Monday, November 29, 2010


GATTACA (1997)
Starring:  Ethan Hawke, Uma Thurman (when they were boning), Jude Law, and for some odd reason, Ernest Borgnine
Written and Directed By:  Andrew Niccol
Running time:  106 minutes

Why?:  Because it has one of the best, most soothing soundtracks of all time.  Seriously, click on that link, that's why it's in blue, dumbass.  It fucking rocks.

It's smart science fiction, with almost zero special effects.  It is tense, moody, and doesn't play dumb to the audience.  It is grounded in reality - I can totally see all of it happening in the near future.  And it has Jude Law back when he was badass.  You know, back before The Holiday?

For those of you who think Science Fiction is only for the asthmatic fat kid sitting at home on a Saturday night wearing a Battlestar Galactica t-shirt and tugging his junk to a poster of Princess Leia in her gold bikini, go out and rent, nay BUY this movie.  You will be surprised.

Check the trailer:

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Where There's Smoke, There's....Me, Silently Weeping

I went and did it.  Fucking idiot, six days ago I went and gave up my third favorite thing in the whole wide world.

I first lit up a cigarette 17 years ago.  Jesus, my first smoke is almost old enough to vote.  Now, the first time I had one where I didn't cough up a lung?  I felt so damned cool, like James Dean.  Like I should have sunglasses on all the time, a leather jacket, and ride a motorcycle.

Ok, let's be real - I was 16, I really didn't understand who James Dean was.  Who was the bad boy of the early Nineties?  

I felt like....Corey Feldman.  Like I should have on a huge wrist watch, a brightly colored shirt with the collar popped, and ride a moped.  

Jesus, my generation fucking blew.

I ain't terribly happy about the quitting.  It is hands down my favorite pastime.  Honestly, there are times when I would rather smoke a cigarette than say, receive oral.  It has that much of a hold on my life.  For you Non-Smokers, that probably sounds ridiculous.  But you don't know what it's like to not have it anymore, how hard it is to let go.

This habit, it frames my day.  It is usually one of the first things I do in the morning, with a cup of coffee.  Ask Otis, he'll tell you:

A smoke allows me to reward myself for hard work three times a day, with a little break.  

It goes perfect with whiskey over ice. 

There is no better dessert after a good meal.  

After sex?  It gives you that moment to step outside and (depending on your performance) do your happy dance.  I prefer the Cabbage Patch.  Maybe the Bus Driver if she said my name enough times.

So what the hell am I doing???  This is something that I love!  Something that helps me think, write, create - fuck, just be who I am.  Give me one good goddamn reason to quit, I dare ya.

Alright, fine, I'll give you that one.

Sigh.  And that one....

Ok, yeah, him too....

Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?

OK!  I get it, point taken!  No need to be a jerk about it....

Dude...low blow.

Alright, I can be strong.   This isn't only for me.  This is for all of those whose company I want to be lucky enough to keep for years to come.  

But why does it have to be so hard???

Friday, October 29, 2010

I Had to Go and See About a Girl....

I just experienced the most un-Vegas-like trip to Vegas ever.  Let me explain.

Vegas is a place to get dirty.  It's a place for a man to enter feeling very full of himself, chest puffed out, with a wad of hundreds in his hand.  A few hours later, that same man leaves feeling hollow and defeated, questioning whether he can make his next month's rent, and holding something entirely different in his hand (here's a hint:  it's fleshy).  It's a place to smoke cigarettes till your eyes water; drink until you wake up disappointed in yourself; and piss money away like your checking account has an enlarged prostate.

It is by no means a beacon for romance, despite the quaint messages displayed on the electronic billboard atop the 'Chapel 'O Love'.  It is a shit-show, plain and simple.

So what does it say about me, that I arranged to meet up with the most amazing woman right there amidst the migraine-inducing neon lights and Midwestern mullets?

It says I am one lucky bastard....

If you don't know her already, I'd like you to meet V.  For the story of how we got to know each other, head over to her blog at *Uncorked.  I'm going to focus on this past weekend, and how it affected me.  Needless to say, I arrived in Sin City feeling like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting for my Dad (who always played Santa and handed out presents) to quit dicking around with the little packages full of socks and books and get to that big fucker that's sitting behind the tree, mocking me.  V and I, our first meeting in person was 5 months in the making - molded out of thousands of emails, text messages, and phone conversations.  I was equal parts nervous and excited.

