What kind of man...

After watching three hours of a Survivorman marathon today, I was having dinner--chicken bryan, mashed sweet potatoes with goat cheese (Lib's delicious experiment), scalloped potatoes, and green beans. I couldn't get enough; I kept eating, and didn't get full, but eventually I had to stop myself because there was no good reason to keep on eating. I had just watched Les Stroud survive a week on nothing but a clover and a chipmunk and talk about how a tiny crispy rodent would give him the energy he needed to continue through the Sonoran desert on foot. If that is true, my dinner could power a small city. I never felt like a pussy for eating too much, but I did feel like a chubby little débutante for wanting a third helping of sweet potatoes and cheese and a third helping of scalloped potatoes, which of course are made with cheese, and this was only after seconds of green beans and finishing Lib's chicken. What kind of man needs that much food? I wouldn't last five minutes in the wild without a meat sled and cheese tree.

Is that you, Sea Bass?

I was hesitant to write this post, because twice on the drive back to Ohio, I left my phone in the car and regretted doing so both times; I missed one necessary photo for the blog, and was nearly deflowered.

When we stopped the first time in Pennsylvania, the rest stop turned out to be an old corporate building that had been converted into a franchise rest stop and gas station, and while I don't feel that most truck stops are the classiest joints off the highway, this was a step or two below; however,when we walked in, there was a sign on the cork board decrying child prostitution. While Lib was going to the restroom, I noticed a sign drawn on a poster-board and colored with marker for "Chinese Massage" where a rather simplistic stereotype of an Asian was massaging a equally simplistic lighter colored man who was lying face down on an implied cushion table while his feet transformed into some rather suggestive white billowing ejecta with the words "Complete Release" flowing out of him. I immediately thought of my blog, but realized I had forgotten my camera in the car and figured I would just have to give up posting it on the blog. It has haunted me for the past few days, so I recreated here, and am impressed that I got it so close.

Not only that, when we left the rest stop, just in case I did decide to take up the sign's offer of a complete release, there was a semi parked across the lot where I could have repented; it had a cross made of yellow utility lights mounted on the trailer and the words, "Mobile Chapel: Transportation for Jesus" painted down the side. They had set up shop, and there was even a door that led into the side of the trailer. I guess someone was tired of being trapped in the bible belt and got his CDL, probably at the same place he got his preacher's certification.




Later, it rained so hard in Ohio that I couldn't see, so we stopped one last time in MacDonald's to pee and snack. I realized I didn't have my phone, but could see no reason that I would need it unless someone held up Micky D's and I had to call the cops. As soon as I got about halfway through my "regular release," in the bathroom, the door opened, and the lights went off. If you stop on a road trip to use the restroom and the lights go out as someone enters, it can only mean one thing.

Naturally, I thought, "This is it. This is really happening" and I got into the alert, defensive position as I finished taking my piss, hoping I wouldn't have to use my kung fu, and by that I means scream like a girl. I listened for the impending approach of work boots on tile and the metallic sound of overalls springing open just before the sound of denim ruffling to the ground, but the the lights flickered and I realized it was only the storm and I had been spared being sodomized for a little while longer. But I still had to find my way out, and it was a large bathroom. You don't exactly walk around with your arms in front of you feeling your way out in the dark unless you want to make friends or end up with a hand full of urinal cake...and that's if your lucky.

If I had my phone to illume the darkness this wouldn't have been an issue, but I gotta tell you how relieved I was when I saw the long thin ray of light outlining the door, and I propped it open a with a "wet floor" sign because the would-be-assailant who had walked in earlier had decided he didn't need lights and continued into the stall to take a dump. I was glad to get back on the road, and I didn't look back.

Old Friends

My weekend started on Friday driving the ten hours to Ohio for my friend Jared's wedding celebration in Springboro. For as wonderful as it was to see everyone from college, some people I haven't seen for eight years, it almost seems like it didn't even happen. By the time I talked to everyone, the night was over, and I found myself driving the ten hours back on Sunday, wondering where it all went. The wedding, the friends, the past nine years...

