I like terrorizing the waitresses where I work for two reasons:
1) They don't work directly for me
2) They are usually young and easy to mess with.
A new waitress started a few weeks ago. She was younger than usual, so I thought I would go easy on her, so when I was in the kitchen getting a drink, I announced it was time for everyone's favorite game: The New Girl Guesses How Old Everyone Is!!!! She was not happy about this in the least bit, but agreed to play. Carrie, in her mid thirties, was now 40, as was her husband Steve. Lisa was now a younger 35. The waitress, who we shall refer to as Slumpathus, then turned to me, and without even hesitating, said "45". The rest of the kitchen staff felt better about there guesses, and Slumpathus refused to quantify how she came to that decision.
Now, any time I see her, I just give her a glare, and she blurts out "I didn't want to play the game!" This won't save her when the revolution comes.
A couple of weeks past this, I met up with Kentucky Jim for dinner. Unfortunately, he brought The Angry Scholar with him. After a round robin tournament of rock-paper-scissors and Inkum Stinkum, it was decided that we would be having Italian food for dinner. Once Kentucky Jim got his horribly racist remarks under wraps, we were seated al fresco, and ordered drinks. Our waitress barely looked out of high school, let alone capable of serving alcohol. We proceeded to make some jokes which she joined in on, and created a good rapport with her. Through that, we were able to find out that she was 21, originally from Canada, and that she thought The Angry Scholar's head was too large, yet also hypnotically lopsided. Inevitably, masochist I am, I asked her to play the game. Three men, right guess across the board. No one, even some people that had know us for a period of time, would guess that I was younger than those two, but she gleefully called me the baby of the group.
She also taunted Kentucky Jim with cheesecake, his one true kryptonite, and made perfect food recommendations for The Perturbed Academic and I. So, moral of the story is, young American girls have much to learn from young Canadian girls, especially in the ways of waitressing and age guessing.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Dear Bogey the Dog
In my life, there have only been a few animals that did not like me.
This first I can remember was my mother's lhasa apso. Ginger only loved my dad and vengeance, so I stayed clean of that mop of death. I remember having a recurring dream where that dog attacked my face to try to get some cheese that I was eat. I am not sure it ever really happened, so I adamantly insist it did.
Then, came the maincoons. For some reason, that breed of cat has never completely cottoned to me. First came Sweet Lou, a rescue I even helped nurse back to health. I was rewarded by guarded stares and general lethargy. Later, my friend Karl Spackler would adopt a different mainecoon, Chairman Meow. Meow is a sneaky one. Her presence is never seen. She is only know by the sound of scurrying and a hint of wind whipping past you.
Until now, the worst has been the unholy bastard dog owned by my sister.
He is some sort of mutt mix of a border collie, an Oscar Meyer train whistle, and the entire cataloger of Soulja Boy's discography. He is loud, destructive, and about as loveable as a bad case of crabs. Worse, I proved that he was a drug user. I told him, "Buster, hugs not drugs. Come hug me!" He barked for the next thirty seven hours and then swallowed a button.
I genuinely love animals. I just want to pet them, and hug them, and hold them until they can't handle it anymore. It pains me that these poor animals will not allow me to love them. However. I like to think that these are isolated cases, because, other than the detestable Buster, the animals don't like too many people in general. My hopes were dashed when I met Bogey.
Bogey belongs to my friend Dave. He is a mix of a chihuahua and a dachshund and all I heard forever was how loveable and loving this dog was to everyone. Every time I'd visit Dave, Bogey was away visiting Dave's parents. Recently, Dave moved, and Bogey was with him all the time, so I was finally ready to get the hugging going.
Let us just say, Bogey was not as advertised. He first named the nickname "Dour Dog", because he always looks like this:
No matter the circumstance, Bogey looks like he's learned that the world is unfair, and that nothing he every wanted to accomplish can be achieved. Dave has seen this dog shed real tears when it was worked up. I can deal with this, but for the fact that if I enter a room, Bogey immediately positions himself behind Dave's legs. Only Dave can protect him from the giant that is clearly there to rape and/or eat him. Dave tried to trick him, and picked him up and handed him. If a dog has ever screamed "Unwanted Touching! I need an adult!", this dog did. He was put down, and went back to the sanctuary of Dave's flip flopped feet.
