Night and Day

Help Wanted

2011-06-07T14:09:00.001-04:00

My wife has pointed out that I need an assistant. So consider this a help wanted ad.

You: must be punctual and detail oriented, as I'm neither. You must have the patience of Job, and a very healthy sense of humor. You will need a thick skin. You ever seen 'Entourage?' Yeah, I make Ari look like the most sensitive, kind man on the face of the planet. I am horribly inappropriate. I am also obsessed with my dog and boobs. I love boobs. Is there anything better than boobs? I think not. So as to clear up any misunderstandings, I'm not obsessed with my dog's boobs, because that would just be creepy.

Oh, and I'm creepy. You can expect at least 15 comments daily regarding your anatomy, if you're a chick. Don't apply if you have a penis. I expect cleavage, and lots of it. I will also try to grab your boobs. Yeah, I'm like that.

You must also have a good working knowledge of classic rock as at least sixteen times a day I will randomly quote some song that no one's heard in the last decade.

You must have access to a working car. You will be driving me places. I will be in control of the stereo, as I'm that type of asshole.

You must understand that the Rolling Stones Tetralogy Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street are the four best consecutive albums ever released.

You will be expected to attend all my CLE's and forge my name on the documents. Thanks.

You will be expected to show up for any and all shifts that I may have. You will comport yourself with dignity and grace, which is far better than I do on my own.

You will understand spell check. Grammar as well. Ignore the foregoing sentence.

And what does this pay? Zero. Just the honor of my presence. I will teach you how to be cool. Do as I say, not as I do. Or something like that.

So email me your application, along with a CURRENT photo. I don't want to see what you looked like in 1993. Well, unless you're naked, in which case, send it along, it might help.

What the Hell Are You Doing?

2011-03-28T09:40:00.002-04:00

I've received several texts and e-mails regarding my lack of updating this particular site. There is actually a good reason. I'm writing a book. Well, I'm writing two books. I got halfway through one and was taken by a muse to another place. A book that I've had the basic idea for about 5 years. So I started writing that. Anyway, here's the prologue. I think it will be a good story, but who knows, it may suck. The working title is "Fucking Mexicans." Yes, it won't get published under that name, or published at all, but it is a story that drives me. So here you go.

Prologue

Fucking Mexicans.

I can hear them in the next room, watching the Price is Right.

“Ese, you out of your mind? $300 for a washer/dryer? You loco, hombre.”

“Jinga tu madre, that shit is cheap.”

It’s been going on like this for a week, maybe ten days. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting in this cell. Part of the problem is that I just keep replaying the last month to figure out where it all went fucking wrong. Really wrong.

Whenever I would see people on the 6 o’ clock news, I always thought, ‘How can you be so fucking stupid?’ You hire a hit man to off your wife. You embezzle $300,000 from your company. You tee off on the noisy upstairs neighbor with a 5 iron. It’s fucking obvious you’re going to get caught.

Yet, somehow, these people keep doing this obvious shit and actually have the audacity to look fucking surprised when the cops show up and they get tazed on the front lawn in front of their wife and kids.

Now I know.

You want to know the secret?

It’s not sexy, but it’s 100% true. Unfortunately, I know exactly how it happens, because it happened to me. It’s hard to believe that a month ago I was graduating law school, had a job, had a girlfriend, had a whole life.

And now it’s all gone. And why?

Little mistake by little mistake. That guy with the 5 iron? What you don’t see is all the shit that happened before he blew up and broke six of his neighbor’s ribs. The act itself is merely the result of dozens of tiny, incremental mistakes that shift your reality to such a degree that the guy that started out is not the guy swinging away without yelling ‘fore.’ No, he’s a changed man. And the really amazing part is after the act, he’s immediately changed back, staring at his neighbor howling in pain, and the 5 iron in his shaking hand thinking ‘how the fuck did I come to this?’

Little mistake by little mistake. That’s almost always the answer. Most people are rational reasonable actors. They tend to do the right thing. But somewhere in the loop of life, you can get stuck with feedback. The sound hearing itself, amplifying itself, and hearing itself again until it reaches a crescendo of mind splitting proportions. And when it’s all over, all you had to do was shut the amp off. But it never occurs to you once you get stuck.

At least it didn’t occur to me.

No, I listened to that feedback and ignored the consequences. At least I didn’t get tazed. Well, maybe getting tazed would have been better than getting blown to hell and back, but that’s merely a matter of opinion.

And I continue to look back. Where was it that I could have made the decision to avoid sitting in this cell with a bunch of Mexicans laughing at me and saying ‘No Ingles’ motherfucker? Now that I look at it, there were a bunch of exits off of this particular highway. And why didn’t I take them?

Because of a girl. Well, three actually, but as usual I’m getting ahead of myself.

So I’ll go back to the beginning.

Anytime... ...And the Band Played On.

2011-02-18T08:37:00.002-05:00

Ohhhhh, anytime you want me,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you need me,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you want me to,
Ohhhhh, anytime that you need me. ~ Journey, 'Anytime.'

It doesn't matter what you like. You like it. That's good enough. And yes, I like Journey. There. I said it.

What it comes down to is music is the glue that sticks the world together. Just look at the people on the streets. Earphones in. Bobbing their heads.

It's pure poetry in motion. Literally.

And how can that be bad?

And for me, well, my musical career was a foregone conclusion when I first heard "Panama." It floored me. It still does. I'm 16 all over again every time that song comes on.

But what sold me was "Mean Streets." Yes, it's more than a Scorcese movie. It's Eddie playing too fast, too long, and too hard on a city block well after dark. And I love it.

"Easy Like Sunday Morning." Also love that. Which kills my wife.

So what's the point? I'll get to it now. We go through this life once. That's it. Once. No rehearsals, no do-overs. You get one shot at it. What you want. What you believe. What you care about.

And what do you care about? I know what I care about. Some silly little riff at 2:44 into a Guns and Roses song. Is it important? Of course not, but I think it is. And that's what gives my life any sort of meaning. So ultimately, what I'm getting at is this:

I'm coming out of retirement.

Yes, me and my '72 Telecaster Custom Reissue are back in the market. I'm looking for something hard-hitting and original. I'm going to play it my way, all the way. I will leave fans (of which I have none) totally disappointed. I had one band that I loved. They're called 'Outasynk' and I love what I did with them.

But this time? Yeah, this boy is going to tame the man.

So if you have a band in the Philly area, and you're looking for a totally egotistical guitar player, e-mail me.

Or I'll just do it myself.

Coming to venue near you in 2011. And I have the place picked out.

More to come. Grab your ear plugs, you'll need them.

I may be old, but I'm just getting started.

A Birthday, Of Sorts

2010-12-15T15:36:00.003-05:00

I had actually typed out the eulogy I gave at my father's funeral, as today is six years since he passed.

But then I realized, some things are just for me and my dad. Maybe some day I'll post it, but as ok with everything I am right now, this one is a bit too much for me now.

Strangely enough, in my opinion, today is my birthday. Sure, I was born on another day, but as I described to a friend at the time, 'the day my dad died was the first day I felt like I was working without a net.'

And I still feel that way. That's not a good or bad thing, it just is.

I hope you don't understand.

Thank you, Dad, thinking about you.

Regular posts to follow next week.

NandD

Year Six

2010-12-07T11:32:00.003-05:00

Wheels keep a spinning round and round years keep a spinning round and round
With the passing of your time, though you seldom come to mind I remember the day
Sure as winter follows fall, sure as maybe I will call, just remember the day. ~ Robert Plant, "Far Post."

Just remembering the day. Six years ago, and sometimes it seems like a lifetime, other times, the wound is still fresh. I guess ultimately that's what you need to do, stitch it up, lament the pain, and move along.

For the first time in six years, I'm going to celebrate Christmas. It was my father's favorite holiday. I can't say I'm 'over it' per se, but I do know that I finally am feeling out from under. And it's good to feel that way.

It's also nice to feel like there were good times. And there were plenty of those.

So why do we remember our dead? They're no longer with us, obviously, but they take up mental and emotional space far greater than their actual presence ever did.

The conclusion I've come to is we remember for our own sake. Hoping against hope that it all means something, that when our predetermined time arrives, others will keep us alive. So that we can matter. So that we can believe. So that we can live on. If only for a second.

So Dad, you can rest easy, you still live on through me, my sisters, and even my mom. Though you may not have gotten everything you could have hoped for, you did get immortality.

It's the only gift I have left that I can give you.

But what else can a son do? All men are sons, and all of us secretly dread and aspire to the same thing: that we too can play it the way you played it.

You didn't play it perfectly, but you played it well.

A week and a half ago, I had a dream about my dad, and I haven't had one of those in years. I was on a couch, watching tv, and inexplicably I looked over and my dad was on a couch as well. He looked at me and said "Son, you've got to sleep more than four hours a night." He then got up, covered me in a blanket, and said "Son, just relax, it's ok."

You know what Dad? You're right as usual. Everything's ok.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

The Haunting

2010-11-19T07:44:00.005-05:00

"Blame me,
Save a prayer for those haunt you.
There now,
I don't mind if you still love me." ~ Jerry Cantrell, "Leave Me Alone."

The world is a lot smaller than I previously thought.

A good friend of mine invited me to a book release party last night. So a hearty 'howdy' to Joe and Brett, who were great company. Oh, and Katie too. I also managed to get talked into cooking again by my boss, but that's another story for another time.

I had a fucking blast. I got to meet the author. I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you how much this meant to me since my one goal in life at this point is to finish my book. I don't even care at this point if it sucks, I just need to get it done. Oh, the book.

"How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide." The author's name is Aaron Goldfarb, and I have to tell you, I don't generally like anyone, but this guy was really nice. He took time out to say hello and say a few encouraging words, which is incredibly cool. His blog is funny as hell too. It's located here. Give the guy some love, anyone who's written a book deserves it, because it's fucking hard as hell.

How do I know this? Well, as I said, I've been writing a book which is responsible for my lack of attention to this blog, among other things.

I started out writing a book with the working title "Fucking Mexicans." I actually had 90 pages finished, then in a fit of rage (which when it comes to my writing, is not rare, for instance, I have about 40 posts for this blog in queue that I will never post because I can't stand to read them. That's right, the shit I put up is actually better than the shit I don't put up, so you can thank me for that later.) I deleted it. All of it. Character sketches. Outline. Treatment. Every last fucking word. Enough self loathing for you?

So what have I been writing? You may ask. You may not care. I wouldn't blame you.

The haunting. It never leaves me. There's always a look, a place, a name, a girl. It all factors in.

And with no further ado, or any at all for that matter, the current project is called "Old City Stories." It's a collection of short stories about the places I live and love. A bit of back story is necessary at this point.

As you all know, I used to practice law. "Practice" being the key word. After much soul searching and discussion with my wife, it became apparent that I couldn't do it anymore. I've lived too much of my life for others, and at 38, for the second time, it is time for me to live for me. Typing those words is weird. Anyway, back to the book and my life.

I've been holding out on you all. I'm actually training to be a bartender. And I love it. It's so nice to actually have people come in and be happy to see me. For ten years, I would pick up the phone and the person on the other end of the line was dismayed. Now, when people see me, they're happy. What a change. I'm sure it's the booze, but I'm ok with a little self delusion.

Anyway, one day I was sitting in the bar, waiting for my first customer, and I thought "Hey, fuck it, I should write a story about this." I don't know what inspired me to think that, but there it was. So I started writing notes. A Conflict arose. Characters entered next. The scenery was already there. And so it goes.

It gets really difficult to write. Some days I stare at the computer screen and I want to scream. Nothing comes. It's all around me, the inches I need, but they don't cooperate. Why anyone would choose this life is beyond me, but that's a continuing theme in my life. The choices just seem to happen without any regard for my tastes. So I slog through the best that I can.

That's what haunts me. The knowledge that it's all around me, and I just can't seem to find it. It's like being blind in the spring. The beauty is all around you, but you can't see it. Torture. Degradation. The half an inch you need, just out of reach.

And isn't that really the basis of failure? Reaching for something that is just a half an inch out of reach? You strain, you feel the arm muscles tighten, you look at the raised fingers, but at some point, you just know.

It's not enough. Your best just isn't good enough. And that's what writing is for me every single fucking day. So why do I do it? I don't know. Compulsion? Perhaps. Crashing by design? Most definitely.

So I've promised my wife that I wouldn't delete anything anymore. Hopefully, I'll come out with something cohesive and serviceable, but even if I don't, at least I'm trying.

And isn't that really what you can do? Try? It's all I've got left, and who knows, maybe I'll actually be successful.

More to come.

Oh, why is the world smaller than I previously thought? The editor of the book by Aaron Goldfarb is a girl named Amy whom used to be a waitress at a lunch place I used to go to back when I was an 'important person.' It was good to see her again, and I'm glad she seems to be heading in her dream direction.

3:00 A.M. Redux.

2010-10-06T13:14:00.002-04:00

Upon further review, I've decided my opening song in my dream would be:

Can't You Hear Me Knockin' by The Rolling Stones.

Holy Mother of God, this song is unbelievable. I just busted out Sticky Fingers and once again have to bow to the genius that is the guitar playing of Mick Taylor and Keith Richards. They dance around one another like a couple of belly dancers and it's hypnotic and beautiful.

Yup. This is the one.

That's all.

Takin' What They're Givin...

2010-10-04T10:27:00.004-04:00

...Because I'm Working for a Living. ~ Huey Lewis and the News, "Working for a Living"

I'm pissed off. Yes, yes, I'm sure you're shocked. So I'm contemplating sending the following e-mail to the City of Philadelphia, budget crises be damned.

Dear City of Philadelphia,

While I'm cognizant that you're currently facing a massive budget shortfall, despite the fact that you manage to tax everything, and I mean everything, to such a draconian amount that Satan wonders how the fuck he can blow all that money on hookers and coke. However, I have enclosed an invoice for services rendered and I do expect that I should get paid. You may be asking yourselves 'who the fuck is this guy?' It's a fair question, so I'll deign to give you as thorough a response as possible.

I'm the guy that stands on Second Street, having a cigarette. Now I understand cigarette breaks are normally noncompensible, however, while I'm taking these breaks, I have to endure the following:

-Someone, usually staying at the Hostel located nearby, will stop and ask me questions. I understand that I'm incredibly sexy and intelligent looking, but despite this, I do not speak Dutch, German, Swahili or whatever the fuck language these people speak from a country I couldn't find on a map with a GPS, both my hands and a fucking flashlight. I do not understand you, this is why I tilt my head to the side like my dog does when I ask her to complete a math problem. No, I don't know why the United States hates you, but I do know why I hate you. While I appreciate the fact that your country's history probably includes goat rape, all we have here in Philadelphia is the birthplace of Democracy. So fucking shove it, and we can even vote on the foregoing should you so choose.

- I don't know if you can park there. I'm sorry, have you ever seen 'Parking Wars?' Yeah, it's about the Philadelphia Parking Authority. From what I can tell, they are the most powerful agency in the city, surpassing even the Mayor's office. Yes, I know parking is a bitch. Yes, I know you're from Jersey. Yes, I may even feel a little (and I do mean little) sympathy for you. That being said, I do not control the parking authority. I've even got tickets from them, and I'm a fucking douchebag when it comes to signs. Let me make this clear, I went down to parking court with my wife (my attorney as well) and yelled at people. This is what I like to do and this is what makes me feel that my life is worthwhile. So while I do commiserate with you, I do not like being yelled at, so fuck yourselves. Your parking, despite your commitment to the contrary ideal, is not my fucking problem. Figure it the fuck out.

- Yes, I did probably hit on you ten years ago. While I understand you're now married, have three kids, and unhappy about it all, it's not my fault. I assure you, you were only one of a million I hit on, and extremely unsuccessfully I might add. Again, it bears repeating, it's not my fault. And to further make you feel shitty about this, I will affirmatively state that when I was younger, I fished in the 'dumb, drunk, and slutty pool.' Of which you were an inhabitant. If you actually did sleep with me (which is highly unlikely) then you have something to bitch about. Just ask my wife.

- Yes, I do understand you're homeless. No, I don't want to buy the shit you just took out of the dumpster behind Pharmacia. While I appreciate a good deal as much as the next guy, a half drank bottle of Miller Lite at $1 seems just a bit too risky, considering the cap is off and the bottle appears to be steaming. While I also appreciate the fact that your urine has a higher alcohol content than Everclear, and it is well known that I'm such a huge risk taker, some risks are just not worth the payoff.

- Do not look so fucking helpless and clueless when you wear a Nazi SS Uniform at the Khyber Pass because 'you're making a statement' and you get your brains beat in on Second Street. I do love the law, and yes, I will agree that assault is illegal, I will also have to state that some people have it coming to them. And you're one of them. Oh, and stop bleeding on the sidewalk, show some fucking courtesy.

- I apologize, I'm not in the business of giving you a credible alibi in case you committed a crime. If you steal a purse, I'm going to yell and point. At you. I once had my wallet stolen, and let me tell you, replacing the money is easy. The ID's and credit cards are hellish. I contemplated changing my name to Juan Valdez so I could get free coffee, but the DMV didn't seem to have a sense of humor. Oh, and fuck them.

- I am not the Cruise Director for Old City. I know, I know, this may come as a shock to many of you. In an effort to continue to be helpful, I've decided I'm going to answer all requests with 'On my cock.' Hopefully this will let the person know just how much contempt I have for them, as I do not like to veil my sarcasm and distaste, as like whiskey, they are much better straight.

"Where can we go dancing?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can we eat around here?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have a cigarette?" - 'On my cock.'
"Do you have any change?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where can I park?" - 'On my cock.'
"Where is Independence Hall?" - 'On my cock.'

So, City of Philadelphia, as you can see, my newest 'On my cock' policy will yield the appropriate response to pretty much any question. If this policy does not meet with your approval, feel free to suck my cock.

Taking all the foregoing into consideration, including time, labor and materials, I estimate the following outstanding balance for services rendered:

$1,432,567.50

I will not accept any checks, especially third party out of state checks as you are hobo ass broke. I prefer cash, although I will accept the deed to City Hall in lieu of cash.

Please deliver to Night and Day, P.O. Box 666, First Bank of America, Philadelphia, PA, 19106.

NOTE: If people comment that they want me to send the above e-mail, and come up with an amusing reason to do so, I will consider creating a new e-mail address and invoice the city for my time. Let me know, it could be funny if they actually respond. It could be even funnier if they actually pay me. Hey, fuck it, if the head of the Philadelphia Housing Authority can get a pension after running up millions in sexual harassment settlements, I can certainly get paid for 'helping tourism flourish.'

3:00 A.M.

2010-10-01T09:13:00.000-04:00

"Children we have it right here,
It's the light in my eyes,
It's perfection and grace,
It's the smile on my face.

Tonight when I chase the dragon,
The water will change to cherry wine,
And the silver will turn to gold
Time out of mind." ~ Steely Dan, "Time Out of Mind"

I'm in a dressing room. I feel the weight of my 1972 Fender Telecaster Custom Reissue, the first real guitar I ever bought, tugging at my neck. It feels like a comforting hand on my shoulder, letting me know that despite myself, everything's going to be all right. Sometimes, even in my dream, I wonder, 'why this one?' It makes no sense to me, I've always been terrified of the spotlight. Yet, in possibly the most glaringly inconsistent manner, I seek out that which frightens me.

I stare around the dressing room. The other band members are going through their own rituals, facing their own demons, coming to terms with the unreality of it all. I stare straight ahead at the mirror and look at the man-boy staring back at me. Beat up baseball cap, nondescript t-shirt, jeans a couple of sizes too big. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, and the eyes narrow. I've never gotten too far beyond that 16 year old self.