I already felt that she was like an old friend, albeit one that I was jonesing to see naked.  She had floored me for months with her wit, her sincerity, and her wonderfully deft use of innuendo.  Despite all that, after finally meeting this amazing woman in person, I caused the first day to be a bit awkward.  All of a sudden, I went from this cocky, self-assured dude to a little fancy boy, worried about kissing a girl for the first time.  

I want to fast-forwarded through that first night (Friday) even though it was my wonderful friend Laurnie's birthday and hijinx did ensue, because the second night was what this post is all about.  Long story short, when I finally did kiss her late that first night, all of my apprehension floated away, and I was able to simply enjoy being with her.  Thank you V, for being patient and not thinking I was a total pussy.

Saturday night was our 'Date Night', and after a morning spent doing the tourist thing through Vegas, we came back to the hotel for a quick nap, and to get ready to go out for a night on the town. I was done up in my fashionable, yet casual jacket, a button-down shirt, and some nice dark jeans.  I felt like I was looking good, had some confidence going (the ka-dunka-dunk), and knocked on the door to her room with a bottle of her favorite vodka in one hand (she is Vodka V, after all) and her birthday present in the other (it was V's birthday as well the following day).  I was ready to do everything in my power to make her night the best that I could make it.

And then she opened the door.  I took one look at her, and like the confident, seasoned adult that I am....stood there in the doorway blinking, like an idiot.  Man oh man, she was stunning - her hair down and curled over her shoulders; she was wearing a black leather dress that no one could have rocked better.  And she gave me this little look, one that I will remember for a very long time.

Now, if you have read my blog in the past, you know that my attitude towards women and dating is fairly 'Cro-Magnon Man'.  I grunt a lot, bash them over the head, and drag them by the hair back to my cave.  Then I tend to lose interest pretty quickly.  I am a pig, I know that, yet I have always been completely content in my trough, rolling around in the mud.

But in that moment, when she opened the door, stepped into the hall, and slid her arm into mine?  Not sure I can describe it accurately in words.  It felt a little something like this:

Now I know what you're thinking:  

Drew, that's the single most feminine thing you have ever included in your blog.  

You know what?  You're absolutely right.  And you know what else?  

Tough shit.  

She was - and continues to be - incredible, and she spent the rest of the weekend making me ridiculously happy just by being herself.  From the vodka tasting inside the Ice Locker at Red Square (where we met Elizabeth Banks, sort of) to the amazing dinner (holy hell, Black Truffle Lobster Fettucini), to Sunday morning being lazy in our pajamas, watching NFL Football (heaven for us both) - the whole shebang was nothing short of epic.  

Thank you, Pretty Girl, for not only living up to my ridiculous expectations, but far surpassing them.  The smile that has been on my face ever since we got back is starting to make my damn face hurt.  Now if only I could learn to smile naturally in a picture, we could have gotten a decent one to put up where I don't look like a pervert or a sociopath.  It would probably put your mother's mind at ease.  

The only negative part of this is that now I have to wait two months to see you again.  I miss you already.

**Footnote:  A special shout-out to my BFF, Laurnie Dubbs, who let me do my own thing on what was her birthday weekend in Vegas (the whole reason we set up the trip in the first place), so that I could selfishly make myself happy.  I've said it before and I'll say it again - You're Rad.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

HIDDEN GEMS II (Halloween Edition)

This is a cop out post.  I haven't written anything in awhile, although I do have some good ones coming up (my weekend in Vegas with one of the coolest chicks in the world just a few short days ago will be coming out shortly).

But it is Halloween week, so I felt the need to hit you up with something.  So here is another Hidden Gem, scary movie-style.

Starring:  Richard Gere, Laura Linney, and the truly awesome Will Patton
Directed By:  Mark Pellington
Running Time:  119 minutes

Why?:  Because original, intelligent, and genuinely creepy thrillers are so hard to find these days.  Especially ones that are this well done.  Especially ones that are this well done starring Richard 'Gerbil Tube' Gere.  And it's "Based on True Events".

But then again, so was Bloodsport.  Enjoy.

Check the trailer:

Come on, that chap stick moment is fucking killer....

Saturday, October 2, 2010

HIDDEN GEMS: What's the Matter With You People?

