shares." Then why did you send them to me, allegedly? As if I was "in theory" entitled to the shares. Or maybe I was "for Pete’s sake" entitled to the shares. Or, possibly, I might have been "assumed by a third party" entitled to the shares. I’m sorry. I don’t understand why you used the phrase "in fact" in that sentence. It seems extraneous - probably a pretentious lawyer thing. It does, however, insinuate that somehow I was at fault for allegedly receiving these shares (actually one share, but you used the plural, probably to cover your ass in case your company sent multiple shares, but you wouldn’t know that because nobody there knows what is actually going on, otherwise, none of this would have happened). It doesn’t sit well with me.

Let me revisit a point I made earlier. ASS screws up and then threatens to sue me. That is rich. Did I tell you I love this legal system? Speaking of screwing up, in the letter you sent me "VIA FEDERAL EXPRESS" (a letter that stated FINAL REQUEST, which was a relief to me at first because I thought, "great, maybe they’ll get off my back now.") you asked me to "remit certificate #84802 in the enclosed, postage paid envelope." But, there was no "postage paid envelope" enclosed. Imagine that. Yet another screw up. Or, maybe it was a lie. I’m pretty sure you lawyers have some law made up on the books to sue me for that, too.

To make things more clear for both of us, allow me to outline the situation as I see it.

1. ASS screws up.

2. ASS sends a FedEx letter, which I assume asks for the certificate back, but I never received the letter since FedEx doesn’t leave the letter at my door and expects me to take time from my regularly scheduled life to go pick it up because ASS screwed up in the first place.

3. It gets fuzzy after that because I stopped paying attention. ASS may have sent another letter via FedEx that I didn’t get because they would have sent it to my house on a weekday when I wouldn’t be home because I was at work, and they must have once again expected me to take time from my life to go fetch it, but I’m not sure. There were maybe a couple of phone messages left, too. I don’t remember, exactly. Feel free to sue me for not returning telephone calls. There’s gotta be a law against that, too.

4. I get the FINAL REQUEST because I happen to be home on a vacation day, and it pretty much ruined my New Year because I was worried about the big mean lawyers suing me because ASS screwed up. So, I let it fester in my head for about a month or so, because the lawyer guy said I had 60 days before they crush me. As if there is anything significant about 60 days as opposed to 59 or 61.31 days.

5. I waste more time of my life writing this silly letter because ASS screwed up and I’ll get sued because of it, which will undoubtedly waste more time from my life and dry up any cash I have laying around paying for other lawyers to fight the lawyers who represent the people who screwed up in the first place. But then the ASS lawyers will win, because my lawyers are probably no good since I don’t have a lot of money to pay them. So ASS wins the suit, but I have no money left to pay the settlement because my lawyers ripped me off, and ASS takes everything I own and forces me and my kids to live in the street picking the beards of bums hoping to find a discarded morsel of a crouton as sustenance.

Here’s the deal. Send me a postage paid envelope to my work address (below) as I’m there during the day. If you send it to my home address, and I’m not there, and FedEx expects me to come get it, forget about it. This fiasco has already wasted too much of my time here on Earth. But, this time, actually send the envelope. Don’t just brag about having sent it merely to impress the ladies in the Steno Pool. If I find the certificate, I’ll send it back. Honestly, I’m not really sure where it is or if I even have it. Sue me for being an unorganized slob. There’s gotta be laws about that - just ask my ex-wife. I know that you are still only an Esquire and probably haven’t memorized all of the laws yet, but if you look hard enough, I’m sure you can find a law to sue me for being a sloven, as well as other laws to get me for all the stuff I’ve written in this letter. If you plan on spending your life suing people, you had better cut your teeth on defenseless plebians like me who don’t really give a crap before you start knocking heads with the big boys.

Thank you for my time.

Moist Rub
Work Address: (withheld from blog, I don't want to drag you into this mess)

p.s. You have one hundred fifty-six (156) arbitrary days to do this, otherwise I may have to come up with threats to combat your threats regarding temporal restraints you placed on me.

p.p.s All of this for one lousy share. I hope your cases get bigger as time goes on so you can sue some real important people.

