People Are Strange, When You're a Stranger

This past weekend I ventured out to the Verizon Center in Washington DC to see the Pens play the Caps. As usual the game was awesome even though the Pens lost in OT, but the real entertainment came in the form of the rare beauty of a dude sitting next to me. Because of the 30" snow storm several seats were empty leaving just three of us in our row. My Dad, me and let's call him the boy wonder. He was one of those guys who looks sort of normal, but in reality was probably 20 years old when he was in the 8th grade. He totally had that stocky retard-strong look to him, the type of kid you don't want to end up alone with in a suburban basement.

Even though we have the entire row to ourselves he remains sitting right next to me, and I notice throughout the game that he is watching me out of the corner of his eye. I try to offer some friendly banter, but I get nothing back except the old stink eye. The Pens are up 4-1 and I'm feeling pretty good, but I can tell that boy wonder is stewing.

During the second period intermission the Caps marketing team throws out these T-shirts from the rafters that are attached to parachutes. One lands on this seven year old kid's back in front of us and boy wonder gets the eye of the tiger, swoops in, grabs it and starts admiring it like Gollum looking at his preciousss. The grandma of the kid turns around says several times "Hey, that's my kids shirt." Boy wonder says nothing, gets up and heads to the bathroom. In my head I'm like holy shit this is going to be fucking great.

He comes back from the bathroom wearing the goddamn Caps t-shirt, which is two sizes two small for his frame and he's gripping the parachute much the same way Lenny from Of Mice and Men holds small animals. The third period is under way, the Caps start making their comeback and boy wonder goes into rare form. He starts throwing these fist pumps in the air like he's on the Jersey Shore beating up the beat. With every goal the Caps score he starts spazzing out more and more.

Finally, my Dad has to bolt to make it back to Delaware to catch a train to Boston, so now I'm alone in an empty row with boy wonder and we're sitting right next to each other as if we're on a fucking Make-a-Wish date. The Caps get a power play in OT and he starts pounding his chest and jumping up and down like a downs syndrome version of King Kong. Finally, the Caps score the game winner and I'm out of there faster than an unveiled woman at a Taliban gathering.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to watch some in-depth documentary to get the vision of boy wonder screaming at the scoreboard "Unleash the Fury!" out of my head.

These Boots are Made for Walking

It has been noted in this blog, that I've had my share of surgeries and emergency room visits over the years, and I added one to the list over the weekend. Sometime last week I trekked up and down the numerous stairs in my townhouse carrying all kinds of heavy shit like I was Magnus ver Magnussen working over some German slob in a late night strong man competition on the ESPN Nordic channel. I felt fine when I went to bed, but by the time I woke up it was like Annie Wilkes from Misery paid me a late night visit to brush up on her hobbling skills.

After checking my symptoms on WebMD, I was convinced that I had a rare form of Leukemia and if I didn't get it checked out immediately I would lose my leg. So the wife and I braved the snow and cold to spend a romantic afternoon at the Reston E.R. Unfortunately, I got the deer in the headlights doctor, whose pants were pulled up to his nipples and he offered absolutely no advice or help. Like a hack psychiatrist he just repeated everything I said back to me, "Doc it's sore between the Achilles and the growth plate." "I see so it's sore right over here between the Achilles tendon and the growth plate." Is there a fucking echo in here? Luckily, he did offer up the good drugs and as usual I played dumb.

Doc: Do you need something stronger than Advil for the pain?"

Me: I think so, it hurts pretty bad.

Doc: Have you ever taken Vicodin before?

Me: I'm not sure, is that something I should take with food?

Doc: Yes, it may irritate your stomach, if you don't.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking fuck no I'm not taking it with food, that ruins the buzz. Pass the Crown, and let's party bitches! As I left the hospital, I realized that I learned nothing about my injury, but I cared less because the Vicodin fog was rolling in.

We headed straight to Target, so that I could keep the V-fog nice and thick. Of course I got there just as the pharmacy closed. Luckily, I caught the chick leaving the pharmacy and like a crazed junkie I begged her to hook me up, and she obliged. Then, she only charged me $5 for two prescriptions. Best drug dealer ever! I spent the remainder of the weekend petting unicorns and hoping that Skittles would fall from the rainbow colored skies.

Finally, this afternoon I saw the specialist. The office was packed with so many people hobbling around, that I had a flashback to the medical unit in Da Nang in '69. After completing a mountain of useless paperwork saying I wouldn't sue them if they ass raped me while I was living in the V-fog, they escorted me back to the little room with the paper on the bed.

The alpha male doc came in and asked me to work the runway. Apparently, I failed the field sobriety test and he fitted me for a boot and ordered me to do physical therapy for 2 weeks. Fuck me! You know how good it feels when you take your ski boots off after a day on the mountain? Yeah, well wearing this boot is the opposite of that. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to have a Better Off Dead dream tonight. "He's skiing on one ski!"

