February 25, 2009

Bitches be Bitches

I learned at a young age that girls were the object of my affection. I learned at a slightly older age that they can't be trusted. This is the story (DUN DUN)...

Getcha popcorn ready and let's flashback to the 5th grade. My 5th grade. Leonard Lawrence Elementary in Bellevue, Nebraska (suburban Omaha...yes there's a suburban Omaha). Our mascot was the Leopards.

Yep, the Leonard Lawrence Leopards. And this is an appropriate mascot. It's where I learned chasing pussy is dangerous.

It was there on that tiny playground at the ripe age of 11 where I learned one of life's most important lessons. A place where dreams were made, where legends honed their streetball skills and where bitches be bitches.

My 5th grade teacher was one of the best teachers I've ever had (or so I thought). I'm not going to say her name because I'm only 3 entries into this blog and 4 people have already read it...maybe even 5. So it's just a matter of time before old teachers and old flames start stumbling upon this blog and I have to remove the link two paragraphs above and change the name of the school to Schmenard Schmorence Middle.

So anyways, the teacher,we'll call her Mrs. Elway, was really something. She was a fortysomething tomboy who frequently helmed the quarterback position at recess. She and I had a Marino/Clayton, Manning/Harrison, Thigpen/Gonzalez connection on the practice field, and it carried over into the classroom where I was one of her favorite students.

I reached UFS status (Undisputed Favorite Student) with my Tony Award-nominated puppet show, Froggielocks, an epic tale of perseverance and redemption adapted from Goldie Locks and the Three Bears. I wrote, produced, directed and starred in the production, which required me to fearlessly peform a blonde girl's accent in front of a room full of quick-to-judge 11 year-old classmates. A legend was like, totally born that day.

Everything was going flawlessly my 5th grade year. My teacher liked me. I liked my teacher. I was developing my playwrighting skills. I was catching the eye of a few elementary co-eds. I was profiting immensely from the prostitution ring I was running from my parents' basement. Life was good. And then it happened...

Me and one of my buds decided to talk to a couple of the cuties from class at recess. I was on top of the world and my buddy was brimming with confidence following his supporting role in Froggielocks. Ain't no thang.

Given that I was a campus icon, I didn't feel the need to work on my game. I thought I had the necessary credentials.

I walked right over to them. Grabbed my crotch. Shook my right leg. And let out an EEE-HEE!! so powerful only pre-pedophile Michael Jackson could fully appreciate. CHITTITTY LOCK UM HMMMMMMMMM. EEE-HEE!!! One more crotch grab and the girls were eating this shit up.

It was (and still is) the ultimate icebreaker. We giggled like only school kids could giggle until recess ended. Fifteen minutes later, my universe would collapse on itself...

"Jason, I need you to come outside with me for a minute," Mrs. Elway said.

A couple of your classmates said you grabbed yourself in front of them at recess. Is that true?

Yeah. I was just giving them what they wanted.

Okay, okay. That's not what I said...

How awkward of a scenario is this? Holy shit. Looking back it still makes me laugh my ass off. So there I am, staring at the ground with my hands in my pockets. Embarassed as hell. And fucking pissed that those little bitches ratted me out after laughing and playing with me like they wanted to have my babies...

Yeah. It's true. I was just messing around though. Doing my Michael Jackson impression.

I'm pretty sure Mrs. Elway was fighting back the laughs when she hit me with the next line...

Well, this is pretty serious. You know that's extremely inappropriate and you can't go around touching your privates in front of girls. Gentlemen don't act that way.

I thought it would end here with a steady tongue lashing. But I was wrong. Even Mrs. Elway couldn't be trusted. Even she would betray me in the end...

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to call your mom and tell her about this...

What a bitch. The sheer embarassment from my teacher telling me I shouldn't touch my privates in front of girls was enough to ruin my first dozen sexual experiences. The lesser of two lessons was already learned. Now she was just rubbing salt in my peehole.

School ends. Mrs. Elway takes me with her to the teacher's office area. Picks up the phone. Calls my mom.