Rock Star Resolutions

Yep, that time again… new year’s resolutions. Seeing as I have already reached the pinnacle of personal achievement and success, I decided that my time would be spent more wisely helping others. So why not start with Marty Casey and our other friends from Rock Star: INXS. As usual, in order of not roitness:

Dana: Drop acid, attempt trip into the 21st century.

Wil: Refrain from using seductive gaze to create uncomfortable feelings in unsuspecting bloggers with no previous homosexual tendencies.

Neal: Eat cheeseburger, quit passing out from malnourishment.

Daphna: Stop wearing wedding dress to job interviews (and while singing Clash songs).

Heather: Continue to promote world harmony and unity by tattooing butterfly on ass.

Tara: Apply for job driving Zamboni at local rink. Save 10% of income toward down payment on own Zamboni.

Brandon: Quit pulling out acoustic guitar and breaking into a sing-a-long of “Sweet Home Alabama” anytime more than three people congregate. Learn chords to “Gimme Three Steps”.

Jessica: Have vagina lowered, push low rider jeans to new limits.

Deanna: Get divorce, go back to dating assholes, write hit album of Alanis Morissette inspired tunes.

Ty: Write letter to Mark Burnett proposing Rock Star: Thin Lizzy, put out kick ass performances week after week, accuse George Bush of not caring about black people if not victorious.

Jordis: Become more comfortable in front of camera by posing nude for art students at local community college.

Suzie: Quit wearing hat proclaiming self “Queen of the Menstrual Cycle” every time period starts.

MiG: Quit referring to penis as good friend Brian May from Queen.

Marty: Quit writing silly songs about trees and begin collaboration with Moist Rub.

JD: Return to school to finish PhD in neuroscience because while other students are learning about brains, I know them because I love them.

Call Me Kitty IV

I normally don't like to post these too often, but the calendar dictates this one... the New Year's edition.

Dave’s eyes slowly blinked open... the room was dark. What room, he wasn’t sure. The cushions supporting his body would work for the rest of the night. Not feeling that his body would be synchronized with any further thoughts he might produce, he resigned himself to his confined, yet sufficient, quarters.

Sunlight sneaking around the edge of the blinds pulled his eyes open a second time. Like a police sketch artist, the sun slowly removed the haze and pulled each element of the room together into a recognizable picture for him. The room he had slumbered in was familiar, but the route he took there was currently unknown. That was good enough for now as the steady rhythm pounding inside his head made more sleep a very attractive option.

Noises from the direction of the kitchen brought him back a third time. Having already established his location, he tried to salvage the previous night from his damaged memory banks before rising and confronting anybody else sharing his flophouse that day. The memories that teased him would be from the last party of the year as he realized he was regaining consciousness in the first sunrise of the new year....

Careful planning disguised as altruism had afforded him the entire day off that New Year’s Eve. He had volunteered to work Christmas Eve while others spent the day planning family get-togethers and last minute shopping. In return a week later, Dave would get a day off and get a head start on the parties that would evolve that evening. A case of beer that afternoon would evolve into a good buzz that he would maintain into the evening, as well as provide a few cans for any merrymakers that might want to join in that day. A bottle of Wild Turkey would be on hand to help anyone evolve into the party guest that every host dreams of entertaining. Some Schnapps might also help distract any females with a disdain of the fine Kentucky bourbon or sudsy mugs typically tossed back by the male species.

The self-prescribed and carefully planned intake allowed him to disregard the strange feeling overtaking his head that evening. He rationed that it was the strange combinations of these solutions creating the momentary disarray rather than his failing attempt to ration the volumes. The time quickly approached to take the small group of revelers that had gathered with him at the hotel that evening to the watering hole that would nourish the eclectic group for the coming year.

Shortly after arriving, and perhaps excited by the array of people that had turned out that cold December evening, Dave felt the need to bypass the free beer and wine provided under the cover charge that evening and buy a round of Jagermeister for his closest 8 friends gathered near the taps. Most of those friends, along with those who weren’t friends prior to the purchase, each returned the favor by sending back a couple ounces of the fine spirit that would remind most people of the cough syrups they fought off as children.

Those must have been the fatal shots that caused his brain cells to scramble the rest of the evening. The same cells that swelled in his skull that morning as he strained to recall anything else. Dave wanted to lie on that couch the rest of the day until he remembered what else he might have done to finish off that year, but nature called and his hosts had been most forgiving in the past. Perhaps they would forgive him just one more time.

