"Burn Man"

What you are about to read is an un-edited, un-cut, un-solicited, un-derwear version of “Burn Man.” This is a true tale of a man overcoming his fears, beating the odds, and defeating adversity only to ultimately experience the only real life simulation of the feeling one feels as they show up to school naked in their nightmares…

Corte Madera, Ca- 1994

The day started out like any other. My Mom asked me repeatedly to bring my jacket, and if I had locked my bedroom window as she always did before we departed for the day. I assume she did this just in case a burglar the size of Stuart Little with the flexibility of Gumby was somehow able to squeeze through the extremely small window and then rob us blind. It was scheduled to be a joyous day of touring the metropolitan city known as Sacramento; our state Capital. While this activity didn’t necessarily peak our fif-teen year old site seeing interests, we didn’t have much choice and we were finagled into the car, but not without fantasy baseball magazines, car games, and video games ready to distract us from whatever boring activities lied ahead.

Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs

The day started out like no other. A man, who for the rest of time would be known to us by the simple nickname of “Burn Man,” sat patiently awaiting his breakfast. He had been through a lot in the past year, but on this jovial morning, he felt like a million bucks.

“Thank you Dear,” he responded as his freshly cooked eggs and bacon was placed in front of him.

“What shall we do today honey bunches? His wife pleasantly interrogated.

“I thought we’d stay in and watch a movie,” the man suggested.

“Honey, I really think it is time.”

“Sheila, we’ve talked about this many times. Not until I’m completely better will I go out in public.”

“But honey you are completely normal. You’ve come so far; I think you can do it. For me? Its beautiful out, I’m sick of us being cooped up in this house.”

“I just don’t think I have it in me. You heard the Doctor, no sunlight, until the scars have completely healed, so that means...”

“So what? I don’t care.”

“People might laugh or point at me; I just don’t think I can do it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What sick person would ever do such a thing?”

Somewhere on the 80 Freeway

My Mom was engaged in a deep read of the normally sleep-inducing Sacramento tour book. Most people either accidentally pass out or put the book down after three minutes due to utter boredom, but she was determined to get the full experience of whatever Sacramento had to offer which by the way, was close to nothing. Nonetheless our car surged forward with all of us unaware of what events were to transpire.

Somewhere in the Sacramento Suburbs

Less than halfway into his mummification, with one arm wrapped snuggly in his orange garments, Burn Man had a feeling of liberation despite looking like a pumpkin on Halloween that had been smashed all over the street. He hadn’t been outside since the fateful day of the accident, when a few beers had caused him to pass out at the family Labor Day party only to wake up to Indian burns covering ninety percent of his body.

“You are lucky to be alive.”

The words from the ER Doctor still played like a broken record in his head…

“Not only did you survive the Indian Burns, but the wet willie missed every major ear organ and had that atomic wedgy been performed an inch higher…(pause) we (pause) may not be having this conversation today…”

He looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had lately started using an electric razor instead of a regular razor, or the fact that he was dressed in a ridiculous non-ostentatious orange outfit. Either way, Burn Man was still just a remnant of his former self.

The pain.

The anguish.

The marathons of David Hasselhoff shows he had no choice but to watch before the invention of remote controls.

It had been tough, but it had all been worth it. Today was a new day, and the first day of the rest of his life.

State Capital - Sacaremento, Ca

After being dragged along on tour after tour through our state’s capital where Joey and I were unwillingly treated to a plethora of not so famous spots where past Governors had either signed a famous bill, met with someone we’d never heard of or used the bathroom, we would have been open to a suggestion of ice skating while watching Dirty Dancing had it been suggested to put us out of our misery. So when going to Old Town Sacramento was suggested, we were all for it. Besides how old could Old Town Sacramento really be? No city on the west coast was older than 120 years anyway. It’s not like there would be six foot-seven mummies walking around the town in broad daylight like the sleeping dead from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video right?

The Driveway - Sacramento Suburb

Somewhere in the distance a crow squawked.

The front door blew open and there standing timorously in the doorway stood Burn Man. He took a long breathe of fresh air and let the warm afternoon breeze hit his skin…or eyes rather since the rest of his body was behind the newest fashion style picked up from his local outfitter, Mummies R’ Us. Somewhere behind the orange fortress of bandages was an amiable smile, and a man ready to get back on his bike and give it a ride. He was back. Nothing could get him down on this day. Nothing.

Somewhere in the distance a crow was hit with a slingshot.

“Where we heading honey?”

“Old Town – you’re favorite spot.”

“You’re the best honey. It’s going to be a great day, I can just feel it. What could possibly stand in our way?”

“Oh sweetie, I love your outlook. Just in case I’ve already taken the initiative to alert the police department, fire department, The Marine Corps, nine stealth bombers, twelve secret service agents and Tonya Harding just in case. And again, what sick individual would do such a thing?”

“Oh honey you are such a jokester. I trust you honey. What could ever go wrong?”

----- 1 hour later ------

Old Town Sacramento

It wasn’t quite as bad as watching paint dry while also watching grass grow simultaneously, but Old Town Sacramento was a close second. We were finally heading back to the car, trudging along exhaustedly on the Old Town Sacramento cobblestone streets. The cobblestones were probably added to convince tourists that had nothing better to do on the weekends that Old Town Sacramento was actually old, and not built in 1975 which it probably was.

Joey and I had just finished off debating on the best three-point shooter in our Game Boy All-Star Basketball game when we saw it. Heading towards us at about 0mph in the bright light of the day was the most shocking, mind-boggling and uncomfortable site we had ever seen. Seventy county fairs, three semester internships at a mental institution and an all nighter at Dennis Rodman’s house couldn’t have prepared us for the disconbobulation we were witnessing. A terrifying beast stood before us, wrapped from head to toe in bright orange bandages, and at that moment Burn Man was born. Moving at a snail pace this orange creamsicle mummy inched his way towards us, while Joey and I both tried desperately to keep calm and not break out in awkward laughter at the poor chap.