Kentucky Dave, who I haven't seen in ages, has two kids now, and his son looks like a stout version of him. I have many stories of Dave from college, but at the wedding my favorite, new story of Dave was that one morning recently, he took his dog out to go to the bathroom, and because he was tired, and since he has his own eleven acres in Kentucky, he decided to put on his boots--only his boots--when he let the dog out. When his dog ran off, he went after it, and on the edge of his property, he saw a turkey blind set up with a man in full camo inside (even if Dave did see the guys face he would have reacted the same) so he waved to the hunter inside and headed back to his house naked as a jay bird...wearing boots.

Seth, one of the most talented artists I have ever known, is teaching art to the elderly in the basement of a retirement home, and seems to be quite content yelling at old people for not trying hard enough. Seth, who used to drink green Kool-Aide from a jug he labeled "life" and died his goatee to match with said green Kool-Aide, Seth who was commisioned to paint the portrait of the dean of the school he gets to attend for free because his wife works there, Seth who popped up a train stop away from me in Brooklyn one random evening years ago. Seth who will always be a true artist and land on his feet no matter what because of his amazing spirit and talent.

Josh ingratiated himself well with Lib by helping us write poetry for the newlyweds on personalized postcards left on the table for us at the reception. Each started innocently enough but turned into the most vile, horrific, satanic wedding verse known to man. Lib took the prize for best line with "throw blood on the coals where lovers roast" and Josh took the best rhyme (slant) for matching sinewy with eternity. While most grooms would be averse to such a gift, I remind myself that not only was Jared a Danzig and Slayer fan back in the day, but he also once drew a picture of a goat-headed Satan that was so evil that he burned it behind his barn because he was afraid of it.

I could go on forever about all of my friends: Clint, Andy, Mike, Chad, and their better halves. Even Stefan showed up which was a nice surprise, but I think it scared Lib a little when he pulled out the halloween party from 1999 and most of us were women in some form: wench, drag queen, prom date with retainer, and of course Corey who had just "come out" was Ginger Spice--I don't remember it being so gay, and it was difficult to explain to Lib within reason why so many straight men were in drag in some form, but it just happened that way.

It was worth the drive. Even though it was here and gone and will probably never happen again, I was glad to see everyone at one time. And even though I felt like I didn't really get to see them, it is only because all of these guys were such great friends that unless you sit down with them one on one, you feel kinda cheated. But that's the price of getting everyone together in one place.

P.S. whoever has the great group photo, I need it for the blog.

Atlantic City

Before we went to Atlantic City for his thirtieth birthday, British Dave had said he did not care how much money he won or lost as long as he woke up next to a dead prostitute--seems reasonable. I wasn't sure how deeply we would delve into depravity on Saturday, but I was sure it wouldn't end up in a dead call girl--probably.

I have never been to a casino, and I never really gambled much other than the odd twenty dollar buy-in Texas Hold'em game with friends, so I was not exactly at home in the Borgata--none of us were. Dave is a poker man, but Fil and I haven't played for years. To tell the truth, we were the three most awkward, out-of-place tools walking around dumping five dollars here and there into video poker and slots, but Fil did win $91.50 on Double Diamond, which he only played to get a free drink from the waitress walking around. And he did win a little money on three-card poker.

After Fil's stroke of luck, and after Dave lost $120 on three-card poker, we sat down at the $2-$4 for a little Texas Hold'em. Dave was paired with a couple of weather-worn, retired, old poker dealers who took his money in what he called a slow, painful death, and Fil had a nice stack for a while until he suffered the same fate. I, however was seated at my own table with a bunch of old men, and I had no idea what I was doing.

Now, anyone that knows me, knows my hands shake a bit sometimes, so it doesn't take much when I get nervous to start shaking like the dickens. This is one of the reasons I am pretty transparent at games that require composure, like chess or poker or picking up women. I decided that I would just get used to the pace of the game and the betting, and that I would keep my cool--sounded like a fool-proof plan. On my first hand, the dealer gave me pocket aces; I immediately began shaking like a shitting dog, and everyone folded anyway--I don't know how they knew. My next hand was a queen eight that I folded because I'm stupid, but would have won on with a full house. I won the third hand, but that was it for quite a while. The rest was pretty much me playing every hand. When the people at the poker table say "you have to give him credit; that took balls," it means you should have folded.