If you hadn't noticed by now, I am kind of a film nut.  Well, let me rephrase - I am more like a film psycho serial-killer.  When it comes to movies, I am passionate, egotistical, selfish, and stubborn.  I will completely and totally judge you as a person by what your answer to the question, "What is your favorite film of all time?".

How far does the madness go?  Back in Indiana, I once went on a date with an incredibly hot brunette that had such an amazing body, I wanted to Scotch-Guard and save the imprint that her ass left on my shitty apartment couch.  I asked her the above question concerning her favorite flick.  Her response?  "OH MY GOD, the movie The Hand That Rocked the Cradle changed my LIFE!"

Needless to say, I never called her again.

So when I see that movies like The Blind Side make $250 million at the box office - yet gems like The Hurt Locker or The Road barely make enough to pay for craft services - it makes me angry.  It makes me feel like I should take to the streets, raving like a madman, and pelt people into submission with Sprees and Junior Mints until they leave the line for the latest Twilight turd and go see something intelligent, like Michael Douglas in Solitary Man.  By the way, I'd like to thank the other people that went to see that movie in the theater.  Both of you.  You rock.

Don't get me wrong; I am not one of those film school fucks who think that big-budget Hollywood films are shallow and evil.  Hell, I love watching the horrible Transformers movies on my pretty plasma, and will gladly accept the brain cells that Michael Bay has removed from my head over the years, as long as he keeps blowin' shit up good.

But I feel the need to make people aware of little films that the studios failed.  The little ones that made me laugh, cry, or think; but only because I have no life and spend the majority of my time (when not sleeping, drinking, or touching myself inappropriately) in Best Buy rifling through the 'Marked Down' DVDs.

So here it is - the first (of I'm sure to be, many) HIDDEN GEM:

Starring:  Brenda Blethyn, and of all people, Craig Ferguson
Directed by:  Nigel Cole
Running Time:  93 Little Minutes

Why?:  Cause any British movie about a newly-widowed, sweet old woman (with an amazing green thumb) who gets out of the debt that her philandering husband left behind by selling top-of-the-line weed to gangsters is a motherfucking must see in my book.

Check the trailer:

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

My Open Letter to Friggin' Facebook

Dear FaceBook:

This is hard for me to write.  Things aren't good.  Well, to be honest, they haven't been good for a long time now.  Let's face facts.  The shine has worn off.  The polish is off the apple, as they say.  We don't talk, and the passion has dwindled.  I don't know how to say this....but I have been considering breaking up with you for a long time.  It's not you, it's me.  No, that's a blatant fucking lie.  It is totally you.  You're kind of a bitch.  But you still have sex appeal, so....

I made up a Pro's and Con's list to help me make this decision.  I am going to share it with you:

Pro - You give me an outlet to be perverted in a public forum (I thank you).

Con - You give others an outlet to post quotes about their faith in a public forum (makes my scrotum shrivel).

Pro - You allow me the opportunity to ogle over women that I have never met.

Con - You allow those that I have dated in the past to leave snide comments on seemingly innocent posts.  Like when a certain someone, who has since been removed from my friends list, responded to my comment about my nephew's birthday with the eloquent phrase, "Drew totally had whiskey dick the last night I stayed with him."

Well DUH....

Pro - Ever since my amazing Godson moved to Colorado, you allow me to see him playing, laughing, or stuffing those little cheddar fish into his mouth via pictures.

Con - Ever since I moved here from the Midwest, people seem to find pictures of me in sleeveless T-shirts with an oh-so-sexy farmer's tan, and post them as if it's funny.  California girls aren't in on the joke.  Quit destroying the tiny bit of game that I posses.

Pro - You are a source of entertainment!  I get to check out funny videos of fat people falling down and live look-ins of bands/artists that I will like for the next 15 minutes and then totally forget about.

Con's - You are a source of entertainment to stupid people!  You know the the ones I'm talking about, those who post videos of their dog barking - and insist that it sounds like he's saying, "Mommy" or "I love you."  Friggin' idiots.

Alright, fine.  I'm a nice guy, and I forgive.  Against my better judgement, I'm gonna go ahead and give you one more chance.  Because I'm shallow.  Because I'm arrogant.  And because, well, let's face it, you are the only action I get these days.  Just don't fuck it up, ok?  And for Bob's sake (why should Pete get all the love?), I have never, and will never, own a farm.  Nor will the idea of owning a virtual version of one ever appeal to me.  I'm from the Midwest - they smell like shit.

