A Life of Whacked

This week I had the chance to have lunch with my friend Misty, who writes the blog, Misty’s Laws.  She’s best known for her running feature, Weekly Whacked, wherein she secretly takes pictures of the walking fashion atrocities she encounters on the streets of downtown Baltimore.  It’s kind of like a free-range “People of WalMart.”

Anyway, as we were shooting the breeze, I happened to mention how there was a time when I totally would been a candidate for Weekly Whacked.  This led me to realize it would make for a brainless  simple  easy  entertaining post to show you some of my fashion mistakes over the years.  As Rodney Dangerfield might have said, “I’m OK now but I used to be in rough shape.”

I started out as a pretty dapper kid.  It was the mid 60s and grownups still dressed their kids up when they took them out.

When I was in kindergarten, this was my basic traveling outfit… topcoat and fedora.  I miss the times when everyone wore hats… ones that don’t come with a bill.

On occasion, when a snappier look was needed, I had this in my arsenal.

I totally looked like I should have been coaching the 1965 Montreal Canadiens.  Scotty Bowman stole my look.

Next thing you know, it was the hippy-dippy 70s and we dressed the part… ALL the parts.  First we were peaceniks.

Too bad my red blazer didn't fit any more, because it would have went with my red pants.  I’d have looked like a giant lipstick.

The mid-70s brought the loud plaid pants, like the kind Herb Brooks wore in ‘Miracle.”  This is me with my Uncle Ange, on my confirmation day.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to put me in a striped tie to go with my plaid pants, but I think that counts as a venal sin.

Luckily, it wasn’t just me that got tagged with the plaid pants.  They got my brother too, otherwise I’d have to conclude that my parents were out to get me.  (As if withholding Pop Tarts and sugared cereal wasn’t enough.)

Plus, we had a Pinto.  My brother had to be very careful not to back up into it.

Ever since my first 4 years of Catholic school, I always rebelled against wearing ties.  So for my National Honor Society induction, I tried to find some kind of suit where I wouldn't need a tie.  Unfortunately I came home with this.

That was one of my 70s Disco Fever silk shirts under a crinkle-cloth safari jacket and matching slacks.  I’m surprised they even let me into the NHS dressed like that.  At least I had good hair that day.  And how cute does my mom look?  That has to count for something.

I mentioned my first "real" suit in a prior post (wherein I got smashed at my buddy’s wedding reception and rolled down the cement stairs while trying to help carry out a keg).  That had only been the 3^rd time I’d worn the suit.  The first was my senior prom.  You can see me in it here, as I inadvertently photo-bomb my buddy’s moment.

I appear to be dancing… the White Boy Shuffle, I think.  Cat Deeley would have loved me.  And vice-versa.

Remember the shorts in the 70s and 80s?  I miss those.  I've railed on this before, but I hate the current “shorts down to your Achilles” look for shorts.  As I always say, when you legs look as good as mine, it’s a shame to cover them up.  See?

No, I wasn't doing the Funky Chicken, I was bouncing on a diving board.  This was down in Georgia, (hence the cowboy hat) visiting my buddy Billy; spring break of our (college) freshman year.  Damn, I was skinny.

While I was in Georgia, I picked up what became known as The Legendary Valdosta Shorts. 

I wore those for ages… or at least until I could no longer wedge my big ass into them any more.  This shot was from 1981 and I was holding my cousin Greg.  He is now 6’5” and the father of 2, which makes me very, very… old.

Another thing I brought back from Georgia was a taste for western wear.  It was the days of Urban Cowboy and I bought into that just like I’d bought into the disco shirts.  This was me at a college party.

Rawhide vest over a paisley-yoked cowboy shirt, with a saucer-sized “Skoal” belt buckle and a bad perm.  I consider it child abuse that my mom let me out of the house looking like that.

Oh, and that hand gesture?  No, it’s not a “smell my finger” move.  That was the move we did to signify going incognito.  It was something we did when we were up to no good.

 The finger was supposed to infer a mustache disguise.  You can see my buddy behind me doing it as well.  Just dudes being stupid… so what else is new?

Don’t think I neglected footwear when committing fashion atrocities.  When my brother found a pair of bright red high-top sneakers, I wanted a pair too.  But the store was out, so I came home with these:

When I put these in my room at night, I didn't need a nightlight. 

In the late-80s, my dad obtained company tracksuits for all of us. 

Here, I’m wearing the bottoms of my Soprano Guido tracksuit.  It came with a matching jacket.  Now imagine a whole family gathered together, wearing these things out shopping.  We looked like a cult.  At least I never wore the gold high-tops with mine.

