"Shenanigans Volume III"

As usual random tidbits of useless information….

…It happens every single time I’m out at a bar, restaurant, “The Hills Season 3 Premier,” or wherever there is a bathroom and a drunk idiot nearby. Why is it that every time I’m standing in a bathroom line some doofas has to ask me if I’m standing in the line for the bathroom? Here are some responses you can tell the ignoramus next time you are asked this ridiculous question as you are lined up directly outside the door with the large bathroom logo on it.

- “No I’m just standing here so I can watchh the chick I came with get hit on in her bathroom line while I stand here with seven guys I’ve never met, each of us enjoying the lovely stench emanating from that room with a bathroom logo on the door”

- “Wow thanks for asking. Not at all, actuually that is Weird Al Yankovic’s dressing room and all of us are waiting for him to come out so we can get our chests signed”

- “Great question! Actually Penelope Cruz iis doing a strip show inside and all of us are just trying to get a look. You should totally disregard those giant letters that spell, what is it? Oh yeah ‘Gentlemen’ ”

- “No, were standing in line to get into thhe Red Sox-Yankees game, where are your seats?”

- “This is the line, but I’m not in it. I just enjoy smelling the horrendous odor. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I used to swim in a pool of raw sewage and horse manure.”

- “Common mistake! I know the big sign thatt states ‘Men’s Restroom’ can really throw you off. This is actually the line to get a rectal exam. Myself and the seven other derelicts in line often enjoy doing one whenever we enter a bar, since good proctologists are hard to find these days.”

- “Really great guess, actually they are paassing out free lobster to everyone coincidentally in the same room that has a door with a large man logo on the outside and says ‘Bathroom’.”

- “Really glad you asked, when the owners oof the bar built this room they were afraid the large ‘Gents’ writing with the picture of a toilet would confuse people. Actually this is the line for a sex change operation, what are you going in for?”

- “Close, but no we’re all standing in linee to get N’Sync tickets. They disguise the ticket offices as bathrooms per a request from Lance Bass.

…Have we gotten to the point with the invention of Evite invitations that we can’t even invite someone over anymore without one? No longer can you just invite some people over to watch the game, but now you need to send them an Evite. I tried to invite my friend Karen over to watch “The Hills,” episode (oops did I say that out loud) and she wanted me to send her an Evite. I was like actually I’m just inviting you over the phone, so see you Monday? Nope still need an Evite, sorry. What’s next, you meet a girl at a bar, then have to scramble home to conjure up a quick Evite for an invite over to your place?

"That's My Wife"

I’d like first off start this blog to let everyone know that I love homosexuals. Wait, I mean I approve-ok I’m not gay – “not that there’s anything wrong with it,” to quote my far-from-admirable hero George Constanza.

While I don’t engage in the same activity, I have nothing but respect for what homosexuals go through; the discrimination, harassment, and constant jokes they constantly endure. (Some even from my website unfortunately). In my defense my jokes are merely an attempt to show what it is like as a straight guy to live in San Francisco and mean no harm, nor any disdain.

In any case, now that is out of the closet, I would now like to call mercy to every homosexual male out there. Us straight guys know we are no match should they choose to actually hit on a girl. Gay guys possess three talents that no straight guy on the planet has managed to master, and many have been ridiculed, ostracized, or outright banished for even suggesting trying such a feat. Gay guys can actually listen and understand everything a girl is saying, they have great fashion taste and best of all, (or worst of all for us straights); they can dance. I’m not talking about the Charleston, Macarena, or the Drunken Elaine that Jim in accounting does every year at the company Christmas party. These supposed uninterested lady stealers are no more than wolves dressed in Justin Timberlake clothing, primed and ready to summon our woman to the dance floor as soon as the latest Usher, Chris Brown or Beyonce song comes blaring through the speakers.

I’m not asking for a one-way green light to certain success – I’m just asking for a fair chance. Please? Right now it feels like we are a bowlegged, pimply cub scout with freckles, and headgear going up against Brad Pitt.

At this point, we get it. You win. Were throwing in the towel. We can’t compete. We are losers.

If you want me to sacrifice for the rest of the uncoordinated non-dancing straight guys out there by growing out a four-day shadow, dawning a pair of pink shorts and aviators like George Michael in his “Wake Me Up,” Eighties video and take my new fashion game out on the town, to change your ways I will. I’ve got spare time and some really white unattractive legs. In the meantime for the sake of all straight guys out there, will you please stay off the dance floor and at least give us a fighting chance?