As I sat in Dave's living room, watching an ungodly bad movie on Chiller, Bogey sat forlornly on top of a nearby chair, staring despondently at me. I looked at him, and he tried to sink lower into the fabric. "Bogey", I said, "if you keep this up, I am changing your name. Bogey is a fun name. You are a Debbie Downer." Bogey went boneless and slowly oozed to the floor, hoping to go unnoticed as he sought refuge with Dave.
"Ok, that's it. Your new name is Stephan. Stephen Brontalewski. Not even Steve. You are too uptight to be a Steve."
Little puppy tears welled up in Stephen's eyes as I sat and pet the cat. He slowly crept over, fueled by jealousy and an unflattering nickname. The cat rolled in ecstasy as I scratched him stomach. Stephan slowly found his way onto the couch, and insinuated himself between myself and the cat. He stared at me, and I at him. I hoped this meant that he was finally ready to be friends.
Instead, Stephan Brontalewski dramatically rolled onto his back in a very "Paint me like your French women" pose, and gave me a look like, "This is it. Be gentle."
The mood was ruined, and he continues to be Stephan to this day.
This first I can remember was my mother's lhasa apso. Ginger only loved my dad and vengeance, so I stayed clean of that mop of death. I remember having a recurring dream where that dog attacked my face to try to get some cheese that I was eat. I am not sure it ever really happened, so I adamantly insist it did.
 | |||||||||
| Why Matthew McConnaughey had the dog, I have no idea. |
Until now, the worst has been the unholy bastard dog owned by my sister.
 |
| The cone is for our protection |
I genuinely love animals. I just want to pet them, and hug them, and hold them until they can't handle it anymore. It pains me that these poor animals will not allow me to love them. However. I like to think that these are isolated cases, because, other than the detestable Buster, the animals don't like too many people in general. My hopes were dashed when I met Bogey.
Bogey belongs to my friend Dave. He is a mix of a chihuahua and a dachshund and all I heard forever was how loveable and loving this dog was to everyone. Every time I'd visit Dave, Bogey was away visiting Dave's parents. Recently, Dave moved, and Bogey was with him all the time, so I was finally ready to get the hugging going.
Let us just say, Bogey was not as advertised. He first named the nickname "Dour Dog", because he always looks like this:
As I sat in Dave's living room, watching an ungodly bad movie on Chiller, Bogey sat forlornly on top of a nearby chair, staring despondently at me. I looked at him, and he tried to sink lower into the fabric. "Bogey", I said, "if you keep this up, I am changing your name. Bogey is a fun name. You are a Debbie Downer." Bogey went boneless and slowly oozed to the floor, hoping to go unnoticed as he sought refuge with Dave.
"Ok, that's it. Your new name is Stephan. Stephen Brontalewski. Not even Steve. You are too uptight to be a Steve."
Little puppy tears welled up in Stephen's eyes as I sat and pet the cat. He slowly crept over, fueled by jealousy and an unflattering nickname. The cat rolled in ecstasy as I scratched him stomach. Stephan slowly found his way onto the couch, and insinuated himself between myself and the cat. He stared at me, and I at him. I hoped this meant that he was finally ready to be friends.
Instead, Stephan Brontalewski dramatically rolled onto his back in a very "Paint me like your French women" pose, and gave me a look like, "This is it. Be gentle."
The mood was ruined, and he continues to be Stephan to this day.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Dear Lemuel the Brain Chigger
Lemuel is a good friend of Gene the Brain Tick. Unlike Gene, Lemuel is an agent of chaos. He's not happy just feeding on my insecurities and blowing them up. Lemuel is the cause. Let's put it this way: if Gene is the grease fire on my brain, Lemuel is the gleeful ingenue with an oily rag collection and an affinity for lighting sparklers and throwing them with reckless abandon.
Those that have known me for awhile, or even just met me once, or possibly even glanced at this blog in passing, might get the impression that I am a laid back, type B surfer type. I put up a fairly good front, but in fact, I am wound fairly tight, I suffer from what is innocuously called "Generalized Anxiety Disorder". This is akin to calling a chainsaw wound a "Randomized Flesh Realignment". Paired with an ever present degree of depression I've dealt with for years, and a skewed sense of self worth, I've made myself the belle of the ball.