F'er Christmas Card Review

We didn’t get around to sending Christmas cards this year. I am getting old, so maybe I can blame it on crippling arthritis. But then how would I explain all these posts? Truth is that I like to be creative, but I don’t plan ahead and then run out of time. Then I walk my sorry ass over to the Dollar Store and buy some lame cards, randomly sign them “Millard Fillmore” and hope they make it by New Year’s Eve. Any time after that is just plain embarrassing. This year I didn’t even do that. So instead I will review the Christmas cards that we received this year (in random order).

Moist Rub: Nice photo of Son and Daughter in front of the tree. Even looks like he vacuumed. Which is a good thing since there was too much carpet in the foreground and I would have liked to see more tree. Did not include the dog – maybe fearful of it puking on the clean carpet. Generic “Happy Holidays” greeting under a sprig of poison ivy. Or perhaps it’s a bough of holly. I really don’t know what a bough is, so I can’t tell you for sure. Printed at Walgreens on 12/10 which shows amazing planning for a self-professed procrastinator.

213: Nice photo of the two kids amidst holiday decorations with the dog. Dark background does not provide enough contrast to the kid’s hair, indicating they might not have had time to get haircuts before the picture was done on 12/19. Dog looks beaten down by the process and, like most other dogs, appears to just want to get back to watching the basketball game. Graphic of the Three Wise Men over Isaiah 9:6 on a nice matte finish.

The Guru: Small and simple greeting card, yet very pleasing. Christmas wishes on the inside with a 2” x 3” photo of the two kids. Definitely some Christmas duds on these tots, and they wear it well and don’t seem to mind it. Possible studio shoot in front of tree, complete with the “random” silver ornament in the foreground. Small deduction for the slumping teddy bear that looks dead.

Cousin Bobbi: Card with a phallic looking snowman holding a star that says “Love”.

Ravishing Michelle: Card includes an invite to visit them in Vegas. Last time I did that I woke up in the bathtub missing a kidney. Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too, you organ stealing whore.

Karen: Decorative card with photo inset of the three kids. I’m digging the matching velvet pajamas – very Whoville. Next time you watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas, do a shot every time they say the word “Who” and you won’t wake up until President’s Day.

Nancy: Nancy was a friend that even boarded with me and Mrs. F’er at one time. Then she moved to Atlanta without telling us. Then she moved the NC without telling us and got married without telling us. And from the return address it appears she moved to Houston without telling us. The Christmas card has a photo of a baby on the front that I’m guessing is hers. The baby looks like it’s waiting for the punch line of a joke. But she probably won’t tell her.

Aunt Geri: Nice picture of a woman (perhaps Mary) holding a baby (perhaps Big Baby J). Slightly unsettling that she has a bird in her left hand and looks like she’s about to feed it to our savior. The printed greeting inside underlined for emphasis.

Pam: We got a card threatening Santa with “breach of contract” on the front. As an attorney, I think she would understand that the Santa deal is a bi-lateral contract requiring good behavior. Seeing as she’s knocked up right now, I’d say there was a little too much naughty and not enough nice this year. Case dismissed.

Allstate: My insurance agent took this time of year to let me know that he appreciated my business and even enclosed a couple business cards to throw away for him.

Bobby and Ashley: Nice card, but I don’t have a clue who they are.

Erica: A nice card supporting the Boys & Girls Clubs of America from a recruiter who thinks I should be making way more money and have a company car. That's how she gets paid.

Dalebud: The only card properly addressed to Mr. & Mrs. F’er. Always on time, this year with “The Christmas Blitzen Was Busted” cartoon on the front. Good stuff. He doesn’t have any kids (that we know of), so we can always count on him for some comic relief.

Stephanie: Sent the same damn card as Dalebud. What the hell is her problem? Doesn’t she know Dalebud sends the funny card every year? She tried to hide the fact by using fancy red ink to sign it, but she ain’t fooling me.

The Macs: They sent a picture of themselves taken in the desert. They look thirsty so they’re getting water for Christmas from us.

The Boss: Photo card of him, the wife, and kid in matching jeans and white shirts. Looks like they’re preparing to host a 70’s variety show. Also need a proofreader. Printed message reads,
“Love the Boss family,
Boss, Wife, and Kid
2005”
Makes it look like they’re demanding you love them. The comma is your friend.