"Mrs. (my last name), I'm calling to let you know that Jason got in to some trouble today. He did something inappropriate at recess. He was playing with a couple of the girls and he...ahem...he touched his privates and did some kind of dance. I just thought you should know..."

My poor mom. The only woman I could trust at the time and I embarassed her. I haven't ever talked to her about what she was thinking on the other end of the phone, but I always imagined her holding back laughter thinking...

My son is a dipshit.

But she reconfirmed my trust in her when she picked me up and didn't say a damn thing about it. The look on my face alone must have said...

Mom, it's cool. I'll only touch my genitalia in private. At least until I'm 12.

The greater of the two lessons learned?

Never trust something that bleeds for 7 days and doesn't die.

February 15, 2009

Ode to a Mall Cop

So here's the problem I'm going to have moving forward. Most writers have life experiences to pull from for ideas. Some think up shit in the midst of a weekend meth bender. Others write about the chick who could do the splits while covered in nacho cheese. Some did hard time. Some without doing the crime. Some can rhyme. But those experiences differ from mine.

I can honestly say I've never consumed an illegal substance (did you catch that FBI Recruiter?), I haven't yet experimented with queso, I've had no run-ins with the law and some days my words don't even flow. You know? But I got's to get to the next paragraph yo.

All I do is win championships.

I'm not complaining about my quality of life here, that's not the point of this entry. So far I'm pretty fulfilled. My life may be vanilla, but I got chocolate skillz.

So where am I going to get my source material? Who knows. But I'm not short of ideas yet. I mentioned earlier that I've never been in trouble with the law, but I did have one close call. And if it weren't for the effort, wisdom and dedication of Mid Rivers Mall Security in St. Peters, Missouri back in 1994, I just might be living life on the unforgiving streets of Sugar Land today.

The Setting (for those of you with poor reading comprehension skills who missed this two sentences ago): Mid Rivers Mall, St. Peters, Missouri, 1994.

The Characters: 12-year-old Me naive of the dangers of white middle class suburban thug mentality, Mike, Mike's dad, and Mid Rivers Mall's finest.

Mike lived down the street from me in Lake St. Louis, Missouri. He's the kid my parents no doubt were most happy to get me away from when we moved to Texas. His entire family seemed odd to me at the time. Given that I was only 12 and picking up on weird family life vibes probably meant that they were one fucked up family. Hills Have Eyes-style. Mike was a year older than me and quickly becoming a terrifyingly bad influence on me. He was a pot-smoking straight-A student and had shoulder-length straggly hair that was shaved underneath. Remember that hair style? The one that was created when someone decided the rat tail wasn't white trash enough?

One of the most uncomfortable days of my childhood was the day I went canoeing with Mike and his dad. Somehow Mike's dad managed to say about 10 words over an 8-hour period while on a canoe in the middle of butt effing Missouri.

But anyways...

The Story: Mike's dad takes me and Mike to the mall because he has some Christmas shopping to do. We don't hit the road until after dark, so we don't have much time once we get to the mall.

Once there, Mike's dad sends us kids on our way so he can buy some things at Famous Barr (now Macy's). Me and Mike shop the mall like any pre-teen would. We hit Gadzook's (this was before it was gay), Spencer's and a couple of teeny bop stores until the mall starts shutting down. Well Famous Barr, being a department store and all, stays open an hour later than the rest of the mall. This being BCE (before the cell phone era), me and Mike use this time to walk the mall alone michieviously. By 9:15 this place is a ghost town. Looking for a cheap thrill, Mike and I climb over Santa's workshop and take a couple of the free sample cereal packs Santa gives away to any tike who waits 7 hours to take a picture with him.

I'm a little hungry so I pop open the Cocoa Puffs and start nibbling. We head up the second floor to check the scene and that's when reality bites. A flashlight shines on our backs and a voice yells, "Stop right there!" We look back to see 2 security guards holding flashlights like Horatio Crane on CSI Miami.

Given that the mall is empty and thinking that we haven't done anything wrong, we stop rather than take off running. Looking back on this, it's definitely possible these guys were totally fucking with us kids. God I hope so. Otherwise what transpired was the biggest abuse of power in the history of mankind.