With that said…

Obviously judging by my seven paragraph statements above I know where I may have success at a bar and where I might not. Unfortunately the list of not is currently winning forty to one over the places of success. At the table, telling jokes, working the crowd, is where I feel most comfortable. The dance floor is not quite where I feel I’m best, and if the night ever moves to that level I’m essentially a fish out of water, squirming, flipping upside down and trying to breathe out of my gills (not an analogy, those are actually my uncoordinated dance moves).

Things could be going great; girls are falling out of their seats laughing, and then right on cue I hear those frightful words, “I love this song!” Like a deer caught in the headlights, my arm is yanked and I’m tossed up onto the stage like a fish flung between two butchers at a Seattle fish market. Why do girls put us through this nightmare and automatically assume that since we tell a few jokes and make them laugh we can hold our own on the dance floor? My un-rhythmic undulating movements on the dance floor making me look like a bobble head doll shaken by a roguish two-year old hopped up on Red Vines don’t do much to fend off the two dozen drooling guys, each one ready to pounce on my chick like lions hiding in the tall grass ready to yank a freshly killed antelope from my cat-like grasps. To recreate this feeling, if you’re not familiar, just go out to your local harbor and sit on a buoy of rotting tuna carcasses in shark-infested water. You may not see any sharks lurking right away but you know darn well they will be on their way as soon as they glance up from their Budweiser.

After a few uncoordinated gyrations it becomes painstakingly obvious my perfectly played night is headed for disaster. It is sort of like a UFC fighter who fights well standing up, but once the fight goes to the floor, he can’t grapple. In my case I can’t dance. Sometimes I can buy some time by making fun of some idiot crip walking on the dance floor. Every club, bar or even bar mitzvah has one of those morons who thinks its cool to crip walk on the dance floor so if you do some funny impressions of him without getting jumped, maimed, or stabbed by the cripwalker and his cronies you can often buy yourself some time and hope the girl tires herself out.

Then of course there is the NGGTCD (Non-gay guy that can dance) that you have to look out for. A girl will instantly forget that you just made her laugh for two hours if some straight Usher look-alike comes over and can actually dance. At this point your night is seconds from being over and you need to make a miraculous recovery or watch your girl go “Nice & Slow,” with Usher for the rest of your lonely evening. So what do you do next, one might ask?

It is only when there are no other options, you’ve pulled your goalie and the clock is running out that you can attempt to throw up one last Hail Mary pass. Go up to the marauder and let him know that he is dancing with your wife. I know sounds distasteful, and absolutely odd, which by the way it is, but this is a guaranteed successful plan of attack. Even a drunk sleezeball like David Hasselhoff will respect that he is dancing with your old lady and back off. I think it’s the fact that guys respect that you’ve probably put up with a bunch of her crap and the least they can do is not feel your bride up right in front of you, but instead wait until you’ve headed to the bathroom, pulled a hammy or just left the club and left her to the vultures before they perform their act of rapine. The best part is you don’t have to have any answers prepared. No guy is going to ask you when your anniversary is, where you spent your honeymoon or even what the girl’s name is. They are going to hightail it off that dance floor faster Rosie O’Donnell heading for at an all you can eat buffet.

Don’t worry about feeling bad about this. Girls use the husband, fiancé, or boyfriend line all the time to avoid obnoxious guys, so there is no reason we can’t use the same idealogy and make guys they are interested in disappear. A few weeks ago I was at a bar roaming to the back like cattle in a box car trying to catch some fresh air when the girl ahead of me started to attempt to deflect some catcalls from some lunatics off to the side. Before I even knew what was going on she pointed back to me and mentioned that I was her fiancé. Fiance? Boyfriend ok, but fiancé? What was I supposed to do with this one, I thought. Without thinking I just ran with it. I spouted off about six fake facts about the girl, when the wedding was, who was attending, where it would be, etc. I couldn’t believe what I was saying. And the worst part was I think I did it because I thought the guy was a sleezeball and thought he was wrong for harassing the young lassie. How quickly you jump sides when you are the one called to put out the fire not the one starting it. Afterwards the guy profusely apologized and later even bought me a shot to earn my forgiveness. Any honest person would have come clean at that point, but of course I didn’t. I told him it would take two shots to make up for his flippant behavior.