P-Geo: Nice photo of the two kids. Appears to be well-done, but something was bugging me about it. Then I realized that the little one has the same expression that Vikings head coach Mike Tice has during the game.

Boss 2 & ‘Zilla: The couple that owns the place that Mrs. F’er works at sent a humorous card, but coordinated better than Stephanie and didn’t send the same one as Dalebud. But it also included a bonus check, so we liked it better than Dalebud’s. Oh, and in case you were wondering, if you want your name to be ‘Zilla all you need to do is add it to the end of your current name for a while, then eventually drop your old name, and voila, you’re now ‘Zilla (e.g. Sid => SidZilla => ‘Zilla).

Jane: I don’t know her, either, but I don’t like her because the card has that glitter shit all over it that falls off and gets on your pants and then your wife thinks you’re getting lap dances from the glittery stripper at the titty bar again.

Aunt Mel: The manger scene with John 3:16. She must have gotten the idea while watching an extra point during a football game.

LA Ray: I’ve known Ray since the early 50’s and we’ve never exchanged a card for anything until he got married. Mrs. LA always puts a nice, personalized note inside. Nice touch. I suggest he keeps her.

Sue: Never met her. No money inside. Next.

Mom: A Charlie Brown Christmas tree on the front and a check inside. A little bonus on top of the social security cash that we usually confiscate from her to pay for bike parts. We like to consider it protection money.

Captain Break-It: Photo of the three kids in front of the tree and other holiday decorations. The two boys in matching green shirts on each side of a little Break-ette in her red frock. The boy on the right is wearing the antlers and the other two are wearing Santa hats. I would have stuck the antlers on the girl in the middle for greater balance, but I’m obsessive like that. Their dog Tasha is also in front, looking like she wants to eat the photographer just for the amusement of the kids. There’s also some sort of furry creature in a Santa hat they call Oreo – it looks like it might be a bunny leftover from the Easter picture, but I’m not sure. However, most disappointing was the computer generated address label – I’ve come to expect the fine calligraphy of Mrs. Break-It, but she must have been busy repairing broken stuff this year.

Uncle Darryl: The card has a blue background with white stars and a big red Santa, but looks more 4th of July than Christmas. But it’s the thought that counts.

Alison: Hmm. I seem to remember in the past that she closed every letter and card with the words “Love and Prayers” and previous cards always maintained a religious theme. So I was taken aback this year when I received a card of a snowman with his head knocked off and saying, “@x!# kids!” It’s pretty #@*%’in funny, so maybe they’ve left the church and opened a comedy club or started a rap label. Also enclosed was a photo of the three kids which creeped me out a little since her oldest daughter doesn’t just look like her, but appears to be a perfect clone. Better than that sheep clone from a few years ago.

Gabe: He works with Mrs. F’er and wins the 2005 Card of the Year Award. In case you need something to shoot for, here’s what his homemade card consisted of:
White card stock, on the front written with red marker – “Jesus Is The Shiz-nit Yo”.
On the inside a photo of him on Santa’s lap. Santa wears a paisley shirt, with Gabe wearing his trademark Dickies, t-shirt and baseball cap and sporting a beard that is nearly as big as Santa’s. Opposite the photo is a personalized story that involves doing blow off a midget’s ass. I think that about covers everything you could ask for in a Christmas card.

Hope all y'all had a good one!

Call Me Kitty III

The next installment of the series - Christmas edition....

Good thing Dave thought to buy the Sunday paper last week. He fished through the pile of newsprint that morning and found the TV guide and brought it back to the bedroom with a fresh beer. Shopping on Christmas Eve definitely had sucked, but you just can't predict beer store hours on Christmas Day. Armed with a case of neatly aligned bottles on the top shelf of the refrigerator, he wouldn't have to leave the house this Christmas.

Christmas mornings as a child were relatively good - some cool stuff usually appeared under the tree and managed to entertain him through the rest of Christmas break from school. Really couldn't ask for much more. As an adult though, Christmas lost its magic. Not even the sounds of a good Barry Manilow holiday tape could drag him into the undertow of holiday spirit. Now he had his own holiday spirits. He acquired a taste for the fine winter festival beers produced by European brewing houses and the growing number of domestic microbreweries. An assorted collection of such ales and lagers from the upscale grocery store in town and a bag of Frito corn chips and bean dip would be his Christmas gift to himself. Beats anything that a fat man in a red suit could possibly drag down his chimney.