So stop embarrassing yourself, and make sure to remind me when it's one of my friend's birthdays.  Text me when you're tipsy.  Peace out.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Tis the Season

So last year, the Saints of New Orleans completed what might be one of the greatest comebacks for a franchise in the history of sports.  A city, ravaged by natural disaster.  A people, many of whom just years earlier, lost their homes and all of their possessions, only to return to the scene of their despair, the home that they couldn't live without, full of pride.

Up stepped a hero, one Andrew Christopher 'Drew' Brees, to take the city on a season-long ride that ended with the MVP hoisting the Lombardi Trophy in honor of the resilient city and it's fans.  A feel-good story for the ages, right?

I will answer my own question with three simple words:


God, that game still makes me cringe like Mel Gibson's Baby Momma hitting the 'Check Messages' button on her answering machine.  That, dear readers, is how my football season ended last year.  My team, the Indianapolis Colts, losing the Superbowl because my Lord and Savior, Peyton Manning, let one get away.

Left a bitter taste in my mouth, not gonna lie.  Kind of like those so-called 'lollipops' that the dentist gave you for being a good boy in the chair.  Wanna know a secret about those suckers?  Made out of Robitussin.  I heard that somewhere.

But this is the madness that is instilled in men come September of every year.  It's fuckin' football season, baby!  It is a time of year that exists for one reason, and one reason only.  To turn grown men into fucking children for 22 weeks.  Honestly, if we put 1/100th of the passion that we put into our Fantasy Football leagues into...I don't know - our jobs, voting, community service - we would live in a Utopian society.

How far does my madness reach?  I am angry at the fucking city of New Orleans.  Don't yell, "Too soon!" to me.  Common sense and rationale thought have no place in grand temple that is the National Football League.  I am so happy that Drew Brees is on the cover of Madden '10.  COME ON MADDEN CURSE!  Don't get me wrong, I like the guy, he's a class act, loves his family, and is a pillar of his community.  He is an inspiration to a lot of people, and is the kind of sportsman that a man who has any pride in the game of football should respect, admire, and try and emulate.

And I hope he breaks his goddamn leg in Week Two.  Welcome to Football Season, people.  The gloves are off.

Monday, August 2, 2010

I'd Be the Worst Father....

My Most Important

I love kids, man.  I love everything about them.  The way they laugh at things that may not even be funny, simply because they like to wake up the room and remind everyone that they are still there.  The way they tell a joke; it doesn't even have a beginning or an end - it's like listening to a pothead try and give you directions.  Overall, I just love the way they look at life without the burden of having lived too much of it.

Now, before you get a creepy vibe, I am not a pederast.  I don't subscribe to '' or anything (please, please, please, don't let that be a real site). I am talking about the way you can't help but smile when you see a baby with a faux-hawk being pushed in a stroller down the street.  Or they way my niece blushes when I call her 'my girl'.  I am talking about the kind of joy that only an uncle or godfather can find in dealing with children.

I put it that way, because I am not a father.  And I don't think I will ever truly want to be.  The joy that a father finds in his children?  That is an emotion that I am certain is truly indescribable and euphoric - and that I don't know that I ever want to experience.  Does that sound like a contradiction?  Well, it is, and I have struggled with it for 10 years now.

The feeling that came over me when I first held my newborn niece?  No way I can put it into words.  It was like my entire body became warm in a way that I had never known.  Have you ever been to a hypnotist?  Or at least seen a movie about one?  I have been to one.  They tell you to close your eyes, and to imagine your body becoming totally relaxed, starting with your toes, up your legs, etc.  That's exactly how it felt, minus the bullshit that is the entire concept of hypnotism.

But here's the thing:  I don't have the patience for it.  I don't even want a dog.  I am now 33 years old (Just like Jesus!  Oh wait, what age did he die again?), and I keep expecting this attitude to change, like everyone always told me it would.  But it never does.  It doesn't matter that all of my friends are getting married and having kids.  It doesn't scare me that I will be the only one without.  I do have the desire to pass on what I have learned; to watch in awe as my son gets his first single in Little League, or gets all excited and nervous to go on his first date.  I want the pride, but not the responsibility.

My parents were the most incredible ever.  Don't fucking argue with me, this ain't your blog, you have no say.  So why don't I want a child?  I have the best role models on earth.  Who have, in turn, become amazing grandparents.  Is it selfishness?  Is it immaturity?  Is it wisdom?