Things got bad enough a few years ago after a relationship ended and things got tough at work that I went to my doctor for help. Like mos trips to the doctor for me, this did not help. The time I saw him previously, I went to get a pinched nerve fixed and was wrongly diagnosed with a tumor on my pituitary gland. This time, I was given pills that gave me all of the side effect with none of the cure, so I gave up on them and continued with my normal coping mechanism: pushing things into a tiny ball of hate in my chest that sporadically bursts on the innocent.
This works for only so long before you are either freaking out on people in public at random, pissing your friends off by complaining about the same things that are wrong with your life, and/or barely being able to cope at work without anxiety and anger controlling your every action. I went back to the doctor, we talked about my issues, and he gave me pills that he thought might work better.
The wonderful thing about the pills is that they worked to fix most of the problems I had. My anxiety attacks are down about 95%. I can get through a day of work or a rush hour drive without my chest tightening to sickening lengths. My brain doesn't flood at night with lost seratonin and chemicals that can't find the right receivers, leaving me emotional and pushing the ever present feeling of loneliness to the only thing I can think of. In fact, I don't really have those feeling at all. And that is the bad thing about the pills. I don't exactly have any strong feelings, unless apathy is a feeling, then I have a shitload of that. If "only wanting to sit in my recliner and watch reruns of Supernatural while drinking coffee" is a feeling, than I am the best at that feeling.
I laugh at tv shows. I can enjoy things still, and I can still get pissed off, but for the most part, I'm just in the vaguely velvety room where I can see the feelings through the door, but they are in the other room. This doesn't bode well for a writer, or a comedian, or asshole, or whatever you want to call me and what I do. This is why I haven't been posting. I just can't get the ire up, or the comedy. I think this post feels pretty forced honestly.
I have a choice: I can take the pills and be a bit less of a miserable person, or stop taking them to try to be a bit better at something I am good at and that I enjoy. For the time being, I am taking the pills. I'll keep trying to write this blog, and hopefully it's still something people want to read. I hope so, but I couldn't even do something as meaningful and powerful as Allie Brosh did with her Hyperbole and a Half admittance of depression.
What I can say is that if I have a choice where I am not sitting in bed a night and trying to remember the last woman that actually showed me affection, or who the last person that wasn't family was that said they loved me and actually meant it was, but I'm just worse at writing this blog that hasn't gotten me famous in three years, I'll finally try to be happy for once.
Hopefully you're all down with that too.
I'll try to be funny again next week, I promise.
Those that have known me for awhile, or even just met me once, or possibly even glanced at this blog in passing, might get the impression that I am a laid back, type B surfer type. I put up a fairly good front, but in fact, I am wound fairly tight, I suffer from what is innocuously called "Generalized Anxiety Disorder". This is akin to calling a chainsaw wound a "Randomized Flesh Realignment". Paired with an ever present degree of depression I've dealt with for years, and a skewed sense of self worth, I've made myself the belle of the ball.
Things got bad enough a few years ago after a relationship ended and things got tough at work that I went to my doctor for help. Like mos trips to the doctor for me, this did not help. The time I saw him previously, I went to get a pinched nerve fixed and was wrongly diagnosed with a tumor on my pituitary gland. This time, I was given pills that gave me all of the side effect with none of the cure, so I gave up on them and continued with my normal coping mechanism: pushing things into a tiny ball of hate in my chest that sporadically bursts on the innocent.
This works for only so long before you are either freaking out on people in public at random, pissing your friends off by complaining about the same things that are wrong with your life, and/or barely being able to cope at work without anxiety and anger controlling your every action. I went back to the doctor, we talked about my issues, and he gave me pills that he thought might work better.
The wonderful thing about the pills is that they worked to fix most of the problems I had. My anxiety attacks are down about 95%. I can get through a day of work or a rush hour drive without my chest tightening to sickening lengths. My brain doesn't flood at night with lost seratonin and chemicals that can't find the right receivers, leaving me emotional and pushing the ever present feeling of loneliness to the only thing I can think of. In fact, I don't really have those feeling at all. And that is the bad thing about the pills. I don't exactly have any strong feelings, unless apathy is a feeling, then I have a shitload of that. If "only wanting to sit in my recliner and watch reruns of Supernatural while drinking coffee" is a feeling, than I am the best at that feeling.