But the bean dip would wait. The leftover quesadilla that served as breakfast was still occupying his hunger gene. He had forgotten the happy hour leftovers in his car overnight, but the chilly December cold front had preserved his Christmas meal. A shout out to Mother Nature for that gift. Finding that meal was a bigger surprise than opening a package of tube socks on Christmas morn.

One might think, "How sad. Alone on Christmas Day? Bean dip, beer and leftover Mexican food?" Stop it. It's not sad. Really… it’s not.

Remember that Dave had a fridge full of microbrewed beer while other drunks would spend their holidays drinking cheap malt liquor at somber underpass celebrations or wishing only for the strength to unscrew the cap on their latest wine acquisition. Dave celebrated with the finest hops grown in Bavaria and imported in beautiful brown and green glass bottles that sat within beautifully designed cardboard carriers. That's right, the beer company spent considerable money on an MBA to spend considerable time deciding what he would like to drink this Christmas. He raised his bottle to toast that company and thanked them for the packaging that decorated his apartment this holiday.

It's a holiday, yet many people are working way harder in their kitchens today than they do at work. At work, they read some emails, forward some dumb jokes, shuffle some papers, and try to keep their ass out of trouble. Today they wake up way too early to insure gifts have been "left" under the tree, then spend the day working a frozen turkey into a meal by turning the south wing of the house into an oversized Easy Bake oven. All while trying not to stress out and yell at Cousin Jimmy for teaching the kids how to swear in Spanish. Dave merely cracked open that bean dip and the most stress was making sure the chips didn't go flying all over the kitchen while tearing into the fresh bag of Fritos. Just like the pilgrims, buddy. Pilgrims celebrated Christmas, too, you know, but you really don’t hear about it much because the Indians weren’t there. I don’t know why they weren’t invited back, but without that tension present it wasn’t worth covering in the press.

So celebrate the holidays whatever way you choose. But remember as stress levels rise and holiday expectations turn to lingering resentments, alone for the holidays isn't as bad as it seems. Sam Adams never let him down, so just tell the elves to swing by Foremost Liquors on the way to his rooftop and he'll be just fine. Nevermind the fact that elves don’t traditionally make the trip with Santa.

Merry Christmas to all and to all, a very good night.

Concert Review: The Belgrade Supermodels

I’m not feeling funny lately, so rather than force it I perused the offerings of our team of foreign correspondents. I found an old concert review from Ivan in Bosnia. Ivan gave us permission to publish this years ago, but I’ll withhold his name and his buddy’s organization. A Google search shows that they are still doing humanitarian work in Bosnia and I’d hate to tarnish their reputation. Enjoy.

Bosnia is squishy; often fun; above all, absurd. Below is exhibit “A.”

“Belgrade Supermodels” SITREP—March 8, 1998

1. On Saturday, March 7, 1998, a really bad Serbian disco band named “Belgrade Supermodels” comes to Banja Luka. I’ve only seen them once before, on television, but know that they’re four leggy gyrating sex-kittens, an unapologetically crude Balkan version of the Spice Girls, only without any pretense of innocence - give me money & mafia, baby. It should be a hoot, so why not go?

2. I telephone my friend Nathan to see if he wants to go. Nathan is the beleaguered manager of “ABC Organization,” an impoverished touchy-feely organization based in Banja Luka. Nathan has a fine collection of thrift store polyester garments. “ABC Organization,” or ABC, consists of 5 Americans living barracks-style in the loft of a large house. Perhaps because of this arrangement, Nathan’s wife has been reluctant in recent weeks to “go behind closed doors,” in the words of Charlie Rich. Nathan, in his grouchiness & frustration, readily agrees to go and perhaps vent a bit of his accumulated, ahem, energy.

3. We realize that it is imperative that we purchase cheap white Turkish cotton underpants (men’s), to throw up on the stage with our phone numbers immortalized thereupon. As the hour was late by Balkan shopping standards (7 p.m.), we hasten to the Banja Luka shopping center to purchase said underpants.