This is where things start to get scary. I'm about to go where I never want to go. I don't understand it, I've played hundreds of shows (once in front of 12,000 people) and yet I can't seem to just walk away. It is infuriating in its hypocrisy. Why do it if it drives me this nuts.

The dream continues. At a certain point, I dash to the bathroom and the contents of my stomach end up exiting.

"5 minutes" yells the road manager.

Oh boy, this is the worst. The heightened sense of impending doom. Why on earth would I dream of something so anxiety laden?

In the dream I return to the dressing room. The looks on the faces of my bandmates vary from serene to panic stricken as we make our final peace with our 'before' selves. I take a deep breath and grab Sascha, my '72 Tele, take a drag from my cigarette, and take a swig of Powers.

"Showtime."

I follow behind the band, I'm going to be the last one on stage. Suddenly, I panic. What is the first song? The first chord? Do I start it? Holy fuck, this is bad. Though this part of my dream has always remained constant, the first song changes depending on my mood. It has varied from "Custard Pie," a down and dirty blues romp, to "Running with the Devil," through "Live Wire," the ultimate opener by AC/DC, or sometimes the haunting "Gimme Shelter," a song of doom and post apocalyptic gloom.

We wind through the bowels of the arena, the footsteps of my bandmates echoing back and forth over the halls and floors. In the distance, I hear a storm coming, just on the verge of breaking. I can even smell sulpher, a used match backlights the head of the singer in front of me. It's coming.

We climb a stairwell, ascending to the stage. I can feel the breeze, indiscriminately carrying with it the smells of thousands of people. The storm is growing closer, the temperature is rising right along with my panic. Only an ego such as mine could compare this to the way the Christians must have felt on their last walk to the arena for the amusement of others. I'm sure there's some comment on the human condition here somewhere, about misery providing amusement. I'm just not in a place to make the connection.

We wind around to the main stage, noise growing louder, and I can see the smoke. There are flashes of light through a sliver of curtain. It's time.

In my dream, there is no introduction, no fanfare, no announcer. Just five guys, their instruments and a desire to never lose that fire. The one within, the one that takes sheer unadulterated joy in submitting to the music that is the child of us all. I walk out on the stage, still darkened, waiting for that one perfect chord that will ring out forever.

I am home.

...

It's 3 a.m. and I'm awake. This is not an uncommon thing for me. I sit on my couch and listen to the world in its stillness, and I wish I could join it.

But no rest for the wicked.

They file in, one by one, wordlessly, staring. Every mistake and decision I've ever made. They line up, and their very presence underscores the agenda. Reflection. When Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Rush decided to create a new prison model, they created Eastern State Penitentiary. The idea was to isolate the prisoner, because it would force them to turn inward and reflect, and hopefully become 'penitent.'

At 3:00 a.m., the defenses you need to deal with the day are gone, because there is nothing left to defend against, other than yourself. The parade down the road untaken isn't always painful, and isn't always futile. It just makes you wonder 'what if?'

At 3:00 a.m., whether it be dreaming or reflecting, you are probably as true to yourself as you can ever be.

I don't think it's coincidence that our capacity to dream and regret wreak their havoc upon us at the same time, they are sisters, one the potentiality of us all and the other the reality. The one sister is your companion, and the other is what you want to possess, but never will.

If the last year has taught me anything, it's that you never really know what's around the corner. Obviously, I'm logical enough to know that, but to really feel it and experience a major change in your life is a different thing altogether. For the past ten years, my life was fairly straightforward, I had a career, I got up everyday, went to do my job, went home. Rinse and repeat. It didn't leave too much time to think about shit, and let's face it, you get complacent and don't really have the motivation to think about the bigger things.

Maybe we avoid thinking about the bigger things because of the regrets that we all know lie just beneath the surface. The bitch of it is that's where the dreams are too, so when you dredge those waters you have to accept the fact that you'll end up finding a few bodies in your hunt for buried treasure.

So now what? At 38, I never saw myself in this position, wondering what type of work I would do when I had it figured out cold at 26. But life throws you curves sometimes and you have to adjust.

Ultimately, I guess since I'm here now, maybe I'll go out to the garage, dust off the saddle, and giddy up and just see if I can catch a dragon or two. I'm a bit out of practice, but who knows, I might just catch one. And if you circle around enough, it becomes harder to determine who is chasing whom.

And sometimes the odd number wins.

Underrated Guitar Solos

2010-09-16T09:25:00.000-04:00

I've been a musician most of my life. There is something that is absolutely enchanting about music, it guides, cajoles, and lives in our memories, setting off good thoughts about a time and place.

For me, the pinnacle of music is the guitar solo. Probably because I'm a guitar player, but there is something so American about a guitar. Yes, I know it was invented elsewhere, but rock music is uniquely American and the ultimate expression of guitar is the solo.

I've played hundreds, if not thousands, of guitar solos. My wife will forever hate 'Sympathy for the Devil' because of a ten minute solo I once did on that song.

Anyway, I talk to a lot of guitar players, and every time I mention the following solos, they say 'oh, shit, totally forgot about that, it's fucking awesome.' So that's the requirement for an underrated solo. Solos like 'Stairway to Heaven,' 'All Along the Watchtower,' and 'Hotel California' are iconic. As such, they will not be included. So without any further ado, and in no particular order, here is my list of the ten most underrated guitar solos.

In the Evening, Led Zeppelin, In Through the Out Door, by Jimmy Page. Yes, he's sloppy. And his technique isn't the greatest. But this solo stands out. If you listen closely, you can hear the springs of the tremelo system as they expand at the beginning of this solo. The first time I heard it, I stopped what I was doing, slack jawed and siad 'what the fuck was THAT?'

Mean Street, Van Halen, Fair Warning, Eddie Van Halen. It's difficult to imagine that there is an underrated Van Halen solo, but this one might be the penultimate one. First of all, you have David Lee Roth saying 'Dance, baby' and this wonderful rhythm part underneath it, all glistening and shiny. Then BAM. He tears into a vintage solo that would would give Satan a hard on. It's one of the few solos that I took the time to learn note for note, and it still fucking floors me even though I can play it. Typically, I don't think much of my guitar playing, so if I can play it, I figure it must suck. This one? Yeah, it retains the magic behind the curtain.

No More, No More, Aerosmith, Toys in the Attic, Joe Perry. I never got Aerosmith when I was younger. I liked the hits, but I could never understand why Joe Perry was so highly rated. Then I heard this solo and I never questioned the greatness that is Joe Perry. The outro is unreal. Turn the stereo up, put the car in fifth gear and hit the gas. Make sure to do it on a warm fall day and you too will get this religion. There's a road in Marlton, New Jersey where the trees overgrow the road. You run down this path and stare at the dimpled sunlight through the leaves. If you have this song on while you do it, you will forever be thankful.

Driven to Tears, The Police, Zenyatta Mandatta, Andy Summers. This guy basically takes 16 bars to break into your house, fuck your wife, kick your dog, drink your whiskey, steal your tv and is out the door. You can't even get mad, you just nod in amazement and repeat Will Farrel's line from Anchorman: 'I'm not even mad, I'm just impressed.' It's that fucking good.

In the Mood, Robert Plant, Isle of Wight. There's a version of this song out there and the dude does an 8 minute solo that makes you hang on every note. It starts off a bit slow, just dripping with feel and then explodes into an extravaganza for the ears. If anyone ever asked me: 'how do I know when I'm a good guitar player?' my response would be 'when you can get this solo. Not playing it, just get it.'

Miss You, Eric Clapton, August, Eric Clapton. Yes, this album is totally commercial. The backstory on this solo is Clapton had a very heated argument with the producer, a gentleman by the name of Phil Collins, and he went in to the studio scowling and busted this one out. Clapton is a God, and has many highly regarded solos, but this one is never brought up, and it should be, because you can feel the animosity coming out of the speakers. I've been to three Clapton concerts, and at the first two I fell asleep. I'm not kidding, I was that bored. The third one? I was in the 14th row at the Spectrum and I now understand why there is a God and he is Clapton.

Planet of New Orleans, Dire Straits, On Every Street, Mark Knopfler. If I could be any guitar player, it'd either be Clapton, Van Halen or Mark Knopfler. What he does all over this album is nothing short of kick you in the balls in such a way that you say 'thank you sir, may I have another.' This album, which in my opinion might be Dire Strait's best, is much maligned because of its commercial value. But good is good. And this solo, or series of solos, makes you understand that if Jesus came back today, he'd be sporting a Stratocaster and playing this solo.

Let Me Put My Love Into You, AC/DC, Back in Black, Angus Young. A guitar player once said to me when I told him that I loved Angus 'really? No One Loves Angus.' I just stared at him. This guy does things with a guitar that makes me question if I even exist. To be able to play that way is just unsettling on a fundamental level. As noted in previous posts, my AC/DC shirt, which my wife regrets buying me, is a fundamental part of my existence. And this solo is the reason.

Estranged, Guns and Roses, Use Your Illusion 2, Slash. I was definitely a latecomer to the Guns and Roses Bandwagon, but this album? Holy Mother of Fuck, it was stupendous. Generally regarded by critics as the better of the duo, this one is a late night drive by shooting in the making. The second solo, the one that begins with the volume fade ins, is like an ill wind blowing through your screen door at 5 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. Unexpected, unwanted, and totally addictive.

My Morning Song, Black Crowes, Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, Rich Robinson/Ford. If you don't have this album, go out and buy it. Right now. It is the most important album in the past 20 years. Hyperbole? Maybe. But I'm telling you, from the opening strains of 'Sting Me' through the sheer slide and sex that is 'My Morning Song' you will not be disappointed. If you like rock music, you'll like this album. And if you don't like this album, you have no soul. Exaggeration? Not a bit.

Bonus 11th Track:

Join Together,The Who, Lifehouse Project, Pete Townshend. This one takes a while to get moving, but like a runaway train, it just picks up speed, bowls you over, and leaves you looking at its tail end wondering what the hell just happened. Both solos in this one are worthy of emulation. The first one is about 4 bars in E, but it doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard. The second one sounds like a desperate lover on a three day binge begging for one more go.

As noted in my last post, Music, Art, and Beauty are the things that make it worth being human. If you don't think so, well, go fuck yourself. This one is my line in the sand.

Some Rules to Try to Live By...

2010-09-16T08:18:00.003-04:00

I posted this on a board I frequent. Upon further review, I actually like it, which is very rare for me. So without gilding the Lily further....

I'm 38 and the last five years have been difficult. I may sound sanctimonious, but please don't take it that way, the following advice isn't offered because 'I did it right' but because I did it wrong and I regret it and wish I could go back and do it over.

Leave People Better Than You Find Them. It shames me to admit it, but when I was younger, I really was a shitty guy. As Kant opined, people are ends unto themselves, not means, treat them as such. If you're going to spend any significant amount of time with someone, they are gracing you with their presence, and probably their affection. Be worthy of it, and return it. Do what you can to make their life better for having invested in you.

Repair the Relationships That Are Broken, and Be Sure Of Ending The Ones That Can't Be Repaired. I waited til the eleventh hour to 'fix' the relationship with my father. I can't tell you how lucky I am that I knew my father was passing, and I got this opportunity. Don't be an asshole like me and wait, you may be too late. In the same vein, if a relationship is toxic, and you're sure it is, politely extricate yourself and move on. It is a blessing to both of you, whether you know it or not.

Art, Music, Literature and Beauty Are Important. I contend the only thing that separates us from the other species is Art. The expression of our collective predicament, the commentary on our knowledge that we too will pass. I can't give you a well articulated reason as to why these things are important, I can only say they are. As to beauty, it can be found all around you.

Courtesy and Class Never Go Out of Style. I am a very salty individual. I probably tell my wife to 'fuck off' at least 5 times a day. I do it out of love and humor (and she knows it, and actually invites it because she just laughs at me), but in public, she's my Queen. As to the public at large, they are people whom are just like you. You walk in their shoes. Remember that.

Dare to Follow Your Dreams. Most of you, like it or not, are going to end up an old fuck like me. Doing something you dislike makes life an eternity. I would urge you, to the degree possible, to find something you really like to do when you're younger and adjust your lifestyle accordingly. Maybe it means you have less things, maybe it means you won't have the huge house. I recently eschewed my 'big job' for one that is paying far less. As I said, I'm 38, and have been carded in the past month 3 times because the stress is gone. That said:

Financial Smarts Are Important. As others said, get a budget and adjust your lifestyle. It took me waaaaaaay too long to figure this one out.

Don't Wait To Stand Up For Yourself. I used to think that standing up for yourself meant getting angry. I was wrong. As others have said, don't be afraid of telling someone, in a nice way, that you don't like the way they are treating you. They may change, and if they don't, you know to walk away.

Perfectionism Is A Hollow Mistress. You are going to make mistakes. I recently deleted 90 pages of a book I'm working on because I couldn't stand it. It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever will be, we live in a world of imperfection, don't let the flaws stop you. Again, this was hard earned experience.

Always Be You. Maybe you're inconsistent. Maybe you're not. But whatever you are, try to be true to that. Unless you're an asshole like me, but I believe everyone is capable of change and being a better person. I also believe that the better you is the real you. Find him. Be him. Or her.

Don't Be Afraid to Ask For Help. I've tried to tough many things out on my own, not being willing to admit that whatever task I was undertaking was beyond my abilities. Learn a bit of humility and don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Life is tough, we're in this mess together.

Always Leave the Other Guy An Out With Honor. Never corner someone into a position that they can't potentially leave the situation with grace or dignity. If they choose not to, that's on them.

Finally:

Everyone Gets Low, Try to Help Them Up. Be that guy. Everyone needs a lift, they're having a rough day, they're dog died, whatever, we've all been there. Be the person to look at that person on the ground and say 'hey, here's a hand up.'

Random Thoughts from Mr. Mom

2010-08-20T00:25:00.000-04:00

I'm about six hair follicles and living with my parents away from being George Costanza." Me, to my wife the other day.

I am currently unemployed. Yes, I have gotten messages and texts from some of you over the past several months about how hard it was for me to land that job and then I just up and quit.

Maybe it's because at 38 years of age, I've decided getting yelled at by people that don't touch my fun stuff is not as appealing as it once was. I'll get into more about that at some other time, but suffice it to say that it was a wake up call about what I do, or rather did, for a living.

Since law school, I've worked the typical 8-6 routine. I rarely took vacations. Yes, I'm going somewhere with this. Anyway, it's absolutely amazing to me how life goes on between 9-5. I guess I figured when I hopped in my car every morning and headed to work with visions of 'how can I murder my boss and some of my co-workers and get away with it' I just assumed life just kind of stopped.

Boy, was I wrong. So now I'm Mr. Mom. I vacuum, cook, clean the bathroom and take care of a whole host of things that you never get around to when you're working 'full time.' The sad part of it is I find it far more fulfilling than anything I ever did in 'my important lawyer job.' Taking a step back from it all has been an amazing experience. And a very good one for me. So here are a bunch of random thoughts I've had over the past couple of months, and I won't pretend there's any connection between them other than they're thoughts I had:

1. Adding the word 'consultant' to your job title increases your pay by about 50% and decreases your hours worked by about 70%. I have a friend that does this, and it floors me. He makes his own hours, generally puts up with some aggravation, and is well compensated. This has totally changed how I view work and I am exceedingly jealous of this friend. I see him as a modern day Jesus, and well, at some point, someone is going to have to bust out some nails and find some wood because his nature threatens the status quo of the current worklife existence and we can't have that type of guy running around, can we?

2. The amount of public urination that goes on is astounding. It's like a goddamned epidemic. I live next to an empty lot and I'll often stand on the roof and have a smoke. In any given week, I'll see at least 5-8 people urinating in this lot. Including chicks. Assuming that the amount of public urination is a constant, extrapolating how long I'm outside to witness it, I'd say there's at least 50-80 people peeing in the fucking alley. I used to think that those public urination tickets that got doled out were such bullshit. Now, not so much. Seriously, I'm so grossed out I'm tempted to wrap my dog in Saranwrap before she goes out. It's fucking disgusting. To fight this, in my own small way, when I see people doing this I begin yelling 'Hey everybody, look at Mr. Small Bladder. Apparently, indoor plumbing is not good enough for piss-boy' or some variation of that. It helps that I'm forty five feet up and behind locked doors. Man, people sure do get pissed when you point out they're pissing.

3. I'm a bigger asshole than I previously thought. That's saying something.

4. Fuck Mark Twain. I was far smarter at 18 than I am now. I don't know what happened, but somewhere along the way I stopped listening to my gut, or 'that little voice' that Magnum used to talk about. Speaking of which, Magnum was fucking awesome. Anyway, I used to trust myself a lot more than I do now, and when I look back at many of the mistakes I've made, I knew they were coming, but let them happen anyway. It reminds me of this class I took many years ago, we were discussing probable cause. There was a cop in our class, and he was a real good guy. "You have no idea what probable cause is when you're on patrol. All I can tell you is you see and take in things that you're not even aware of at the time. You can't articulate it, but you know." Normally, this type of talk from a cop would scare the bejesus out of me, but I know what he meant.

So back to trusting my gut and we'll see how that goes.

5. I must be a good lay, because the world never seems to pass up an opportunity to fuck me. So now that I'm unemployed, I figured that I would end up watching ESPN a lot. It figures that when I get the chance to, the only fucking thing ESPN runs is World Cup Soccer. Soccer is one of the most poorly designed sports ever. The first day of this worldwide extravaganza had two games that ended in a tie. A fucking tie? No sport should ever end in a tie, it's wholly unsatisfying, and indicates the designers of the sport did a poor job. I fell asleep and a soccer game came on, woke up, saw the score was 0-0, fell back to sleep and woke up an hour later. What was the score? 0-0. And the announcers were going on about what a great game it was. Bullshit. Nothing happened. Dumbass sport.

Like it couldn't have been wet t shirt week? Man, I love boobs.

6. Most people think their jobs are important. Little do they realize that most work is no different than those stupid workbooks we had when we were in grade school. And the funny thing is you knew at age 8 that this was bullshit, but somehow doing the same bullshit at age 28 makes you Bill Gates. I assure you, it doesn't. You were right at 8 and now you're just lying to yourself. You can thank me later.

7. People are largely unable to walk correctly. This fucking baffles me. For most folks, you've theoretically been walking for the majority of your life. Yet you still suck at it. Sadly, and I hate to throw anyone under the bus here, my wife is one of the offenders. My wife's method of walking is picking a spot 100 yards ahead, and walking in a straight line. I mean really fucking straight, like you could make a ruler out of that line. Now, this sounds like a good idea, because that's how many people learn to drive (i.e. you pick a spot in the distance, not look right in front of you), but falls apart quickly in practice. Where my wife's method falls apart is that she does not seem to account for any structures, people, or anything that is on the imaginary line. She just bowls ahead. Invariably, something is in 'the line' and this drives my wife nuts. I won't lie. I find it funny, because she will inevitably bust out the 'can you believe these clown-asses?' I just nod and smile.

8. Never, under any circumstances, allow your significant other or spouse anywhere near you with a pointy object. I've always known this, but for some reason I fail to listen to my own advice. Recently I had what can only be described as Mount Vesuvius on the back of my leg. So, being me, I freaked. I told my wife to look at it, and the next thing I know I'm getting stabbed to death in the leg. I barely survived. I also had gas the other day and thought it was a hernia, so I could be exaggerating. Maybe.

And finally, random quotes I've become attached to:

If I had a good rack, I'd rule the world. - Me, at lunch last week with a friend.

If our dogs were people, Sam would have been an accountant, and Dahlia a coked out stripper. Me, with my wife.

Believe me, if I didn't love tits and ass so much, I wouldn't put up with the crazy either. Me, to my friend (who happens to be gay).