I laugh at tv shows. I can enjoy things still, and I can still get pissed off, but for the most part, I'm just in the vaguely velvety room where I can see the feelings through the door, but they are in the other room. This doesn't bode well for a writer, or a comedian, or asshole, or whatever you want to call me and what I do. This is why I haven't been posting. I just can't get the ire up, or the comedy. I think this post feels pretty forced honestly.
I have a choice: I can take the pills and be a bit less of a miserable person, or stop taking them to try to be a bit better at something I am good at and that I enjoy. For the time being, I am taking the pills. I'll keep trying to write this blog, and hopefully it's still something people want to read. I hope so, but I couldn't even do something as meaningful and powerful as Allie Brosh did with her Hyperbole and a Half admittance of depression.
What I can say is that if I have a choice where I am not sitting in bed a night and trying to remember the last woman that actually showed me affection, or who the last person that wasn't family was that said they loved me and actually meant it was, but I'm just worse at writing this blog that hasn't gotten me famous in three years, I'll finally try to be happy for once.
Hopefully you're all down with that too.
I'll try to be funny again next week, I promise.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Dear Woodstown, New Jersey
I've written once about my recent trip to America's playground, but this trip has warranted a second letter. As I drove behind a wonderfully ignorant driver down a single lane stretch of route 40, I had plenty of time to look at the scenery as we drive 10 miles under the speed limit. I had an even clearer view of everything with the car widows open as I tried to try to alleviate the meat sweats I had gotten from the generous lunch portions at the Woodstown diner. I had a good look at the goon vamping shirtless in from of the giant cowboy in front of the Cowtown Rodeo, his children embarrassed and waiting to throw water on him for the Ice Bucket Challenge. I saw where the formerly abandoned and creeptastic strip club Sensual Desires had reopened, under the appropriate name Pole Positions. But the thing that caught my eye, and nearly caused me to brake my car in the middle of Route 40, was much more innocent, at least at first glance. I saw the single billboard, just a poster between two 2x4's in the ground, that stated "Haunted Paintball Hayride". Other than the words, there was just one picture. That picture was a zombie.
This was just outside the limits of Woodstown, New Jersey, a town I had previously known to show perhaps the most vibrant and patriotic display of town Halloween spirit I had ever seen since my childhood. This is now the town that has stolen my heart.
I love Haunted Hayrides. My friends and I did one on Halloween my senior year of highschool, and I still remember the night fondly thirteen years later. I've never played Paintball, but I love laser tag and the shooting range, so I think this is a safe bet that my enthusiasm will translate. So, when you ask me if, during my favorite holiday season of the year, would I like to ride a slow moving conveyance through a dark and spooky landscape, where zombies will attack and I get to actually shoot them?
I'm sorry, I passed out due to the lack of blood in my brain due to the massive erection I was just given.
This was just outside the limits of Woodstown, New Jersey, a town I had previously known to show perhaps the most vibrant and patriotic display of town Halloween spirit I had ever seen since my childhood. This is now the town that has stolen my heart.
I love Haunted Hayrides. My friends and I did one on Halloween my senior year of highschool, and I still remember the night fondly thirteen years later. I've never played Paintball, but I love laser tag and the shooting range, so I think this is a safe bet that my enthusiasm will translate. So, when you ask me if, during my favorite holiday season of the year, would I like to ride a slow moving conveyance through a dark and spooky landscape, where zombies will attack and I get to actually shoot them?
I'm sorry, I passed out due to the lack of blood in my brain due to the massive erection I was just given.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Dear Cute Girl at the Bar
Poor innocent me was minding my own business, spending time at an outdoor bar with my sister and my friend Cindyloo. Cindyloo and my sister, being tremendous lushes, left me alone at the table, sipping on my cola, as they went to search for tequila and a funnel. Point being, I was behaving myself. Sure, I had been looking at you a little previous to this encounter, but it was mainly to figure out if your hair was cut in a weird, short style, or if it was pinned up weird in the back. You were still very pretty, I just don't seem to understand what constitutes a valid hairstyle anymore.