I leave it up to you.  A bottle of JD to anyone who gives me an answer that truly helps me figure this shit out.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Fuck Writer's Block!

I have been dealing with it for a decade.  And I am sick and tired of it.  I have a secret to share people.  I am terrified of writing.  A few people who know me will be shocked by that revelation - a few who truly know me will not.  I have been struggling to post something, anything, for days now.  But I can't, because I am so terrified of putting my shit out there, that I second-guess everything.  In my head, I yell at myself for being a terrible writer, I scold myself for being less of a man, and lament the fact that even jailbird Lindsay Lohan can at least update her Twitter 17 times a day.  And she does it without panties, while I am sitting here restricted by boxer briefs.  It's time to break out!

So I am taking the advice of an pretty cool chick, one who is new to my circle of friends but has made an impact on my life nonetheless.  She basically told me to just post something.  So I am going to take that one step farther - just to challenge myself - and post something truly uncomfortable.  I am going to post a poem that I wrote in college.  And I fucking hate poetry.  And I by no means am proud of the shit that I had to write for my poetry classes.  But here is one of them - something that means absolutely nothing to anyone else on earth but me - and maybe my Pops, for whom I wrote it for.  This poem was about becoming just one tiny bit more like him - something that I always strive for, and will continue to throughout my life.

Old Blue

Standing in the line at Shea
holding my father's hand
five sizes bigger than mine
my eyes like a pair of cue balls
the greasy cat behind the counter
smells like old cigars
but he places it in my hand

My breath catches, it is so blue
like the sky over my head
my Pops winks at me
as if I have just been let in on
a lifelong secret
My First Mets Cap

At first, it simply showed allegiance
my testament, to the boys of summer
when passers-by saw Old Blue
a nod came my way
or a thumb, raised in the air
with him, I was an adult
and I felt as if I belonged in that town
my home a Big Apple

Soon, Blue showed his age
covered in sweat stains
and traumatized by a loose seam
like an open wound, intimidating
More loyal than any friend
I went, he followed
and when the rain poured, he gave shelter
lookin' out for his boy

I aged, and Blue with me
his face cracked, and lined
he began to shrink, as old men often do
yet he still screamed out my fashion statement
and in part, helped to shape
the man, the fan, that I am today

But I will always remember
the way I felt with him low on my brow
walking down the ramp at Shea 
with my old man

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

My Humble Little Abode. Like, really little.

Yup, finally out of the house, the Hotel Pequito.  Moving from a large house by the beach to a small apartment further inland has some drawbacks.  One, I miss the view terribly.  I miss having my own driveway.  I miss having the counter space to cook a large meal.  I miss having a bathroom that is more than four feet away from the head of my bed (no more Taco Night at Drew's place).   And I do actually, to a point, miss having the space and the freedom to entertain.

But my little apartment has some perks.  One in particular - it is MINE.  When I wake up, I can walk around in my boxers and not worry about blinding another human being with my pastiness.  I can scratch myself on any spot on my body, at any point in the day, let out a long sigh - and I won't have to deal with judging eyes.  And when I come home after a long day (of which I have many) I can pour myself a whiskey, and do...well, whatever the fuck my little heart desires.

So here it is, my little nook.  I don't know why anyone but me would care, but it makes me happy.  And sometimes, you just have to share that shit with people.

My building, from the outside.  I'm on top, natch.

No garage, but covered parking works for me.

Not a spectacular view, but the sunsets are pretty killer.

The view coming in the door - cozy, ain't it?

Any idea what to put on the shelves?  Pictures, candles, etc?  And that TV stand is very temporary.

My present to myself, for getting through the move.  My 42" Panasonic Plasma, 1080p.

The wittle kitchen.  Not hosting Thanksgiving dinner here, that's for sure.

The 'breakfast nook' needed a purpose.  It is now home to the much discussed DVD collection.  There are about 1,000 more in my closet, no joke.

Derby's Tavern (A Christmas present from Laurnie - I finally put it up!).

**The quote at the bottom reads:

"Let's drink to California
way out by the sea
where a woman's ass
and a whiskey glass
made a horse'e ass of me."

Thanks BFF.

My favorite picture, Picasso's The Old Guitarist.  There is just something incredibly melancholy and peaceful about it.  And a little sad.