Burn Man was about ten feet in front of us when we heard the fateful words that I can still hear in my head to this day, and probably will haunt Burn Man for the rest of eternity.

“Hey Guys, look at this guy!”

Holy shit, I thought, did that really just happen?

“Guys look!”

There it was again. Yes someone was definitely trying to torture the poor bastard. Who could be doing this I thought? A pugnacious bully? A roaming gang of viscous thugs? A kid picked last in kickball, forever seeking revenge on a weaker foe? Even Brandon Fraser from the movie “The Mummy,” wouldn’t have attempted this nefarious hounding, and he unearthed the Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.

I turned around in utter disbelief to see that my mom was the one pointing at the poor lad and motioning in our direction all the while breaking out in insidious laughter. I’m not sure what Kool-Aid she had just drank but Joey and I weren’t about to try a sip, as we did our best to cover our faces and awkwardly sidestep away from the outlandish behavior.

Oh my god this is really happening, I thought trying to keep my focus at whatever object a hundred yards past Burn Man I could focus on.

It was too late not to notice. Like a kid caught with his hands in the Sour Patch Kids container at the local candy shop, Burn Man had already stopped in his tracks. Although in My Mom’s defense, his tracks basically spread about one millimeter apart due to his sluggish crawl so he may have just been in between steps; the jury is still out on this one.

Since the poor guy had been mummified, and only his eyes were visible, it made it impossible for us to really know what Burn Man was thinking, but I think we can only assume that it was something like this;

“What sick individual would do this to me?”

Joey and I quickly sauntered by Burn Man in hopes of escaping the extreme embarrassment, and the releasing of rabid bats as I’d seen mummies do in some past flicks. I’m sure if Burn Man could have lifted his arms, for example, more than the one centimeter he was able to, he would have angrily squashed us like bugs. As it was however, I felt like the bully in jail who had just forced a weaker inmate into sodomy and then topped it off by swiping his corn bread.

The guy goes through months of therapy, overcomes a million fears, and probably was a prominent figure before his accident only to have it all come crashing down at the hands of a four-foot eleven Italian mother of three who stood there for what probably felt like an eternity pointing and cackling at the poor chap.

Not a word was spoken after that as we passed Burn Man and proceeded down the street, making it the most awkward thirty seconds of my entire life. Neither of us looked back to see the debris or wreckage of the disaster we had left behind.

“Oh I thought he was a character like at Disney Land,” was my Mom’s explanation after the silence was broken when we turned down the next street.

Disney Land? Character? Donald Duck and the Pirates of The Caribbean are characters. A six-foot-seven man wrapped in bright orange bandages on the streets of Old Town? Not a character. I could see how it could have transpired…

Old Town Sacramento Tourist Board Monthly Meeting

“Ok, so who has got some ideas, we are trying to spruce up tourism in Old Town and as we all know those cobblestone bricks that Smithson came up with last meeting are just not cutting it… Yes Johnson? You have something?”

“I got it! Let’s have characters walk around the outskirts of old town, in say…I don’t know… bright orange mummy outfits. And they can walk really, really slow. Kids would love it!”

“Johnson that’s brilliant…lets get that in the books and out on the streets ASAP. This is going to be a bit hit…A bit hit I tell ya…”

We never heard of saw of Burn Man again. We can only guess he high-tailed it back into the confines of his own home at rapid walking speeds of around .003 mph as soon as my Mom’s distasteful pointing occurred, and was never seen on the streets of Old Town Sacramento again. In my Mom’s defense she did feel really bad about the incident, and furthermore, if you’re wrapped in a bright orange mummy outfit in the middle of the day you probably are asking for it, but maybe not necessarily from a middle aged mother of three…

…This is a true story – only the names of the incident have been changed to protect – actually wait a second, nope Burn Man I’m sure was his legal name…Although the editor of validity of this blog is still researching the cause of accident, as Indian Burns may or may not have been made up…

"Super Bowl Blues"

This week's post is kind of like turning on your favorite TV show, excited for the new episode, only to witness a rerun that ran six weeks prior. This piece is an article I wrote for an online sports site following the Superbowl XL - Steelers vs. Seahawks. It basically applies to every Superbowl and instead of changing the names to keep updated with this year's games, who am I to pull any trickery? Ultimately it is more laziness than anything else however...Here is the original piece in antique form.

"Super Bowl Blues"
2/15/2006

The last remnants of hardened cheese and bean dip have been extracted from couch cushions and floorboards deposited there by drunken Superbowl XL guests.

The very last drop of beer has long been siphoned from the keg.

You’ve analyzed, re-created spliced, diced and argued every aspect of the big game over and over, from blown calls to commercials at the office water cooler with everyone from Frank in accounting to Ingrid the cleaning lady.

“Back and to the front. Back and to the front,” you’ve exclaimed to Ingrid time and time again, in a flurry of Kevin Costner, JFK-like arguments regarding the Darrell Jackson pass-interference call. '

There is no fighting the inevitable. The harsh reality has begun to set in.

Football is over.

Your addiction that has consumed you for the past five months each and every Sunday has vanished like a phantom in the night. You must quit cold turkey, and there is no football patch in sight.

To many wives and girlfriends, the end of the football season equals the return of their loved ones on Sundays. Calls like “Chad Johnson over the middle,” will now be drowned out and replaced by “Do these jeans make me look fat?” as your Sundays will now be filled with painful trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Mervyns and Express.

You find yourself wandering the streets with your lazy boy on rollers, and bowl of pretzels in hand, looking for any football you can find. You may have even found yourself stopping in front of teen-agers playing pick up games in the street, yelling feverishly at a youngster after he fumbles somewhere between the neighbor’s mailbox and a dead bird in the gutter.

Your capricious moods are affecting every one around you.

You have a problem.