You kids know the mall is closed right?

Yes sir. We're just waiting on my dad to finish shopping.

Where is he?

He's at Famous Barr. We're on our way to meet him now.

Son, what are you holding in your hand?

This is cereal from Santa's workshop.

Yep...you kids are gonna have to come with us.

The mall cops grab our shirts and walk us back to the bowels of the mall to Mall Security Headquarters. Our final destination is a well-lit room about 15x15 in size. The mall cops tell us to have a seat by the wall and begin questioning us like we killed their partner or something. The highlights of the interrogation went something like this (talking to me, not Mike)...

Let me ask you something, how much is that hat you're wearing?

I was wearing a fitted Michigan Wolverines hat backwards (it was trendy to like the Wolverines back in the day).

About 20 bucks.

So your parents can give you 20 bucks to spend on a ball cap but you don't have money to buy food. Is that right?

No sir. I have money to buy food...er...my parents do sir.

So why are you stealing cereal?

I have to admit, as a 12-year-old kid who had never been in trouble these fuckers had me rattled...

I don't know sir. Don't they give this out for free anyway?

That may be true but you still stole it...

It's at this point Lt. Dangle realizes I've been munching on Cocoa Puffs throughout the entire conversation. It's this fact that prompts him to make the statement that makes me re-evaluate life as a 12-year-old. It's this statement that singlehandedly keeps me away from life on the streets. It's stuck with me ever since. It makes me ponder...do I want a life on the streets, or do I want a life in a 4x4 cubicle selling cruises throughout my 20's? It's this statement that makes me see the answer to this question clearly...

Throw me those Cocoa Puffs, son. They don't belong to you.

Of course I want to work in a 4x4 cubicle. Who doesn't?

So long story relatively short because I'm tired of typing, the mall cops call my parents and get the answering machine and don't leave a message. My parents still don't know this ever happened. Mike's dad gets the story from the cops and says like 4 words about it on the way home. The cops say we could have gotten a Class C Misdemeanor, but shockingly no charges were filed. Probably because we stole something that was free. Is that really stealing?

Thankfully, the DA let us off easy.

Four years later, my high school economics class taught me why what I did was wrong. TINSTAAFB...

There Is No Such Thing As A Free Breakfast.

February 14, 2009

First Remarks and Hammerhead Sharks

I'd like to acknowledge in the first sentence that even thinking about writing a blog is as close to the gay/metro realm as I'd like to venture. The fact that I actually started one has me checking my undies to make sure everything is still in place and still beautiful. Well, it's equal parts there and beautiful. So all is right in the world. Holla.

Anyways, I fancy myself the creative type and have realized fairly recently that sitting in a cubicle for 9 hours a day doesn't really tickle my creative pickle. So that's what brings me here. I have no idea how frequently I'll be updating the site. Like most things I try to add to my life, like getting the gym or drinking fewer than 15 alcoholic beverages per week, this will probably be a fad that lasts through this post and then one more rant about how much Mitt Romney kicks ass two days from now. I encourage feedback. So if either of you reading this blog want to leave a comment, please feel free to do so.

I'll try to limit profanity as much as possible. Cock. Balls. But most of you know I have a bit of a potty mouth at times. And don't be fooled by this post, I'm way too fucking lazy to capitalize letters in all future posts. So grammar nazi's save your energy.

Likely topics for posts will be random tidbits from the day, my take on relationships or politics, and any random funny shit that happens to me or has happened to me in the past. I'll try to limit the politics talk because overall it's pretty fucking boring and Rush and O'Reilly cover that shit almost as well as I could. Plus, I really don't care what you think unless you think like me. So you don't really care what I think. If any of my friends are included in my stories, I'll use fictious names or won't use names at all to maintain anonymity. Hopefully I won't hurt anybody's feelings, but when this shit takes off like the Rocketeer there's going to be some anonymous peeps who know I'm talking about them. Knowimsayin?

For entertainment value, I'll be a little more mean-spirited than I am in person. But enough disclaimers.

