The Old Man is Down the Road

Holy shit what a weekend!

Friday:
The Pens went dancing with Lord Stanley. I watched game seven with the wife alone in our basement to avoid all distractions. I’m not sure how many of you watched it, but in the opening sequence they had members of the NBC crew give their versions of the pre-game speeches in the team’s locker rooms. I’m pretty sure if I had been watching the game with Richard Simmons he would have turned to me and said “Wow, this is really fucking gay” and I would have nodded and said “It sure is. Now pass me my next Deal-a-Meal card bitch, and it better say nachos on it.”

NBC’s awful coverage aside, the game delivered three hours of gut-wrenching drama. I paced, I screamed, I pounded on doors, I prayed to the hockey gods, I lost my mind when Talbot lit the lamp twice and I added yet another layer of disgusting sweat to a jersey that hasn’t been washed since mid-February. Finally, when Crosby lifted the cup I sunk back into my couch and basked in the afterglow, like I just banged a super model.

Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.

They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”

Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.

My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.

We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)

We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.

Trapped

Last night Amy and I attended her company’s summer event, Elvis Costello at Wolftrap. I quickly realized two things, Wolftrap has become my second favorite concert venue behind Red Rocks and Elvis Costello was one of the worst shows I’ve seen there.

Because I’m a glass full kind of guy let’s start with Wolftrap. As you walk into the venue from the parking lot you pass a series of tents. One is a restaurant, one is for VIP’s and the others are for private events. Because I am VRP (Very Regular Person) and not a VIP we hit the restaurant tent where her company supplied copious amounts of wine in addition to a ridiculously delicious buffet. I had the pork tenderloin and this mac-n-cheese that I would have made sweet love to all night had Amy’s CEO not been there. Don’t even get me started on the dessert tray, I’m getting half a stalk just thinking about it.

The food and drink is all well and good, but here is why Wolftrap is Matchbox Twenty money. They treat you like a fucking adult! You can bring in any kind of alcohol and you can bring in any kind of food. They have picnic tables all over the place and the venue is set against a backdrop of huge ass trees that would make Bob Ross premature ejaculate. You know, if he were still alive and got over his erectile dysfunction. Ok, I made that E.D. part up, but he just looks like a poster child for Viagara. Sometimes you gotta pop a little blue pill before you can successfully touch little boys. Oh snap! Wow, I’m really pissing all over Bob’s grave today. Sorry Bob!

Now that we’ve established the greatness of the Trap, let’s turn our attention to why Elvis Costello sucked dingle-berry covered donkey balls. First off, I like approximately six EC songs and of those tunes maybe 3 are essentials (Veronica, The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes and Peace, Love & Understanding). So he takes the stage and like most aging performers he has a group of about eight other guys with him, and they launch into a series of tunes that would give Bill Monroe a hard on. I seem to be obsessed with dead guys and their junk today. David Carradine must be in my subconscious. Hey, if a guy likes to wear women’s clothes and hang from a noose in a hotel closet while rubbing one out, who am I to judge.

As Costello is plucking away on his third ditty, I fire up the iPhone and look up his setlist from the night before. Well spank my ass and call me Charlie this fucker is going to play 32 songs and we don’t get to a song I know until the encore. Look, I like a little bluegrass as much as the next guy, but if I want to bluegrass out with my huge ass out I’ll go see Sam Bush or David Grisman. Amy is a much bigger fan of EC than I, but luckily she was getting bitter at his back woods versions of the songs she likes too, so we quickly said our good-byes and made a bee line for the exit after an hour or so.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to throw on the Pens Jersey, goalie equipment and prep the noose in my garage for a little ‘Carradine' tribute before the game 7.

Nice Day for a White Wedding

Sorry, for the long ass post amigos, but it was a loooooong weekend…

The Wedding’s Rockin’ Eve
The ride to Pennsylvania went relatively smoothly. No tickets, very little traffic and being Mr. classy I consumed a bottle of Chateau St. Michelle Riesling from a Gatorade bottle. Sometimes it really is hard to believe that I’m 37 and not 17.

Anyway, we arrived to find everyone out on the patio drinking like it was nickel beer night at a frat house. We were at a golf resort, so one of the non-wedding attendees stumbled over to our table. Obviously, unaware of how much the family likes to fuck with people, he struck up a drunken exchange with our group.