Now if you'll excuse me I need to paint some bitchin' flames on this boot, so everyone at physical therapy knows what a bad-ass I am.

My Angel is a Centerfold

I've been a Playboy subscriber for 5 years now, and while the wife doesn't give me shit for most of my vices, she has hinted that it's time for me to give up my best porno mag. And by hinted, I mean she said "You're a Dad now, put that shit away". Now I must decide if I want to be the creepy old guy who reads Playboy on the shitter much to the chagrin of the Mrs. and the horror of his daughter, or do I want to give up the only magazine I actually read cover to cover. Being a selfish prick, I'll probably hold out for a few more years before acquiescing.

But let's face it, Playboy is hardly pornography. On the list of approved spank material, Playboy is somewhere between the Victoria Secret catalog and watching a Lady Ga Ga video. Warning! Old man about to give the famous "When I was a kid..." speech.

When I was a kid you had to work to see the goods. I would stay up until 4:00 in the morning if the movie on Skinemax advertised even the slightest hint of nudity. I wouldn't go to the bathroom for fear I would miss the three seconds of nipple-vision, and if the movie was rated Strong Sexual Content, forget it, I wasn't leaving the couch unless Richard Simmons was standing there trying to stick his bloody dick in my ear.

Today kids are spoiled when it comes to porn. They don't have to sit through hours of shitty movies to see some boobies. They can watch German circus clowns fuck chickens while quoting Knight Rider with just two mouse clicks. Two Girls One Cup is practically soft-core to today's youth, but something like that wasn't even on the fucking radar when I was in school. Jealous you say? You bet. If I had access to the internet when I was 14 my forearm would have had a tattoo of an anchor on it.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to throw on the 1984 classic "Hot Dog" and give Shannon Tweed the standing ovation she deserves.

Guess Who's Back, Back Again...

Craw is back, tell a friend. I know I've been blogging as often as Daniel Day-Lewis makes movies. What no good? Sorry, I'm a little rusty, I know I've been blogging as often as Harper Lee releases novels. Still no good? Let's try this one last time, I know I've been blogging as often as my Grandmother gets laid. There it is, octogenarian penetration humor, now that feels right! It's like riding a goddamn bike people...

I feel like an alcoholic who's been sober for a few months, but is ready to go on a bender. I'm not saying I'll be the post whore of 2008, that guy would have gone down on an AIDS patient if it meant he could get a good blog post out of it, but hopefully I'll get the word to the page at least once a week this year. So you can stop by, read my shit and say to yourself "My life may not be a bowl of cherries but at least I'm not this ass-tard." As a side note adding 'tard' to the end of any curse word instantly makes me smile like a gold medal winner at the Special Olympics.

So there you have it, my Martin Luther King Jr.'s Day resolution, blog once a week and try to have a dream, not about racial equality, but about Jersey Shore chicks getting punched in the face, because that shit is much funnier.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to replace the lube I borrowed from my Grandma, before she gets home from Red Lobster.

Somewhere Around Barstow

Saturday morning and the wife has abducted our child and run off to Baltimore. What shall I do with my freedom? First up, the book store. Apparently, the website I used to write for All Music released a book a few years back and my reviews are part of the collection. Being an avid narcissist I roll into Borders like I'm a regular goddamn Hunter S. Thompson. Of course the book isn't in stock so I roll out of the music section like the regular goddamn douche that I am.

I can never find shit in bookstores, maybe it's related to growing up on the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that there are 9000 sub categories of genres these days. I end up wandering around aimlessly like an anorexic tween at an all you can eat buffet.

I read the blog Dad Gone Mad pretty regularly and he just wrote a book, so I figure I'll check it out. Of course I can't find it and I end up asking the overly well-read condescending sales clerk to help me. "Sir you are looking in Self Help and that book is in Biography & Memoires which is over next to Mind, Body and Spirit." My mouth said "oh cool thanks", but my eyes said, "well fuck me, how could I have ever been so stupid, thank you for showing me the error of my ways fucktard". Maybe the Dewey Decimal system wasn't so bad after all.

I finally find the book and meander over to the cash register, which is another nightmare of epic proportions. There is one overweight scholarly guy working and he is Mr. Chatty Kathy. "Ma'am this book is a great choice, but you should really read his early work when he was a bartender in a small Ethiopian village. His prose is just superb for a boy who was raised on just 19 cents a day." Dude c'mon, you have a line going here that rivals Hands Across America and you're chatting up this suburban house frau like you're long lost pen pals. I've played entire games of Monopoly that have taken less time than getting out of this store. My freedom is slipping away, and all I can do is stand here and watch your sweaty upper lip move up and down.

Finally, I get up to the counter make absolutely no eye contact and conduct my transaction with as little engagement as possible. I head out to the car excited to have yet another book that will end up sitting on my coffee table for months completely unread.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to hit up Chipotle and spend some quality time watching football sans pants.