"The Unexceptional Athlete"

Last week while finishing off a pint down at a local bar the Beijing Olympic games came on the TV. An inebriated chap next to me slammed down his beer abruptly, while simultaneously throwing a few kernels of popcorn in the direction of the screen to signify his excitement. He looked like a baboon at the zoo who was seeing a naked female baboon for the first time.

“What amazing athletes they are yeah,” the lush exclaimed, motioning in my direction.

I glanced back up at the TV just in time to see a pimply-faced, one-hundred pound, gangly Kyrgyzstanian archer pull back a crossbow, getting ready to send his arrow spiraling into the Beijing sky.

“Yeah,” was all I could muster to shoot back at the intoxicated primate, as I noticed one of his tossed popcorn kernels had made my pint of Sierra Nevada its final resting place.

The archer had released his arrow and at no point during the entire process did this out-of-shape archer (yes this is a word, I looked it up) break a sweat or seem to put duress on a single muscle in his body. I truly believe the guy could have been high on LSD and obtained the same score.

Amazing athlete or just one step removed from a game of darts at a local dive bar? No offense to the archer community out there, but I’m pretty sure I can steal a few bar darts, find a sturdy rubber band and shoot to my heart’s content with just about as much success. And what is the off-season training regiment that these archers are participating in? I’m pretty sure they aren’t doing two-a-days and running up flights of stairs to gain that competitive edge. And are there famous archers that these “athletes” aspire to live up to?

And is it me or is every event in the Olympics always resulting in a new world record? Michael Phelps is on pace to break eight world records this Olympics. You’re actually telling me that throughout the entire history of the Olympics there hasn’t been a single guy better than Michael Phelps in every single event, or is the official guy in charge of the stopwatch just losing a step each Olympiad?

Lets take archery for example, since were on the subject…

“Next we have Svetlana Kohsivich from Russia…She pulls back the bow, wow, look at that amazing muscular structure – Svetlana has been training 19 hour days for competition…and she shoots – Bulls eye – new world record, amazing!”

“Now Chips Magee stands up, a 7-11 store clerk from North Dakota. Lets see… reading his profile, Chip’s training regiment consisted of twelve PBR’s a day and a heavy dose of illegal narcotics… lets see how he does - Chips reaches back, grabs a Mickey’s 40, pounds it, shoots the arrow-bulls eye! New world record…! What an exceptional athlete he is...”

Chips relaxing after an exhilarating archery match

Of course…

So the question is, what really determines a sport? I feel that any sport I can do while intoxicated and achieve the exact same success rate if I was sober should not be a sport. This eliminates about half of the summer and winter sports.

We’ve already covered Archery, but there are additional sports that really don’t have a place. Badminton? Canoeing? Kayaking? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved a game of badminton and often have enjoyed a day of leisure drinking and paddling a kayak, but I just can’t support them as Olympic sports. Maybe if there was just one kayaking event, I would be ok with that, but is it necessary to have both flat-water kayaking and slalom kayaking as events? Are these really spectator sports anyway? I apologize if I’m upsetting any slalom kayaking enthusiasts, but really? Other than a few lost hikers and a couple of moose having a leisurely drink at the river’s edge, who is watching these events? Can’t we just send a few archers in kayaks out on the open water with a few tall cans and see who can stay upright on their kayak the longest without accidentally submerging themselves in the water or taking an arrow in the jugular? That would take care of three unnecessary sports right there.

Badminton is a sport that I thought previously only existed during my middle school P.E. classes. Before these Olympic games, I thought finding people that play badminton on a competitive level would be about as hard as convincing my Mom to crowd surf at an Alice in Chains concert, but I guess you live and learn. Are these badminton players training year round at underground badminton communities, surfacing only to compete for Olympic glory? I can’t recall a single time I met someone and asked him or her what they do and they respond with, “I play badminton for a living.” Some may find badminton exciting, whereas I on the other hand find it rather uninspiring. However, I do find it comical watching grown men dressed up in full pajama looking outfits like the ones four-year old kids wear with the attached slippers stabbing each other with swords. Since fencing rules make absolute no sense, we could eliminate both badminton and fencing in one fell swoop and introduce Fencemitton to the world. This game of skill would combine the riveting excitement of badminton with the ferocious stabbing of fencing. Rules would be simple: a player hits the shuttlecock over the fence and the partner on his team will run to the other side and can maim, stab, bite, or eye gauge the opponent on the other end until the shuttlecock is returned to the other side. The team with the most points, or the most flesh wounds would be deemed the winner. You could also combine this with Taekwando. (You haven’t really watched a sport until you’ve seen someone jump kicked while trying to return a shuttlecock).