I'm a little nervous about putting myself this out there in case I ever go after a job with the FBI. And I'm only half-kidding. I'm considering that. I can see how the interview would go:

Mr. (MyLastName), thanks for coming in today. Before we get started I just wanted to let you know the status of your background check. Everything came back fine but there was that blog you had back in '09. Nobody ever read it so it shouldn't be an issue, but at one point you wrote quote, "Cock. Balls." without any apparent reason. Do you mind explaining that?

To polish off the first blog I'll tell the story that many of you have already heard in person. We'll call it The Hammerhead. However there's an update to this that most of you haven't heard.

The Setting: Baker Street Sugar Land

The Characters: Me and my co-worker friend Matt, Hammerhead, random bartenders

The Plot: Me and Matt meet up for drinks after work for a tad late happy hour. I think it's a Thursday night. Fast forward to today, and I haven't seen Matt in about 2 years and I only knew him for about 8 months, but he's easily one of the 10 funniest people I've ever met. We're a couple of drinks into the night when Hammerhead makes eye contact with me and makes a B-line straight at me. She's about 5'10", maybe 180 or so. Pretty big girl but certainly not morbidly obese. But her eyes are a good solid 4 inches apart, Hammerhead shark-style. She's got fiery red hair and looks like she knows how to p-a-r-t-y. And of course that's not a good thing. She's obviously a few drinks further along than Matt and I, because she grabs my arm and murmers something to me like "oh my god you're so hot."

Now despite my rugged good looks, this sort of thing doesn't happen to me frequently, so I don't know exactly what to say to Hammerhead. I try to brush her aside gently-yet-decisively by giving her a "Haha, gee thanks. That's nice. Well, we're going over there."

Hammerhead isn't having any of it. She comes after me like she has scurvy and my cock is a packet of Emergen-C. Matt's wingman efforts are worthy of a Purple Heart this night as he tries to shake her off with every manuever in the book. We try the we're gay route, we have girlfriends route, we're not interested route, the get the fuck away route. But there is blood in the water and Hammerhead is onto the scent.

I finally get her to leave us alone by saying politely "Hey me and my buddy haven't seen each other for a while so we're just trying to catch up. I'll come by and we can talk at the end of the night." She takes the bait and does her thing for the next couple of hours.

The lights came on for last call a couple of hours later. By this time me and Matt are totally shitfaced and have all but forgotten about Hammerhead until she makes one last hurrah. She walks over to us and says "Can I ask you guys something..."

And before she could finish Matt interrupts with the meanest thing I've ever heard someone say to someone's face...

Yeah, you're fucking UGLY.

Immediately after saying it, Matt is crouched over the bar laughing so hysterically he's got tears in his eyes. Well, this is terrible and Hammerhead looks ready for a fight at this point so I try to salvage things by saying,

I don't think you're ugly at a...

Then SPLASH! Her 3/4 full Jack and Coke is all over me. It drenches my shirt. It's splattered all across my glasses. It's all up in my hair and inside my ear like I just got shot with a Super Soaker a-la 1994. And I'm laughing so hard a couple of drops of pee escape.

Not only has this never happened to me, I've never seen it happen to anyone at any bar I've ever been to. And that's a shit-ton of bars. I mean this shit is straight out of a shitty RomCom starring Meg Ryan. Meg Ryan wouldn't be the one throwing the drink of course. She'd see it happen at a bar and write about it in her advice column for some Cosmo-style mag. And we'd hear her take on the story via voice over.

Hammerhead swims off and I look over at the bartenders who are laughing like it's the funniest shit they've ever seen. Two years later I can't go to the bar without one of them asking where my girlfriend is. Who, Hammerhead? That ain't my bitch knowimsayin.

Adding to the Saga, this New Year's Eve I go to a random bar in the Heights to watch my girlfriend's gig and who's serving me my drinks? Lo and behold, it's Hammerhead. What an odd twist of fate. After several rounds I run into her on the way to the bathroom and I say rather non-chalantly to avoid vag cheese in my beer, "You know, you threw a drink on me once. That was fucked up."

She proceeded hug me, kiss my cheek and apologize.

I'll always wash that cheek again.