By the end of the conversation we knew that his name was Paul, he was from south Buffalo, he liked Amy’s cousin’s legs and the blacks in Buffalo were only good for emptying garbage cans. In turn, the grandfather of the aforementioned cousin with great legs, informed Paul that she had five kids by five different fathers and that one of them would qualify for emptying garbage cans in south Buffalo. Feeling a little embarrassed, he bought us a pitcher of beer and stumbled back inside. Then, we all laughed and laughed because we totally lied to him, she only has four kids by three different fathers and they were all Hispanic, not black. High-larious!

Our little party started to break up, leaving just a few of us guys to finish off the beers. As we were about to call it a night, he showed back up with his buddies, whom he must of told there were a bunch of hot chicks on the patio. The look on Paul’s face when he realized that it was just a bunch of dudes at our table was priceless. His buddies started crushing him as if they’d caught him on his knees in the men’s bathroom.

The Wedding
Trying to contain my two year old in a big church during the ceremony, was a lot like wrestling a midget covered in baby oil, only my daughter didn’t have the stubby sausage fingers and oversized head to grab onto. In addition to being uber-squirmy she also took the opportunity to test her outside voice by constantly yelling, “I see Kenny! I see Kenny!”

I think I spent approximately eight minutes inside the actual wedding, and the rest of the time I was in the lobby trying to keep my little anti-Christ from desecrating everything sacred that was below four feet high. Honey, please take Mickey Mouse out of the holy water. Yes, I know he’s dirty but that’s not a bath. C’mon baby, please stop pounding on Jesus’ feet like you’re taking part in his crucifixion. Sweety, it’s cute how you sang happy birthday before blowing out all of the candles, but those are prayer candles and beloved Uncle Steve is probably not going to survive his motorcycle accident thanks to you. Darling, I know you’re a big Kathy Griffin fan, but this isn’t the place to be yelling “Suck it Jesus!”

After we went up and down the church steps 19 times, I marched her into the men’s bathroom, so that I could shake the dew off the lily. As I was taking care of business, the anti-Christ walked up to the urinal next to me and proceeded to grab the urinal cake. I screamed NOOOOOOOO! Then, I zipped up and turned around to see her putting a goldfish in her mouth. I immediately turned into an audience member at the Apollo. “Ooooh damn baby, no you di-int just do that. Ohhhhh snap! Yo mamma’s gonna kill me.” I immediately took her to the sink and scrubbed her hands like I was Lady Macbeth, but by then the damage was done and I could only pray that the confessional upstairs was open for business.

Maggie, Someday you will be on your therapist’s couch and you’ll have this nagging memory about something bad happening to you involving a father and a church basement bathroom. For the record I want you to know that you weren’t touched inappropriately by a priest. You gave yourself First Communion using the water and a deodorizing cake from a urinal while your father stood next to you pissing and screaming at you like a little girl. Um, yeah, good luck with that.

I’ll give you all a minute to choke down that little bit of throw up in your mouth before we move on.

The Reception
The Crown was flowing and the band led by a cross between Patrick Swayze and Richard Dean Anderson AKA MacGyver, was pumping out your standard list of wedding favorites. After the festivities started to wrap up the party moved to the patio where a man sporting an accordion got the Polish version of the reception underway. Standing across the way was a woman who had one of those disposable cameras and she was just cranking out the pictures of her accordion hero.

Like J.D. in scrubs, I had one of those cutaway moments in my head to the drug store photo counter, where the sarcastic teenage clerk was like “It’s Monday, here comes Alice again. I’m guessing it was another crazy weekend. Wow, what a shocker, 24 glossy prints of a man playing an accordion. These are going to look great in her scrapbook next to the other 685 photos that we’ve processed this year of her musical idol.”

Also, I’m pretty sure someone said the guys name was Jim, so for the rest of the night the phrase “Accordion to Jim” was running through my head. For the record, how has that show been on the air for eight seasons? I don’t know a single person who watches it, yet every week I flip through the channels and there’s Jim Belushi saying something not funny and collecting a nice fat paycheck. Hey Jimbo, I bet you’re glad that your much more talented brother did himself in. Now you and Joaquin Phoenix can toast to your success at your brothers expenses. What? Still too soon?

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go give my daughter her penicillin bath, while saying a few Hail Mary’s.

Here's your moment of zen. Mr. classy rockin' the Pens jersey at the reception:

Excuse Me Please, Just One More Drink

Memorial Day weekend is now within reach, so we will be packing up the family truckster and heading to Pittsburgh for a wedding that has the potential to reach epic proportions. I like to think of this event as the alcoholic Super Bowl. Some of the best drinkers in the family will come together in one place to push their imbibing limits. Instead of a guest book they are just going to have a sign up sheet for a liver transplant. Yeah, it’s going to be that kind of weekend.