I know I have other pictures of me in the act of committing additional fashion crimes, but I’d have to look for them photo albums and scan them.  (Meaning it would take some effort.)  These were shots I already happened to have on my PC.  But I think you get the idea.

I think I deserve some kind of Weekly Whacked Lifetime Achievement Award.

On the Move

My department at work had to relocate today.  We went from a modernized upper floor, down to a not-so-modernized lower floor.  The whole building is being “re-stacked,” so a move was unavoidable.  But will I sound like a little bitch if I feel like I just went from the penthouse to the dungeon?

As I was bringing some of my stuff down this morning, a friend from another department saw me and asked when we were moving.  I said, “Right now.  Didn't you notice the claw marks on the door frames?”

I just left a cube that was perfectly suited to me.  It might not have been the largest cube I've been in, but it was the best.  I was in a corner with no outlet.  That meant that no one ever walked by my cube unless they were looking specifically for me.  Thus, I had a supreme amount of privacy.  The layout looked like this…

Please excuse the primitive art.  I don’t claim to be a competent draftsman.

As you can see, I had 2 empty cubes beside me, so local traffic was non-existent.  I could literally change my clothes in my cube… in fact, I often did.  Last year when I was going to PT for my shoulder, I changed clothes at work rather than in the car or at the facility.  I’d be able to see anyone coming long before they could get all the way around to my door.  But I bet anyone scoping out the building with a telescope got a surprise.

Best part was I got to say things like: “Hey “neighbor,” guess what?  I’m not wearing any pants right now!  Woo hoo!  Woo hooo!”

I also had room for a short file cabinet (marked “C” on the map.)  This was cool, not because I needed the file space, but that I could set up more stuff on top of it.  I had lots of room for my shit.

I still have a window, but the view is not exactly comparable.  This is what I left:

It was even nicer at night.

This is what I have now:

I especially like the HVAC units right outside my window. #ConstantDrone

Anyway, I hate to whine about such things when I’m actually thrilled just to have a job right now, especially one I enjoy.

I still have some extra room, compared to my office-mates, but even that comes with a price.  My “door” is right on the aisle, so everyone walking into our area can look right into my cube.  No more changing room for me.

This is the view, from my cube, outward.  Even people passing in the outer hallway can look in.

Those stalls to the left are for computer staging.  No one stays there.

At least they can’t really see me, because I’m scooted in behind a wall panel.  But what they will see leaves no doubt whose cube it is.

I did trade up in bathroom facilities, however.  The lower floors have larger restrooms.

Before, we had 3 stalls, with 2 urinals on the opposite wall.  I used to hate it when I’d be nesting in the end stall and someone would come in and use the adjoining stall.  Total party foul.  I also hated it when I just needed to come in and take a quick leak, and someone would be in there bombing the place, like 4 feet behind me.

Now we have 6 stalls, with 4 urinals around the corner from them.  That’s much more like it.  In case of mass pooping, we can handle 3 at once and still leave a buffer between each pooper.  So I find the small victories where I can.

Plus, I can always look at it this way… by the end of the day tomorrow; none of this will matter anyway.

See you in the afterlife… I’ll be hosting the eternal barbecue.

Odd Bits - The Yesterday's News Edition

First of all, I’d like to thank everyone who commented on my last post about the tragedy in Newtown CT.   Your sober, reasoned responses were exactly the kind of thing I wanted to see when I first started this blog.  You did not disappoint.  Now onto my regularly scheduled bullshit.

Well, maybe not so regularly scheduled… these are some items that were in the news a week or two ago, but due to other pressing matters, I never got to write about.  So lets delve into yesterday’s news…

Something Fishy

The New York Times had an article about how often fresh fish is mislabeled in stores and restaurants.  Chances are the fancy-schmancy tuna you specified with your sushi order was a considerably less schmancy variety.

On the bright side, now I know why the Country Buffett can afford to put a giant pile of crab meat on their salad bar, but only charge 9.99.

OK, I’m kidding, now.  But there was a time, back when I was fresh out of college, when I first encountered what they called “simi crab.”  I knew how much crab legs cost, so I couldn't get over how my local store could sell that stuff for 3.99 a pound.  Good thing someone wised me up before I threw a big surf-n-turf party.

Jett Lag

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame announced the Class of 2013, and my “Queen” Joan Jett wasn't in it.  I am outraged.  Makes me wonder if (Rolling Stone publisher and founder of the Rock & Roll HOF) Jann Wenner tried to hit on her back in the 80s, struck out, and has held it against her ever since.

