From the Vault Vol I: Dance Dance Revolution: or How Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Bombed
Let me start off by saying by no means am I, what people would call, a "dancing machine". I'm not a club guy; I'm a dive bar guy. However, there are certain venues that force your hand into dancing. The venue for this story is a family wedding. The dance style is the Del mode. The Del Mode repertoire consists of the obligatory slow dances and a deadly 1-2 fast dance combo of spins and dips. Now that you know my limited arsenal, we can press onward and downward.
I have 4 sisters. This fact in and of itself is its own horror story. Lets move on. At my sister Kelly's wedding, I was drinking vodka like it’s my job and I felt quite good. I wish everyone felt as good at that time. However, I noticed one of other sister's friends, Jamie, looking upset and lonely. Turns out that Jamie and my sister, Amy, high-school best friends & 4 year college room mates, had a falling out and were not speaking to each other. I tried to broker a peace treaty to no avail. My sister wanted nothing to do w/ it. I decided it would be best for me to leave the situation alone (as best to avoid a scene. Foreshadowing). After a few more drinks I decided the poor girl needs something to take her mind off this. She needs to dance.
As I stated earlier, I am NOT a dancer. I hate it. I don't think the human body was built to do it. Even still, if it would make this girl feel better and keep her from breaking into tears who was I to dismiss the notion. AND, as I earlier explained, my repertoire consists of: Spin, Spin, dip, Reverse Spin, dip, Spin. Repeat. (drunk) People seem to enjoy it. We were dancing, it was going well, and she seemed at ease. I went for one of the later spins after the dip, and my forearm cracked her directly square in her right temple. The force of the impact sent her head flying backwards.....and her hair with it. I'm staring at my sister's friend, Jamie, who now does not have hair on her head. I am equal parts shocked & bewildered. Turns out, she had a brain tumor removed and her hair had yet to grow back. I look down behind her and on the floor is the most natural looking wig I've ever seen. Sitting there. Taunting me. I shuffle quickly to pick it up, barely avoid punting it, and quickly throw it back on her head. HOWEVER, I put it on backwards...and it turned into a crazy wig mullet. She was a good sport (i.e. drunk) and laughed for a bit...my family and my girlfriend, not as amused. Turns out, the rift in the relationship between my sister and Jaime was that Amy refused to visit and or call Jaime during her stay in the hospital. When I learned this and asked her how she could be so callous, she replied "you know, a phone works both ways". R U kidding me??!!
What did we learn from this story?
- I now, for the most part, drink beer exclusively.
- I try and steer clear of the dance floor.
- I have a sister who may or may not be Satan
From the Vault Vol II: The LA Spanish Prisoner Scam or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Shower
I recently moved from NY to LA. Part of the company transfer package included hiring professional movers for me. What did this mean? Well I drank the whole last week and did absolutely nothing to prepare myself for a cross country move. I woke up at 6:30 am on moving day. With the movers to arrive in mere hours I tried powering through some laundry and organizing stuff into two groups: storage and Brentwood. The storage group consisted of all the things that would be moved in once I found my permanent residence. The Brentwood stuff consisted of clothes (work and leisure) my PC, bedding, and a few odds and ends. Now in my chaotic state I packed all of my bathroom products in storage. Sweet. That just about brings us up to speed to present day. So, for the past three weeks I've been living off of a combination of the drugstore travel aisle and sponging off my room mate Nell. She's a girl, and as a girl she's obligated to have 10-12 full shampoo bottles in her shower at any given time. The sharing system seemed to be working quite well (sans the ironic mustache I had to sport because of the brutal pain the travel aisle disposable razor caused) until today. Nell informed me that the other barren shower was quite usable and I should from this day forth be using it. Fair enough, I thought, she's dealt with my shower product sponging far long enough, and it was a graceful way to tell me to get my own. I do however recall her complaining of a mildew issue in the other bathroom. But I suppose as a squatter in the apt I can deal with a bit of mildew.