The only part of the trip that I dread is driving on a holiday weekend. Gas is more expensive, the po-po will be out in full force and so will the slew of pain in the ass drivers. You know what? I think I need to make an executive decision right here, right now. I am just going to let Amy drive, while I pre-game in the front seat. That my friends, is a money fucking call. Strap in the knee-biter, hand the keys to the Mrs., pop the cork, and enjoy the ride.

One of the best road trips I’ve ever had was the drive we made to Atlantic City a few years ago. My brother-in-law and I sat in the back of his Jaguar with an iPod in each of our hands and a cooler between us. We proceeded to get tanked while going song for song for three hours straight. When we got to the hotel, I ran inside to get the room keys and the manager asked me the color and make of the car I was driving. I told him to hold on, that I had to go outside and look.

Then, we proceeded to head up to our room on the illustrious 30th floor. The elevator door opened and we heard a bunch of loud loud voices coming from the penthouse next to our room. As we turn the corner, BAM! A pod of large black hookers looked at us like Maury just announced that we were not the father of their babies. We headed into the room and chilled for approximately 12 seconds and then headed back down to get another room.

Back on the elevator, we found ourselves in a rap video, starring the Three 6 Mafia and a couple of women with questionable morals, sporting dresses that required two hair-do’s to wear out on the town. I’m wedged in the corner with my pillow in one hand and a blue Igloo cooler in the other, not making eye contact with anything but the floor. In my mind I went through my survival techniques, but I couldn’t remember if you make yourself look bigger or play dead when confronted by rappers and ho’s. Ahhhhh, the good times of road trips past.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go create my big-baller playlist for the ride to the Keystone state.

You know it’s hard out here for a pimp
When he tryin’ to get this money for the rent
For the cadillacs and gas money spent
Will have a whole lot of bitches jumpin’ ship

Cult of Personality

Keep your hands and feet inside the rant ride at all times because it’s go time!

What’s up with women and these product parties they have all the time? The old standard used to be Tupperware, but now they have parties for jeans, jewelry, purses, lingerie, make-up and even sex toys. Although, my wife never gets invited to the sex toys party, she really needs some sluttier friends. I digress.

Last night the wife came home from one of these scarily cultish gatherings with $40 worth of protein shakes. MFWTF? My wife is like 5’ 5” and maybe a buck-twenty soaking wet, which is exactly how I like her. I don’t want to come home from work and find her bench pressing the couch, roid-raging on our daughter and getting zits all over her back. It’s not like my wife even enjoys these parties, she just has a hard time saying no to people, which is what these organizations count on.

The thing that really sucks about these cults/pyramid schemes is that they pray on the naïve and use them to exploit their friends and family. Amway used to be the worst. These people would hold meetings at the pizza place where I worked, and they would give these motivational speeches like they were the goddamn coach in Remember the Titans. The people at these meetings would lose their shit. You could see in their eyes that they were totally brainwashed, kind of like the attendees of those mega-churches on TV. After witnessing a few of these meetings, the Manson murders suddenly started to make a lot of sense.

And surprise, surprise, my military career having, bible-thumping, everyone’s going to hell, Aunt used to sell Amway out of her home. She had an entire basement full of these totally shit products. Every time we visited we got to go into the basement and select something. Ooooh, what a treat! Thanks for the chocolate bar that tastes like an oompa-loompas asshole.

It just blows my mind that so many people have this need to belong so badly that they’ll participate in these scam-driven organizations. I hate to sound misogynistic, but it’s mostly women who buy into this bullshit. I’ve never been playing soccer and had a guy say to me after the game “Hey Erik do you want to come over next Tuesday I’m having a wallet party. It’s going to be great. Just us guys drinking beers, hanging out, and you can pick yourself out a nice new leather tri-fold for only $60.” You don’t see guys driving around in Cadillacs with company messaging all over them and a personalized license plate that says something clever like GR8SALZ, and if you do, then you know their douche-baggery is boundless.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on some porn and crank up the volume to scare the shit out of these Mormon kids that just came to the door. It’s always a good time when you have adolescent kids dressed alike on bikes talking to you about the joys of finding Jesus with Jenna Jamison screaming "Oh God, fuck me” in the background.