So, while I was sitting there, I couldn't help overhearing you since you were sitting ten feet away. Also, you were drunk talking so loud that Gilbert Gottfried would have found you to be excessive. Typically I would tune out your offkey caterwauling very quickly but for what you said next.
"I just....you know...it's been so long...I gotta kiss someone. I'm gonna make out with some guy so long....it's gonna be awesome. I'm just gonna find a guy and do it."
Clearly this was intriguing to me. My initial gambit of coughing to garner attention failed so I brought out the big guns. I stretched my arms out wide, making myself look as large as possible, same as I would with a jungle cat. Sadly, same as with a jungle cat, this only caused you to look at me oddly and shrink away. Suddenly little miss chatterbox was all whispers and stares.
Luckily for me, Old Lady Bourbon worked it's magic on you, and when we were leaving, you ran over to me. Stars were in your eyes, a coy grin on your face, and excitement peppered your every move.
You leaned in close, and very seriously, you asked me, "Have you ever seen Hocus Pocus?"
This would not have stung the ego so bad had it not been the same day that a 19 year old server guessed that I was 45 years old.
So, while I was sitting there, I couldn't help overhearing you since you were sitting ten feet away. Also, you were drunk talking so loud that Gilbert Gottfried would have found you to be excessive. Typically I would tune out your offkey caterwauling very quickly but for what you said next.
"I just....you know...it's been so long...I gotta kiss someone. I'm gonna make out with some guy so long....it's gonna be awesome. I'm just gonna find a guy and do it."
Clearly this was intriguing to me. My initial gambit of coughing to garner attention failed so I brought out the big guns. I stretched my arms out wide, making myself look as large as possible, same as I would with a jungle cat. Sadly, same as with a jungle cat, this only caused you to look at me oddly and shrink away. Suddenly little miss chatterbox was all whispers and stares.
Luckily for me, Old Lady Bourbon worked it's magic on you, and when we were leaving, you ran over to me. Stars were in your eyes, a coy grin on your face, and excitement peppered your every move.
You leaned in close, and very seriously, you asked me, "Have you ever seen Hocus Pocus?"
This would not have stung the ego so bad had it not been the same day that a 19 year old server guessed that I was 45 years old.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Dear DJ's, revisited
For the second week in a row, I need to revisit an enemy I've already addressed. This time, I'm not angered at your astonishing lack of originality, or by the fact that you let Pauly D. into your ranks. Your horrid masses culminated what ended up being a day of the universe holding me down and trying to spit in my mouth, and I cannot hate you enough for that.
I was able to snag one extra day off of work, and booked a trip to Atlantic City. I went through all of my casino mailers, and found that I had free rooms for the Taj Mahal, like I usually do. However, I couldn't book them for some reason. When I called, I was only told that due to occupancy issues, my comp rooms were discontinued for only the exact dates that I was able to attend, but that I could book at a reduced rate. With little other choice, I booked. Looking into it, I figured the rates were up because on the Atlantic City air show, which I somehow have stayed through at 3 other times previously without having planned. This would seem serendipitous until one realizes that with my anabelpophobia, looking up at low flying planes will tend to make me vomit on myself. I cursed my luck, but still looked forward to my vacation.
I never make big plans for the first day, since it mostly involves traveling, getting situated at the hotel, and losing most of the money I brought to gamble that was supposed to last for the next two days. I started things out extremely well, to be honest. I ate lunch at my favorite diner in my favorite town on the drive up Route 40. I hit little traffic, was able to check in with minor hassle, and ended up even on the slots by the end of the night. Even with the torrential rain outside, I was not hindered. I had a great dinner for one last time at Showboat before it closes for good, and got to bed early for AC standards in preparation for the next day.
The middle day of the trip is the crucial day. I had it planned out almost hour by hour. I'd get a breakfast hoagie at White House Subs in my casino, have a cigar and play in the smoking section, hit another couple casinos before a quick lunch at the Irish Pub, then golfing down at the Renault Winery. I'd end the night with dinner from Tony Baloney's Pizzeria, and have some cigars and a Collins at the Almost Angels show. It would be as close to a perfect day as I can have in my sad little world.