All women are crazy. Yes, they are. And all men are assholes. So for women it's about finding an asshole you can tolerate and for men it's about finding a crazy you can deal with. Me, at lunch. I'm not 100% sure I came up with this quote, so if someone else did please let me know via e-mail or comment.

I like being married fine. Why did I get married? I'd like to tell you that I did it because we saw each other from across a windswept meadow and "Crazy for You" was playing in the background while an audience cheered and we moved in slow motion towards the center of the meadow to passionately embrace. Unfortunately, that couldn't be further from the truth. The fact of the matter is you get tired of dating because you just know at some point, the odds are going to catch up to you and you're going to wake up bound and gagged in a basement sitting on a kiddie chair having a tea party with some bitch saying 'Now you can never leave me like all the others' and you figure 'fuck it, the crazy I know is better than the crazy I don't know.' And thus you stop dating and get married. Romantic, ain't it? Me, to an unmarried friend.

Uh, were you the drunk guy? - A friend of mine, upon entering his bar at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday to find the bartender passed out in a booth, and whom upon waking said that some drunk guy came in around one a.m., knocked over a bunch of glasses and left so the bartender locked up and passed out in the booth.

It's not that I dislike the homeless per se, but they could dress a little better, don't you think? Me, showing my sensitive side.

Welcome to Karma

2010-08-10T12:18:00.005-04:00

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
-Theodore Roosevelt

Listen here, you beautiful bitch, I'm about to fuck you up with some truth. Kenny Powers, Eastbound and Down.

I had to do something today that I'm extremely loath to do in general.

Participate in conflict.

Things were so bad at my last job that my wife insisted that I seek professional counseling. Yeah, can you believe that? Me, in counseling? I would have told you previously that I thought such a move was a huge fucking waste of air, but I have to say it has really done me some good. Not the type of good where you get ice cream and gumdrops at the end of it, more the type of good that you get when you get your ass kicked daily but reflect.

And today, I took another stand. This may be catchy after all.

I was a mess before my initial interview with the unemployment examiner. A big mess. I worried and second guessed myself. I worried about what my employer would say. What did they say? Nothing. I told the truth, and it panned out. I received unemployment. Then the employer appealed the award.

So I've been on pins and needles for the past ten days. Waiting for the showdown, the conflict, the moment of truth as it were. I needed to tell my story. Though I didn't feel the need to, my wife and a good friend urged me on. For too long I've eaten shit and said 'thank you' and walked away.

But I've crossed the Rubicon. The die has been cast. Whether I like it or not, the showdown has begun. And as reluctant as I am to move forward, I did it. I told my story again.

I always wondered why abused women stayed in hostile homes. I'm shamed to say that I didn't get it. It seemed obvious to me: get the fuck out, if you don't like it. Great words from a great coward.

My employer said they didn't know what I was going through. No one knew how impossible the situation was that I was in. If only I had said something.

Cockgobblers, the lot of you. You fucking knew.

So I testified, and a good friend, who turns out to be my conscience in a sea of indifference, did his damnedest to help me. As I walked my wife back to work I thought 'If I lose, I'm done, I can't do this again.' And I consulted my conscience.

And he prevailed. His name is Marcus, by the way. "Let's see if we can't get other former folks to testify," he says. "Ok, let's make some calls." As hesitant to do that as I was, I went ahead and did it. And then a vision popped into my head.

My former supervisor told me that I was bad on my feet, I couldn't cut it. Then I remembered. I showed up for my first summary judgment motion, soon after I met my wife, and at that point I was so focused on her tits that I totally forgot to bring my file with me to the courthouse for my first important motion. I sat at the Plaintiff's table alone, with nothing but a pen and my card in front of me. The Judge was extremely forgiving and told me that he would put the defendant's argument on the record, and then I could call back and with the file in front of me, put my argument on the record.

So the argument began. Halfway through the defendant's argument, I stood up and offered to clarify some facts for the Court. I ended up doing the entire argument from memory.

And I won.

When I was in 5th grade, I got tired of hearing how Henry ***** was the smartest guy in our class. To this day, I don't know why that bothered me. But it did. It was the start of Black History Month and our school was going to have a knowledge bowl regarding Black History. Of course the class with Henry ***** was favored. I didn't care, and for reasons still unknown to myself I decided I was taking his ass down. Hard. So I prepared.

As the auditorium filled with students and teachers, I sat there next to my teammates. I was nervous as hell. I went through my answers. I went through everything. I prepared. I was going to leave it all on the floor. One way or the other, I was going to do it.

Three questions in, the moderator said "Mr. NightandDay, please wait for the question to be concluded before you answer." Yeah, that's right, I knew my shit so cold that she got five words out and I knew the answer. The crowd couldn't believe it.

I took that motherfucker down. He didn't know what hit him, and to be fair, he had no reason to expect it. He was a good guy, and I hope he's doing well. But on that day, my will reigned supreme. For too long, I've let that guy go.

But never again. Back to my vision.

I picture myself in a classy bar, having a drink. My former boss walks in. I turn to him and say "Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. Your world is next."

For too long, too many good people suffered. For too long, too many people doubted themselves. No one deserves to be treated this way. I did not ask for this role, but I'm going to play it out to the end. One way or the other.

I may lose. That's ok. Now I'm angry, and wow, I had no idea how good it felt. I put that 11 year old version of myself on the shelf. I don't know why, maybe because ultimately I discovered I've viewed myself as nothing more than a mistake, an aberration, a ghost in the machine, a virus the system needed to purge.

While that may all be true, I'm here now. I can't change that. Now I'm going to stand up for something. It's a small battle, one involving a handful of people. But they matter.

Welcome to Karma, supervisor, I will visit my wrath upon you. The truth will set me free. It will also set others free.

I'm done backing down and retiring without fighting. This time, I will engage. You may win, but the world will know.

And as fucked up as people are, they still know the truth when they hear it.

Welcome to Karma.

The Last Will and Testament of Night and Day

2010-04-19T09:57:00.001-04:00

"You know, my life would be far more livable if I were dead." - Me, today.

Yes, I laughed out loud at the above thought, but it got me thinking. What if I were to die today? I did threaten to beat an old man in the middle of Chestnut Street last night, so I'm a bit at odds. Things have taken a turn that was quite, well, expected. But I'll get to that in another post. For now, I'll stick with the above. So I decided I needed a Will. So here it is.

Last Will and Testament of Night and Day

I, Night and Day, being of unsound, scratch that, completely fucking unhinged mind and reluctantly breathing body do hereby declare this to be last Will and Testament and hereby revoke all previous wills (not that I have any) and codicils (which is legalese for things that you stick your cock in. No really, look it up.)

Article One: Introduction.

I'm Night and Day. I have no issue. Actually, I have lots of issues. But none that are breathing. At least I don't think so. There was that one night, and I haven't seen the chick since...but I'll go with no kids that I know of at this point. I also have a wife. We'll get to her. I currently live in blah blah blah land. Otherwise known as Philadelphia.

Article Two: Debts.

I hereby direct my executor to tell my creditors to go fuck themselves. Seriously. It's a game. If I live long enough to pay you back, you win. If I die before then, well, suck it. Suck it long, and suck it hard. Don't pay those fuckers a thing.

Article Three: Wishes Regarding Disposal of My Remains.

I hereby direct that I be cremated. I also direct that my remains be placed in an urn, in the living room, preferably on top of the tv. I also direct that a life sized statute of my cock be erected and placed behind my urn. I understand the roof will need to be altered in order to accommodate my ginormous manhood. Finally, all women who attend my funeral/wake pursuant to Article Four, below, will be required to take a picture of their tits. Said photos will be placed around my urn. I refuse to spend the afterlife only looking at how fucking smug and self satisfied my wife is because I'm gone.

Article Four: Funeral/Wake.

My friends, all two of you, are directed to hold a wake in my honor at a local bar that I may frequent. I will not pick up the tab, you cheap fucks. Men will be required to do a manly shot in my name. Women can drink whatever they want, so long as they take pictures of their tits. I'm not kidding. Men that drink pussy shots shall be fallen upon by the rest of the funeral party, consumed, and vomited back up into urns so I can lord it over them in the afterlife.

Article Five: Omissions.

In the event you feel that you have been wrongly omitted from this last will and testament, I assure you, it was totally intentional. No, I didn't like you. No, I did say those things about you. No, I don't feel one bit badly about it. I am a petty vindictive creature, and it is totally in keeping with my personality to take shots at you in a forum in which your cries will fall on deaf ears. But I assure you, even in hell, your salty tears shall taste oh so sweet and give me much petty satisfaction. I thank you in advance.

Article Five: Executrix. This is also a real word. Really, go ahead and look it up, I'm not going anywhere.

I hereby name my wife, Day and Night, to be the Executrix of my estate and do all the stupid shit that I am going to direct below. This is my last wish, sweetie, so you better do it, or I'll haunt you and my cold hands shall make sure your boobs freeze in the middle of the night. Kind of like now. Anyway. Also, I direct that this will be read in public. I would suggest cable public access, between the two fucking dorks doing the computer shit and the dykey looking bitch with the gardening show. I suggest hiring someone with Downs to read it. Yes, that's what I want.

Article Six: Specific Bequests.

To my dog: I give my flip flops, the left Nike sneaker, you know, the one you ate the insole out of so now I look a bit lopsided when I wear them because I'm too lazy to go out and buy new insoles. I also bequeath the two hats you already ate part of. You can also have my side of the bed, not like you don't take it already you bedhoggin' bitch.

To my mother. You gave me life. You also in effect managed to take it away through your selfishness. No, really thanks. You got the best years of my life. You've taken your due then some. I leave you as I found you, bitter, sad, lonely and without course in a sea of hopelessness. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Actually, in the generous mood I'm in, I'll go ahead and leave you all my debt, since it was incurred to take care of your miserable ass anyway, it somehow seems fitting.

To my sister: I leave you mom. I never really liked you. You're just like mom. Enjoy!

To my friend Pat: I leave you my ability to piss off people. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility. Or something like that. Oh, and I hereby revoke your 'cuddling' gene. Why spoon when you can fuck? I think it was supposed to say 'fork' but you get the point. I also direct that my nephew-in-law's (is that a real thing?) Wii be given to Pat. There are few moments of my life that I enjoyed more than Christmas in 2008 at my brother-in-law's place, and I'll have my wife publish that story, because it's a good one. Anyway, enjoy, Pat:

To my friend Mike: I leave you my ability to charm women everywhere. God knows you need it. Oh, and a real haircut. I have no idea what the fuck that dead animal looking thing is on the top of your head. I can only believe that your cousin secretly hates you. Since you put up with me, quite a bit actually, I will go ahead and leave you my 12 string Epiphone Guitar. I don't know how the fuck you're going to play it with those girly little sausage fingers you have, but it's not my problem at this point. Oh, as to your request for the turtle fur hat? See below:

To my friend Tim: I leave you my ability to find the worst in every situation. You are entirely too optimistic, and well, it really is fucking irritating. Every time I call you, you're all 'hey man things are great!!!!' No one wants to hear that shit. Especially me.

To my friend Scott: I leave all my Eric Clapton CD's. Yes, I know you hate him. But frankly you had the best quote about me and music 'Night and Day doesn't even like the music he likes.' So true. And turnabout is fair play.

To Willie Parker (yes, the former Pittsburgh Steelers Running Back): I leave you a video of me kicking your likeness in the nuts again and again. I know, you're thinking, 'what the fuck man, I don't even know you.' And that may be true. However, I had you on my fantasy team and you broke your leg on the first play from scrimmage and cost me my fantasy league superbowl. The fact that I still remember it, and have immortalized it in my will clearly shows you that i haven't forgotten about it, nor have I forgiven. You fucking jerk.

To my Fantasy League: Pesci, you can suck it. You might be the most annoyingly creepy person I have ever met. And believe me, that's something coming from me. I also forbid my successor from ever drafting a running back on any Mike Shanahan coached team. God, I hate that guy.

To All The Girls I've Loved Before: actually, I've already given you far more than you deserve. I hereby direct that you erect a shrine to my greatness and worship it at least twice a week. Or I will come back. And I will point out the weight you've gained. Man, I sure did love sluts. Oh, I also always wanted to quote Julio Iglesias in my will, so I can now check that off.

To my brother-in-law Gene and sister-in-law Vera: I leave you the subject of the following picture:

Yes, that's right, I leave you Billy Bob (also feel free to keep a copy of the above picture). Billy Bob served me quite well for years. From the time he got married in the fire hall, with a guy with an eye patch on with skull and crossbones on it (if only I were kidding), through the argument with the funeral director at my stepfather-in-law's funeral, Billy Bob always has endeavored, and succeeded admirably, in making others around him look much better than they really are.

To Joe and Katie: I leave you my stash of Cuban Cigars stolen from Fidel Castro. I'm lying, I don't have any but it's the thought that counts right? Don't you fucking hate it when people say that shit? The thought only counts if the goods are in your hand. I also direct Joe to give Mike his roof key. Hey, it's my will, I absolutely feel no restraint in giving other people's shit away too.

To Will J: I leave all my notes for Jake and Darcy. You are one patient dude, I'll give you that. Though I have many regrets in my life, the fact that I have been unable to advance the story beyond it's current state is one of the biggest. I've never particularly thought I was a good writer, but I do believe that the story finds the author, not the other way around. I just wish Jake and Darcy had found someone capable of telling their story well, and sadly, they only found me. They deserved much better, but who knows, there may be a few episodes kicking around somewhere and my Executrix should publish them, warts and all, so that you get a feel for where these guys were going. I also leave future installments (once I pass) in your capable hands. Jake and Darcy should not be orphans.

To my Loving Wife, Day and Night: In life, I know many of our friends wondered what the hell you were doing with me. Frankly, I often wondered what the hell I was doing with you. You really made out good on this deal. I leave you one of my most beloved possessions:

My AC/DC T-shirt. I never understood why you wouldn't have sex with me while I was wearing it. I know you babbled on about some 'Angus freaks me out' nonsense, but I never believed you. I would have left you more shit, but you never sent me a fucking e-mail requesting anything like you said you would, so now all you get is that awesome t-shirt.

Article Seven: Declaration of Day of International Mourning and Holiday.

Seeing as I've passed from this Earth, I think we can all agree that the world is a darker place for my absence. If I were here, I'd be pretty fucking sad too. But I'm not, so eat it. Anyway, since the UN doesn't do much, they can pass a resolution making the date of my death the official 'Night and Day' er, day? Well, they can work out the details. Now, here's how my holiday should be officially celebrated:

Hot women everywhere must be topless. It's a holiday!
Generous and copious amounts of whiskey shall be imbibed. I don't want to hear any of this 'But I'm at work!' bullshit. Don't be a bunch of pussies.
AC/DC will hold a concert in my honor. Eddie Van Halen can guest on a few tunes, but definitely on 'Shoot to Thrill.'
Van Halen's 'Panama' will be declared the International Song of Mourning for the Holiday.
Hot dogs will be served. With Bacon wrapped around them, and spicy mustard and cheese.
No work shall be done on the date, as that's what I want.
Midgets shall have the right of way.
During sunset, 'Escape' by Rupert Holmes shall play (seriously, who doesn't like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain?)

Article Eight: Residuary Clause.

The rest, residue and remainder of my estate shall be placed in trust, to be administered, pursuant to Article Nine, below.

Article Nine: Trust Fund to be Administered by Executrix as Trustee.

Anyone that knew me in life, knew of my great humanitarian nature. And as I did in life, I shall do in death. I shall be a beacon for the downtrodden, the forgotten, the ones among us that everyone ignores on their way to stellar lives. Yes, I shall stand for the little man, the one that can't stand for themselves, and help them to the promised land.

I hereby establish the 'Hookers for Nerds' fund.

Yes, I was a nerd too. My fun stuff went untouched in high school. Well, by other people anyway. Which reminds me, what the fuck is up with all these hot female teachers banging their students? Where the fuck were they when I was in high school? That's not child abuse, that's a top five fantasy by most standards. I'm fucking bitter. Seriously bitter. And I had some hot teachers too. One of the hottest turned out to be a lesbian. At the time, I was really pissed about it, but now, well, now it's just kind of hot. Where was I? Oh, yeah, hookers and nerds.

The Executrix shall use trust funds to procure hookers for deserving nerds, using the following criteria:

If he knows what 'Oblivion, Elder Scrolls ' is, and then says 'Morrowmind's battle system was way cooler,' he's a nerd.
If you say 'Zerg' and he doesn't say 'God Bless You,' he's a nerd, unless he's Korean. All Asians are nerds. It's like science and shit.
If he has a subscription to World of Warcraft, he's completely beyond help. Don't waste your money, even hookers won't fuck him.
Girls can't be nerds. I don't care how ugly a chick is, there's a guy desperate enough to do her. The converse is almost never true.
If he's been stuffed in a locker, trash can, dumpster, janitorial closet, or the like, he's a nerd.
Chess anyone?
Ping Pong anyone?
If he knows 'SOHCAHTOA' isn't an Indian name, he's a nerd.

The Executrix may use any other criteria in determining the bona fides of a nerd, keeping my example in mind. Once the Executrix has established the nerdiness of the applicant (I suggest a heavily involved application process, as true nerds will go to any lengths to get laid, even filling out a super long application on the internet), she shall procure a hooker of her choice for the nerd. But not one of them toothless crack ho types, but don't spend a lot of money either, it's not like she's going to be at it long, just, I guess one of those middle of the road hookers I'll probably have to resort to in a few years, if I didn't up and die.

Article Ten: That's it. To the extent any of the above articles are found to be against public policy, the document is severable and all other provisions shall remain in full force and effect. Or go fuck yourself if any of this shit actually has to be defended in court.

I hereby set my hand to this Last Will and Testament on this 19th Day of April, in the Year of our Lord 2010.

Night and Day.

POSTSCRIPT: Well, you may be wondering what I'm up to, now that I'm dead and all. I didn't know what to expect really. Light? Sound? Guys in white? Guys in flames (which frankly seemed far more likely given my actions)?

Yeah, it wasn't like that at all. It was, well, anticlimactic at first. You're not even sure you're really dead, other than the fact that you're in no pain. The best part? And this bit, well, made the price of admission alone well worth it:

You're not afraid. Of anything. It is the most amazing feeling I've ever had. When I was younger, for the briefest of moments, I was fearless. I walked tall, head held high. I was proud. But life, and this is what makes it such a bitch, beats it out of you. I always envied those people that were able to live without fear despite everything around them. I searched long and hard for that place, but unfortunately, it eluded me. I remember telling my wife many times that all I wanted was 'peace.' That was a bit inaccurate, because all I really wanted was to not be afraid. And it sneaks up on you, little by little, until it's all that I knew. No, I don't miss waking up every morning with that companion.

I can't particularly say I did a whole lot in life. I mean, yeah, I did things, some of them were good. I guess if there was one thing I did that I am proud of it's that I got people to laugh from time to time. And I don't think that's a coincidence. Laughter is the opposite of fear, so it makes sense to me now that is how I faced it. Whistling in the dark, perhaps. But there's a value in that, even if ever so brief.

So what am I doing now? I finally got to put one of my many shitty ideas into practice. I've opened the 3B bar and grille (the extra 'e' is to make it classy-like). What are the 3B's? Boobs, Bacon and Beer, three of my favorite things in life. I've even got a bar-back, Jesus. No, not that Jesus, though he's dropped by from time to time. It's quite nice here, people stop by, have a couple drinks, we watch some tv, a good movie from time to time, and watch the world go round. I guess in running this place, I figured out something else about life, and yes, I understand the hypocrisy of a dead guy telling live people how to live, but forgive my dalliance.

What I figured out is everyone comes and goes. I stay the same, smiling behind the bar, rag in my hands, apron on (with an AC/DC logo of course), and I wait.