Gotta have a spot for the booze.  In case you are wondering where the Jack is - I am living on the cheap at the moment, so it is Seagram's 7.  And Red Cups - classy all the way.

This is where the magic....doesn't happen nearly enough.

Anyway, that is it.  The place is so small (yet expensive - fucking Southern California) that I can't even get in good position to take a picture of the bathroom.  Which sucks, because I am proud of the job I did on the color scheme (Oh shit, did I really just say that?).  And the lack of pics from the bedroom and patio are due to the fact that they aren't finished yet.

Ok, now go away.  I gotta play a little Wii Punchout, and you people are getting in the way.  This joint ain't big enough for the both of us.

Saturday, June 26, 2010


Pretty devastated right now.  That goal in extra time, not much you could do about it.  Lightening will strike, you just hope it happens in your favor.  This time it didn't.  But as a lot of American soccer fans know, you wonder if the US isn't overdue for it's turn.  I am proud of you boys - can't say you didn't fight hard.  My hat's off to you, Team USA - I just wish I didn't have four years to wait for your next chance.

The Cup goes on, of course, but now there will be a little something missing.  I will route for Ghana, and the people of South Africa.

But DAMN, it was a hell of a lot of fun while it lasted....

Friday, June 25, 2010

My Personal Plea to the People of the United States of America

This is me on me knees begging, people.  Watch the video above.  I need your help.  Team USA needs your help!

I know all the arguments:

"Soccer is too slow..."
"There's not enough action...."
"Why would I watch something that will just end in a tie?"
"They fall too much and fake being hurt.  I hate that..."

I don't want to hear it anymore.  I. Don't. Care.  Whether you like it or not, this is the biggest sporting event in the world.  It is the biggest fucking SPORT in the world.  Football, baseball, basketball, MMA - nothing even comes close to comparing to it's global popularity.  You think LeBron is a big star?  Google Cristiano Ronaldo.  Michael Jordan?  On his best day, doesn't even come close to matching the worldwide phenomenon of David Beckham.  I know that we, as Americans, have chosen to deal with the game of futbol in a mature and adult manner - we basically close our eyes, put our fingers in our ears and yell, "LALALALALALALALALALALA!"

But not all of us, as you may have noticed in the video above.  Some of us eat, drink, and breathe the sport.  Some of us have played it since we were too little to even kick.  Some of us worked our asses off to become the best we could at it - bled for it, cried for it, sacrificed our bodies for it.

To those people, this tournament means more than the World Series, more than the Olympics, even more than the friggin' Superbowl (calm down, I'm not a communist - it is a close number two).  To us, this is the end-all-be-all of athletic competition.

But here is the thing - I don't expect you to be like that.  Hell, I don't even care if you watch another soccer match for the next four years!  90% of the people in that video?  I am betting that they can't tell you the difference between a corner kick and a goal kick.  I'm betting that they can't name one player on the team other than Landon Donovan (a name they only learned in the 91st minute of the Algeria game).  But they are out there, cheering like mad - not for their soccer team, but for THEIR COUNTRY.

So help me people!  Go out to a bar, wear some red white and blue, and for two hours of your life, allow yourself to feel the passion that is out there for this game.  The United States has a chance to accomplish something they never have before.  The semifinals are not impossible.  If this sport is ever to grow out of the shadow of American apathy, it needs you to start paying attention!  I will be there, in my jersey, chanting for Jose, Landon, Clint, Tim, Carlos, and the rest of the boys.

Sing it with me now:

Monday, June 21, 2010

Keriophobia's a Bitch

Keriophobia - The Fear of Candles.

Yup, no joke, it is my phobia.  Don’t get me wrong, I love candle light, I dig the smell, and I still think a bedroom lit by them is sexy, in an old fashioned kind of way.  But the candles in my apartment are under my control – I choose when to light them, when to put them out.

But when I am in someone else’s place, their domicile, and under the control of their odd habits and peccadilloes, I fear candles and candle wax, and their ability to do me physical harm.  I am not crazy, there is a very good reason for my deep-rooted fear.  For those of you who are freaked out by 'TMI' - might as well take this opportunity to go and visit one of those blogs that tell you what their Yorkie does on a daily basis.  For everyone else, read on.