I left work with the task of getting some new toiletries . Exiting the parking garage and making a right, I came to a Longs Drugs. Now I inadvertently blew past the parking and my options were to illegally park (where you normally can legally Tu-Su) right in front of the doors, or to drive around the block. Anyone who works in Westwood would agree with my decision to illegally park. I had a small list: shampoo/conditioner in one (being a guy, this is what we look for: efficiency), some bodywash (a must have, as popular advertising has convinced me if I use it beautiful girls will lose their inhibitions. Seems like a no brainer, and much cheaper than cocaine), and then the travel aisles staples of: floss sticks, mouthwash, and pain inducing disposable razors. At this point I was golden. I'd been in the store for 90 seconds. I grabbed some gum and a kit kat and headed towards the register. Then I realized that I didn't grab Q-Tips (cotton swabs to be accurate). I asked if it would be OK to run back and grab them... She said of course and told me the aisle. I ran, grabbed them and headed back...where I saw her having an extended conversation with the customer who was originally behind me with her annoying pug. Common social decency wouldn't allow for me to say "lady no one gives a damn about your stupid ass pug" so I had to sit there while they blabbered away. Still feeling good, I patiently waited as they finished up their little stop n chat. She rang me up, I swiped my card and I left. I walked over to the Prius still in record time (6 minutes tops) and headed out on my way. I felt like I'd one upped the system. It felt good. That was until at high speeds I saw a piece of paper flapping under my wiper. How the hell could I possibly have gotten a ticket in less than six minutes? Is this some elaborate scam Nell has with the City Of Los Angeles? Get them comfortable, and then send them out one day for an unnecessary bottle of shampoo, and BAM the scam springs into action. I wonder how many people have fallen for this trap before me. The whole ride I wondered how much the ticket will be for. I considered throwing my arm out the window to grab it, but I fought the urge. Finally I parked and grabbed the ticket. $65. mother fucker. So, in essence I bought a $67 pack of q-tip cotton swabs. Lets hope I scrape some gold out of my ears.
Damn Nell, Damn LA, Damn that pug.
From the Vault Vol III: Scratching on the Eight Ball of Life: or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Tiny Taunter.
A long long time ago I dj-ed in a bar. It was always dead early 8-10ish so i would play either pool or video bowling. The bar was named Surfside, which was a bizarre name for a bar not located even remotely near a beach. At this bar there was tons of shady regulars. The type of dudes who would not hesitate to finish off the sandbagged beers. I'd play pool against them and win. A nice ego boost. However my world came crashing down when a midget with his own stick came into the bar.
I'm not sure if you've ever noticed this...but midgets (dwarfs, little people, etc) are the most surly lot of handicapped that you will EVER run into. They have a Napoleon complex X 100. This guy, man i wish i could recall his name, would talk smack from the very second he would enter the bar..
- while he was waiting to play
- while he was screwing his stick together
- while he was shooting
- while you were shooting.
- while cobbling shoes
He would make a shot here and there...but he wasn't a great player. Sure he was the best midget player, but not the best player. His tiny little midget arms and legs really restricted him from many a shot (and there wasn't a bridge for him to fall back on...and if there was I wouldn't have hesitated to yell out "pussy", midget or no midget, if he did use said phantom bridge.)
Anyway...I'm barely beating him....and I'm on the 8 ball...and he is taunting me like crazy....and of course, I scratched it.
I'm crushed. i was just beat my a little person. Normally you do the post game handshake, but he instead climbed up to his stool and said "nice choke job", and for added insult, put his little midget hands up to his neck and mimed choking. I was furious. He'd sporadically show up in the bar from time and time again with his stupid little pool cue case and play other people....but i refused.
What did we learn from this story? i hate people who bring pool cues....big or small.
AND of course, midgets are EVIL!
side note: he once fell off the stool...i should have felt sorry for him....but i didn't
Now playing: Wilco - Radio Cure