4. We peruse the entire shopping center without luck. Lots of cheap stuffed animals and lacy teddies and fake Nike warm-up suits and bootleg cigarettes, but no men’s Turkish white cotton underpants. We find a Chinese pseudo Barbie-doll called “Jessie” - she’s boxed up wearing a frilly wedding dress, next to her handsome new groom. Her head, oddly, is twice as big as his and she bears a creepy resemblance to Jon Benet Ramsey. Even stranger, the pair comes equipped with two children - should she be named “Shotgun Jessie”? The box boasts “fully movable arms & legs!”

5. Finally, we reach the last remaining stall in the shopping center—a lingerie boutique—and ask for men’s underpants. The owner of the boutique pulls out three samples of her wares: some weird waffled German panties (19 deutsche marks, about $11); some plain but sleek tightie-whities (14 DEM); and some fruity flowered briefs (6 DEM). Nathan and I are astounded by the prices cited. I ask the shopkeeper in my thickly-accented Serbian if she has anything from Turkey, or even China, as we’ll only be using these underpants once. She looks at the two of us with genuine fear. We buy no panties, but congratulate ourselves on our perseverance.

6. I go back home to dress for the show. I select a 100% polyester wide-collared shirt with photographic reproductions of exotic game fowl (open to my waist, displaying a luxurious crop of chest-hair) and a heavy faux-gold Caesar’s Palace neck pendant. I don a heavy coat with fake-fur lapels to complete the Mafioso pimp ensemble.

7. We ride to the Banja Luka music hall in a taxi. We are accompanied by Nathan’s wife, Tammie, their perky colleague, Sarah, and a large Russian named Boris. Nathan is unshaven, wearing purple polyester and antique Floyd (Andy Griffith show) barber’s glasses. Nathan has splashed half a bottle of patchouli on himself. The smell is hitherto unknown in Banja Luka.

8. We purchase our tickets and enter the music hall. The ticket takers have been tasked with patting down entrants for weapons, a mission they undertake with visible vigor and relish. When Nathan and I reach them, they look at us funny and wave us through.

9. The music hall is full. We have an hour’s wait until the show begins. We pound NEKTARs (local Banja Luka beer in big-ass 16 oz. bottles) at 5 dinars ($ 0.60) a bottle and check out the crowd. We realize that the majority of attendees is composed of 17-year-olds: the girls are dancing with each other, dolled up in fishnet hose, push-up bras & short black vinyl miniskirts; guys wear imitation leather jackets, gold chains and Ricky-Ricardo-slicked-back-hair. We stick out like sore thumbs. People are shouting: “Hey Amerikan! Hey! O.K.! How yu goingk!”

10. We’re the oldest people in the crowd by a power of 3. I’m dying to throw myself into the middle of the girls’ dance-circle & start dirty-dancing.

11. A weak wisp of fog-machine fog trickles out of a ceiling vent. Spastic lasers sporadically shoot through the haze. The show is about to begin. “Pyrotechnics,” observes Nathan.

12. The “Belgrade Supermodels” take the stage as the crowd roars. Camera crews from local T.V. are filming everything. Their noms-de-supermodel are unknown to me, so the names that follow are my own creation. Fantastic abdominal muscles, to a one. From left to right, they are:

“Claudia-Schiffer-supermodel”: blonde, blonde, blonde, blonde, blonde. Super-duper plump pouty lips (implants) & roly-poly baby-doll eyes. Jennifer Aniston hair-do. Modestly wearing a full-length black lacy top, the only one of the four not baring her midriff - the coquettish naughty-but-nice girl. After the set break, she retakes the stage in a half-length see-through white top with black bra underneath, a la West Hollywood porn-star. Nathan observes that from up close she looks eerily masculine - from this point on, she becomes known as “FREWBUD SUPERMODEL.”

“Trashy supermodel”: the “sassy” supermodel - modeled after “Scary Spice” of the Spice Girls? Ponytail, halter-top and Cleopatra pancake makeup. She gyrates lasciviously throughout and does funny things with her tongue. After the set break, she returns in the tightest gray sweat pants I’ve ever seen a person wear, hiked up about three inches too high - the second she takes the stage, my eyes bug out dangerously and Nathan begins sweating prodigiously. From this point on, she becomes known as “CAMEL-TOE SUPERMODEL.”