Her name was….let’s call her Meredith.  Why Meredith, you ask?  Cause her name was fucking Meredith, and I don’t care if she ever sees this.  She was an odd, vengeful little trollop.  I would love to throw her last name up here too, but I can’t, cause I don’t remember it (don’t you judge me, I can feel your eyes).  And despite the fact that her name made me think of Grey’s Anatomy, a show that I truly believe was secretly invented to set the Women’s Rights Movement back 35 years or so, I went out with her after a friend from work introduced us.

Meredith….shit, I don’t want to keep typing that, let’s call her ‘T’ (for Trollop), was extremely hot.  She was short, about 5’ 2”.  She was a former college gymnast.  She was one of those girls that had a tiny ass (I am definitely an ass man), but it still worked for me, cause you could cup it in both hands and imagine that you were testing the ‘ripeness’ of two grapefruit at the grocery store.  I met her at a bar, which of course, for any of you single guys out there, is just the perfect place to meet normal, well-adjusted women.  Oh wait, you can't actually hear my voice while reading this.  That was said in my head with an overtly sarcastic tone. 

Here’s the rub – good ole 'T'?  She was not particularly interesting.  Not a great conversationalist, and certainly didn’t stimulate my mind or my soul.  But she was hot, and interested, and at that particular time, I had recently lost my fuck buddy to a relationship.  So obviously, I was being guided not by my mind or my heart, but by another organ altogether.  One who I have a love/hate relationship with, depending on his judgment.  I am often, because of whiskey, at his mercy.  And he, to this point in my life, has gotten me through 32 years without disease or procreation – so I take my hat off to him.  (I love ya buddy, so don’t get mad at me for this story, ok?)

‘T’ and I began to have a ‘relationship'.  And by relationship, I mean I would go over to her house after work, get my pickle tickled, and leave before dinner.  I will completely admit, I was a acting like a complete and utter douche during this two month-long period.  I love and respect all women (except Katherine Heigl, that ungrateful harpie), and my father raised me to treat each and every one of you like a princess.  That you are a gift to us, and we don’t really deserve you, deep down.  But this woman, she brought out the worst in me.  She convinced me that she was cool with our situation – and I have learned over the years that it takes a very particular type of women to completely accept this type of arrangement.  ‘T’ did not fall into that category, and I was well aware – but I played the part of the ostrich, burying my head in the sand.

One night, I made the short drive from work to her apartment after receiving a very eloquent text – “COME OVER.  I’M NAKED.”  I should have known that something was wrong the minute I walked in the door.  There were candles everywhere.  On the coffee table, on the TV, on the end tables, on the kitchen counter.  In my diseased mind, I heard that creepy Latin chant that you hear in every movie where the villain is about to sacrifice a virgin. 

She opened the door in a negligee (BITCH!) and took me by the hand to the bedroom.  While I used my peripheral vision for signs of chicken blood or human hair, I realized that I was experiencing a very new emotion.  I was simultaneously turned on and creeped out.  To be honest, it was a rather powerful combination.

So while trying my damnedest to not freak you all out with details, the ‘act’ began, and I was on bottom.  I ain’t gonna lie, I was digging it, and at some point closed my eyes and turned my head to the side.  ‘T’ chose that exact moment to grab the nearest candle - next to the bed – and without permission or hesitation, turned it over and allowed burning hot candle wax to drip ever so abruptly onto my bare chest.  Now once again, don’t get me wrong – I’ll try anything twice.  But give me a friggin’ heads up.  Tease me with it, let me steel myself for the oncoming pain, and decide whether or not the current sensations are worth a little risk, or whether I am going to scream and run like a little girl who just saw a large spider.

So what, pray tell, happened in that instant that the wax touched my chest?  I did what any red-blooded American man would do.  I squealed like a little bitch and bucked my hips in shock.  Not a good thing, mind you, as she was kind of launched into the air.  Which, her being a gymnast, I have to admit to being disappointed.  That was the most awkward dismount I had ever seen.  Keri Strug did that shit on one foot and won an Olympic medal, for Christ's sake.

She managed, in her surprise, to drop the candle, wick facing down.  Three guesses where that candle landed - and the first two don’t count.  I remember sitting in the emergency room a short while later, my fly completely open because the feel of denim on my wounded member made my eyes water.  I filled out the paperwork, 'T' sitting beside me with her chin so deeply buried in her own chest that she probably bruised, trying desperately to figure out how to describe my current state of being without the doctor looking at me like some ball gag-in-the-mouth sexual deviant (BRING OUT THE GIMP!).