And isn't that what life is? A lot of waiting. And while you're waiting, people come in and people go from your life. I've known hundreds, if not thousands, of people in my life. And I have to say that overall, the majority of them made my life better because they stopped by. To all of you, I hope to see you again someday.

If there's one final piece of advice I can impart, it would be this: live without fear. If you can nail that, you've got it made. Though my life is filled with numerous regrets, the fact that I 'lost' my fearlessness is by far the greatest. If you find it, keep it, I no longer need it in this place. And I hope it serves you as well as it served me. Yes, for a fleeting moment when I was younger, I was a king. I didn't need a crown, a royal crest, or a Queen. No, I had it all, didn't know it, and lost it. I suppose there's something melancholy about all that.

So, if you ever get around to it, drop on by when your time comes, pull up a bar stool, you can even have the one next to my dad, and we'll have a few beers, a few laughs, and watch some boobs. Yeah, I guess I miss the boobs the most, but then again, I was always a bit of a pervert.

Til we meet again.

Contest 2 - Shitty Bosses

2010-04-16T13:21:00.002-04:00

Ok, here's contest number two. I have some good stories regarding my newest boss. So, in the spirit of giving and whatnot (I'm such a giver) I offer the following contest:

If you send me a good boss story, I'll post it (without identifying characteristics) AND, wait for it:

I'll answer any questions you may have on how to deal with an unruly and uppity boss.

Yup, you could not only get your e-mail published, but get your problem solved.

Is there any better contest in the world?

I think not.

E-mail's on the left hand side, under the links. I mention this because one of my retarded friends said 'hey, you didn't include your e-mail in your last contest.'

Yeah, that's the type of friends I have.

Contest

2010-04-14T10:46:00.001-04:00

I'm in the process of writing my last Will and Testament. So I decided that I would have a contest. The rules are simple. E-mail me as to why you think you should be in my Will, which I assure you is an honor of the highest magnitude. If I like your reasoning, I might, maybe, leave you something when I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Oh, don't ask for money. Well, you can ask, but I doubt highly you'll like what I leave you.

So hit me up, I'll accept submissions through Sunday. The Will goes up on Monday, April 19.

Just Another Rat Looking for Some Cheese

2010-02-04T14:41:00.009-05:00

Fire falls, winds blow
There's trouble and it won't go
I'd really like to help you but you know
Truth twists, lies dance
Money money greed chant
Let's take a little more before we go
Cause we won't be back again
No, we won't be back again

~Liars Dance, Robert Plant

I received an offer from the firm I interviewed with over the past few weeks. I'm still a little stunned by it all. I heard nothing, absolutely nothing, for 6 months, since my hours got cut and I took the detour down the 'would you like fries with that' road.

Now, of course, I had to fuck with the wife a bit. I wouldn't be me if I didn't. And before you get too critical, my wife knew exactly what she was getting when she took me down off that shelf in the great grocery store of dating and had me scanned, bagged and tossed in her trunk. I can only presume my wife feels that she has committed some great sin that I am unaware of and I am penance for that sin. Whatever, her problem, not mine.

Anyway. I had my last interview. It was really short. I walked out of there pretty unsure of whether or not I was going to get an offer. I immediately called my wife and gave her the rundown. I told her I didn't think I was getting an offer.

As we chatted back and forth all day, I told her I was taking a philosophical view of the whole thing. I got interviewing experience, put myself out there, and hey, it didn't pan out.

Until 4:15 that afternoon when I received the offer.

I went home, and the amount of relief I felt was overwhelming. My wife gets home from work just after I returned from the dog park with my insane puppy. That is not a sexual reference by the way.

"Ok, I have a nice speech all worked out, I don't want you to say anything, I want you to just listen because I know how you are."

Now, to be fair, I had already decided that I was going to fuck with her a bit. But this just sealed the deal.

"Ok." And I did play up the 'stern, pensive, stoic, 'I'm really hurting on the inside but trying hard not to show it' look.' Yeah, I'm a dick, I know. So we went out to dinner (because I was too upset to cook, again, see previous line). My wife did a great job with her speech in trying to lift my spirits. It's not her fault that they didn't need lifting.

To my credit, I kept a straight face. For about an hour. She then says 'Don't forget to get your thank you notes out.'

"Yeah, you're right, but first I should probably get out my counter-offer to the offer they made me today."

And the look on her face was worth it. She followed up with a few 'you're such a prick's and 'what an asshole's. But she was happy.

Now here's where it gets weird. And I'm still not 100% sure why it got this way.

Yesterday, I started feeling sentimental, nostalgic even. As I've previously written, I did get blindsided by my boss last July - right before my birthday and vacation to boot - but I couldn't shake the feeling.

I actually started to remotely entertain the idea that I might not leave. Maybe it was nothing more than the remnants of misplaced loyalty.

I also had a conversation with another lawyer I'm friendly with yesterday morning. And she said 'oh, you're going back to the grind of firm life?' And I thought about that.

On the one hand, this place has quite a few memories for me. I was standing out front when I listened to the voice mail from the doctor that my dad had died. I was sitting in this office when my wife and I first started talking. I learned how to be a lawyer in this very seat. And like it or not, I do identify myself, to an extent, as a lawyer. Yeah, part of me was born here.

But it went deeper than that. I figured out what it was.

Fear. I'm scared. My whole professional life has been spent in the same place. You get used to things, you know? Those things may not be great objectively, but you find a way to make it work in your day to day life. You get comfortable. Granted, you may be comfortable in a 'I'm on a couch in a double wide' comfortable, but it is a measure of comfort nonetheless.

And fear is a funny thing, once it starts to get a hold of you.

Am I good enough for this new job?

Do I deserve this opportunity?

Am I going to do well?

And that part of me whispers 'No, no you're not, and you know it.' And there it is. Your worst fears realized. At least in your mind.

You're not good enough.

It's going to be daunting. New work, new workplace, new people, new boss. Bosses, plural, actually.

But as I mentioned in a previous post, it's like Babe and Bill said, 'everyone is scared.' Are you scared? What are you afraid of? Go ahead, look inside. What do you see? What keeps you up at night? Makes you sweat, makes you shake? Makes you doubt?

Over seven years. I once had a loaded gun pointed at me. I would like to tell you that in that moment everything flashed before my eyes. It didn't.

Which is what makes this more difficult in some ways. Everything comes back to you.

The victories.

The defeats.

The hopes.

The dreams.

The disappointments.

All right there for my viewing pleasure. I'm actually amazed at all the things I've done.

But alas, I know I'm returning to the grind. Living my professional life six minutes at a time. The stress, the desire to excel. At my age, I thought I'd be done paying my dues. And yes, that's a bit of an entitlement complex on my part, one I've had to get over in the past six months.

And letting go can be one of the most difficult things. When I took the job I have currently, I wanted to succeed. I wanted to make it work. And for a while, it did. But ultimately, you reach dead ends in that maze called life. And this is certainly a dead end. Not because my boss is a jerk, which for the most part he isn't, but because the industry is dying.

My time is running out.

And I can only bang my head against a dead end so many times. The scrapes, bruises and blood a testament to my fear. My fear of leaving that which I've known. People fall into one of two categories: people who love change, and those who hate it. I think you can guess what category I'm in.

So time to turn around, and head back to the start of this path in my maze. Now that I stand at that crossroads, there's not really too many paths to choose from. But that elusive scent of cheese is on the air.

And I'm just another hungry rat looking for his next meal.

Who claims no man is an island
While I land up in jeopardy
More distant from you by degrees
I walk this shore in isolation
And at my feet, eternity
draws ever sweeter plans for me

I know why, I know why
Crazy, on a ship of fools, ah, crazy on a ship of fools
turn this boat around, back to my loving ground
Ship of fools

~Robert Plant, 'Ship of Fools*'

Plus, there's one major change I need to make before my next job. And it is a daunting one. One that will be the subject of my next blog.

*I can't tell you why, but whenever I knowingly face change, I pull out Robert Plant/Led Zeppelin albums. Maybe because it's the soundtrack of my misspent youth and there's great comfort in the familiarity of it. Plus it's just great music.

Opportunity Knocks, Part Two

2010-02-01T11:35:00.004-05:00

Oh boy. Had my second and third interviews this morning. Managed to come across as only functionally retarded. The last interviewer said that she was going to walk into the partner's office and recommend hiring me. They would then speak with the partner I interviewed with last week. They 'wanted to move quickly on this.'

So, yeah, I guess it went pretty well. Now the hard part. The waiting.

Yikes.

Could this be the return of the Last Emperor? Perhaps. I've never been a fan of suspense. Today is merely reconfirming that position.

Think good thoughts. Or just refrain from thinking evil ones in my general direction. Perhaps just for a couple of days.

Opportunity Knocks...

2010-01-28T13:48:00.003-05:00

So, after six months I had an interview for a law job. Like a full time one. I think it went pretty well, the partner that interviewed me said they would be setting up a second interview with a second partner in the office I am applying to work out of.

I was asked to interview the day after my previous post. Coincidence?

I think so.

Here's to hoping something breaks my way, I'll keep you up to date.

Now, you may be asking yourself, 'why does Night and Day' even need a job?

A fair question. No doubt the millions have been rolling in since I started this blog. Think of me like one of those idiots that wins the lottery but keeps working anyway. I need something to do. Yeah, that's it.

Yesterday

2010-01-20T07:38:00.001-05:00

"It's hard to start things over
You can feel the fire around us
All the time." - What the Hell Have I Alice in Chains

As promised in a previous post, I decided to take a stand. Since I'm not one to take stands, especially where it concerns myself, it was a bit different. I find it hard to throw off chains.

Especially those that I wrapped around myself.

I could tell you that my personality is the result of my upbringing. I could tell you that my mother used me to entrap my father into a marriage he didn't want. And that would be true.

I could tell you that my father resented me from the time I was born, because I was what tied him to a horrible marriage to a very unwell woman. And that would be true.

I could tell you that I was picked on mercilessly as a kid, because I was not cool. And that would be true.

I could tell you I got dumped at a prom in front of 300 people, who all saw it. And that would be true.

I could tell you all that and more. And it would all be true. The result?

An almost obsessive need to be liked. When you don't have it, whatever it may be, it takes on a value far greater than is intrinsic to that thing. Simply because you don't have it.

And I didn't have it.

I could tell you I'm a victim of fucked up parents and upbringing. And that would be true.

But the real truth, the honest to God truth, is I'm not a victim of anyone other than myself and my failure to examine my faults and change them. Not my parents, not the kids I went to school with, not the girls I dated. Me.

Myself.

And I.

That's where the blame lies.

But the other side of that coin is salvation lies within as well.

I left the following message on my kitchen manager's phone on Monday.

"Hey Kitchen Manager, it's Night and Day. This is a courtesy call. I will not be coming in anymore. Thanks. Goodbye."

In another post, I will detail the 'weekend from hell' that I had last weekend. But yesterday? Yesterday was poetry. The first day in which I have actively decided that 'you know what, you need to do what you need to do and not worry about the fallout.'

I decided to stay home from the other job. Recharge. Catch my breath. And just process things. So I went for a walk. I popped in my headphones and away I went.

Tell me...

There's a lot I could tell you. Failure after failure. Lots of them. Hell, my life is littered with them, streets of broken dreams and wreckage I have wrought.

Remind me...

I got myself here. Only I can get myself out.

Chase the water falling from the sky...

I head across 95 over to Penn's Landing.

Always beside me...

I'm always with me, so time to work it all out.

Taste the memories running from my eyes...

I walk over to the top of Penn's Landing. I stare out across the Delaware. The sun shining down through the fog, the ghostly outline of the U.S.S. New Jersey visible, a slumbering giant in the early morning. And I remember. Lots of mistakes. Lots and lots of mistakes. Will I learn my lesson this time?

Nervous flashlights scan my dreams...

And what do they see? I'm not quite sure beyond a vague sense of 'not this.' I find it much easier in life to find out what you don't want, as opposed to figuring out what you do want. I'm still not sure what my dreams are, or rather what my new dreams are, as the old ones have died.

I don't find a life without dreams to be an appealing one to live.

Liquid shadows silence their screams*...

Self doubt is a bitch. I recently read the book by two of the 'Band of Brothers' paratroopers, Babe Heffron and Bill Guarnere. They said something interesting. You always felt fear, it never went away (and with good reason, since, you know, everyone you met was trying to shoot you). I think maybe self doubt is the same way. We all have it, but to succeed you just have to accept that it's always going to be there and move on.

And I finally 'got it.' As with my most recent post about 'loyalty.' Outside of a few select folks, I don't owe blind loyalty to anyone. You get it, you give it. Otherwise, I need to be guided what's best for me and my wife. And that's what I'm doing. And what I did.

I stood up and said 'hey, the way you are treating me is not acceptable.' I still have reservations, maybe I overreacted, maybe I should have handled things differently. In my next post, I'll detail the events that led up to me leaving the above message quitting the 'Night' portion of my existence, and you can decide for yourself whether or not I was reasonable.

Not that it will necessarily matter, because for the first time in a long time, I stood up for myself.

And it felt great.

But I still have plenty of stories of my time as both a cook and lawyer to fill many pages and bore you to tears.

And I still have to rage from behind my machine. So I'll keep them coming. But for today, I'll leave you with this.

I'm not as worried as I once was about being liked. I'm far more worried about being happy and supporting my family.

*In no way does the song 'Under a Glass Moon' have anything to do with my current status, or have any meaning at all. The song happened to be playing as I was walking and those were the thoughts that were triggered by that particular lyric. So my mind was basically riffing on the lyrical content. Just to be clear, because I'm sure Dream Theatre has far better things to write about than my dumb-ass kitchen job.

Night and Day, Too

2010-01-11T10:19:00.002-05:00

Since I first conceived doing this particular blog, the idea was to outline the differences and similarities between the two current jobs I hold. I think they tend to be on opposite sides of the spectrum, so I figured there would be some interesting insights to be gained from one versus the other.

And maybe some universals. Who knows? I do notice that some of my posts are personal in nature and beyond the scope of my job, and in addition, I have quite a few stories of fiction that I work on from time to time. So, in order to keep this blog more in focus to its original version, I have started Night and Day, Too.

That blog will have the fiction and personal stuff, whereas I'll continue to post work related views here, such as 'Do Unto Others...'

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the new blog, and continue to enjoy this one.

Regards,

Night and Day

Do Unto Others...Before They Do Unto You.

2010-01-11T10:02:00.000-05:00

The above title is an actual response I made to a question on a board I post on. The question was 'Sum up in one line what you learned in 2009.'

And I posted 'Do Unto Others...Before They Do Unto You.'

An hour or so later, I looked at it and though 'wow, that's really snarky, even coming from you.'

So where did it come from?

I've worked for the same firm pretty much since I finished up a clerkship. It's been 8 long years. During 7 of those 8 years, we were a very busy firm. There were a couple of cases that kept things moving along.

One of the things about practicing law that you find out pretty quickly is your time is never really your own. Sure, you can make plans, look forward to vacations, and anticipate holidays with friends and families. But there is always the potential for something to come along and ruin your best laid plans.

The flip side of this, at least, what you're told when you have to cancel yet another evening out, is that you're paying your dues. Since time immemorial, this is how the legal business worked. The new guys get shit on while the old guys enjoy the fruits of their labors. What many people don't realize is that for a lot of years, Law was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme. The idea being that the partners brought in the business and the lower level associates did all the grunt work, cranking out the billable hours til they would one day be elevated to partner.

Starting in the 80's, this whole paradigm that ran the heart of the legal community changed. It became more and more of a business. This is not to say it hasn't happened in other industries, I would suspect that it has, but it outlined what has become a glaringly flaw in the law. Or at least, so I thought. And that flaw?

No loyalty. Now many will say that 'Honor Among Thieves' is always skitchy at best, non-existent at worst.

Last year, at around this time, we were wrapping up our largest case. Waiting in line were a bunch of cases that I had kept alive pending the time to wrap those up. So for the next two months, I was pretty busy finishing up a lot of cases that I hadn't had the time to finish. Then May and June hit, and I started saying things to my wife like 'honey, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do this week.' Keep in mind, this was six months into the recession. Lawyers were losing their jobs, summer associates were actually being paid NOT to work, and firms were starting to go under.

It all came to a head in late July. My boss comes in my office and tells me 'I'm cutting your hours, I'm switching you to an hourly pay, no vacation, no sick time.'

Bam. For the first five years of my work here, I missed numerous holidays and didn't take a proper vacation. In fact, the first vacation I took as an employee was when I got married the year before. All that paying dues, down the drain. And the really insidious side of it is such a move wouldn't be necessary if we had the work. So by switching me to hourly, it was a double whammy. Not enough work to justify a salary means probably not enough work on an hourly basis to make up the difference. I figured it out the other day and I make 66% of what I made a year ago. A lot of people would think that's a good thing, because I'm a lawyer, but what people don't realize is how shitty the pay is for most lawyers. And ultimately, I'm lucky to have a job. I've sent countless resumes and not received one call. I've heard stories that for each job listing, hundreds of resumes are received within minutes. That's how bad things are.

Hence, I couldn't find anything to supplement my income and went back to the only other skill I have, cooking. Cranking it out at $8 an hour. Long weekends. I work more now than I did at the height of practicing law and make far less.

Loyalty. Where did it go? I don't know, but ultimately, I guess I learned the hard way what so many have learned by my age: you have to be careful whom you are loyal to. And I find this carries over into my other job too. So I am going to guess that this is a universal workplace thing. Loyalty. To whom and how much?

I almost gave notice at my cooking job last week.

Generally, there were three of us working on Friday and Saturday nights. The typical Friday, I was 'long relief' - I stay until the closer cuts me, usually between 10 and 11. I close Saturdays. Anyway, that was the way it was supposed to go. At least four weekends in a row, I would walk in for what I thought was a short shift, only to find out, whoops, you're here til the end.

The 'final straw' was New Years Eve. I offered to work the short part of the shift (as opposed to being off) because I didn't want to strand any of the guys I work with. I was supposed to come in, work about a 5-8, and be out of there. A third guy was supposed to be in.

Well, I show up and of course, no third guy, and it's just me and the closer. Meaning, I was stuck there til around 10:45, and the wife was too tired to come out at that point. The very next night I walk in to find I was closing. I also received a call that Wednesday to come in (at the last minute) and help out. And I did. I'm a loyal guy, I don't like to see any of my coworkers get screwed.

But New Year's came and I realized: why am I being loyal? I'm being told one thing, then ending up doing another, one requiring far more effort.

And so I'm forced to change my approach. I think that's the toughest thing we sometimes have to do, is change what we are in order to survive. Sure, I could go on being loyal, waiting for some imaginary time when it would all pay off. When I would be recognized for all the sacrifices.

When my father, despite my urgings to the contrary, didn't have health insurance, or a plan for my mom's care when he died, I said I would step up. I did, and it has been the ruin of my financially. But at least I was loyal.

When my law job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it has been to my detriment. I even turned down several opportunities to go elsewhere because I wanted to finish what I started and I didn't want to leave my firm in a lurch during the biggest case we had at the time, but now those opportunities are no where to be found. But at least I was loyal.

When my cook job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it was to my detriment. But at least I was loyal.

The funny thing about it is 'I.' I was loyal, yet none of the foregoing were very loyal to me in hindsight. So this year, I've decided if I'm fortunate enough to get an opportunity to move elsewhere, I'm taking it, and not looking back. I have no doubt if any of the foregoing needed me gone, they wouldn't hesitate.

So imagine my surprise when my wife mentioned to me last week how the office manager and partner met because they were worried if there was going to be enough work for the attorneys at her firm.

Loyalty indeed. It's a rare, yet dangerous, commodity.

If I have one resolution this year, it is to be loyal to those who deserve that loyalty, because misplaced loyalty can turn out horribly, and often does.