I awoke to the first sunshine I'd seen since leaving Maryland and took this as a sign that maybe my luck was going to finally turn around for good. As I waited for my egg and pepper hoagie, I sat and checked my emails, only to see that due to the rain the night before, my tee time at the golf course was cancelled and the course was closed. I tried to shrug this off. Yes, I was really looking forward to playing the course and enjoying the amazingly mild weather, and yes, I had now lugged my golf clubs across three states for no good reason. This would not put a damper on the day. I would still have the best day ever, I told myself over my delicious meal. The smile faded from my faces as a cacophony of voices muted out the top 40 on the radio in the restaurant, signifying what appeared to be the Tenth Annual Running of the Middle Aged Hipsters.
What I'd failed to notice as I'd wandered through the hotel were the myriad signs and banners welcoming all of you jockeys of discus to your exposition. My once peaceful breakfast was ruined by a long line of potbellied, pierced fortysomething wedding DJ's discussing the merits of Pitbull while standing in line for the Panda Express next door. The urgent need to be taken seriously was sucking most of the oxygen from the room, and I was forced to flee for my safety, sanity, and sandwich.
Realizing that I need to get as far away as I could from this madness, I took to the boardwalk, only to receive a flyby from an old CeeBee from the airshow. Faced with the choice of either vomiting outside or inside, I ducked into the next casino over, but felt that it wasn't far enough. The faint ghosts of "Ooonce Ooooooonce OOOOOOOOOOOOnce" bled through the walls and through my soul. I jumped into the most rickety Jitney ever constructed, and spent the rest of the day out at the Marina casinos, where the only Dj's they knew of were Tanner and Qualls.
My life in exile couldn't last, I knew this. Even if I were to have Tony Baloney's delivered to the front stoop of the casino, I'd still miss the Angels show. Reluctantly, I boarded and even worse jitney for the ride back home and dialed the pizzeria as I sat in the tiny, non Greg regulation sized seat. After a ten minute hold, I slowly realized yet another joy was being stolen from me, as there would be no pizza in a timely fashion. Resigned, I again went to White House, thankfully dining peacefully and alone.
I adjourned to my room for a shower, shave, and all over gussification for the show. I chose my finest cigars, and headed to the Ego bar. Tremors twitched my nerves as the familiar "oonce ooonce ooonce" started getting louder as I approached. When I crossed the threshhold, The lovely ladies of the Angels weren't onstage. There was a DJ rig manned by someone who looked like he'd had his hair chewed off by an overzealous goat was thrashing about to a song that, if it were named by Onomatopoeia, would have been called "FLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLORRRRP DUMPDUMPDUMP TWICKA bip Hanson."
I knew better. I knew what this day had became, yet I still turned to the bouncer and asked the question I didn't want the answer to. Yes, the Angels had been bumped tonight so that some of the DJs that were lecturing at the seminars could show off their skills. I pointed out that's like asking the best t- ball player on the field to show how they were the best at running. It was bound to be awkward, and someone was likely to get hurt for no reason.
Somehow, in my sorrow spiral, I found myself on a deck at The Revel, which had just that day declared they would be closing in three weeks. I sat in a chair, smoked my Arturo Fuente 858, and looked out to the Atlantic City skyline. Some things are good enough that even DJs can't kill them.
I was able to snag one extra day off of work, and booked a trip to Atlantic City. I went through all of my casino mailers, and found that I had free rooms for the Taj Mahal, like I usually do. However, I couldn't book them for some reason. When I called, I was only told that due to occupancy issues, my comp rooms were discontinued for only the exact dates that I was able to attend, but that I could book at a reduced rate. With little other choice, I booked. Looking into it, I figured the rates were up because on the Atlantic City air show, which I somehow have stayed through at 3 other times previously without having planned. This would seem serendipitous until one realizes that with my anabelpophobia, looking up at low flying planes will tend to make me vomit on myself. I cursed my luck, but still looked forward to my vacation.