There is no Major League Baseball, NBA Playoffs, or March Madness to catch your fall when you come spiraling down from your NFL high, jittery and feeling like a useless piece of jelly.

While the NBA and NHL all-star games may be a momentary fix over the next month - it is not the answer. If you think that you can simply coast until mid March, the start of the NCAA tournament, you might as well apply for a frequent buyers card at Bed Bath & Beyond right now, because you are not going to make it.

Before you break out in sordid hives due to withdrawals, I have conjured up just the right prescription for your ailment. These sporting events will lead you right up to Dickie V and friends, and from there, you’re golden.

These events are not embellished, for they need no embellishing. If you’re committed to the healing process, they should not be missed. (Unless of course Home Depot is running a sale on shower curtain rings).

Feb 11th & 12th : Westmininster Dog Show, New York City, New York - Taking place at Madison Square Garden, the Westminister Dog Show is the Superbowl of dog shows. These stunning canine athletes will send chills down your spine with their determination and spirit. If you’re not able to sneak away from your Valentine’s Day week to catch these astounding pups then you’re are truly missing pure sporting elegance. Airs on USA.

Feb 16th : Inazawa's Naked Festival, Inazawa City, Japan - Bare-bottomed men ages 23-43 crowd the streets of Inazawa City, in hopes of touching another naked man to ensure good luck for the upcoming year. A naked man is chosen before the event and then besieged by 9000 men in loincloths in attempts to rid themselves of bad luck, thus transferring it to the naked man. I’m all for traditions, but wouldn’t it just be easier just to pick up a lucky rabbit’s foot at your local 7-11? You may have to channel surf a bit before you find this one.

Sometime in February: Hog Calling Contest, Weatherford, Oklahoma– Hog calling, a true American pastime combines excellent hog communication skills along with a pure adoration for these revolting swine. You need to become one with the hog in order to succeed in the sport. "I do eat pork. But not if I know the hog,” said former champion Roxanne Ward in a 1996 interview with the Houston Chronicle. “I will go to the store to buy pork chops. But I don't eat my friends.” …Check your local listings or your local mental institution for date and time.

February 19th: Five Angry Gods and a Contest of Strength, County of Kyoto, Japan – This annual strongman competition combines steroids, bulging biceps and rice cakes. The cakes, weighing up to 150 kilograms for men and 90 kilograms for women are far from the Quaker rice cakes packed with bursting flavors most of us are accustomed to. Not being very knowledgeable with the metric system I couldn’t say for sure how heavy these cakes really are, but according to Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow,” that would mean some pretty serious cash.

Sometime in February: Camel Wrestling Festival, Seljuk, Turkey – This inhumane, testosterone releasing event pairing man versus camel gives the men as well as the camels a healthy outlet to alleviate stress, and release tension. The last man or camel that remains standing or doesn’t get flagged for eye gauging is deemed the winner. Get out your foam fingers ready for cheering and contact your satellite provider for dates and times.

March 5th : Carnival of the Deer Man, Castelnuovo del Volturno, Isernia County, Italy – This epic saga between a grown man dressed up in an deer outfit and a holy man acting as a saint is probably more than enough to make Bambi’s ancestors shutter in their thickets. The regular man morphed into an impervious, antlered brute, comes down from the hills to wreck havoc among herds of cattle until confronted by a saintly figure wearing a fairy-hat. The holy man succeeds where the cattle could not, by summoning a nearby hunter who blows softly into the antlered beast’s ear that in turn destroys the sins and evils of the past year. It makes perfect sense. Check your TV guide for times and channel, but if anyone on the show asks you to drink the kool-aid, please refrain.



By this point of the lackluster sports month, most of you will be having visions of bracket logy dancing in your heads, but before you completely slip back into the normal sports routine, there are two more events that you should start thinking about. It requires preparation.

July 4th: World Pillow Fighting Championships – Sonoma, Ca There is not much history or much skill needed for this daring battle. Opponents must first straddle a slippery pole suspended over a mud pit, then violently bash their opponent with their goose down pillow until their foe plummets to their muddy demise. Don’t get any impure thoughts just yet; you’ll need a subscription most likely to see the sorority chicks give it a go. Contact your cable provider now so you don’t miss the epic event.

July 7th : Wife Carrying Championships, Sonkajärvi, Finland – With early roots dating back to the early 1800’s when men actually did sneak into neighboring towns and carry fellow mates’ wives off into the night, this humorous yet competitive event, which grossed 500 million viewers last year, is entering its 14th year in Finland. Men must carry their wives a tumultuous 253.5 meters, over sand, grass, gravel and water hazards, stopping only to throw back the “wife carrying drink,” at special checkpoints. Before the barbarian in you tries to pull a fast and buy that six-teen year old, sixty-five pound exchange student from down the street a one-way ticket to Finland to claim your victory, you should know these two simple rules. (Provided by the official website of the games, http://www.sonkajarvi.fi/?deptid=15228)




1. “The wife to be carried may be your own, the neighbour’s or you may have found her farther afield; she must, however, be over 17 years of age. The minimum weight of the wife to be carried is 49 kilos.”

2. “If a contestant drops his wife that couple will be fined 15 seconds per drop.” (after a swift kick in the groin from your angry wife, a 15 second penalty won’t seem so bad).

If you follow this simple program I’ve created, the names Peyton, Madden, Holmgren and Roethlisberger, will soon only be a figment of your imagination.

On the other hand, you may wake up in a cold sweat after haunting images of antlered deer men, fighting camels and bare-bottomed men visit you in your dreams…Good luck, and I’ll see you on March 16th…

"Shenanigans Volume VIII"

As it usually goes...some random things I've been thinking about lately...hope you enjoy...