Now were getting somewhere!

I finally had the pleasure of watching a real water polo game for the first time and to my surprise, I’ve actually been playing water polo for years! The rules are fairly simple; you throw a ball around the pool while attacking, strangling, groin kicking, or drowning your opponent. Ultimately you’ll have to throw the ball into the net, but that is not exactly an arduous task; the goalie covers about 10% of the actual goal and since he or she is treading water, they have the same vertical jump as a cow on rollerblades. (The team with the most goals or players remaining that still have full use of their family jewels are deemed the winners). How does this differ from you and your buddies drinking a few cold ones, jumping in the pool and attacking each other for an hour and a half while attempting to get the ball between your Mom’s petunia’s and your dog Scrap’s water bowl?

I think if we all band together to support the change in Olympic sports we can bring the Olympics back to the way they were when the Olympic forefathers started them in Greece. Of course, back then they did compete naked and while that may not work for the new archery games, since I’ve heard taking an arrow in the groin can be slightly painful, I think we’ll be on the right track…

Some future sports to consider?

Ro sham bo
Pillow fighting
Mercy
Pin the Tail on The Donkey
Chutes & Ladders
Duck Duck Goose

"My Fantasy Football Addiction"

“Its not even real life, it’s a fantasy,” my girlfriend used to argue.

“Not to me it’s not,” I would shoot back, ignoring warning signs triggered by my insatiable urge to check statistics each waking moment. I would even sleep walk to check a box score if necessary in case I accidentally induced myself into a football watching, wings and seven-layer-dip-coma on the couch.

This past fantasy football off-season as I was mounting (or sticking rather), my 2007 award in the place of my now ex-girlfriend’s picture I took a moment to reflect and look back. “Was it all worth it?” I thought as I admired my 9th place ribbon barely affixed to the mantle, secured by just a lone piece of scotch tape. Like a rock climber suspended in mid air with a carabineer attached to his crotch, my ribbon was holding on for dear life. My sacred prize looked like a creation done by a kindergartner who ate too much glue, but that didn’t stop an amiable smile from appearing on my face. I had developed a strong connection with my fantasy players during the past season – a strong connection with their statistics that is. Just as I started to think that maybe my fantasy statistical crushes had started going a bit too far, a gust of wind dislodged my ribbon sending it spiraling out the window and into the awaiting grasps of a strategically positioned ribbon-stealing pigeon perched in a nearby tree. While I can’t lay direct blame to the pigeon for rapaciously burglarizing me of my prized ribbon, he didn’t exactly move out of the way and let it fall peacefully to its demise in the trash heap awaiting below either.

My ribbon is now probably the finishing piece on a nest somewhere to be admired only by roaming gangs of jealous pigeon thieves.

In a league comprised of just ten teams, a ninth place finish is nothing to get excited about anyway so I suppose that blasted pigeon did me a favor. I probably should have thrown in the towel at that very moment, but my addiction had been building for years…

Two seasons ago after trying to reason with my family that Saturday was a much better day for a ceremony, I found myself at my Great Uncle’s funeral on a Sunday in early December. Locked in a tight race for the fourth and final playoff spot in my fantasy league I tried to sit calmly in my church pew as the ceremony commenced.

Shortly after kickoff, or as the Priest liked to call it – “Friends, today we gather to celebrate the life of…” the anxiety started to kick in. I felt a drop of sweat trickle down my forehead, travel past my nose, and then free fall onto the pew making a sound loud enough for a menacing glance from my Mother to shoot in my direction. Unfortunately that drop was just the beginning and soon I felt like San Francisco quarterbackAlex Smith trying to elude an ominous pass rush with the third string center as his only line of defense. To my chagrin, I didn’t have the luxury of even an eighth string center, but I did have my eight-year-old cousin Milo. Unfortunately, he was more interested in picking his nose and depositing it in the church hymn book than to be concerned with my desperate perspiration.

Would Roethlisberger go to the air against Cincinnati or stick to the running game? Was Brian Westbrook, a game-time decision, even in the game? I was miles from a computer or active Internet connection and even if I were to locate one, a brigade of defensive lineman in the form of my immediate family members would certainly stand my path of any possible first down; or escape rather.

I was screwed.