So what's the moral of the story?  There are only three instances when using a candle outside of your own place is acceptable:

1.)  When the power is out.
2.)  When you are christening a child.
3.)  When you are holding a candlelight vigil because a meteor is about to strike the earth while a band of deep sea oil drillers try to blow it up with a nuclear bomb in the 11th hour (thank you Michael Bay)

Everything else?  Don't risk it.  I still have a scar.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

I Hate Goodbyes

I have moved around so much in my life, from town to town, state to state.  And despite some of the great situations I found myself in, I have always struggled to find somewhere that felt like home.  A place that matched my personality, made me feel safe, and jazzed with my way of life and my perspective at that particular age.  That is, until five years ago.

I would like to introduce you to the Hotel Pequito.  This is the house that I am moving out of for good this weekend.  For those of you who speak Spanish, that moniker is not a personal reflection.  I actually live on a street called 'Pequito Drive'.  And the house is known in my social circle (and even outside my circle) as a hotel because, well, we have not locked our doors in over five years. It has served as a beacon in a drunken haze - where people of all shapes, sizes, and maturity levels stumble through its open doors at any time of night or day, pick a spot on the floor or in a bed next to one of the residents, and pass the fuck out.   People don't knock when they arrive.  They barge in with a bottle in hand and scream, "Where you at, bitches?"  There's not a lot of personal privacy, no chance of walking around in your undies.

But it was also the house where most of the parties/cookouts/football Sundays took place.  Now don't get me wrong, I love to entertain - but I have decided that I have reached that point in my life where I have earned the right to pick and choose when I go out and what parties to hit; instead of always being expected to provide the festivities.  Hence my move to my new, solo apartment.

And oh yeah, the Hotel had one other perk:

The view from the balcony.  This is my happy place, where I can sit, chill, and find my power animal (he's a platypus, by the way.  His name is Ernie.  He likes Triscuits).  I am going to miss this most of all.  This is where I would write.  This is where I would chill to my iPod and enjoy a quiet cigarette and a whiskey.  Where I would get into fantastic debates with my friends over politics, religion, sports, etc.  And where finally, after years of searching, I felt at home.

So many of my adult life memories took place at the Hotel:  Lifelong friendships were forged - and broken.  Art was inspired.  Babies were conceived.  A communal family made up of vastly different ethnic backgrounds, personalities, and values grew out of a never ending barrage of booze, music and spirit.  I will truly cherish each and every one of you as I continue to head down my personal path in life.  You all know who you are.

But many of you reading do not - so I will let a series of images introduce you to the joint, and to my Hotel family.  To all of you who have made the last half decade such a wonderful Clusterfuck, I thank you. 

Christmas Time at the Hotel

Just a block or two from the house....

My beautiful Moni

Nater-Tot, the amazing Laurnie Dubs, and Yours Truly

Halloween - always the biggest party of the year

How I spent most Sunday mornings

Flip Cup, a Hotel favorite

Brian and Katie

THE Bud Sant, Jr., L. Brock, and Pounder

Chris Cooke, a.k.a Cookie, a.k.a. Muffin

My best friend and brother Jason, Laurnie Red Riding Hood, and Steve Irwin, back from the dead....

Rissa, my BTHA (Big-Tittied Half Asian)

Dr. Wright, Unlicensed Gyno

Chris, Tatum, and T.J., fondling each other

Just letting you know you are Number One in my eyes

Sheila, Shannon, and Feather


My two favorite ladies...hands off boys, they are spoken for.

Kim Chuckles, Jonathan, and Hot Morgan

Cookie, PEANUT!, and Joe

The future Mrs. Nater-Tot, Brittany, being fabulous as always

Toga, bitches

Greg the Giant, Mr. Laurnie Dubs, Gay Pat, and Tiffany

The Obama-toga

Two of the greatest people I have ever met.  See, look how happy I am!

Big Mike

Crys, and her wonderful tush...

My Bubbas - my godson Connor - at his first party, the Luau.

Uncle Nate

I pay my respects to the late Patrick Swayze, with my little monkey

Goodbye, Hotel Pequito.  I will miss the life you allowed me to live.

For another perspective of the Hotel Pequito, go over to Laurnie Dubs (my BFF and former roommate) at Some Whine with Cheese
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