I never make big plans for the first day, since it mostly involves traveling, getting situated at the hotel, and losing most of the money I brought to gamble that was supposed to last for the next two days. I started things out extremely well, to be honest. I ate lunch at my favorite diner in my favorite town on the drive up Route 40. I hit little traffic, was able to check in with minor hassle, and ended up even on the slots by the end of the night. Even with the torrential rain outside, I was not hindered. I had a great dinner for one last time at Showboat before it closes for good, and got to bed early for AC standards in preparation for the next day.
The middle day of the trip is the crucial day. I had it planned out almost hour by hour. I'd get a breakfast hoagie at White House Subs in my casino, have a cigar and play in the smoking section, hit another couple casinos before a quick lunch at the Irish Pub, then golfing down at the Renault Winery. I'd end the night with dinner from Tony Baloney's Pizzeria, and have some cigars and a Collins at the Almost Angels show. It would be as close to a perfect day as I can have in my sad little world.
I awoke to the first sunshine I'd seen since leaving Maryland and took this as a sign that maybe my luck was going to finally turn around for good. As I waited for my egg and pepper hoagie, I sat and checked my emails, only to see that due to the rain the night before, my tee time at the golf course was cancelled and the course was closed. I tried to shrug this off. Yes, I was really looking forward to playing the course and enjoying the amazingly mild weather, and yes, I had now lugged my golf clubs across three states for no good reason. This would not put a damper on the day. I would still have the best day ever, I told myself over my delicious meal. The smile faded from my faces as a cacophony of voices muted out the top 40 on the radio in the restaurant, signifying what appeared to be the Tenth Annual Running of the Middle Aged Hipsters.
What I'd failed to notice as I'd wandered through the hotel were the myriad signs and banners welcoming all of you jockeys of discus to your exposition. My once peaceful breakfast was ruined by a long line of potbellied, pierced fortysomething wedding DJ's discussing the merits of Pitbull while standing in line for the Panda Express next door. The urgent need to be taken seriously was sucking most of the oxygen from the room, and I was forced to flee for my safety, sanity, and sandwich.
 |
| This is what you miss when you stare at cocktail waitresses who end up calling you "bizarre" when you hand them your business card. |
My life in exile couldn't last, I knew this. Even if I were to have Tony Baloney's delivered to the front stoop of the casino, I'd still miss the Angels show. Reluctantly, I boarded and even worse jitney for the ride back home and dialed the pizzeria as I sat in the tiny, non Greg regulation sized seat. After a ten minute hold, I slowly realized yet another joy was being stolen from me, as there would be no pizza in a timely fashion. Resigned, I again went to White House, thankfully dining peacefully and alone.
I adjourned to my room for a shower, shave, and all over gussification for the show. I chose my finest cigars, and headed to the Ego bar. Tremors twitched my nerves as the familiar "oonce ooonce ooonce" started getting louder as I approached. When I crossed the threshhold, The lovely ladies of the Angels weren't onstage. There was a DJ rig manned by someone who looked like he'd had his hair chewed off by an overzealous goat was thrashing about to a song that, if it were named by Onomatopoeia, would have been called "FLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLORRRRP DUMPDUMPDUMP TWICKA bip Hanson."
I knew better. I knew what this day had became, yet I still turned to the bouncer and asked the question I didn't want the answer to. Yes, the Angels had been bumped tonight so that some of the DJs that were lecturing at the seminars could show off their skills. I pointed out that's like asking the best t- ball player on the field to show how they were the best at running. It was bound to be awkward, and someone was likely to get hurt for no reason.
Somehow, in my sorrow spiral, I found myself on a deck at The Revel, which had just that day declared they would be closing in three weeks. I sat in a chair, smoked my Arturo Fuente 858, and looked out to the Atlantic City skyline. Some things are good enough that even DJs can't kill them.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Dear Netflix, Again
I don't think this is a pretentious request. It's not like I'm going to a sports bar, ordering a wine, then glowering at the people cheering at whatever game is on the tv while muttering "Savages" under my breath. I've never worn a scarf indoors or in any weather above 30 degrees, and I've never once used the word "Sheeple" as a derogatory term. So, I think I come from a good place when I tell you that your five star rating system is no longer sufficient.