Just then the amazing happened. I started breaking out in a rash and the sweating became uncontrollable. My Mom’s menacing gaze became enraged and she motioned to the door for me to excuse myself. Seizing what I thought was my only chance, I climbed backwards over the pew crashing down on the floor behind me with one leg still caught on the back of the pew above. During the post game interviews, or reception rather, some said the ceremony stopped for a whole minute as people exchanged perplexed glances, but I wasn’t around to check it out. I was already half way to the reception hall in a Reggie Bush-like sprint searching desperately for any portable device I could find. Ten yards from the door of the hall, a cook held a Palm Treo in his hands. He never saw me coming from the weak side and didn’t have time to defend himself as I latched onto his arm and begged him to see the Philadelphia-New York box score. He nervously agreed and brought up the game. My rash began to recede and my sweating slowed as I felt the warm feeling of my addiction taking over once again. With the box score up and Philadelphia inside the ten I waited anxiously for Westbrook, (represented on the game cast as a blinking green football) to get the call. I watched the blinking football with the focus and determination of a cat stalking a mouse that was doused with catnip.

‘Hand off to Westbrook,’ was the last text I remember seeing before I blacked out.

‘Touchdown New York,’ apparently came next, without any explanation of what had happened. There was no warm touch from a friend telling me to sit down and warn me before the news broke. There was no one assuring me everything would be ok. There was no announcer warning me of gruesome graphics and to look away if I had any Eagle players on my fantasy team. There was just ‘Touchdown New York.’ That was it. Was it a fumble returned for a touchdown? Did a trick play go awry? Did Westbrook get confused and run the wrong way? Did a raging, drunken David Hasselhoff stumble into the press box causing statisticians to make an error? What in God’s name happened? Damn these online game casts…don’t they know people’s each awaiting gasp of life is hinging on these text updates?

When I came to, the cook mentioned something about me trying to strangle him to get more information from the Treo, and me telling him to call someone named Berman and he’d know what had happened, but everything is still kind of hazy…

“So let me get this straight, you’re not actually watching the game, you’re watching stats calculate?” my ex would inquire, mystified. “How often do you need to check that thing?” In my head I was thinking every minute, every second, and every moment of my existence! “A few times a day,” I would answer sheepishly, assuring her that it was just to make sure my stats were calculating correctly. In actuality the stat programs are probably created by MIT software geniuses and rarely miss anything. (This also didn’t explain why I was checking the stats at 11am on a Wednesday during a tour of the wine country when most games are played only on Sundays).

Luckily I had heard that there was help out there so I went online to research a good therapist. Instead I ended up re-ordering my projected 2009 running backs for my upcoming draft and ultimately concluded that there is no cure. I am tied for life to my addiction and I now have set my sights on at least a sixth-place ribbon this upcoming season and wonder if it’s worth risking any more relationships. Ultimately I figure girlfriends come and go, but Fantasy Football ribbons last a lifetime. Well, they last at least until the cheap clothe wears out, a pigeon steals it, or your dog chews it up which happens more often than you would think...

For the record no Great Uncles, catnip covered mice, or cooks holding Treo’s were hurt during the writing of this blog, nor were any girlfriends lost. If you actually believed this story was true I appreciate your credulous attitude…

"Housekeeping - You Want Towels"

Given the pink slip about two weeks ago, I have been left to survive on my salary from stevemcdevitt.com alone, which according to my last calculations was a cool negative twelve dollars per month. Even with the help of unemployment pay the harsh reality has already set it – I can no longer go out every night of the week and blow my money at top notch drinking huts formally known as bars. It is a complete and utter disappointment. I don’t support anyone (other than myself) abusing our government’s unemployment system, however I think I speak for everyone down at the unemployment office when I say they would be happy to know that I’ve now resorted to spending their money only during the hours of 4 to 7pm, Monday thru Friday at local happy hours. I feel they would be rather jovial to hear this. It has been a tough adjustment and several local bars have recently contemplated shutting their doors due to an unexplained recent downturn in business.