So this year, do unto others before they do unto me. A bit snarky, perhaps, but apparently the other way isn't working. And we grow during times of hardship. I just wish this was one way in which I didn't need to 'grow,' but I guess such comforts are beyond my reach right now.

Whiskey and Horseflies, A Love Story

2009-12-29T11:01:00.001-05:00

This is my second post about my trip to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.

As I mentioned previously, I hate to fly. It scares the shit out of me, but I will say this, as we came into the Punta Cana airport, we had to fly over the Dominican Republic.

And my God, was it gorgeous. Beautiful lush green meeting bleached sand meeting light blue ocean. When I looked up the GDP of the Dominican Republic it listed three things:

Sammy Sosa
Pedro Martinez
Yearly GDP: the equivalent of a local mini-mart in Alabama.

And I could see why. When you live somewhere this beautiful, well, it's real easy to say 'fuck it, let's hit the beach, we'll work tomorrow.' Now, you cobble 40 years of those days together and you get what you have in the Dominican Republic: a Third World Country where the people are very nice, but not very motivated to do much.

We finally get out of the airport and get on our bus that will take us to our resort. We pull into the main entrance and let me say I was wowed. Big time. We had people taking care of us from the moment we arrived.

We then went to our suite. It was the most awesome room I have ever stayed in, anywhere. View of the Atlantic, view of the pool (which was topless - which at first blush sounds awesome, but quickly turns to a bit of a nightmare), and the facilities were top notch. Stocked bar.

And whiskey.

I love whiskey.

Once, a very long time ago, when I was about 21, I was drinking at some hole in the wall bar somewhere in New Jersey. I asked the bartender for a good whiskey, as I didn't know of one, being unfamiliar with the concoction. He suggested Glenfiddich. I said ok. He then asked me if I wanted it on the rocks.

There was a guy sitting to my left, and he immediately piped up (with a British, or Scottish accent, not sure which, and didn't care enough to find out), and said 'do not put ice in that drink, it's sacrilege.' He said it with such conviction that I figured he knew what he was talking about. And ever since then, I have never ordered whiskey on the rocks.

Punta Cana is pretty hot. And you can't drink the water, so you're constantly drinking bottled water. Also, most of the population, even at the resorts, do not speak English with anything resembling proficiency. At our resort, there were bars everywhere. You walk up, you order and invariably, unless you order beer, they ask 'Ice?' Now, 'no,' the last time I checked was the same in Spanish or English. At least, I think they spoke Spanish.

Then I'd get the look. The 'are you a crazy American gringo' look when I said no ice. The look that said 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider, as you are making a really poor decision with regards to your choice of libations.' I stood resolute. No ice. Anywhere. Near. My whiskey.

But these people were relentless. It could be the same bartender from the night before, and I would have to repeat the whole godforsaken process just to get my whiskey without ice. At one point, I think I got frustrated and told the bartender that if there was any ice, anywhere remotely near my Johnny Walker, I would hunt him down, his kids, dig up his grandparents, and kick all of their asses. I tried saying it in Spanish. It probably came out 'I want to bone your dead grandmother' for all I know, but to his credit, he didn't seem upset. And I got my whiskey without ice.

Ah, but the battle was far from over. My wife and I went to the 'Italian' restaraunt at the resort. The waiter comes over, 'would you like something to drink?' My wife orders. I say 'Johnny Walker Black, no ice.' 'No ice?' 'NO ICE.' He wanders off.

My wife gets her drink. My drink is nowhere to be found. Our appetizers come out. Still no whiskey. I flag down the waiter. 'Could I get a whiskey, no ice?' 'No ice?' This was quickly turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.

He wanders off. Our dinners arrive. Still no whiskey.

Half way through the dinner, I see our waiter, grinning triumphantly, glass of brown liquid in his hand, and I can see there is no ice. I am ecstatic. Finally, all the explanations have paid off. Then I thought, 'fuck, I should have ordered a double, as I will have to go through all of this again.' He places the glass, with no small amount of flourish, on the table in front of me.

And then I see it. I can see his fingerprints on the glass.

Oh no. As I reach for the glass, I know. I fucking know what took so long.

My hand touches the glass. It's colder than Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada.'

That's what took so long. They put the fucking glass in the freezer. For twenty five minutes.

I ordered beer or vodka for the rest of the trip. I couldn't keep up the fight.

My wife and I went on one of those excursions to see the country. We ended up in some truck that had an open back. Our guide was pretty cool, and there was a long day planned of various stops along the way. The first stop was a school. We get into the classroom, and the kids sing some song. For all I know, they were saying 'Die motherfucking Yankees, die.' But they were cute while they did it, so we gave them some money and went on to our next stop.

The trip seemed to go on for an eternity, and we eventually ended up at some old ass looking bridge with some concrete steps down to the water, which ended at a 'dock.' I am using the word 'dock' in the loosest possible sense here. There was also a 'boat' at the end of the dock. I am also using the word 'boat' in the loosest possible sense here. So we pile in, and the guide breaks out the beer. No whiskey though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for it.

So we drifted along this river, flanked by rice fields and grazing horses and cattle. It was actually quite beautiful. The people we were with were very nice. I had a few beers and was starting to relax, envisioning this trip like the upriver trip in 'Apocalypse Now' - except, you know, without Robert Duvall trying to kill me to get his surfboard back.

Just as it's getting a bit boring, we round a bend, and see people in the middle of the river. Me and the other passengers thought it was a bit strange. As we got closer, we realized that they were in the river, they were in the ocean. We were coming up to where the river met the ocean. It was absolutely stunning. We then 'dock' at some concrete steps and walk up to the beach, and start going down a path. We then come to a clearing.

Then I see them.

Oh, fuck. Oh, no, anything but this.

Horses. Lots of horses. It's not that I don't like horses, I think they're beautiful creatures. I just want nothing to do with them. So I'm sitting there as the rest of the group walks up and the guys who are handling the horses are starting to bring them into the clearing. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

My wife is well aware of my stand on horses. Pity? Sympathy? Yeah, not so much. One of the handlers points to me and motions for me to come over to the horse he has. With much trepidation, I look around, surveying the beauty all around me, knowing that I'll never see it again because I'm surely going to die in the next five minutes.

I get on the back of the horse. I decide to name the horse. I decide to name the horse 'Fred.' Why 'Fred?' Because it's a non-threatening name. I figure if I name it something blase, then the horse will follow suit. Made perfect sense to me.

Fred begins to move. He must have been able to tell that I had absolutely no experience on the back of a horse because he just did whatever he wanted. I quickly wracked my brain for all of the information that I knew regarding horse riding. My knowledge on horse riding is extremely nascent and can be summed up as follows:

They like carrots.
Don't fall off.
'Whoa' is the 'failsafe' word.

I have developed the above from my extensive movie watching. I figured I was well armed with the information necessary to go ahead and not die.

I was wrong.

First of all, every fucking movie I have ever seen has characters saying 'Whoa horsey' and the fucker stops. I guess either the people making these movies had never ridden a horse, or Fred had never seen any of those movies. Maybe it's because "Whoa" doesn't translate into Spanish.

Whatever, but when I said 'Whoa' nothing happened. No pause, no nothing, just Fred blithely going after the horses in front of us. Fred apparently believed he was Secretariat, because all he wanted to do was be the frontrunner. Which was fucking annoying, especially when I specifically forbid him from such conduct. How did I forbid it?

By shouting 'Fred, fucking stop, you goddamn animal, Fred, FRED, FRED, WHOA HORSEY, GODDAMNIT FRED.'

I know I was starting to get through to him, because he decided to spite me. The fucking jerk. We're coming up to a bend, and the trial narrows. Which means Fred can't pass. Or so I thought.

HE GOES OFF THE GODDAMN TRAIL INTO THE TREES.

I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found out the hard way. Palm trees appear to be designed so that horses can pass under them without hitting anything while the rider gets pelted with palm fronds in his face.

Oh, and have I mentioned my nuts? Yeah, like I said, I've never been on a horse before. For those of you who don't know, your legs are spread across the horse like you're hooking for hobos. Which means your nuts (if you're a guy, like me) are squarely on the saddle. Which is hard. Factor in the bouncing gate of the fabulous fucking Fred, and my foray through the fucking jungle went something like this:

Relief of nuts as I went up in the saddle (Ahhhh), Smacked in the face with a palm branch (Thwack), yelling at Fred (Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail), agony as my nuts reaquanted themselves with the saddle (GODDAMNIT), Palm frond to the face again (Thwack!).

Ahh, Thwack, Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail, GODDAMNIT, Thwack. There was the occasional 'Whoa Horsey' thrown in there as well, but it became apparent that it only works in the movies.

Rinse and repeat.

We finally emerge from the jungle, Fred trotting along like the Mafia bet on him, and me, beaten, bruised, and frankly near death. Or wishing for death, I can't remember which. It was the toughest 5 minutes of my life.*

So what was my wife doing? Taking pictures. Of me. That's right. I nearly die a horrible death and all she can think to do is snap some pictures for the vacation album. So much for 'cherish.' It was at that moment that I resolved that if I had to die, there were two lives that were going to precede mine into the abyss.

So did I kill Fred?

No, I didn't. So what saved him (and by extension, my wife)?

Puppies.

We arrived at the stable (the place where the bastard demon spawn known as 'horses' congregate to discuss how they will attempt to kill their next unsuspecting victim) and dismounted. My nuts felt like the size of two cantaloupes trying to occupy the space of a thimble. I was dehydrated. I was broken, battered, a former shell of the once proud man I used to be. Then I saw them.

A bunch of dogs lazing around, and some puppies. Who then came up to me. They were so freakin' cute. And I'm such a goddamn sucker. So that, coupled with a generous helping of straight rum, made me abandon my plans of visiting furious and unpleasant mayhem upon my wife and Fred.

Consequently, the stable provided a bottle of rum with a picture of my wife and I (atop Fred and whatever docile sweet creature she got to ride on) along with a CD.

A CD of Spanish techno music. You think techno in English sucks? Yeah, it's fucking Bach compared to this shit.

Anyway, that's how I nearly died (one of several times) while on vacation.

And know this Fred: I ever get back to Punta Cana and see you again, I'm giving you two names:

Crazy. And Glue. Motherfucker.

I am never riding a horse again.

*'5 minutes' probably was only 30 seconds but it feels like eternity when your nuts are almost literally on fire, you're hunched over dodging foliage that the VC would exclaim 'that's WAY too fucking thick, I'm not going in there!), trying to yell commands to a horse that doesn't listen, meanwhile praying to God, Satan, and Umfufu (the God of water holes on a golf course, don't ask, I was desperate) that Fred goes off a cliff so that you have the satisfaction of knowing that when you hit the ground, at least Fred would die first. So excuse me if I was a bit too fucking busy to get a stopwatch out on the 'Devil's Run,' as I like to call it.

Top Ten Things We Learned in 2009. And Wish We Hadn't.

2009-12-22T09:53:00.000-05:00

I could start with a savvy '2009 is the year, unlike any other, where we first discovered X, Y, or Z' and how that somehow makes it a historic year. Progress of mankind and all that nonsense. You'll see a lot of those lists in the upcoming weeks. And most of them suck, mostly because they attempt to somehow distinguish the suckage that was 2009 from the suckage that was 2008, or any other year, for that matter.

But fear not, gentle readers, you'll not get that here. So I'm going to start my own tradition, which will be a top ten list of things you wish to God you never knew that became widespread knowledge in 2009. I was going to put them in descending order, but they all suck so mightily on some level that they are each justifiable #1 sucky things we learned which we wish we never had.

The Economy Blows, Isn't Going to Get Better, and the People that Fucked it the Most are the Ones Recovering First.

Yeah, it's a long title, but unlike Congress, I feel like it's necessary to put useful information in the title of things (more on this later). Anyway, it seems like a year ago that AIG and others got bailed out by our new President (more on him later) because they were 'too big to fail.' Well, apparently they weren't, because they did. Risky investments, rampant greed, ignorance of actual accounting principles and a year later we took it up the ass like a Thai Hooker from David Carridine. He almost made the list too, by the way. Who the fuck jerks off in a closet with a belt around their neck? Isn't that the fucking point of being an actor/famous in the first place? Never having to have sex alone? I'll tell you, some of these 'stars' are really shitty at being famous. If I were a star, you'd have caught me in that closet with Charlize Theron and a camel.

Don't ask what the camel is for, you don't want to know.

Anyway, what makes the economy even more fun, and I mean 'fun' as in 'getting anally raped by a mastadon' is that we're in a 'jobless recovery.' Like anyone knows what the fuck that is.

Congress says 'Health Reform' but actually means 'More Ways to Fine You.'

Remember those halcyon days of March, 2009, where the President made a stand and was going to get health care for all those unfortunate folks that couldn't afford it.

Remember those halcyon days well, because it turned into an opportunity to fine you if you don't procure health care, as well as potentially prevent people from actually being able to afford decent health care insurance. I love it when an opportunity to do some good becomes a giant fuck fest where we all lose out equally. You thought 'equality' meant we all succeeded together? Silly fuckers. It means we all get fucked together. Kind of the same. But not really. It's like winning the lottery only to find out that the 'winner' gets all expense paid trip to Guantanomo Bay. With accomodations. And cock meat sandwiches. YUM!

We Learned that our President Isn't a Savior.

Don't get me wrong, I never thought he was. But remember last year at this time? Yeah, all the 'Change is Coming' stuff. And you know what we learned this year (yet again). Roger Daltry, in "Won't Get Fooled Again" got it right.

"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

Now, I certainly don't think Obama and Dubya are the same, but ultimately, we learned that no matter how well intentioned a President is, the 'two party system' will unite like at no other time if the cause is lucrative enough.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Obama is probably a one termer. Not because he sucks, but because no-one could come into the Presidency during such a super-shittastic time and expect to be able to fix an economy, foreign policy, jobs, and health care. President Clinton took a beating just trying to 'fix' one. So did Bush. Obama has to fix all four? He's fucked. And it's not really his fault, but that's the bitch about being at the top, you get blamed for it.

Why isn't it his fault? Cause no one could possibly fix the above problems in one term. It took decades of mistakes to get here, it's going to take decades to undo it.

Michael Jackson was Creepier Than You Previously Imagined.

Now that's fucking saying something. Raise your hand if you believed the following at the beginning of 2009:

"Michael Jackson is probably weirder than I think he is."

Ok, hands?

You! Yeah, you, in the first row. Put your fucking hand down, assclown. There is not one person alive who really thought Michael Jackson was creepier than you previously thought. There is no way any human being can be that creepy, yet exceed your expectations for creepiness.

Jon and Kate Plus Eight = Ten People That Need to Be Aborted. Immediately.

The fact that I know who Jon and Kate are, and you do too, might well be the harbinger of the apocalypse. I have never watched the show. I have never watched an interview with them, nor read an article about them. In fact, I have gone out of my way to avoid them at all costs, yet inexplicably I know who these shitfucks are.

Think about that for a minute. If I spent this much effort avoiding math, I'd be using a calculator to figure out 1+1 = 3. See what I mean? Yet, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I know way more about these fucksticks than I care to. Which is anything at all.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, the solution is obvious. They all have to die. Yes, the cute ones too. The only way for humanity to progress is to remove these attention whores from the gene pool.

Tiger Woods is a Fallible Human, Andre Agassi Super Pissed

Can you just imagine the following conversation:

Andre: Well, Steffi, the book is done. I talk about everything. How I hated my father. How I hated tennis. How I did Crystal Meth. How I should have never married that Blue Lagoon chick. How I wore weaves. As far as tell-all books go, this is the gold standard. It will be on every Christmas list around the world. Sports fans will rejoice in its honesty and integrity.

Steffi: Hold it there, baldy. Breaking story on CNN.

Andre: What? Global warming? War in Iraq? War in Afghanistan? Health Care Reform? What?!?!?!?!?

Steffi: Apparently Tiger Woods fucked his way through every Waffle House, IHOP, and brothel in the United States.

Andre: But there's no sex in my book!

Steffi: Ah, but you're about to get fucked nonetheless. Hmmm. Seems Tiger drove his Buick into a fire hydrant. It appears his wife came after him with a golf club.

Andre: Thank God I took up tennis.

Seriously, what the fuck do you have to do to get some fucking press in 2009? Andre Agassi, whom I do admire, lays it all out there, only to be upstaged by perhaps the most taciturn sports star of the 21st century. And a couple of thoughts:

Tiger, you're worth a Billion. More than any other sports star in history. Yet, somehow, you can't figure out how to password protect your phone? Or buy a second phone? And you call one of your mistresses and identify yourself by name and ask her to change her phone ID? Jesus titty-fucking Christ, Tiger, you need new handlers.

I know everyone is down on Tiger, but in my mind, this just elevates his achievements. The dude has won 14 majors. I always had a picture of this guy practicing his ass off, total focus, working out like a fiend, and now we find out he was probably too busy fucking everything that moved (including his wife) to have time to buy a second 'minutes only' phone. What does this guys schedule look like:

5:30 a.m. Tee off.
7:30 a.m. Bang cart girl behind 10th green.
9:34 a.m. Finish 18, finish off cart girl.
10:00 a.m. Bang wife, shower.
10:02 a.m. Call mistress, tell her to change ID.
10:05 a.m. Have argument with wife.
10:06 a.m. Get hit with golf club.

Lots of fuzzy stuff here.

2:30 a.m. drive car into fire hydrant.

And now we're learning all sorts of fun tidbits. Tiger doesn't use condoms. He takes Ambien. He likes waitresses (who doesn't?).

And not one bit of it really matters. Love him or hate him, he is probably going to go down in history as the greatest golfer ever. I just never knew he'd go down in history as one of the greatest 'cocksman' ever. Typing that last sentence made me throw up in my mouth just a little bit.

H1N1 Flu is a Gigantic Pussy as Far as Killer Epidemics Go

Once again, the fact that you know that 'H1N1' refers to the Swine Flu - given the fact that 98% of Americans can't name the current Vice President - is a pretty good indicator of how much coverage the Swine Flu received in 2009. Hell, I can't remember the chemical equation for water, but I fucking know this one.

And where are the mass deaths? I don't remember there being this much coverage of the Black Plague in Europe during the middle ages, and that killed like seventy gazillion people. There were also fleas and rats involved, but I'm not sure if the fleas ate the rats and the people ate the fleas and then died when something came out of their stomachs like that dude in "Alien," but I digress.

Anyway, since this is a hard nose journalistic site, I decided to run the numbers. These are from the US government's CDC site.

So, I'll use the median numbers.

Amount of cases: 47 million.

Amount of deaths: 9,820.

I will convert this to batting/killing average. The Swine Flu had 47 million chances to kill people, but only did so on 9,820 occasions, yielding a percentage of .02% of the time it actually successfully killed someone. If a major league player had this for a batting average, he would no longer be in the major leagues. But he might make the record books for worst batting average ever.

So H1N1: What a fucking pussy.

For future reference, please sound the panic alarm on diseases when they actually, you know, have a better chance of killing me than a rabid platypus during an ice storm in Nebraska during the Summer Olympics.

Octomom: Sadly, More Than Just A Villian in Spiderman 3,245

I'm not even going to use her real name, because she doesn't deserve it. How the holy hell this bitch got famous is beyond me. To recap, she already has 24.76 kids, goes to a fertility clinic, tells the 'doctor' to knock her up with a starting line-up plus three bench players, and then proceeds to actually shit out the Dick Van Patten. Yes, I'm calling it the 'Dick Van Patten.'

She's a corrections officer, but somehow having 3,410 children, while not living in Africa and starving, seemed like a good idea. You know someone is going to bust out Sally Struthers to do a telethon for this bitch. Who knows, maybe we'll get an 'Octo-Aid' concert where a bunch of pretentious musicians pontificate on the horror of starvation in California after visiting a fertility doctor and having more kids than you can handle and how we all need a heart to support them.