…IT doesn’t happen often, but once in a while I do run into people who have a kid. I know it’s hard to believe since not many children frequent dive bars and fantasy baseball drafts, but amazingly I do try to reach the surface of the real world for a breath once in a while. It is always the same thing when I ask their age. “Billy is 9 weeks, 44 weeks, 100 weeks, etc.” Would it kill them to just let me know their age, say Billy is 1, 2, or 50? I’m not a mathematician, nor do I carry around my abacus in my back pocket, so I would appreciate just hearing the age, nothing more, and nothing less, instead of tying my head in knots.

“Oh wow, Mikey is a beautiful child, so how old is he?”

“Mikey is 412 ½ weeks, yes he is lovely isn’t he?”

“Great so he’s like, uh lets see, 4 times 9, carry the one, subtract the 6, add 0, hold on I need a break, ok times the square root of pie, divide the 1, alright so he’s… uh 7?”

“Yup that’s right!”

Listen, I don’t go around telling people I’m 1,456 weeks old, so why should you? All I’m asking for is a fair chance here…

…LAST week while driving through San Francisco, lost, which often I find myself doing by the way, I unexpectedly happened upon the Castro – the homosexual area of the city for those who don’t keep up with their sexual orientation geography. This is a place free from most homeless, however the ones you see also seem to share the same orientation as the roof-covered area inhabitants. Immediately, I reacted and reached for my stereo, turning down the new Coldplay album that was blaring out of my speakers, just like a white guy driving through the heart of the ghetto turning down his rap music. In the ghetto this move is done in efforts to deflect attention from pugnacious gang members nearby, poised and ready to put their game of Craps game on hold, and make your trip to the ghetto your last. In this case, however, the terrifying gang member was in the form of a flaming transvestite dressed in butt less leather chaps poised and ready to take a run at my manhood as soon as the sounds of my far-from-manly Coldplay album entered his hearing vicinity. I think I’d rather take my chances with the gang member, and that is why I felt it was best to keep “Viva La Vida,” at it’s lowest decibel possible to remain inconspicuous and safe out of harms way. I’m not really sure what to do if I ever came across a transvestite gang member, but I suppose I’d just turn on some death metal or something, otherwise I’d really be in for it…

…DOES anyone know how seagulls make it up to Lake Tahoe, keeping in mind Lake Tahoe is 6,000 feet above sea level and the key part of their name is “sea”gull? It really is mind-boggling. Are these itinerant birds fighting wind, rain, sleet and snow to accomplish what the Donner party could not, leaving their life at sea behind? I’ve got to be honest I’m not even mad at these birds; I’m actually extremely impressed. Wouldn’t Lake Gulls be more appropriate though? These are the things I think about at night…

… IS there any reason that people are still wearing wristwatches? Have they not realized that they carry an apparatus that displays the time digitally for them, called a cell phone? I asked my buddy who wears a watch why he wears it and he said so he could tell the time. When I asked him what time it was he said he didn’t know because the hands stopped moving two years prior so he checked his cell phone… “So let me get this straight, the main function of the device is essentially rendered useless, but yet you still wear it,” I pestered him. “It’s a nice watch, ok leave me alone,” he responded, as he fiddled with the face of the watch and the cheap plastic covering popped off…

"A Breath of Un-Fresh Air"

On the way up to Lake Tahoe a couple months ago I passed by a sign that was dedicated to a noble man of the law. Everyone has seen these signs- you know the ones cities feel that naming a freeway after their local hero is the appropriate tribute to someone who has given their life to defending the innocent? For example, Pablo Escobar Memorial Expressway?

Gymnasium for a famous athlete-ok I get it.

A firehouse after a brave fireman-yeah makes sense.

Even a garbage dump after a dedicated garbage man I can justify, but a freeway?

What is next; Paul J. McGuilicutty Memorial outhouse, for a famous plumber?

These disgusting, trash-infested, stress-causing concrete monstrosities spread out across America have been the cause of middle fingers, god-faring individuals turning into road rage maniacs, accidental deaths, decapitations and hair pulling, steering wheel head banging, dashboard smashing traffic, but yet towns feel freeways are the appropriate way to honor these vigilantes?

At least the sign on the 80 freeway on the way to Tahoe finally had things figured out. Instead of naming the freeway after their idol of the law, they named a bridge after him. The sign read “Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen Memorial Bridge,”- next exit. I’m not going to pretend to know what sort of man “Fresh Air” Jansen was, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the guy who drove around a twenty year-old Volkswagen van, seven years removed from its last smog check thus frequently sending massive pollution into the atmosphere.

A babbling brook, birds chirping, and a newborn fawn feeble enough to barely stumble to get a drink of cool, clear water is what I was picturing in my mind for the location of “Fresh Air,” Jansen Bridge. It brought an amiable smile to my face and butterflies to my belly. This would be a place where animals, humans, and an inebriated David Hasselhoff could come and enjoy nature in a harmonious blend of peace. It wouldn’t matter if you were a black, white, purple, green or a pantieless Lindsey Lohan high on narcotics and whiskey. “Fresh Air” Bridge would bring everyone together to forget their troubles and to a state of tranquility.

I was coming closer to the exit, and the butterflies raced in my stomach like a four-year old with ADHD in a candy shop. My window was down and the cool autumn breeze softly blew my hair, sending me to a state of peaceful comfort. Off in the West, the hot sun was setting behind a mountain, creating a magical picturesque array of light pink, blue and orange causing the air on my arms to stand at attention and send a chill of happiness down my spine. It was serenity at its finest.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked…

And then I saw it.

There in front of me, in all its glory and beauty was Richard “Fresh Air,” Jansen Memorial Bridge.

There were no newborn fawns to share in the excitement.

There were no pine trees blowing every so softly in the autumn breeze, to parlay my chill of happiness.

There was no crisp breathe of nature to inhale.

Instead, I inhaled the fumes from a Volkswagen van ahead of me as traffic slowed to a stop - not to get a better look at the bridge, but to check out some redneck who had gotten out of his pickup truck to take a leak on the side of road.