At the point of dismissal from my lucrative software job, I figured that job opportunities would be rolling in as I casually took some time off to frequent my favorite golf courses, watch Seinfeld reruns and wake up drooling from afternoon naps. Once my resume was posted however, instead my e-mail inbox was invaded by pyramid schemes, porn site advertisements, Backstreet Boys concert updates and male sex enhancement spam. (Ok…so three of the four I got before the resume was posted…)

The first day I walked out of my place to grab a coffee and some breakfast when I was confronted by a solicitor. Usually I pass by these eccentric characters in a huge rush to get to the fake place or lie that I’ve told them, but today was different. I was unemployed and I had all the time in the world for Green Peace, Jerry’s kids, or whatever other crazy cause some whacko was peddling in San Francisco. The last time I stopped for one of those things, some lunatic was trying to get a waste facility renamed as George W. Bush sewage facility. (This is what people will picket for hours for in San Francisco). This girl, who wasn’t a day over seventeen, was very nice and was concerned about pollution in the Bay affecting the sea lions and I was all ears. Then it came – “would you like to join our mailing list for $50?” I knew it was coming and for once I had the perfect alibi and it wasn’t even a lie. “I’d love to but I was just laid off, so I can’t help you out,” I responded sheepishly, expecting us to then part ways. “Oh I’m sorry, I can probably get you a job if you want, this gig isn’t too bad, I can call my…” I didn’t even hear the end as I stepped into the street narrowly avoiding a swerving taxi. It hit me like a ton of bricks and all I could think of was myself with my arms wrapped lovingly around some amiable sea lion…great software job to slanging sea lion preservation…this was going to be harder than I thought…

Just when I was starting to get discouraged and was one Cialis e-mail advertisement away from becoming a mendicant, begging for leftover Jumbo Jacks on the street, THE e-mail came through. I had just finished slopping up the last few gulps of my 29 cent Beef Top Ramen, when it hit.

“Starbucks Barista Opening!” $8-$10 per hour.

First and foremost I have let it be known that a Starbucks barista is probably the hardest job in the world. How they memorize every possible combination of drinks and make these concoctions at the same time out of their minds on free caffeine is totally beyond me. I could probably perform brain surgery on a cricket with more of a success rate than whip up a double half-calf-decaf-nocaf-extracaf with soy, no cream, with room, extra cream like the baristas do. It is like another language when you walk into a Starbucks. Long story short…my job search continued, but it was encouraging to see that a college education and five years of professional experience made me eligible for the same job as a six-teen year old with lemonade stand and lawn mowing experience.

Then it got worse. I started receiving janitorial jobs, a pet store clerk, and a most recently a shoe shiner gig, not to mention twenty e-mails per day from different Farmer’s Insurance reps. If I didn’t know any better I could swear that Farmer’s Insurance is actually some sort of cult sending out kool-aid-like virus e-mails, pre-programmed to release a deadly insurance selling bacteria turning you into a cold-calling insurance salesman the instant you click the mouse.

Even with all these discouraging job offers I kept a positive outlook, which was mostly aided by the happy hours. The final straw however came just the other day. What started out as the promise of a new day quickly ended when my G-mail alerted me of an incoming e-mail.

The title read “Be my housekeeper.”

Starbuck’s jobs, cleaning up rat poop at a pet store, and selling oranges down by the off-ramp of the expressway are not glamorous jobs, but at least I need two forms of identification to get hired. I first tried not to stereotype, but let’s not beat around the whisk broom – most housekeepers are woman and illegal aliens, two identifiers I was not willing to become to obtain work. (I would be willing to do one, but that is my final offer).

“Housekeeping…you want towels…?”

I could just see myself now…

Unfortunately my happy hour money was running low and I was getting just desperate enough to housekeep my way back to the top. I would have resorted to picking up trash on the side of the road, had a pugnacious group of surly thugs in orange jump suits not ran me off of the 280 freeway. That coupled with the fact that homeless guys had now started offering me change on the streets when I walked by them, instead of asking me so I read on...

A thirty-six year old Swiss man somehow found my resume as a dead on match for someone to stay in his house free of charge while he runs his jewelry ring through me at the house. Totally normal, I thought to myself while popping a Lemonhead into my mouth I had unearthed from underneath the deep confines of my truck seat during a recent search for loose change.

According to the Swiss chap’s posting, all I would have to do is maintain the house and sell jewelry to his U.S. clients when he is not in town. While he is in town I would still be able to stay at the house for free (most likely as long as I dress up in a sailor outfit and tight leather chaps). Makes perfect sense…

I am writing this blog jobless and from the porch of a friendly gang member named Blockhead Joe in Oakland. After hearing my tales of non-grandeur he was nice enough to shoplift me a 40 of Old English, once I explained how I had now out-priced myself of happy hour pricing once the housekeeping gig went down in flames…I have to sign off for now, since Blockhead, or just Block J, as his homies address him, has just informed me he needs the porch to sell some rock or something, but tomorrow is a new day. If I’m lucky I’ll receive a job offer for cleaning bird poop off of the pier at Fisherman’s Wharf, an invitation to participate in a case study involving anthrax injected anally or a promising lead for a job as assistant manure cleaner at a local petting zoo. I know these are lofty expectations, but a kid can dream can’t he?