Two rules of thumb:

One, unless your door locks with laces, and has a foundation of 'rubberized sole' you have no business having 8 kids.

Two, you are allowed to have the amount of children in accordance with the following formula: Woman's IQ + Dad's IQ/100. If Dad isn't around, you don't get to count his IQ. So unless Octomom has an IQ of around 1,400, she's in violation.

Holy Fuck, how awesome would it be to stick her and all her kids in the same house with Jon and Kate and thier brood and have a death match? Now that's reality TV.

Twilight: Proving That Middle Aged Moms Crushing on Teenagers is Just As Creepy As When Men Do It.

Sometimes in the morning, my wife has on the 'Today Show.' Recently, I saw a bunch of moms with signs and whatnot going on and on about 'how cute' the main guy from 'Twilight' was and how they had crushes on him. The character is like 17 years old, but a vampire, so he's really 1,098 years old, and emo. Seriously? Emo vampires? What the fuck is the world coming to? Now even creatures of the night have emotional dilemmas? I like my undead focused on one thing: eating the brains of hot chicks AFTER the gratuitous boob shot.

But what's even skeevier is imagine if there were a bunch of middle aged dads at a Hannah Montana appearance with signs talking about how they love her and how cute she is.

The FBI pedophile division would be down there in 15 seconds cracking skulls (well, this would actually be pretty awesome) and they'd all have to call their probation officers prior to leaving the jurisdiction because they're registered sex offenders. Now, I may be coming off as morally superior but the fact of the matter is that I'm bitter.

This reminds me of that slew of teachers that were banging their 15 year old students. You ever see pictures of some of those teachers? They were fucking hot. And here I am. When I was 15-17, none of my teachers or friends' moms wanted to fuck me. No one did. Christ, I'm not sure anyone wants to now.

I'm going to go cry a bit and listen to Miley Cyrus.

Twitter: Confirming That Our Lives Are Even More Boring Than We First Imagined.

I had held out hope that the internet would be the new education media platform that would bring a new level of discourse and enlightenment to the population at large. We would have debates about the finer points of politics, find out more information about our representatives, become better consumers, expose the scams and otherwise enrich our intellectual lives.

Instead, we got youtube and twitter where every idiot on the planet posts shit in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' Now, I know what you're thinking, I'm here blogging in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' I assure you, I'm better than that. Why? I have no idea. I'm ok with the hypocrisy of it all, so don't shed any tears for me. Anyway, back to my elusive point.

From what I understand, Twitter is this thing where you can post random thoughts about what you're doing. You have only 140 characters per post (which means this article would be about 2 billion twits, or tweets, or twats, or whatever the fuck they're called today). You update the world on what you're doing at that moment. I've thought long and hard about what my twitter account would look like, and here's what I've come up with:

My nuts itch. I scratched them. The wife said 'ewww.'

I burped. The wife was annoyed.

The dog is laying on me.

The dog farted on me.

Now my taint itches.

Why is my taint itchy? IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS.

Went to the store. I'm back.

Playing video games.

Posting on my blog.

After reviewing the above, I would claim 'most boring existence on the face of the planet' but apparently everyone else is JUST AS FUCKING BORING AS ME!?!?!?

We missed the boat on this whole internet thing. It could have been good. Hell, it could've been great, instead it's been taken over by a bunch of fucking morons updating the world on whatever trivial bullshit they are in the midst of doing at that moment thinking it somehow makes it more important because other people can read it.

Just like this blog.

Ok, that's it for 2009. I'd like to tell you I'm an optimist masquerading as a realist pretending to be a pessimist, but the reality of the situation is I gave up all hope for a better world when "America's Got Talent" got picked up for a second season.

Happy New Year, and here's to hoping 2010 sucks less cock than 2009.

The Leaving

2009-12-15T09:39:00.002-05:00

If you're looking for a somewhat amusing post to kill some time while you're bored, then this isn't the post for you. I suggest you check back early next week for my story regarding a boy and his reluctant horse.

The thing about The Leaving is the getting left behind. If you're the one leaving, there are difficulties to be faced. Sometimes, leaving is easier than being left.

The Leaving is tough because it breaks a bond between you and another. The absence of that which we have come to count on, even subconsciously, that binds us to a place and time. When one of those bonds breaks, you feel slightly adrift. Or in my case, totally adrift.

Ultimately, we're all seeking stability in a world that is anything but. We bind ourselves to others in the hopes that as a sum we'll be greater than we could be individually. When that bond breaks, you end up re-evaluating yourself, looking inward to try to determine how, and when, to replace that bond. But what if that bond is irreplaceable? What if there is no possibility of securing that part of yourself to the whole?

Five years later, and I still ask myself that question. Five years ago today, my father passed. This is always a tough time of year for me, as The Leaving has affected my life in dramatic ways.

We all have broken toys in our attics. We all figure that one day, we'll bust out the crazy glue and put them back together and they'll be like new. But real life gets in the way, and before you know it, those toys have piled up. And the task becomes incrementally more insurmountable.

There are a few toys I wish I had put together, but the biggest would be the relationship with my Dad. Sadly, I still can't get past the anger. The anger at being left behind and having to mend toys that I didn't break. I just got left with a mess.

The central theme of this blog (to the extent that my ramblings could be said to have any theme) is that I work two jobs that are very different, on opposite ends of the spectrum, if you will. None of this would have been necessary had my Dad done what I had advised him time and time again. Take care of himself, get his checkups, get health insurance, and make sure Mom is taken care of. So in a large respect, this very blog is the result of my Dad's death.

My wife's mother recently lost her husband, and despite his flaws, she was left in a reasonable situation.

I, however, got stuck caring for a woman who didn't particularly care for me. I work two jobs - one of which I despise - in order to make sure I make enough money so that she's taken care of. It's a tough thing to wake up day after day knowing that you're falling farther and farther behind because you're stuck. You're not building you're own future, you're merely preventing someone else's future from getting worse. And the years roll on.

We all start out with visions of greatness. Some of us, a very select few, are fortunate enough to realize that greatness. For many of us, that vision changes. It blurs, clouds, and the focus and clarity of thought you once had about your future and your place in the world is muddled and fuzzied with the mental fog of too many obligations and not enough resources. And that's where I find myself today. I've told my wife time and time again 'I want to do something great.' I still have no idea what that is. I fear I may never know, and without the knowing, how could I possibly work towards it? Quite the conundrum.

Recently, my friend and coworker Jim (whom caught Terrance treating the walk-in freezer like his personal grocery store) has been faced with a similar situation. His father, who left the family years ago, has attempted to get back in touch with him. Apparently, he has cancer. Jim has made it clear in the past that he never wanted a relationship with his dad.

But I could see the conflict on his face. Time is running out. There's still time to get the crazy glue out of the drawer and do your best.

And that's what I told Jim.

Staring at a toy that is forever broken isn't a good ending. Will there be the happy reunion? Probably not. We all draw our lines in the sand, stake out positions that are somewhat unreasonable, but are necessary for us to keep up the facade that makes our lives have some meaning.

My father once told me that despite all the mistakes he made, the things he really regretted were the things he didn't do.

Dad, I wish I had been smart enough to listen. You were right, Dad.

I wish I had put that toy back together. Forgive my pride and anger, Dad, I'm hoping that as the world grinds away at me, they'll both be gone soon, and I can finally start over. I hope that it all makes sense, that epiphany that it was all worth it. That I come out the better man for it all.

And I look forward to telling you all about it someday, Dad.

I also hope that you don't mind The Waiting, because I have a lot of living left to do.

You Don't Bring Me Water, Anymore...

2009-12-14T09:21:00.002-05:00

Clients.

You love them. You hate them. Though I went to law school for three years, I did not have one class on 'client relations' or 'evaluating cases.' No, we were too busy learning 14th Century British Common Law to actually get into, you know, how to be a lawyer. Law School is such a scam, but I'll get to that at another time.

I do both Plaintiff's and Defense work. I have no bias either way. I see plenty of deserving Plaintiffs get screwed by the system, and I see plenty of Plaintiffs scam the system, so both sides have some fairly persuasive arguments as to why the other one sucks.

Anyway, one of the most important skills you can develop in a small practice is case evaluation. If you get the right Plaintiff, it can be a very lucrative case.

What is 'the Right Plaintiff?'

Here's the ideal Plaintiff: Young, Rich, Educated, Employed, Married, Kids with disabilities, Maimed. Not dead, just really fucked up for the rest of their life.

And you need a Defendant. Your ideal Defendant is Rich, or Insured, A Drug Addict, Criminal, Drunk, and Thoroughly Reprehensible.

When I evaluate a case, I usually use this as a measuring stick: Young male married dude in Med School gets hit and pees through a tube for the rest of his life by Bill Gates whom is Drunk with six underage Thai hookers in the car at the time of the accident.

Ca-fucking-ching, baby.

Sadly, most calls I get are a far cry from the above.

So I get a call from a potential client about two months ago.

He's injured. It's his landlord's fault. His mom has cancer. He tells me about the cancer twice. Did mom get cancer because of the landlord? Unfortunately not. Can't win them all, I guess.

Then I hear the magic words:

"You don't know landlord, do you? They have a lot of power and influence in this town."

Oh goody, a Conspiracy theorist. I love those guys. You run into these types every so often. They think they're an extra in 'Roadhouse' and the Big Bad Dude is running the town. I guess that makes me Patrick Swayzee. Which isn't good, because despite what Patrick says, pain DOES hurt. A fucking lot.

So I'm already inclined to tell the guy to fuck off. When we spoke on the phone, I told him to bring in any medical records he has. He shows up empty handed. Then I get the 'Why aren't I meeting with the named partner' question. Like I'm the circus side show. But, since business is slow, I press on.

I explain the necessary steps to evaluating his case. I ask him if he has the medical reports. He gets all snotty. "Of course I do, I told you I did on the phone." My bad, you also told me on the phone that you'd bring them. Because I need them to evaluate the case to see if I can take it.

"Ok, so you have the narratives too?"

"Do you know what you're doing? It doesn't sound like you've ever handled one of these cases."

I am now openly glaring at him. 'I asked, because many folks don't necessarily get the narrative along with the x-rays or mri's. I have handled many of these types of matters."

But no, it gets even better. "Do you represent tenants in landlord/tenant court?"

Uh oh, I know what's coming. I've seen this movie, and it never ends well. I close my eyes and mouth the words that I know I can't NOT say:

"Yes, I do."

"Ok, because my landlord has sued me for failure to pay rent..."

Bingo. We have a winner. And by winner, I mean loser.

Big. Fucking. Loser.

"I couldn't pay rent because my mom got cancer..." Again, the mom has cancer card. I got it the first sixteen times. Instead, I say 'I'm not really sure how your mom's cancer is relevant.'

"Because I have to care for her, and because I'm injured, I can't." Nor pay rent, apparently.

Then, after my tone got, well, assholish, he says this:

"I don't think this will work out..." No, really? "...I mean, you didn't even offer to get me a glass of water."

Wait, what? What the fuck did he just say? He's evaluating whether or not I know what I'm doing as a lawyer by whether or not I asked to get his gimpy ass a glass of water?

My reply: 'Have a nice day. It was a pleasure meeting you.'

People love to blame lawyers for our litigious society. People are dead wrong. The fact of the matter is unless I have a client, I can't sue anyone. Since the economy has been underwater, I definitely have received more calls from hard luck clients, looking for any slight to serve as their lottery ticket out of the mess they're in. And they just don't get it: the law is not a lottery ticket. There is no sweepstakes. And the funny thing is, there is some lawyer somewhere that might take the idiot's case. Good luck with that, I guess.

I hope he got evicted.

My Banned List

2009-12-10T09:31:00.000-05:00

Several months ago, I went on a trip to Washington, DC with my wife and a good friend to see another friend of ours. Have you ever been? Don't bother. Yeah, I know, 'it's got history' and 'it's the Capital of this great country' and 'I hear there are hookers that are real cheap.'

One of the first things I noticed is the amount of uggos walking around. If San Franciso is a the gay Mecca, then DC is the hideously deformed people Mecca. Every person that I talked to that seemed reasonably good-looking was invariably from elsewhere. It was highly disturbing. I guess Kissinger was right when he said that power is an aphrodisiac, because otherwise, these people would never get laid without significant amounts of cash changing hands.

The traffic? Holy Mother of God. I can only imagine the aerial view of the area looks like a plate of spaghetti had vomited all over the map.

I also saw some of the most bizarre looking trannies that I've ever seen. I live in a major city, so I've seen trannies before. I guess I never thought that I was lucky enough to live in a city with a better cut of tranny. Yay for me, I suppose.

This is not to say that I didn't have a good time. I did. Mostly because I like my wife and my friends. Short of that, you could wipe it all from the map and I wouldn't blink an eye.

Anyway, upon our return, my friend sent me the link found below. I'm generally a pretty mild-mannered person, but some things, well, some things a man of honor can't let stand without comment. As such, upon reading the link below, I sent the following e-mail to the National Archives.

To whom it may concern:

I have a comment regarding the following article/exhibit:
http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/treasures/tri001.html

I'll just start with the first line: "Pierre-Charles
L'Enfant's 1791 plan for the city of Washington is one of
the great landmarks in city planning. "

Are you people high? How anyone could draft such a
statement without falling dead from the sheer stupidity of
it looking back at them boggles my mind.

The French suck. The fact that a Frenchie designed
the Capital of this great nation is a great source of
shame. As it should be. If you look in the
dictionary next to the word 'French' it clearly states
'people who suck. lolfrenchies.' It's science.

The design of DC could have been improved dramatically by
doing the following:

Find a retarded gerbil

With Epilepsy.

Dip it in ink.

Drop on clean sheet of paper.

Induce seizure.

Have you seen Florida Ave? I did. Once.
Because no one can probably ever find it again. DC has
two '15th' streets. How this is acceptable is beyond
imagining. No one else in the world would
come up with such a boneheaded idea. And if they did,
I don't want to know about it.

Your street names, on first blush, seem to make
sense. That is, until you actually try to find
them. Then not so much. I believe I saw a corner
of M and M street. I could have been hallucinating on
roofies at the time, so don't quote me on that. I
thought the circles in Jersey were bad, but that's a walk in
the park compared to the shitfests that litter DC.

Frankly, I attribute the United States' primacy in the
world to this design. So it was successful on that
level. I can only believe that foreign dignitaries
come to DC and think 'Holy shit, I live in a mud hovel next
to a Yak, but these bitches are flat out fucking crazy.'

As such, I have placed Washington, DC on my personal 'ban
list.' Other notable residents on my ban list are
Dunkin Donuts, the corner store that I thought was a Wawa
but turned out to be some low rent convenience store (it's
in Berlin, NJ), and all of Europe. Actually, at my
wife's urging I am re-examining my ban of the United
Kingdom, so they may come off the list.

Also, I respectfully request that you remove the article as
your very soul depends on it. Satan himself would not
allow that Frenchie in Hell, because he'd be jealous of the
design and worried that the Frenchie would take over.
Come to think of it, maybe that idiot IS Satan.

Anyway, if you fix the streets so that they don't look like
someone with Cerebral Palsy designed it on an etch a sketch
while riding a rabid camel, I will consider lifting the
ban.

Thank you for your time and attention, have a nice day.

A proud American

Night and Day

I sent that e-mail months ago and I have not received a response. You have much to answer for, DC. Oh, I've also added China to my 'banned' list.

My wife was fearful that I would not be able to get a passport and that I'd be on some 'National Security List' or I'd be sent to jail. Or I'd get sent to Guantanamo Bay. Or hoping I would, I'm not sure which.

Anyway, I got my passport. So maybe, just maybe, there's someone in DC with a sense of humor. If that person is you, please reply. Thanks.

Huevos de Fuego

2009-12-07T10:51:00.000-05:00

What most people don't realize is that law is quite possibly the most boring occupation you could possibly do on a daily basis. You know those service contracts you see from time to time? Look on the back. Go ahead, I'll wait. You see all that little writing on the back? Yeah, some moron like me spent 2,321 billable hours writing that shit. And you know what's funny about it? Almost all of it is necessary because some idiot did whatever the little print on the back tells you not to do.

Law is extremely reactionary.

For instance, I worked for the State way back when. When we went through orientation, we were given a handbook. Under the rules section, it stated that you could not bring your kids to work.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck needs to be told that you can't bring your kids to work? Apparently, someone had in fact decided to bring their kids to work. And since it wasn't against 'the rules' they weren't sure how to deal with it.

So they had to write up a rule. I think it was Plato that said in 'The Republic' that a state's measure of civilization is inversely proportional to the amount of laws that state has. Or something like that.

Law is the examination and application or rules. Doesn't seem so exciting now, does it? Yeah, I know, in the latest 'Law and Order' Jack McCoy got the bad guy to slip up on the stand. It never happens in real life. There are no Perry Mason moments. Just a lot of reading of shit that you could go a lifetime of happily not knowing.

Anyway, the point of the foregoing is that I'm often mentally bored out of my mind. It's just tough to get real excited about that case from 1983 where the insurer was successful because his claim was filed within the statute of limitations. Don't lie, you wanted to puke after you read that last sentence, didn't you?

So by the end of the day, my mind is typically fried because you can't read shit like that day in and day out and be normal. It's not humanly possible. So what does my mind do?

Fantasize. It takes vacations. It was one such vacation that gave rise to the 'Legend of the Huevos de Fuego.'

I was sitting in my car, in bumper to bumper traffic, making my way home like I do most days. Some perfectly pitched person on the radio making a claim that I could have a better life if I just spent 16 months in a Microsoft Certification program.

Then I thought, and to this day, I have no idea why my mind went here, 'what if I had balls of fire?' And the more I thought about it, I thought it would be the Coolest. Thing. Ever.

Seriously, how awesome would it be if you literally had balls of fire? The chick factor alone gives it huge upside. Yeah, sure, the ladies have all heard the 'I've got big balls line' (and who hasn't heard that story before) - but can you imagine the following (and I did imagine the following):

Sitting at a bar, and some chick says 'what makes you so special?'

And you pull down your pants, and this intense glow emanates from your man region. Seriously. Fucking. Awesome. But no, that was not enough of a mental vacation, I had to go farther.

Yes, that's right, my Huevos de Fuego (because it sounds so much fucking cooler in Spanish), could actually shoot fire. So not only were they made of fire, they could burn a motherfucker too. Why this appealed to me, I just don't know.

Still my mind was not satisfied. I used to live in New Jersey. New Jersey has a section known as the Pine Barrens. It's millions of acres of nothing but sandy soil and pine trees. Then I remembered that fire is necessary for pine trees to grow because pine cones are heat activated. Yup. I went there.

The Legend basically goes like this, the Native Americans passed the tale of the 'Night of the Consuming Fire' down, from story-teller to story teller. One group, living on the wrong side of the Delaware, a.k.a. New Jersey, tell of a 'Night that was Really Unbearably Fucking Hot So We Packed Up Our Squaws and Moved to Florida to Live with Our Elders.' The other group, on the right side of the Delaware, a.k.a. Pennsylvania, tell of the 'Night of the Superbright Light That Woke Our Asses Up Which Led to a Bunch of Kids 9 Months Later Because We Were All Up Anyway.'

Of course, I'm the central part of the Legend. My balls singlehandedly (or double ball-edly?) laid waste to a vast portion of Southern New Jersey, thus creating the Pine Barrens.

Yes, rereading what I just wrote gives me great doubts as to my sanity. But it gets worse. Much worse.

That night, my wife and I went out with a great friend of ours. We're sitting around having a few drinks and talking about something. Then it happened. And unfortunately, I'm given to moments that for whatever reason, I just say things. It's like I have no volition, the words come out.