There, about ten feet from the freeway, and placed strategically under massive power lines stood Richard “Fresh Air” Jansen memorial bridge, so if one were to stop and actually visit the bridge they could place on bets on what would kill them first – car exhaust, or radiation from the power lines.

If there were ever such thing as a street gang of power lines, this power line would have been the Tony Soprano of the power lines. This thing stood about what appeared to be 1,000 feet in the air with lines heading to it from every direction. If anyone were to stand directly on the bridge they would probably start growing an arm from their earlobe due to the massive radiation emanating from these lines.

The bridge itself was about ten feet by ten feet, erected about one foot above brown, rat infested marsh lands.

My tranquility quickly dissipating and gave way to disappointment.

Somewhere in the distance a dog urinated on a tree…

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what “Fresh Air” Jansen quite had in mind…

Shenanigans Volume VII

The Night Before New Year’s Edition…

Well, New Year’s Eve is upon us again, and just like probably no one else, I’ll be off to my first New Year’s Eve wedding of all things. Believe it or not, I am looking forward to the festivities, mostly because of the couple getting married and it should be a great time. At first it definitely seemed a bit odd having a wedding on New Year's Eve, but, since 2008 has been such a nightmare, I would be happy picking up goat droppings at the local petting zoo, at the strike of midnight, if it means the end of this horrendous year. My peers however? Not quite buying the rationale as the last three weeks it has been a constant barrage - “What are you doing for New Year’s? A wedding? What! Are you serious? On New Years? That’s really weird.” Those were my thoughts as well when I initially received the invite, but then I thought back to last year… After a far-from-stellar evening at a Lake Tahoe restaurant, magically transformed into a twenty-dollar cover cheesy nightclub, I spent the remainder of my inebriated evening in the back of my Tacoma truck in seven-degree weather, packed in snuggly with my roommate Tony awaiting a tram that never arrived. So… ultimately what am I holding onto right? Even more exciting was the last three months of battles I had with my Mother who exclaimed I embarrassed our family when I asked if I could bring a date to the event. (She too will be in attendance). Apparently this is heavily frowned upon in the wedding world, but me being an ex-fraternity member, lowly peon and a sorry excuse for a mature and classy existence, had no idea. “They already have the hall reserved, you can’t bring anyone,” was her rationale. I guess she figured I’d be inviting a 390-pound manatee-like, beast of a female who wouldn’t be able to fit through the door, thus requiring the hall to be expanded to meet my date’s square- footage requirements. Needless to say I’ll be at a wedding alone on New Year’s Eve this year but at least my Mom will be available to take Tony’s place should the tram decide not to show this year…Wow, this just went from bad to worse…

And now to the blog…

As usual…some puns, tally-hoo and other nonsensical gibberish that should put you to sleep faster than a box of Nodoz…

I’m pretty sure I have a symptom that is common among many ex-Fraternity members, or even your average college student. It’s commonly known as PFS (Post Fraternity Syndrome). After a college career of frequent exchanges, parties and gatherings that were always set up with some sort of theme in mind, I am forever scarred for any rendezvous in the outside world and even six years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as an 80’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally chose Lance Bass obviously). Every drinking juncture basically has to have some sort of theme or purpose, otherwise you are unable to enjoy the evening and end up becoming an inhospitable outcast pouting in the corner. If you too are noticing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you may also be suffering from PFS. I’d like to blissfully exclaim that there is a splendiferous elixir for this horrific condition, giving way to a gloriously jovial ending to this blog post, but alas, even with the greatest of scientists working around the clock, they have come up with nothing. Last weekend it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…

“What’s the occasion? New Years isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.

“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”

“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wear my disco outfit, the same one I wore back in ’02 to winter formal. You have an ice luge right?”

“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered.

“No reason…no problem, ok Steve, don’t panic, don’t panic, ok, got it - I’ll just wear my toga instead then, no worries, see you in twenty…”

And now to the streets of San Francisco… (Thought I’d throw a transition in these things, since now they feel like you’re trying to follow two teenage girls gossip about last Monday’s “The Hills,” episode, changing the subject faster than Paris Hilton coming out with new sex tapes)

...I drive by a bar every day on my way home from work called "Stud Bar." For some reason there is a giant gay flag on the roof to let people know it is a gay bar just in case the name of the bar (Stud Bar), and freshly painted purple exterior wasn't enough for all of us stupid straight guys out there to it figure out. Maybe a giant statue of a man in leather butt less chaps might be in order just in case the enormous flag and “Stud Bar” aren't enough for people to put two and two together...

...For any tourists visiting San Francisco, the trolley provides riveting excitement, a story to tell your Grandkids and the high percentage potential to lose one of your appendages. These slow moving vessels wind in, out, up, and down San Francisco streets as bewildered tourists hang on for dear life, with arms and legs flailing. For the local San Franciscan however, these insatiable travelers are no more enjoyable than your younger brother sticking his finger a centimeter from your arm while whining; "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you,” after you told him to stop touching you. These riders, unaware of their surroundings, hop on and off like they are getting on and off “It’s A Small World,” at Disneyland. The only difference is an amiable Donald Duck jubilantly directing you to the exit is replaced by a surly, inebriated mendicant in a mayonnaise and whiskey stained tank top hitting you up for loose change. While some of the same rules as a Disney Land ride may apply (please keep hands and feet inside at all times, or in this case- don’t allow the homeless chap to drop his pants at the same moment your trolley slowly passes by), they are rarely enforced, creating difficulty for drivers trying to pass a trolley which is moving at about 1 mph by the way, without decapitating, maiming or removing a leg of an oblivious rider. Once the passengers actually get off the trolley, (usually about fifty minutes from when they jumped on, but yet just three blocks away due to the Trolley's snail pace), they hurriedly exit onto the street. With no Donald Duck pointing the way, somehow unaware that they are actually on a busy city street and not exiting Peter Pan’s “Never Never Land,” they quickly turn from curious tourists to Grand Theft Auto IV pedestrians, forced to toss their cameras and tour books into the air and dart frantically to the closest sidewalk or jump into the closest beggar’s arms for safety.