"Shenanigans Volume II"

As usual I have several comings and goings that have absolutely no connection and no real relevance to life…

…I’ve always wondered where all these stray cats come from. I realize some are left for dead, abandoned or just go missing in action, but with all the cats out there I’ve got to think that some choose a life on the streets otherwise people wouldn’t threaten to maim you whenever you go to their house and leave the door open giving Fluffy the chance at a life-changing, split-second bolt towards freedom. These are the people that are keeping these hippie, free-lovin’ felines hostage in a hazy and stoned, cat-nipped-out plastic litter box of emotion. Sick of their caged life in suburbia hell these itinerant cats take their nine lives to the street looking for a local alley cat gang to latch on with in search of a fresh start and new adventures. Or perhaps it could be an insatiable catnip addiction with no outlets to turn for help that send these cats lurking in the darkness of the alleys in search of their addictive desire. I know there have to be some that make this choice; otherwise we wouldn’t see these signs up all over town looking for Scruffy, Scraps and Sammie once they’ve taken off for the door like Rosie O’Donnell at a meatball buffet. When you see these alley cats they are in bad shape; missing legs, fur, whiskers, and hairballs coming out of places I’d rather not speak of in this blog. How bad does the life at home in a warm house have to be to make these cats turn to a life of poverty stricken by the guilt of what was left behind? (I guess I can’t blame them – if I had to defecate in the same place I just did three days prior and it is still there, I’d probably start snorting catnip as well). My advice? Check with the local alley cat gang over on the south side but be careful. If that gang is running the cat nip trade out on the other side of the tracks you better watch your back…You know what they say - catnip overdose killed the cat…or was it curiosity? I trust you’ll choose the most likely answer…

Chances are this feline, high out of his mind on "c-nip" as they call it in the alleys, was later seen at a public litter box smuggling sixty kilos of catnip in his winter coat.

…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 drudging through the forest with their woman stopping at every tree as the female browsed for the right bark for the inside of their cave…

…Does anyone have normal conversations anymore or is the text message craze finally incorporating itself into the modern language? Omg, ttyl, lmao, the list goes on and on, but yet I don’t understand any of it. I’m just surprised Shaq didn’t opt for the MTV teeny-bopper text message acronyms when requesting a simple message from Kobe Bryant during his recent rap… hmat…ktmhmat…(kobe tell me how my ass tastes)… “You can’t do it without me, ktmhmat…” has a nice ring to it…

… Well the dead pigeon that was flattened outside of the Safeway is still there…sort of. The poor carcass has been run over so many times now it looks like a police chalk line after a murder. The thing is literally flush with the concrete. I still can’t figure out who handles these things…the mystery continues…

"Shenanigans Volume I"

Throughout this blog I’ll be posting some random observations which really have no relevance to anyone’s life. They will not improve your life by any means nor will they probably make any sense. With that said here is the first one…

…One thing I’ve noticed about San Francisco is guys at bars are absolutely drunken Neanderthals and fall, bump, knock and spill all over you. At first you want to turn around and sock the guy in the face until you realize he doesn’t even know where he is and has already spilled his beer on six other guys so you have no choice but to let him slide. I’m not sure if it’s because there are more binge drinkers in this town or if the guys would rather just go out and get obliterated instead of trying to maintain any sort of decency.

… I’ve realized the kickball phenomenon has now gotten way out of hand. While playing as a fill-in in a regular season Sunday kickball game in my roommate’s league I noticed parents actually coming out to watch the games. This may have been standard for Little League games or even an occasional badminton match, but kickball? I guess I’m kind of holding onto the thought that the only reason they came out was for their own piece of mind. I’m sure most parents when they hear their son or daughter who they’ve spent fifty grand on their college education is in a kickball league, they think it is just a cover for their real habit of shooting up paint thinner or participating in drive-bys with the local gang. When they show up at the local park they are relieved, but at the same time perplexed of how their youngster could go full circle – second grade kickball, honor student, Ivy League education, lucrative job and now? Back to kickball. The most amazing thing is there are people in the league that actually take it seriously and actually try to win at kickball of all things. I’m all for the competition but I’d much rather use my competitiveness at something more worthwhile like for instance flip cup or beer pong…well ok, I guess these kickball maniacs aren’t too bad after all…