"You know, I have Huevos de Fuego."

Both my friend and my wife look at me.

So I told them about the Legend of Huevos de Fuego. I left out the part of the Native Americans because even I could sense that maybe, just maybe, this was a little too far out there.

Just the Way You Are, or Billy Bob Strikes Again!

2009-12-03T14:12:00.000-05:00

When I last left you, I wrote about my In-Laws.

Billy Bob didn't fail to deliver.

There's always doubt at family functions as to whether Billy Bob will show up. Which reminds me of last Christmas. So before I get into his latest dumbass move, I will harken back to the halcyon days of Christmas 2008. Christmas is usually held at Victor's house. Last Christmas was two days after my wife's stepfather had passed away - but before his funeral where Billy Bob would act like a complete asshole and seal his fate.

So it was kind of important that everyone attend Christmas dinner. Billy Bob did manage to show - given that he lives about 15 minutes away from Victor. And yes, he had them boots polished, sparkling brightly like the rays from a thousand moons. Billy Bob is a country song gone really wrong. Or really right, depending on how you feel about Country.

So we have dinner - which included the scariest culinary experience I ever had - but that's another story for another day. After we finish the big family meals, I tend to be the one to do the dishes. In fact, I think at all the family gatherings since I started dating my wife, I do them. Not because anyone asks, but because I'm usually sitting on my ass not lifting a finger in preparing the meals, so it's the least I can do. As you can imagine, a full meal with 12-16 people generates a shitload of dishes. It's a bit of a task, but I don't mind, and my in-laws appreciate the effort I think.

After Christmas dinner, Billy Bob had to rush home for a 'big family announcement.' He had been talking about it all day. The way he was describing it, this announcement was bigger than when Clay Aiken announced he was gay. BIG stuff.

So after dinner we exchange all of our gifts , but Billy Bob is nowhere to be found. He had been in and out all day, except he did manage to eat a ton of food, alienate his step son and reconfirm that as far as seating arrangements go, sitting next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or him was a toss up.

He walks back into the house, a smile beaming on his face. The room was silent in anticipation of the 'big family announcement.' We were on the edges of our seats. Ok, we weren't. And then he hits us with this:

"We got a WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII."

I sat there dumbfounded. THIS was the huge announcement? I thought he was kidding. Nope. I'll tell you, I bet the trailer was a rocking event that night. The fact that purchasing a video game platform that was developed in the last 5 years was a big deal to these idiots gives you an idea of what Billy Bob's family is like. They're the Beverly Hillbillies, without the wealth. Or intentional humor. They do have unintentional humor nailed though.

So fast forward to Thanksgiving. Billy Bob shows up. I'm outside, and he's blabbing about hunting. How he gets in camo gear, and how his arrows were the wrong ones and how most hunters are 'doing it wrong.' My only fear with Billy Bob hunting is that there will be a 'hunting' accident and my In Law meal ticket will perish.

Back inside, I'm talking to his step son who started his freshman year at college.

"Didn't you break up with that chick?" I delicately asked.
"Yeah."
"You dating?" Hey, I paused for a second in recognition of the break up.
"Yeah." But there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
"You're whoring around, aren't you?"
He smiles and says "A little bit."

I now realized this was actually an important conversation. One of those conversations that his idiot stepfather couldn't have with him. So I stepped up.

"Ok, listen carefully. This is very important." I leaned in towards him to make sure no one overheard us.

"Someday, you're going to be me. Yes, I know, you don't think it will happen to you. It will. Do I look like a happy guy?"

He laughs. I continue.

"College is like a buffet. You think when you get out in the real world you're going to find an environment of young hot girls with self esteem issues and damaged decision making faculties? No. You won't, unless you pay for it. So you need to take advantage of what you have, while you have it."

"I hear you, but it's a bit awkward, you know, I ran into this one after we hooked up and she was mad. I kind of hurt her feelings." Oh boy, I could sense he was about to make the biggest college mistake: a steady girlfriend.

"The buffet has no feelings. You can't look at it that way, and realistically, what's more hurtful? Stringing a chick along, or ending it quick, like removing a band-aid? I've broken up with chicks on voice mail. Sure, they get mad, but get used to the fact that you're going to piss off chicks you sleep with. It's the way of the world, accept it as a cost of doing business. Dude, you're making memories now that are going to have to last you for a very long time. Don't lie to them, but do not, DO NOT, get guilted into dating a hook up chick because it's awkward. Any time sex is involved, there's going to be awkwardness, that's part of the fun."

He looked at me quizzically.

"Look man, just play around and avoid relationships at all costs. You're too young to understand a good relationship, but old enough to enjoy sex with randoms."

He laughed. "Ok man, I hear you."
"Use protection."
"Of course, thanks man."
"Don't tell your parents about this conversation."

I have to end a lot of my conversations that way. Wow, that makes me sound like a pedophile.

Yeah, I know, I'm role model of the year. The thing is I don't have the heart to lie to the kid. I'll let the real world handle that.

Anyway, dinnertime arrives. My mother in law puts up a nice spread, even if I don't like Turkey very much. Then this nugget:

Victor: "Hey Billy Bob, did you see that weight set out on the curb up on Maple the other day?"

Now, I'm thinking, is Billy Bob going to start working out? Why does he need to know about a trashed weight set?

Victor: "How about that piano on Pine the other week?"

Now I'm really baffled. At this point, I think my wife was talking to me, but my super-duper developed spidey-sense was going off.

Billy Bob: "No, but I got one the other day from another place."

Me: "Why did you get a piano?"

Billy Bob: "For the scrap."

Oh. My. God. He is dumpster diving. As his main job. But it gets better. He then describes how he gets all this trash stuff (some of it, I have to say, sounded really interesting - like finding a WWI trench knife, or that in the old days, typewriters didn't have a "1" key, the lower case 'L' was used instead) - brings it back to his place, and then destroys it in the back yard. He was talking about how much he enjoys destroying stuff. He forgot to mention that he's still on disability. But his best scheme was this one:

"Yeah, so I was watching the price of copper go up. So I weighed out some pennies to see how many were in a pound to see if it would be worth it to melt them down."

Oh. My. God. This guy is the gift that keeps on giving.

Me: "Uh, you know they don't make pennies from pure copper, right?"

"Yeah, I found out that you need to get pre-1983 pennies. So I started separating them, but the price went down again so it wasn't worth it."

Oh no, Billy Bob, it was definitely worth it.

We finish dinner. Billy Bob gets up and says "I got dishes" and makes a big production of it. My mother in law looked at me. Like I'm going to say no. Plus football is on, so fuck it, he wants to be the dish hero, well, he could use the points, and he's so out of third, I'm not worried about it.

I go sit in front of the tv to watch the Cowboys/Raiders. I am totally oblivious to my surroundings. In other words: at peace.

"Honey!"

I realize my wife is calling me. I lean forward. "Huh?"

Billy Bob: "Where's my reliever?"

Holy fucking shit. Are you serious? You need 'relief' from washing dishes? After you made this big production about it? Then he does the whole 'just kidding' thing. So fine, I can play along. I sit back and watch the game.

Five minutes goes by.

"Oh, where's my relief?"

Now I'm annoyed. What a fucking pussy. You can't even finish dishes? So I get up and go out there. Billy Bob makes a big production of showing how much he got done. So what did he get done? Basically anything he could rinse and put in the dishwasher. Wow, Billy Bob, you're a real Dish Wash Hero (I think of it like Juke Box Hero, but infinitely cooler).

That's right, all the pots, pans, and shit that, you know, actually requires effort to wash and won't fit in the dishwasher is still left to be done. So I'm up. A lesser man may have accepted his fate. A lesser man would have done his job.

I am not a lesser man.

I resolved at that moment that every dish I washed, by hand, would be the cleanest fucking dish in the history of clean dishes. No, standard scrubbing wouldn't be enough. Those fuckers were gonna sparkle. Dishwashers the world over would tremble at my dish-washing might. I pulled up my sleeves, turned up the hot water, and I began.

To say that I was poetry in motion doesn't do me justice. It was as if the dirt and grime on the dishes knew that they were witness to, and part of, the greatest dishwashing session ever. Pans? Ha. Pots? Please. Roaster rack? Fuck you, bitch.

Then my mother in law asks me: "What do you think of the dish towel?"

"It's nice Ma, I dig it."

"I made it myself." Yup. I was in the zone. Everything falling into place. Now, I sweat at the drop of the hat, so with all the water, steam, and scrubbing, I'm dripping like a hooker after a Naval convention.

And then the women come in. Oh yes, they saw it. They saw it all. Me, at the height of my dishwashing prowess. Banishing dirt and food particles to the never to be seen beyond. Dripping with sweat, just looking as fucking manly as only I can.

"Son, why don't you let me take over" my mother in law says.

Oh, no. I see that trap.

"Ma, I'll finish it. I'm fine."

The glasses? Like fucking Rembrandt with Cascade, bitches. I would set the President's table with that shit.

But has Billy Bob done enough damage to himself? Ha, not at all.

He says to my wife: "Wow, he's pretty good, maybe we'll keep him."

And though I'm not a boastful man, I wasn't letting this opportunity get by without comment.

"I should be, I wash dishes three days a week."

"Oh, yeah, you got that other job." He got the point. Instead of dumpster diving, and disability, get a job. Help your family.

Yup. That's right, Billy Bob. That's what a man does. Everyone has hard times. It's what you do to get out of them that makes you a man.

But don't change, Billy. Don't change one bit.

I love you just the way you are.

The Key to Surviving In Laws: Enter the Dumbass

2009-11-25T09:49:00.003-05:00

Once again, Thanksgiving is upon us, and I don't really have a lot to be thankful for. Then again, at this age, I thought I'd be fabulously wealthy, famous, getting blown by a different chick every night, and driving a Ferrari back to my part-time residence in St. Thomas.

Using the above as a barometer, I'm 0-5. But when we look at the real Thanksgiving, I guess I do have a lot to be thankful for. In the old days, we learned that Thanksgiving was the time when the Americans went hat in hand to those other Americans, you know, the folks that conveniently kept an eye on shit til we showed up, because we didn't have a lot of food. So the other Americans gave the new Americans some. And being thankful, as new Americans always were, they then proceeded to wipe the other Americans off the face of the earth. This incident is the perfect example of the old adage 'no good deed goes unpunished.' If only Tanto had known, he'd probably have let all the new Americans starve.

Anyway, I will be attending Thanksgiving at my in-laws tomorrow. I actually get along with my in-laws, probably better than my own family. Actually, that's not true, I don't even talk to my family, so it cuts down on the arguing dramatically.

My mother-in-law has four sons-in-law. Now, if I were ambitious, I'd try to be the best - kind of like my fantasy listed above (amazing how I tied that in, huh?) - but I learned from the Indians. Doing too much good is only going to get you fucked. You need to think about survival, first and foremost.

The first, and longest tenured son-in-law is Victor. Victor is one of those religious guys who practices it without preaching it. He helps the homeless, gives rides to tards, and otherwise helps people. Given the fact that I'm exceedingly self aware, and I know that I'm pretty self absorbed, attempting to top this guy is going to result in a lot of effort without the payoff. So I'm already at #2.

I'm the third longest tenured son-in-law, but I'm going to give the #2 spot to my brother-in-law, Harry. Harry, I think, is like me in a lot of respects. I believe he's self absorbed, but he has one major quality that elevates him to the #2 spot: he doesn't say a lot of stupid shit. I lose here, hands down. But it's closer than you might think.

I fall at #3. And this is exactly where I want to be. If you're #1, you're going to have people expect shit out of you. I do very poorly when people expect shit out of me, unless they expect to be disappointed, in which case I'm your man. At #1, you become the defacto patriarch, if there is no other, such as a grandfather. In our case, there are no grandfather's left, so the sons-in-law are basically the four men up for the position. I don't want that position. People scrutinize you, it opens you up to criticism. Victor can have it, cause I don't want to deal with that shit.

#2 is almost as, well, #two-ey, as #1. You're the patriarch in waiting. Essentially, you're on an extended audition. You have to think about everything you do, because people are going to remember, and boy-oh-boy, you're going to hear about it when you ascend to the throne. Plus, you're kind of the stunt double for #1. So you get the potential for all the responsibility, without the glory, of the crown. Fuck that noise.

No, number 3 is where it's at, assuming you're lucky enough to have a #4. And do I have a #4.

Enter the dumbass: Billy Bob.

How can I describe Billy Bob? He's kind of hickish. Not in that endearing 'kinda folksy and slow spoken' sort of a way. More in that 'I could see him attending KKK rallies' sort of a way. No, I'm not saying he's racist, he's never said anything of the sort, just trying to give you a visual here.

He married my sister-in-law in a fire hall. I have nothing against fire halls, but to give you a bit of background, I was drinking a can of Coors light (fuck off, it's all they had) during the ceremony. Why was I celebrating? Cause I knew the promised land was dead ahead. One of Billy-Bob's relatives was wearing an eye patch. An eye patch with a skull and crossbones on it. I'm dead serious here. This was like winning the in-law lottery, ticket holder: me. Did I tell you I was self absorbed?

Billy Bob fun facts:

He used to be a tree surgeon, but fell out a tree and went on disability.

He used to be a crack addict. He cornered my wife, at a Thanksgiving dinner once and told her this. I'm big on abandoning my wife when I sense an uncomfortable conversation coming. Like it's my fault I have a better developed spidey-sense than her?

He lived in a trailer.

He was short on cash - well, this is a constant thing - but always has cash for a tree stand, or a bow, or something completely and utterly useless.

He mentioned that he wanted to have sex with my sister-in-law (one that was not his wife or mine) during my wedding reception.

He wears black slacks and cowboy boots to every family function.

He got in an argument with the funeral director during my wife's stepfather's funeral. Right when we were supposed to take the casket from the hearse to the grave site. I don't think I loved Billy Bob any more than at that moment.

His wife attempted to divorce him via facebook. She got major ups in my book for that abortion of an idea.

His wife has kicked him out after finding correspondence with other women.

His wife has called the cops on him. I've always said 'It ain't true love til the cops show up.'

Basically, I could not create from scratch a better shit-bomb to be measured against. If he was any worse, he'd be in prison (and in fact, I'm waiting for him to admit he did time, hopefully to someone who is not me).

Let me be clear, at Christmas dinner last year, I had the choice of being seated next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or Billy Bob. I was happy I got the tard. I don't like being around him, because he's one of those guys that knows he's a fuck-up, but tries to be everyone's friend. And it just comes off as sleazy. Not that I don't appreciate sleazy, but the sleazy I appreciate involves low cut blouses and short skirts.

So maybe God screwed me out of my Ferrari, riches and fame.

But I'm thankful for Billy Bob. Compared to this fucker, I'm #3 for life, unless I go on a mass-murder spree.

Well, even that would show a little ambition and still keep me in my current position.

Rainbows, Midgets, Dick Vermeil and the Absolute Necessity of Headphones.

2009-11-23T09:45:00.000-05:00

Friday was my last day of Vacation in the Dominican Republic, and fortunately I have a few stories. However, I'm going to post them in reverse order, for no other reason than I feel like it. So there.

My wife and I woke up fairly early so we could get in some beach time before we had to leave. We get out on the beach and get under one of those straw umbrellas just as it begins to rain. Sunshowers, which was pretty cool. After about 15 minutes, they pass over and we take a walk down the beach. I turn around and there it is.

A perfect rainbow. I know, it sounds childish, but it was beautiful, one of those rainbows that you could see both ends of it.

We get back and decide to go in the water, which was very nice. I look at my wife and her eyes get wide. I immediately think 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I'm sure going to miss her.' She mouths 'look behind you.' I then think, 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I better get my wife between me and the shark.' I slowly turn.

It's a midget. In a bright bikini. She was a vision. Her little legs and arms and big belly. I thought to myself, 'I've never seen this in 37 years, and I don't think I'll ever see it again. I wish I had my camera.' But alas, she will forever be my 'Dominican Midget Memory.'

We get to the airport, and we're going through security. Which is a bit like kindergarten nap time with all the taking off of shoes and whatnot. So there's a guy in front of me taking off his belt. I get a look at him, and I'm about to turn to my wife and say 'hey, doesn't that look like...'

"Mr. Vermeil?' my wife asks.

"How are you?"

Then, I come up with this genius response:

"Oh my God, we're from Philly!" Yeah, I'm smooth.

So we started talking to him, he was a super nice guy. I said "Coach, it was great to see you win it all with the Rams." He was very gracious. He then turns to me and says:

"You know, ever since I got that hip replacement, I set off those damn metal detectors." Eventually some folks started recognizing him and he took time out to speak with all of them. We talked a bit about golf and the Dominican Republic. Of course, right before we board, my wife, who has a bladder the size of an acorn, needs to go. Right now. So I'm sitting watching our shit while folks are filing past us and Dick Vermeil asked 'what happened to your wife?' I pointed towards the restroom and he laughed. As I got on the plane, he was in first class and made a point to say to me that it was nice talking to me. I said 'You too, Coach.'

He was truly a genuine guy.

Oh, travel tip: ALWAYS have headphones.

We get on the plane, and I took the window seat. Mostly because I'm terrified of flying. So my wife is next to me and this rather large woman sits next to her and is shouting to her friend, about 4,562 rows back, that her bus was late and she almost missed the flight. After about 4 times of shouting this, her friend apparently got it.

She then starts talking to my wife. Now, we've all been in this situation. You're about to get stuck in an uncomfortable situation, whether it be a conversation, a strip search or getting anally raped. You know that your friend/wife/cellmate is done for, but there's still a glimmer of hope for you. You feverishly examine all the possible exits out of the situation and say 'fuck it, my wife's done for, she's on her own.'

I quickly don my ipod headphones. I would have listened to Creed. On constant repeat. That's how annoying this woman was. So I blissfully listened to my music while my wife got lambasted by this woman, who revealed the following details of her life:

Her one sister hung herself because she was unable to find a man and have a baby. If there was a family resemblance, then this mystery was solved within seconds.

The other sister died after a long illness, so she took custody of her niece. I looked over at the sixteen year old niece and she had on headphones too. I guess she saw the same disaster coming and opted out like I did. The woman also mentioned that the sister that had the niece was annoying and her niece was just like her. I love it when annoying people are annoyed by people that they think are annoying. I think that makes sense. Fuck it.

And she wants to meet up with my wife for lunch. I, of course, am encouraging her to go.

Anyway, we touched down in Philly, and as we're going through customs, the guy asks:

"Are you related?" To which I said: 'No.' My wife looks at me and says 'we've been married over a year, we're related you idiot.' The customs guy was laughing his ass off.

My next story will be 'Don't Swim with the French, and Don't Ever Play Volleyball with the Russians.'

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

2009-11-14T06:27:00.001-05:00

Well, I'm off for a week to the Dominican Republic on a well earned vacation. According to my wife there is actually internet there, so I may well update while I'm away.

I hate flying. Jesus titty-fucking Christ I hate flying.

I hope I live.

Hopefully, I'll update, if not, be well. I really hate to fly.

"Cards" on the Table

2009-11-13T11:30:00.000-05:00

One thing you figure out pretty quickly in practicing law is that most of your encounters, your conversations, your motions, your entire persona become largely scripted. At first, it's a bit of a shock because Law School is a pretty laid back atmosphere from an etiquette standpoint, so your first year in practice you have the potential to make a few gaffes.

Most lawyers I've met are pretty decent folks. Contrary to popular belief, most of us are not complete douchebags. There are definitely some, but fewer than you'd probably think.