I'm not saying that your system isn't good. In fact, I'd say that it probably has the best algorithm around to figure out what people will like based on past ratings. I know that if your system says I will like a movie 3 1/2 stars out of five or more, I will generally enjoy that movie. I pray every day that Amazon.com or GoodReads will develop a similar algorithm for books so that I can get such spot on recommendations, and so that I may never have to read another awful Debbie Gibson biography ever again. I would know which was the best Debbie Gibson biography that didn't just focus on her hatred of Tiffany and her love of Lick 'Em Sticks, because these are things we all know.
There are misteps along the way, sure. You said I would like "Hot Rod" four stars, and I couldn't make it through ten minutes of Andy Samburg's mugging and non-acting and stupid ass face in general. You also thought I would only like Arrow only two and a half stars and I Felicity that Smoak very much. I mean...well, you catch my drift.
Your five star system is easy. Hated It, Didn't Like it, Liked It, Really Liked It, Loved it. Not too hard to screw up, which is why it works. The problem is, there is one slight addition that you could make that could provide an even more laser focus to your suggestions. That would be a sixth star: "I Liked it For What It Was".
This is every SyFy original movie ever made. This is "Johnny Dangerously". This is "Machete", "The 13th Warrior", "Better Off Dead", and anything Stallone has done since "Rocky 3". There are movies you probably shouldn't like, but you just can't help yourself. The idea came to me after I recently watched GI Joe: Rise of Cobra. You gave it two stars for me, but a combination of Channing Tatum and The Rock's easy rapport, a solid guest spot by Joseph Mazzello, and the ever wonderful Adrienne Palicki led me to really enjoy myself. Sure, it was a dumb movie that was perfect to watch while on the elliptical and working out, but that's not an excuse. It was just plain fun, and I let myself see that.
How many movies are you not letting me know about because they don't fit my love of revenge movies, high school comedies, underdog sports movies, and anything anyone that was in The Rocketeer has ever done? How many Tim Allen movies will I have to watch before I find one that is appetizing that isn't named Big Trouble? How many times much I accidentally watch Joe Somebody before you fix this?
I'm not saying that your system isn't good. In fact, I'd say that it probably has the best algorithm around to figure out what people will like based on past ratings. I know that if your system says I will like a movie 3 1/2 stars out of five or more, I will generally enjoy that movie. I pray every day that Amazon.com or GoodReads will develop a similar algorithm for books so that I can get such spot on recommendations, and so that I may never have to read another awful Debbie Gibson biography ever again. I would know which was the best Debbie Gibson biography that didn't just focus on her hatred of Tiffany and her love of Lick 'Em Sticks, because these are things we all know.
There are misteps along the way, sure. You said I would like "Hot Rod" four stars, and I couldn't make it through ten minutes of Andy Samburg's mugging and non-acting and stupid ass face in general. You also thought I would only like Arrow only two and a half stars and I Felicity that Smoak very much. I mean...well, you catch my drift.
Your five star system is easy. Hated It, Didn't Like it, Liked It, Really Liked It, Loved it. Not too hard to screw up, which is why it works. The problem is, there is one slight addition that you could make that could provide an even more laser focus to your suggestions. That would be a sixth star: "I Liked it For What It Was".
This is every SyFy original movie ever made. This is "Johnny Dangerously". This is "Machete", "The 13th Warrior", "Better Off Dead", and anything Stallone has done since "Rocky 3". There are movies you probably shouldn't like, but you just can't help yourself. The idea came to me after I recently watched GI Joe: Rise of Cobra. You gave it two stars for me, but a combination of Channing Tatum and The Rock's easy rapport, a solid guest spot by Joseph Mazzello, and the ever wonderful Adrienne Palicki led me to really enjoy myself. Sure, it was a dumb movie that was perfect to watch while on the elliptical and working out, but that's not an excuse. It was just plain fun, and I let myself see that.
How many movies are you not letting me know about because they don't fit my love of revenge movies, high school comedies, underdog sports movies, and anything anyone that was in The Rocketeer has ever done? How many Tim Allen movies will I have to watch before I find one that is appetizing that isn't named Big Trouble? How many times much I accidentally watch Joe Somebody before you fix this?
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