And my last observation of the blog…

…I’m really not sure how much longer I can put up with people wearing these Jesus Sandals. I think everyone knows the sandals I’m talking about – we’ve evolved thousands of years with millions of shoe and sandal styles becoming available but yet it there is always some douche bag that feels a pair of leather sandals constructed with seventeen or more straps is the perfect way to compliment his far-from-attractive outfit of khaki shorts and untucked dress shirt? Where are we the Roman Coliseum during a lion vs. man battle or at the last supper with the disciples? Buy some newer looking sandals already! The good news is that these sandals have to have been recycled, reused and resold all for thousands of years, I’m thinking from the same cow, which is great for the cow animal rights activists out there…

Til Next Time… Happy New Years…I’ll be busy dancing with the Mother at the wedding while the rest of you hussies and lads are partying it up at some Vegas nightclub. Pour out a fifteen dollar splash of cranberry and vodka for me…

"Shenanigans Volume VI"

…Christmas is yet upon us once again. In past years I would look forward to basketballs, video games and Matchbox cars, but at some point that all changed. Now my Christmas list is made up of practical, and boring gift ideas, like spatulas, cuisinarts and most importantly boxer shorts. I don’t think I’ve bought a pair of boxers or socks for, well ever. Every year my Mom will ensure my socks and underwear collection gets replenished and if she doesn’t I’m essentially screwed, thus forced to wear the same pairs for another year. I’m not sure if I’m alone on this, since now that I think about it, my Mom buying my underwear is actually pretty disturbing…

…Why is it that I can play seven full court basketball games in the blazing hot sun and not be tired or crippled with aches and pains, but yet fifteen minutes shopping with a girlfriend and I’m ready to check myself into the closest convalescent home due to back pain, aching joints and major fatigue? I might break a decent sweat on the court, but at a mall after just several minutes I’m sweating like an antelope being chased by a cheetah and rashes start forming. I can literally go only ten minutes before fatigue sits in. At thirty minutes my body is a useless piece of jelly and I have no choice but to sit down and rest. I think it is built in men’s DNA to not be able to handle the strenuous act of shopping. In caveman times it was probably the same for men as they dreaded trudging through the forest with their woman stopping at every tree as the female browsed for the right bark for the inside of their cave…

…A few weeks ago I went to eat lobster at a local seafood eatery. There, at the restaurant’s entrance was a tank containing about twenty live lobsters, or as I like to call it - a death row tank housing the swimming dead. For these death row inmates however, there are no chances for appeals, no lobsters picketing outside their tank protesting their impending demise, or pardons from government officials. And unlike the walking dead, found on death row who receive either lethal injection, poisonous gas or death by electrocution, these unfortunate crustaceans receive their death sentence in the form of death by boiling thus creating a hysterical scream bellowing from the unsuspecting recipient upon entrance into the scalding water. I’m no animal rights activist or anything, but would it really ruin our lobster eating experience if we simply killed these lobsters, say five seconds before dipping them in scorching hot water causing an animal that previously makes absolutely no sounds to all of a sudden scream out in agonizing pain? Can’t we maybe slam a cuisinart on them, then throw them in the pot or something first to reduce their suffering? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to notice a difference in taste. I can’t recall a single time I’ve been out in a boat on the ocean and I heard a scream coming from the depths below only to hear my surly fishing buddy explain, “That son, is the sound of the lobster. If you listen closely you can hear their mating call - so beautiful you think you’re listening to Tony Bennett.” These are animals that make absolutely no sounds during their lifetime, then all of a sudden incur such horrific torture, that they grow a pair of vocal chords?

… It is always fun to get a haircut with a buddy because you always try and stick him with the overweight, smelly hairdresser or homosexual guy. Something very strange happened last week for me. I got stuck with a straight guy! I know what you’re thinking – much better than a gay guy right? The answer my friends, is no. I would actually prefer a gay guy than a straight guy. At least with the gay guy you know where he’s shooting from, but with a straight guy it’s like having fifteen minutes of accidentally seeing your straight friend naked in the locker room. Awkward to say the least. It is really awkward having a straight guy shampooing your hair then cutting your hair all the while trying to act cool and talk about how the Colts are going all the way this year. If you don’t believe me have your best straight buddy give you a neck massage for just five minutes then report back to me. Sure he’s not trying to get in your pants, but if he’s not trying to get in your pants why is he shampooing and cutting your hair? Straight guys can now handle getting hit on by gay guys but if there is one thing that is awkward is a gay guy pretending he’s straight and then hitting on you. You know what else is awkward? A straight guy shampooing your hair in case I didn’t mention that yet. If you’re gay pretending to be straight so you can stealthily unsuccessfully flirt with straight guys I’m pretty sure we are onto you. Talking about the last time you had your way with your girlfriend, talking one inch from my face while having one arm around me and one pressed on my left butt cheek does not convince me your straight…At first I was weirded out by gay guys hitting on me, but now I almost get offended when they don’t hit on me. What the hell, I think to myself, what’s wrong with me, why aren’t you hitting on me? I all of a sudden turn into a jealous schoolgirl. Oh yeah because I’m straight…

"You Have Nice Legs!" - A Tale of a Young Boy's Journey on S.F.'s Muni System

If you haven’t had the pleasure, or displeasure rather of taking a San Francisco Muni bus then you are truly missing out. The experience may parallel a trip from the courthouse after a guilty verdict to the local jailhouse, however a paltry entrance fee of $1.50 provides you enough entertainment to make a trip on Muni the best entertainment bargain in America.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the steel loony bin on wheels on Union street one fateful afternoon was the inscrutable stench of BO that seemed to be seeping through seats, metal and fabric creating a surround sound of odor. I think if I had been standing with a box of rotten eggs in a pile of cow manure I would have been able to breathe with more ease. I was one of only two people on the bus so I found it rather perplexing that a smell that would cause a rabid, outraged skunk to hold up the white flag and scamper to safety was still lingering. How bad does someone have to smell to have their stench emanate on a moving vehicle with open windows long after they’ve departed? Is there any sort of equation for the smelly madness? Say, for instance, if you don’t shower for three days, then your smell lingers for twenty minutes? Four days gets you thirty, and so on and so forth?