“Boob supermodel”: Swedish-girl blonde bangs, blue “Nike” halter top & fake “Nike” tattoos above her cleavage and belly button. The cool disinterested thousand-yard stare of a Scandinavian particle physicist. After a few numbers a hint of black bra strap creeps out from under her halter top - quelle vixen. From the first moment, and for the remainder of the show, she is known simply as “BOOB SUPERMODEL.”

“Next-door supermodel”: Every group of this sort has to have an “approachable” member to give some amount of hope to their legions of fans. Such is the fourth Belgrade Supermodel - a surprisingly normal girl-next-door type (assuming that the girl next door works out 18 hours a day 7 days a week.) Nathan develops an immediate obsession, based on an early and long- suppressed T.V. crush - thanks to this, she becomes known as “KATE JACKSON SUPERMODEL.”

13. The “Belgrade Supermodels” are lip-synching poorly. At one point, when the backing track consists of four women’s voices singing in harmony, I notice that only Boob Supermodel is moving her lips as the other three are busy grinding nastily. The crowd is throbbing with energy.

14. Sarah is eager to know everything the supermodels are saying. “Translate this song! Please?” I translate the song the supermodels are singing at the moment: “Jedan, dva / svako zna / haah haah haah/svako zna/ jedan, dva / svako zna / haah haah haah / svako zna” --- “one, two/everyone knows / haah haah haah / everyone knows / one, two / everyone knows / haah haah haah / everyone knows.” These are the only words in the song.

15. After 30 minutes of non-stop gyration, Nathan and I are transfixed. Our cool-guy posturing melts away in the twisting pelvic onslaught. Zombie like, I turn to Nathan and observe, “Nathan, this is the coolest band I’ve ever seen in my life.” Nathan dabs at the drool on his chin and nods absently.

16. At the set break, we pound several more NEKTARS and decide pragmatically that there’s no sense in standing way in back. Nathan and I mercilessly elbow our way to the stage, leaving wounded teenage girls howling in our wake. A large group of 16-year-old Banja Luka boys is posted up at the stage, but we soon win them over: “Hey amerikan! Hey! O.K! Nu York Yankiz! Axel Roze!” Nathan and I scream “Rock on!” in tandem and buy them a round of beers.

17. The second set begins. We’re falling down, grooving hard, loving life. The supermodels have hit their stride and are getting quite nasty. The whole set becomes one long happy blur when.....

18. Our dainty oblivion is shattered as, suddenly, the music stops. Kate Jackson model is making some announcement...she’s saying something about finding the manliest dancer in the hall...the crowd noticeably perks up...suddenly, she’s pointing at ME saying “YOU - come up on stage - NOW!” I go.

19. Next, she summons Nathan. Nathan is smiling naughtily. We look like total idiots. The crowd is hooting.

20. Two other fellas are chosen and we’re suddenly onstage in front of hundreds. Each supermodel takes one of the neophytes under her wing for this song - tonight my mentor is camel-toe supermodel. Nathan is off to the right with Frewbud supermodel.

21. A throbbing disco beat kicks in and suddenly we’re gyrating with THE Belgrade Supermodels. I can’t dance to begin with, and I’m way past my limit tonight, so I’m GETTING DOWN - doing my best Travolta spins, points and bobs, doing the amoeba dance, doing the sprinkler dance, bumping and grinding with “my lady.” My gold Caesar’s Palace pendant is swaying dangerously. The song is something about “calling on the telephone” so we pick up the dance routine the supermodels are doing - you turn your back to the audience and shake your butt around, then turn with your hand up to your ear as if you’re holding a telephone and mouth the words “hello, hello” to the audience. Just glorious.

22. At the end of the song, cross-eyed & dizzy, we begin shuffling off stage. Kate Jackson supermodel jerks me to the front/center and asks me my name, then proclaims “there is no doubt - Ivan is the finest dancer!” to the crowd. I curtsey.

23. The show is over. Nathan and I realize we have a story to tell when we’re 95 years old, only, as Nathan puts it, “when I’m 95 years old, the story will be that they pulled my pants off on stage and ravaged me by turn.” We rue the fact that we didn’t buy the $11 waffled underpants, but figure there’s always next time.

24. The show, as I said, was filmed by a local T.V. crew. It airs on Banja Luka T.V. tonight. I will get a tape from the station.