…Every day on the way to work I pass by a horse pasture in Palo Alto and there is always one horse wearing a jacket. Why must he wear this overcoat I wonder? I have to think that it isn’t his Mom reminding him to put the coat on every day and that the jacket serves some sort of purpose, but what is it? Is he ridiculed by the other horses for wearing the ridiculous overcoat, not man enough to face the harsh elements of the outside, or is he looked at as being too good for the other horses with his ostentatious garments? These are the type of things I think about at night…

My glorious stallion wasn't as fortunate as this philly pictured above who was lucky enough to not only find a glamorous jacket, but a pair (uh times 2 since the 4 legs) of ostentatious green boots to boot. I figure this image might give readers at least an idea of my jacket clothed horse friend. (Either that or cause them to start drinking due to the ridiculousness of this blog).

… There seems to be an exorbitant amount of dead pigeons in San Francisco. It seems like they are being run over at an exponential rate in this town. Apparently George Costanza’s deal from Seinfeld doesn’t apply to the pigeons on the West coast, as these pigeons do not appear to be fleet of foot. I saw one the other day lambasted in front of the Safeway parking lot. I can understand the clean up crews ignore the clean up for a dead bird on the side of the road, but at the entrance to a highly frequented food store? You would think someone would take care of that thing. I guess I’ll wait anxiously in anticipation to see what happens…

"Video Camera Dads"

They are everywhere. They invade little league fields, tourist spots, living rooms on Christmas morning and anywhere else they are tolerated before getting a swift kick to the groin. They are Video Camera Dads.
I’ve never quite understood why they insist on video taping every freakin’ moment of life. Maybe they think their far-from riveting production will be enjoyed in households across America, but they are rarely enjoyed in their own household.
We’ve all been over to peoples’ houses and are enjoying a great evening when the words of death are heard - “You’ve got to see the footage from our trip to Montana…” You then quickly grab another piece of chicken and then proceed to fake-choke in attempts to get out of the impending misery.
During a recent trip to Europe I was at the St. Peters Basilica in Rome. It is one of the most magnificent structures in the world with beautiful art and sculptures that attract people from all over. I was absolutely blown away by the beauty of it and only an annoying video camera Dad could take me out of my awe. And sure enough there was one. Here is about how his narration went as the imbecile looked through the viewer. I stood there and listened in amazement.
“There is a door, that is the ceiling, there is the window, that is the floor…” –are you kidding me? Who is watching these things? He also made sure to pause on each interior fixture such as the doorway just so the audience could really get a feel for it in case they’d never seen a door, wall or ceiling before. The guy travels 6,000 miles, pays $200 for entrance for his family, ignores the work of Michelangelo, all so he can tape a blank wall. Makes perfect sense.
The guy will go home and say to his wife, “you know I didn’t feel like I was there and don’t think I really saw everything there was to see. Lets re-watch the tape so we really feel like we were there.” Uh, you were there! If the guy spent one-third of the time actually observing what was there to offer instead of taping the floor he might have actually got something out of the trip.
I have no doubt that eventually he got to the statue of David or the Mona Lisa, or whatever tourist place he was, but he’ll send his family and friends into a sleep-inducing coma caused by forty-four minutes of walls with nothing on them with his boring narrating well before they get to see any real history.
“Well at least we can relive our experience over and over on VHS tape,” the guy will attempt to tell his houseguests as they drool all over his couches that he video taped for hours after bringing them home from Z-gallery six months ago.
These Neanderthals also find it comical to videotape absolutely nothing. They’ll focus in on an unwilling subject for fif-teen minutes and find it completely comical when the person tells them to take a hike, then proceeds to sit there while the camera keeps rolling as they keep prodding the person to do or say something funny on command. “This is my best work,” the video camera Dad will think to himself as the subject tells him to F off a few times then slams the camera to ground and gives the video camera dad a swift shot to the nuts.
Before you start getting irrational and start stalking, tackling and maiming these video camera ignoramus creatures, keep in mind they do not know any better. If you see them politely tell them they’ve gone astray. If they don’t listen then you can strategically remove the camera from their grips and their families will thank you. The world will also become a more exciting, fun place thanks to your efforts.