After a few stops a few more riders sauntered onto the bus with each character more eccentric than the next. I liked to think I was the most normal on the bus, but that was really only because I was the only one with at least thirty percent of my teeth.

Finally a rider got on with not only all of his teeth but he seemed to have an excessive amount of teeth. This guy had absolutely no upper lip and what appeared to be twice as many teeth as the standard human. His teeth had swallowed his upper lip somehow and it basically went from teeth directly to nose. Despite the man’s somewhat deformities I quickly realized it was a toss up between myself and him for most normal rider on the bus and again that was only because we had at least thirty percent of our teeth.

Just as I was planning my next move as lone supremacy on the bus the doors opened and gave way to what seemed like fifty Asian women, all over the age of ninety. I quickly gave up my seat to accommodate the Omaha beach-like surge of ladies, but not before I was lambasted up against the side of the handicap seat rendering my extremities useless for the impending take off. (My seat had been long overtaken like a swarm of ants overtaking a melting Sir Issac Lime Otter Popsicle on the street with not a single thank you from the cult of ladies). The bus took off and I went face first into the bus window as my hands finally were yanked free just not in time to cushion the blow. That was experience number one.

The second time I took Muni I was not only determined to keep my hands in a safe place, but I was actually excited. To most decent individuals the experience above would cause them to not only never take the bus again, but try to run every Muni bus off the road at every chance they got. Not me. I was excited to give it another go. Some might call it sick, others would call it…sick as well, but I thought it was hilarious.

This time the bus smelled a lot better than the first. Don’t take that the wrong way, it still smelled close to a couple of rotting yams left out in the sun, but anything was better than the BO from the first time. I took a seat near the front and instantly the pandemonium ensued. Down the row and across from me a young lad found a dirty battery on the bus floor. Instead of kicking it aside as any normal person would do he proceeded to pick it up, inspect it and then place it directly on his tongue and lick it. From there, apparently the chap felt it was a good score and passed it to his buddy next to him who proceeded to put it in his fanny pack for safe keeping. I knew from that moment this was going to be a monumental trip.

Just then the lady across from me struck up a conversation. Good…a normalton (normal person) I thought to myself, finally! After the normal pleasantries I let her know I was on my way to the Giants’ game and her response was that she doesn’t watch baseball because of the commercials. Here we go I thought, as my mental note taking record button was pressed for later recall. “That’s a new one,” I told her, trying to remain pleasant and not yell out exacerbated what are you talking about?!”

“I prefer watching the guys go play in the park,” she responded referring to the fifty-plus softball league in the marina who could barely hit the ball out of the infield. Lets see…professional baseball or a bunch of old geezers wearing knee braces who forgot that torn ACL comebacks are only for NFL running backs who are actually getting paid to play, and not for guys trying to relive their heroic little league days with dribblers back to the pitcher.

I tried desperately not to burst into insidious laughter being as this was one of the most ludicrous statements I had ever heard, but the lady was really nice and I’m not the type to rip on people to their face. (I choose to write a blog about it and post it all over the Internet instead and then not put my address anywhere on the site…it all checks out…)

“I prefer to shop,” she chimed in.

“Ah, now I see where this is going,” I responded thinking that the conversation was turning back to the side of normalcy.

“I don’t go downtown to shop though, because of the earthquakes,” she responded. (Keep in mind we were on a bus heading downtown).

“Of course,” I concluded. Downtown, earthquakes, 50-yr old softball player obsessions, it was all finally starting to come together – This lady was a nut job…

This time I offered my seat up to another older Asian women but she denied me. She was carrying three bags, a purse and a cane and she just turned away from me in disgust for some reason. I felt like the kid last picked for the fifth grade kickball team. Trust me, I’ve been rejected by plenty of girls and women in my day but when you get turned down by a ninety-year old Asian woman carrying about thirty pounds of groceries, it just downright hurts. Just as I was having my epiphany she motioned to her husband like a baseball manager calling to the bullpen for a pitching change and her groom did an Usain Bolt -sprint to claim my seat like a lion pouncing to claim his hunt in the wild. There was no thank you was sent in my direction. I felt like a street walker on the streets of Reno. I’m not a piece of seat giving meat, I thought to myself…I suddenly felt used and dirty…

The third time I took the bus ready for new adventures certain that they would again come my way and of course they did. I sat in my usual spot in the front where the action seemed to happen most. A woman, who was a city local, had struck up a conversation with a couple from Wisconsin as I struck up a conversation with three girls seating near me. These girls as well as the Wisconsin couple turned out to be the only normal people I’ve ever encountered on the bus and they were both from another state. (The girls ended up being from New York). The lady was giving the Wisconsin couple some ideas on San Francisco tourist spots when I noticed that the guy, not repulsive by any means was wearing the most hideous shorts that accentuated his absolutely pasty, un-athletic, horrid legs. They were also sparsely covered with hair. Good god, I thought to myself, that guy’s legs are absolutely grotesque. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t make it a habit of looking at the legs of over-the-hill tourists who are also male but these appendages stuck out like my Mom at a 50 Cent concert. These legs, with more crooks and twists than a mystery novel were some of the most disgusting things I’d ever seen and they made this perfectly respectable gentlemen look like a feeble hobbledehoy.