Anyway, by about your second year, you pretty well have the script down. You've been to a few motions, you've written dozens of dry letters, responded to discovery, taken thousands of phone calls, and otherwise immersed yourself in a world faker than a beauty pageant. Some may look down upon this characterization of practicing law, and they're certainly entitled to that opinion. However, try talking to a lawyer in 'real life.' Do they sound like a lawyer? Probably not, at least not most of them. They're playing a role. They have to. Fortunately or unfortunately, the law is replete with custom and tradition and variation from either is looked down upon by the powers that be.

So when you see something that isn't in keeping with custom and tradition, it tends to really stick out, assuming you know what to look for. One of those instances still haunts me to this day.

I was working on a very large case, involving hundreds of attorneys. At a certain point in time, there was another case ongoing that might have impacted the case I was currently working on. Several of the same attorneys were involved in both cases, so I tried to keep an eye on what was going on in the other case. A good friend of mine was involved in both, so we would talk about it. We were at a deposition and one of the attorneys who was also in the other case was about to depose a witness in the case I was involved in.

I mentally referred to this particular attorney as ‘Fish Lips.’

Depositions are fairly formal events. If I go to a deposition, I will wear a suit. No, it's not as formal event as a Court Appearance, but the witness is under oath and it does have certain rules and customs that you are typically expected to follow.

Fish Lips was huge. I'm not talking 'oh, you mean she's not as rail-thin as a model huge.' At my heaviest, I ran about 240 lbs and I'm 6'2". Fish Lips had me by about 50 lbs. Remember that chick that won American Idol? Not the one with no neck, the other one. She was in that Eddie Murphy movie. Fuck it, I can't remember her name.

Except Fish Lips wasn't remotely cute. We've all seen this chick. She had completely given up on any attempt at putting herself together. I get it, I’ve battled weight issues, and it takes a lot of work and a lot of time if you’re inclined to lose it. That being said, I see thousands of overweight women and most of them still try to put themselves together in a way that is pleasing to the eye. Combing their hair. A little make-up. A low cut blouse, you know, a little something for the audience. Or bathing.

Not Fish Lips. She would show up to depositions in stretchy pants. I don't mean those slacks infused with that rubber stuff - not to be confused with Spandex (which I believe has been outlawed) - I'm talking full on 'I had fourteen kids, I vacuum, do laundry all day, run the kids around and eat at McDonalds six times a week' stretchy pants. The type of stretchy pants that are the de facto uniform of every girlfriend on ‘Cops.’ I can only imagine that the fabric of these particular stretchy pants had been woven from the very soul of Hitler because I can't imagine a worse fate than being Fish Lips’ stretchy pants.

For a top, Fish Lips would have a dark long-sleeved t-shirt thing with a sweater that looked like it was straight out of the Bea Arthur catalogue for women who were waiting to die with 15 cats and an outstanding balance of $54,982.13 at QVC.

But like any horror movie, it's not what you directly see that scares you, it's what lies beneath that keeps you up at night.

I like boobs (just check my profile). I LOVE boobs. Frankly, if I had a pair of my own, I probably would be homeless because I would feel no need to be gainfully employed. Ok, ok, you get the point. But those boobs? I now understand the phrase 'too much of a good thing.' These things were huge. Massive. Not in a 'wow, I'm a bit aroused but feel guilty about it' sort of way, more of a 'my penis would commit suicide right now if it had an opposable thumb' sort of a way. If these were the only boobs in the world, I'd be full on Clay Aiken gay.

Think back to when you were a kid. You and your friends were hanging out at the local swimming hole. Think hard. You remember? There's a dock out there in the middle of the lake? Ok, now imagine you're goofing around with your friends and you look back and there's suddenly a Blue Whale on the dock. You're positive it wasn't there just a second ago. You'd swear to it. It is so out of your expectation of reality, your brain can't handle it. At first, you deny to yourself that there's a huge-ass Blue Whale on the dock of your pond. Your eyes refuse to believe your brain. You move to 'maybe it fell on the dock out of the heavens' as an explanation. Nope, no splash. Feverishly your brain seeks to come up with an explanation that allows you to keep your illusion of reality intact. You probably settle on 'oh, it's Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale and he's always there.' You know it's a lie, but it's a useful lie. Your reality takes a bit of a bruising, but a few drinks will set you right.

Unfortunately, I had none of the above excuses to keep my own reality after what I was about to see.

Fish Lips subtly moves a shoulder. Waves of fat ripple from the strain of the motion. Time and space seem to bend. Reality tears just a bit. Somewhere, you can hear the distant scream of a child. Through the deft use of fat-physics and redirection by hand, it happens.

Fish Lip's right breast is now sitting on the table in front of her. If you’ve ever seen the movie Snatch there’s a scene towards the end when Turkish, Tommy and Mickey walk out of the unlicensed boxing match, fully expecting to get shot. Turkish says something along the lines of ‘you think your life will flash before your eyes, but you just end up with a stupid ass look on your face.’ (Oh, by the way, spoiler alert for the preceding sentence if you haven’t seen the movie.) I had that look. Except possibly more frightened. Frankly, I would have rather been shot. Because, for whatever reason, I continued to watch. I couldn’t look away, like rubbernecking on the Turnpike. You know you might see something that you can’t handle, but you can’t stop yourself. In fascination, horror, and praying to all that is holy that I'm struck blind immediately, I watch as the she repeats the motion, reality tears a bit more, and the left breast joins its partner on the table.

And there it is. There's my Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale on the dock. The only problem is I witnessed him jump out of the water onto that dock. No amount of negotiating with myself will ever make that go away. No, my reality was forever changed.

I looked around the room. There were 30 attorneys, at least, in this room and it did not appear to me that one of them had actually witnessed this catastrophic event. No one is that good of an actor. You can't witness that and be the same.

When I went to law school, we learned phrases like res ipsa loquiter, nunc pro tunc, supra, and respondeat superior. We learned to be pompous, to be proper, to be lawyers. The Cool Hand Lukes of this society. Women used to bitch that they’d have to wear skirts to court, and how sexist that was. No where, at no time, in no way, did anything prepare me for a fat chick tossing her jubblies on the table like she was the shooter at a craps table screaming ‘Fish Lips needs a new pair of shooeeeeessss…’

The veneer peels away just a little bit. You start to see the man behind the curtain, and his very existence isn’t something you’re prepared for.

So why was I the only one that saw it?

Because of my jackass of a friend. As I said earlier, my friend and I discussed the other case he was involved in, and he told me the following tidbit that happened at another deposition that Fish Lips took:

"Dude, she flopped those puppies right on the table in front of her."

And I doubted him. Some may say the moral to the story is 'believe your friends.' I disagree. The moral to the story is 'don't ever fucking tell me something like that because I might think it's necessary to watch to confirm the story.' Or 'Lie to me, motherfucker, lie to me.'

That's why I was looking. And maybe that's why I was the only one that caught it.

And I'm scarred because of it. Thanks a lot, jackass friend.

Thanks a lot.

Inappropriate but Funny

2009-11-10T12:55:00.000-05:00

The above title is how my wife, who knows me very well, sums up my existence. This is the story of how she came to that conclusion.

We live in an apartment building. And like most apartment buildings, it has an alarm system in case of a fire. One weekday morning, I heard this blaring sound and lo and behold, it was the fire alarm.

So my wife gets out of bed and starts heading to her vanity.

I say 'what the hell are you doing?'

"Brushing my hair."

I was dumbfounded. Now you may take from the above that my wife is a vain woman, but this is not the case at all. Well, not any more vain than an average woman. Which in man terms is unbelievably, but somewhat tolerable occasionally, vain. But what was baffling is that she is an extremely logical person. Well, as far as estrogen and logic can co-exist.

You need to understand, I am probably one of the most clear headed people in an emergency situation. In non-emergency situations, I worry about everything. Everything. Hell, I make shit up to worry about just so I can have something to do. But an emergency? Nothing clears away all the mental noise in my head like an emergency.

Immediately, my mind covered the three steps necessary to getting out and avoid burning to death.

One, figure out how to get the wife moving in a productive direction. In this case, productive meaning 'not worry about how you look first thing in the morning so that you may have other mornings to worry about how you look because you didn't burn to death in a fucking fire because you were doing your hair.'

Two, corral Ben and Seymour. Immediately, I realized this was going to be problematic. I don't have a cat carrier. I'll probably get into more about Ben and Seymour, or the 'tards' as I refer to them at a later date, but for now all you need to know is Seymour is feral. He lets me pet him maybe twice a year, and I've had him since he was a kitten. He's just terrified of everything and hides all day. So I run into the closet and get a duffel bag and throw it on the bed.

Now the hard part. I had to corner Seymour. He's one of those cats that will run and run until he's out of options. So you need to 'funnel' him into a spot that he can't get out of. In this case, he made his last stand in the bathroom. Meanwhile, the alarm is blaring away. In reality, probably 40 seconds have passed, but I could swear I smelled smoke and felt the temperature rising, harbingers of my certain impending doom. At that moment, I resolved that if I died because of this retarded cat and my wife's hair, I was going to haunt the shit out of them if they made it out alive.

Anyway, once you get Seymour cornered, he freezes, and he resorts to his last ditch attempt at avoiding capture. The wily Seymour stares at you, as if to say 'look at me, I'm scared and really cute, are you sure you want to continue on this course of action? Maybe it'd be best if you just let me be...' So that's when I grab him. He's got back claws, but none in the front. I grab him by the back to nullify the claws, rush out of the bathroom and head into the bedroom and start the process of trying to shove him into the duffel bag.

What happened next? Well, it was a new one on me. Between me yelling 'Shove his goddamn head in the bag' and her yelling back 'I'm trying you asshole, he doesn't want to go in there,' a strange thing happened.

For some reason, Seymour was suddenly attached by his mouth to my wife's wrist. It took a second before I realized the ramifications of this. Then my wife let out a howl of pain and I thought 'huh, guess he really didn't want to go into the duffel bag.' It took a second to extract Seymour from my wife's wrist and we got him in the bag. Which he peed in just to annoy me further. Oh, and my wife was bleeding out of four holes in her arm. Quite a bit actually.

And Ben? Yeah, he was sitting on the floor, just watching all of this transpire.

Step Three, I throw the duffel bag on my shoulder, scoop up Ben and we start heading for the front door and the stairs.

Just as the alarm goes off.

Well, that sucks. So to recap, I have one 25 lb cat in one arm, a terrified cat in a peed in duffel bag in the other, and a wife with four new holes and mussed up hair.

It was one of those moments where you just think 'God fucking damnit. Was this really necessary today?'

My wife was now really irritated. She's in pain, and knows she now has to make a doctor's appointment. She ends up going to the doctor that day, and gets bandaged. Apparently, if it hadn't been a cat bite, it was deep enough to require stitches. I was shocked the little fucker had it in him to do that. He certainly never bit me in the eight years I had him.

There would also be scarring, and potentially an infection. So not exactly fun for my wife.

I try to be empathetic, I really do. But sometimes I fail on a monumental level. The next day, we were chatting back and forth. I guess maybe I was busy at work, but for whatever reason, I felt like she was going on an inordinate amount about the 'attack.' So I sent the following:

"Hey, we just got a get well card and it's signed by Siegfried and Roy*."

Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it was the bandages. Maybe the puss. Maybe the pain. Maybe the threat of infection. Maybe the knowledge that we now had a man (or wife)-eater living among us. Maybe it was all of the above.

My wife was not amused. Yet, she still managed to laugh. She showed the message to a co-worker who said 'Funny. Inappropriate, but funny.'

And it stuck.

My wife has threatened to put that on my headstone. So excuse me if I get a bit frightened by the delivery guy with a big headstone under his arm and my wife grabbing a stone chisel.

*For those of you who don't know, Siegfried and Roy were an act that decided playing with 300 lb tigers was a good way to make a living. Right up until the point where one of the tigers decided Roy (or was it Siegfried - I can't tell them apart) would make an excellent face-jerky treat.

The Terrence Incident

2009-11-09T12:15:00.000-05:00

Prior to the cook that I worked with that needed time off in the middle of the shift in order to consummate a drug deal, the worst example of employer/employee relations I had witnessed was:

The Terrence Incident.

Terrence is just one of those guys. You know the guy. He's cool, savvy, and everybody's friend. Now, let me be clear, I like the guy. We liked the same music, had some good talks during our shifts, and generally got on really well. However, Terrence was not very cognizant of time. Especially when that time related to the time he was supposed to come in. During one of my first shifts, I was supposed to come in on a Tuesday night after my day job. So I dutifully show up at 6, only to find Terrence is not there and the day shift cook is pissed as he needs to get out. He doesn't want to leave me alone, because I didn't know the whole menu at that point. So we call Terrence.

Oh, he's coming in, he's going to be a bit late, the bartender tells us. He was due in at five. It's now 6:20. Like I said, Terrence operated on a different clock from the rest of us.

Anyway, he shows up, finally, and his excuse was he hurt his knee while working out. Did he go to the doctor? Not exactly. He went to his 'Dr. Feelgood.' His words. My manager shows up, and reads him the riot act while I'm in the kitchen. Is there anything more uncomfortable than being in the same room as someone who is getting yelled at? Yeah, not fun.

So the manager basically says that you need to give notice if you're going to be late. Common courtesy, etc. etc.

The next day Terrence decides to show up an hour and a half late to his next shift. He gets fired.

Now, as I said, we all liked Terrence on a personal level. So he would come to the bar every so often to hang out. There were no hard feelings. Terrence was one of those guys that could probably walk in on his girlfriend getting gang banged by the Knicks and he would shut the door and never give it another thought.

So Terrence is in late one night, after the bar has closed. I didn't witness this first hand, but heard from the main participants who all related the story to me the same way.

The bartender is there, a waitress, a cook, and Terrence. A word about Jim, the cook. I love Jim. He's funny as hell. But, the down side is he tends to like to drink during his shift. I'm certainly not one to think negatively about someone for that, I merely offer this as background. So by 2 a.m., Jim's pretty well hammered, given the fact that he was done his shift at 1.

Jim's in the bathroom, which is downstairs. He hears some noises coming out of the walk in refrigerator where all the food is kept. As he comes out of the bathroom, Jim bumps into Terrence. He tells Terrence he doesn't work there anymore and he can't go into the employee area. So that was it.

Fast forward a half hour and Jim's bothered by something. He notices that Terrence's coat pockets are bulging. Even in his inebriated condition, Jim knows something's up. So he goes over and looks in the pocket. On the top of the pocket, there's a hamburger. Raw, wrapped up and prepped for when we use it on the line. So Jim pulls it out. Under it is a chicken wing and thigh. And some ham. And some cheese. He empties both the pockets.

Terrence apparently thought it was ok to do his grocery shopping in the walk-in.

Jim says 'Seriously?' And starts laughing.

The bartender can't stop laughing. Well, right up to the point where it came time to pay the tab, of around $40, and Terrence tells him he only has $2. Not so funny after that.

So Terrence gets banned. A few weeks later, he bumps into the owner. He makes good on the check. When the owner asks him 'why the fuck would you steal from me?' Terrence replies brilliantly:

"I'm not the worst one there."

For some reason, his ban remains in place.

Oh, and did I mention? He lives at home with his parents. He didn't need the food.

Was That Wrong? I Didn't Know You Couldn't Do That!

2009-11-09T10:41:00.000-05:00

So I got back into cooking, and since I haven't cooked professionally for about a decade, some training was required. The place I work for was undergoing some changes in the kitchen staff and I was brought along with a couple of new guys. One of those new guys, Albert, was a bit off. Here's two of the first things he told me about when we met on the first shift we worked together.

1) He had a bet with his uncle on the 1980 Superbowl and his uncle never paid up.

My thoughts: let it go, man. Let it go. It was 29 years ago. My response: A look like 'is there some point to all of this?' Ok, to be fair I'm not the most patient man on the planet, and I typically have an awful 'bedside' matter.

2) He caught his wife in bed with not one, not two, but three guys. At the same time. Strangely enough, this led to his divorce.

How on earth this had anything to do with, well, anything, was beyond me. I told him 'that was the luckiest day of your life.' He didn't seem to agree. I was going to explain it, but as my wife has cautioned me on numerous occasions I am 'inappropriate but funny.' This seemed like one of those times. So I let it go.

I ended up working with Albert several times. You ever get a vibe that someone is a bit off, but you can't really put your finger on it? That was Albert. One of the first shifts we worked alone, he kept throwing food away. He said it was 'not good.' I would smell, taste, and go over the food, as the place I work for has the following maxim in place: Don't serve it if you wouldn't eat it. And that is the law, I've seen every cook there throw something away at some point because they wouldn't eat it.

But not like this. I finally had to say to Albert (after the fifth container of something went in the trash) 'Yo, is there anything you think is ok to serve tonight?'

'My taste is off, I might be stuffed up.'

I looked at him like 'you are a fucking retard.' I still double checked all the food, actually, triple checked, to make sure it was ok. It was all fine. Anyway, my shift ended and I went home.

After the Terrence incident, which I'll get to a later point, I did not think that you could find a worse employee. Two weeks later, I was proven wrong. VERY wrong. By Albert.

During my Friday night shift, I was talking with the owner, who told me the following, 'yeah, we're thinking of moving you to Sunday days because we're letting Albert go.' I figured it was a cost measure because all of us had our hours cut lately. Not quite an 'overhead' firing, as I would come to learn.

Me: 'Man, sorry to see him go, just couldn't keep him around?'
Owner; 'Well, no. He had to leave on Friday to do a drug deal.'
Me: 'Heh, no really?'
Owner: 'I'm not kidding, the kitchen manager told me about it today.'

Ok, that right there sealed it. On Sunday, I work at night, but my manager was in early, so I stopped in yesterday to talk with him. I grab a beer at the bar and ask my kitchen manager:

'What happened with Albert?'

'You're not going to believe what this motherfucker did. We're working on Friday, and he says to me 'yo, I got to go out around the corner for ten minutes.' I said 'what for.' He said 'I have to deliver a package to my friend.' I said 'What kind of package?' He said 'Coke, but it's my friend's.'

My manager was stunned. I mean, who wouldn't be? We all tell little white lies to get out of work sometimes. Maybe you say you're sick when you're just hungover, or you have jury duty, or Grandma died. Again.

But to tell your manager you need ten minutes to deliver drugs? In what world does that constitute 'the best excuse to leave for ten minutes in the middle of my shift.' Fuck, 'I took Viagra and I've been hard for five hours' would have been a more appropriate excuse. By the way, someone needs to try that and tell me how it goes with their employer.

So I ask my manager: 'What did you tell him?'

'I told him to bring me a paper on his way back.'

Me and the bartender had tears in our eyes, we were laughing so hard.

'So you didn't fire him right then and there?'

'No, I was just too shocked over his honesty to think about it.'

So I showed up for my shift last night, and my manager was in, sitting at the bar. I walked up to him and said: 'Hey man, I need to go around the corner and rape a busload of nuns. You want me to bring you back a paper?'

Inappropriate, but funny. I hate it when my wife's right.

An Introduction

2009-11-09T10:34:00.000-05:00

The title says it all. I'm working night and day.

By day, I'm an attorney.

By night, I'm a cook at a local restaurant.

How did this happen? Well, the legal industry, contrary to popular belief, isn't what it once was. Lots of folks have lost jobs, pay has been cut dramatically, 'tort reform' might as well be titled 'unemploying lawyers' and the insurance industry has done a bang up job making sure many of today's future lawyers will barely be able to survive, much less thrive. I'll get more into that at a later date.

Anyway, my hours at work got cut. With no new matters in the office, overhead got too high for the small firm I work for, so I fell back on the only other skill I have: cooking. I got a job at a local restaurant.

So I get to see both ends of the spectrum. And there's definitely some funny shit I see at both jobs that convinces me that humanity is a failed experiment. I would counsel ending it, but alas, I do enjoy breathing. I'll post about the funny stuff I see, because frankly, real life is often funnier than fiction.