After a brief water and Advil break in the room, we headed over to The Racebook where Dave gave Fil the lead (guess) on a horse that was 5/8, and Fil won a few bucks; we had a bourbon on the rocks, and went back to the tables. This time we all got to sit together, and the two old ladies were still there; at one one point I believe Dave called one of them an "old beast." Being at the table with they guys just meant that I got to watch Dave and Fil lose their money while they got to watch me slowly build a small poker dynasty that culminated in me leaving the table with $145, minus the money Dave had spotted me for the game.

The evening ended in Fil failing to capitalize on an invitation to the craps table with a high-strung hottie, a late-night grilled cheese and Guinness Stout, and some drunken frat boy vomiting the into empty glassed left on the slots. I had a great time, really, but I feel bad that the evening ended not with Dave passing out next to a dead prostitute, but drifting into the land of Nod like one of the children in Whoville nestling down to dreams of Christmas morning.

.

Happy birthday, old bean! And thank you Kate (his lovely wife) for setting the whole thing up.

Gnat this Time!

Last week we found ourselved infested by friut flies. It started as a few, but suddenly turned into dozens of the little bastards buzzing around the apartment. You can probably figure out how Lib felt about the whole ordeal based on the picuture above that she drew on her Monday night note that she wrote while I was teaching the GED. Tuesday we looked up some strategies for getting rid of them. Before the website listed how to kill them though, it gave a list of preventitive measures to take to make sure they stay gone once you have killed the little buggers. Some were reasonable:

Store trash in a covered bin. (Reasonable)
Do not toss food garbage into waste-paper baskets (Duh, but it happens.)
Cover your fruit bowl or store fruit you wish to keep in the refrigerator. Also, raisins, dates and prunes are favorite attractants (It happens to the best of us).
Use or discard all overripe fruit. (again, duh, but OK). Clean the seals of your refrigerator door, the top and under the fridge, especially clean the evaporation pan if it has one (believe it or not, I acutually do this when I clean).

As understandable as all of these little pitfalls are, we were not guilty of any of them.

Sadly, because some people are just complete slobs, the website felt it necessary to state the obvious--also, anyone who knows me knows that I am kind of a slob, so coming from me, this must be pretty bad.

• Clean opened containers of fruit juice, fermented or vinegar products, for example ketchup, siracha or cooking wine. Seal them well. Keep these in the refrigerator if possible. (Do people really leave open fruit containers and ketchup sitting out?)


• Wipe up crumbs and spills from your cabinets, counter and floor. (Crumbs maybe, but who leaves things spilled?)


• Take out all trash--do not re-use the plastic liner garbage bags. (WHO DOES THIS?)


• Dump mop water, clean the pail, launder the mop rag. (Maybe if you live in a janitor's closet.)


• Take out your compost and keep your collection bin covered and food additions to your pile buried beneath yard waste. (Who leaves their compost inside?)


• Do not use manure, beer or rank water for fertilizer near the house (I don't even understand this).

It turns out all you have to do is put some apple cider or balsamic vinegar in a cup with some dish soap. The vinegar smells like rotting fruit and attracts the flies, while the soap reduces the cohesion so the gnats, thinking they will be able to use the surface tension, sink to a vinegary death. We filled three with apple cider vinegar and I did a test cup with balsamic. It works pretty damn well, as you can tell from Lib's drawing from my Wednesday night note.

The Road to Ruin... aka New Jersey

I learned on my eleven hour drive from Asheville that everything from D.C. north sucks in terms of traffic. I learned that if I don't stop to fill my tank I can go 440 miles, but that three miles before my exit, my gas light will come on, and I may regret testing the endurance of my car in such circumstances. I also learned that if I don't drink anything extra, I can hold my piss for five hours without it getting so intense that I have to stop. And oddly enough, I learned that if it is eighty degrees and sunny, and I apply sun screen to my forearm to prevent truckers' arm, that the sun and smell trick my brain into thinking I am coming home from the beach, and it takes two hours longer for me to get angry in traffic because subconsciously, I have spend the day at the shore, and I am blocking out that I have to work the next day from 6am to 10pm. So, I guess I learned that I can make it from Asheville, NC with only one stop, and as any true road tripper knows, that's pretty good. While my average speed for that long leg was 55mph, it was the constant congestion and construction that slowed me down, but I refused to empty my bladder or fill my tank, and dammit, that's somethin! That's hardcore(but I did have to go to work today)!