As these thoughts of disgust were emanating in my head, to my utter shock, I heard a “You have nice legs,” shoot out of the locals mouth in the direction of the Wisconsin man. (This was right in front of the man’s wife mind you). I literally almost spit out my coffee onto the floor as myself and the New York girls burst out into laughter. You would have thought the wife would have knocked some sense into that local who was hitting on her man, but quite possibly she was just in shock that those putrid legs were actually attractive to someone. She also probably assumed the woman was high on something they don’t have back in Wisconsin, so she figured it would be best just to let it slide in case the local was psychologically unstable and pugnacious.

On this trip I actually tried to give up my seat three times before anyone actually took it. First an old man crouched over like an NFL lineman getting ready for the snap wouldn’t even sit next to me in an open seat. Then I tried to give up my seat to an older woman who turned away – rejected again! This was really hitting my ego! Finally a third lady ignored me, but then motioned to her kids to take the seat. They did and then they proceeded to sit backwards on the seat and kick me in the knees repeatedly for the rest of the trip.

Once they got off I moved to the back of the bus to make a quick getaway when we hit my stop. To my chagrin at the next stop the bus driver started yelling “Back Door,” Back door!” I later learned it was because people sneak on for free through the back door, but as a straight guy living in San Francisco, hearing back door in any context is always a sign for alarm. There may have been no reason to panic at the moment, but like swimming in shark infested waters and a bloody squid is suddenly dropped in your area, you know trouble is on its way…

This fine looking specimen is not an escapee from a local zoo, former bearded lady in a traveling circus for the legally insane, or Britney Spears' new boyfriend as one might hypothesize, but rather is your average run of the mill Muni rider. This picture was taken shortly after the inebriated chap told my friend Elise she had a "luscious booty." Before any thank yous or pleasantries that you would normally exchange after a plastered and grotesque homeless guy who just made sexual comments about your rear could take place, the bus doors abruptly opened and the drunkard went stumbling out the open doors and onto the sidewalk outside, all the while speaking in a tongue formally known as drunken gibberish.

Unfortunately he could not be reached for comment following the incident, but can be sighted wherever luscious bootys are found.

Comment from Elise Jenkins...

I have to say, Steve, I'm delighted that you posted this blog. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only person being entertained, disgusted, and insulted by the odd and eccentric population of this great city. I have begun to refer to these experiences as my "San Francisco Bum/Muni Follies."

For the women out there reading this comment, I have to add a detail or two to the event corresponding to the picture. I was one of those people trying to get on the bus in the "Back Door! Back Door!" because the bus driver had stopped letting people on in the front - the bus was THAT crowded. Not only did I barely squeeze in past the fellow in the picture, my rear end - in all of its post-workout supa-tight stretch pants glory - was right in his line of sight.

This is when he began to make the scene. "My GOD that is a luscious booty!! Can I touch it? Oh pleeeease baby let me touch it. You know you want me to just grab it, jiggle it. I'd love you baby girl I'd LOOOOVE you!" At this point I'm the center of attention of a bus FULL of the 6:30pm Monday crowd. You know the one I'm referring to. It consists of the good looking suit-and-tie financial district metro-men and the Coach bag carrying, pantsuit wearing marketing girls, all of whom are laughing hysterically at the spectacle. Mind you, I'm the center of attention in a sweat soaked wife beater, my tightest, most unforgiving pair of running pants, no makeup, and dirty hair matted to my forehead. Of course this shit never happens when I'm wearing a sexy pencil skirt, having a great hair day, and my lips are freshly glossed. My only saving grace was when he fell, literally fell, out of the bus at the next stop. Elise 1, Bum 1. It's a draw.

Oddly enough, there were no posts the next day on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" for "dirty girl with luscious booty on the 38." hmm What can you do.

This, of course, all occurs the day after another bum incident. I was at the Safeway on Webster on Sunday night minding my own business, purchasing a delectable 1/2 lb of freshly sliced honey turkey at the deli counter when this homeless person approaches me and asks me for change. My initial reaction was one of bewilderment - how did a bum get into this fine establishment?! My second reaction was the same as my response to his request- "um, no." I went back to waiting on my deli turkey and typing away on my blackberry, thinking nothing more of the interaction.

Instead of saying "thank you" or grunting the typical bum-chatter "hoogly moogly" as they scuttle away to find more generous people to harass, he looks me dead in the eye and says "Why not? You got that nice teley-phone, and you got that meat. Why ain't you gots some change fo' me. Sure you got fiddy cents o sumptin."

Really? Ok. I guess he's allowed to express his opinion. It's a free country and all. So I decided I'd be best off to just ignore him. I had learned my lesson about provoking ghetto people the hard way after Saturday night's events, but that's another story. So I'm thinking "You can do it, Elise! Be the better person!"

It turns out the bum didn't take kindly to being ignored. So he proceeded to yell, yes - yell, the following: "HEY LADY! I'MA TALKIN AT CHOO!! GIMME SOME GODDAMN MONEY!!" Really?! Is this really happening to me? I'm looking around wondering why no one else was being harassed by this guy, and no one would look me in the eye. I was alone. Alone in a sea of delicious delicatessen meats and cheeses - but a storm was a-brewin and there was no turning back now. So I looked him right in the eye and told him to fuck off.

Oops. So that was definitely not the right thing to do. I looked around me - searching desperately for a lifeline. Anything! Anyone! Alas, nothing. Needless to say, this did not sit well with Sir Bum either. He looks back at me and says, and I quote, "No! No, nuh uh. F YOU white lady! F you! And you got a flat ass! Yeah dats right. You heard me b*tch. Flat. Ass."

My response? "I most certainly do NOT have a flat ass. And if I do, it's just because of these jeans. So f you, f your mom, and get the hell out of my way before I call security."

Ding ding! And we have a winner. Elise 2 - Bum 1. I yelled security, he called uncle. B*tch.

Now my only question is about my ass - is it flat or is it luscious? I guess I'll always have to wonder...