Joan Jett has been cranking out the power chords since the mid 70s, and is an icon for every little girl who ever preferred a guitar to a tambourine.  She needs to be in the Hall, period.

The new inductees are Rush, Heart, Donna Summer, Randy Newman, Public Enemy and Albert King.  Rush is a long-standing oversight corrected… Kiss and Cheap Trick fans will have to continue bitching about it online until the next class.  I like Donna Summer and all, but I can’t fathom how she gets in and Joan doesn't.  Sure they put in Heart… I saw one commentary that said they must have “flipped a coin between Heart and Joan Jett,” wanting only one rocker-chick band inducted at a time.  And Joan may not have the world's biggest sales numbers, but I bet she’s sold more albums than freakin’ Randy Newman.

It ain’t right… that’s all I can say.  Joan Jett IS rock and roll.  RnRHOF voters, get it done.

I Bet People Stay Back From the Edge Now…

As a daily Metro commuter, I was highly interested into the tragedy on the New York City subway, where some head case threw some poor schmuck onto the subway tracks, where he was hit and killed by a train.  It was a completely senseless murder, and I’ll tell you one thing… It had made me much more aware of who’s around me when I’m waiting for the train; especially when I’m wearing my Steelers gear here in Baltimore.

I’ve also scoped out the depth of the track “well,” and I’m reasonably sure that the ones in Baltimore aren’t as deep as the one in NYC.  Either that or the poor guy was really short.  I’m confident that if I ever would up down there, I could get back out in short order.  The top of the ledge looks like it would come up to mid-chest on me.  Even in my “less than optimum” physical condition, I could hoist myself out of there.  Shit, if a train was coming, I could probably do a standing broad jump and get clear.

Have you seen that picture that shows the guy down on the tracks?  I won’t run it here because it’s just too sad.  But it pissed me off.  Not the picture itself, but all the shit that the photographer took for snapping it.

You've probably heard the story… he says he was trying to pop the flash in order to alert the train driver.  Right off the bat, the Internet blew up with people condemning him for not doing anything to help.  They also criticized him for trying to make money off the picture, never mind that the police took the camera at the scene.  Whoever leaked the photo to the press, it wasn't the photographer.

See, I believe the guy.  You can see how far away he is from the victim, and I know how fast those trains come rolling into the station.  There’s no way he could have gotten there in time to do anything.

Did you see anyone else in the shot?  No, you didn't  because the people that WERE close by backed the hell away from him.  What kind of shit is that?  All it would have taken was one strong guy or two average people to grab his arms and yank him out of there.  If it weren't for Newtown, this would have been my Senseless Tragedy of the Year.

In the meantime, I’m backing the hell up when the train comes in.

Uncivil Unions

I was disappointed but not surprised about the GOP governor and legislature in Michigan passing the “Freedom to Work” bill that basically cut the balls off of labor unions.  For better or worse, labor unions are a major money-generating source for the Democrats (although they can’t come near billionaires like the Koch Brothers), so the GOP has been looking for ways to limit their influence.

Unions are the only things standing between a living wage and companies eventually using a WalMart model of employee salary structure.  Big business has not exactly been known for their concern over worker’s standard of living, when it comes to padding the bottom line.  Left to their own devices, they will pay as little as humanly possible.  Businesses that pay a premium to avoid having unionized workers will no longer have incentive to continue.

Just goes to show, state government matters.  If you elect Big Business Republicans, you can’t act surprised when they legislate to favor business and let the working stiff get screwed.

Now, I don’t agree with everything unions do… I have my own stories from personal observations when we were setting up new stores as they were being built around us.  But you can’t deny that unions are responsible for the generally safe workplaces, holidays off, weekends and decent pay that many of us enjoy.  Without them, our nation’s businesses would have turned America into a paler version of Bangladesh.

Hello Kitty

Poor Anne Hathaway, got caught coming out of a limo with a short skirt and no undies.  I don’t see what the big deal is; you could hardly see anything.  Most sources had it pixilated but I accidentally got a look (after 7 or 8 searches).  I’m sure there’s a Cat Woman joke in there somewhere. 

Me-yow!

Physcyl Clyff

Here we are, still teetering on the fiscal cliff, with nary an agreement in sight.  Proposals have been sent back and forth, but I’m pretty sure I know what the GOP is afraid of.  It’s the same reason guys drive big trucks and muscle cars:

Dick fear.

Target Practice **Updated**

I've talked about a lot of subjects here over the years, but I've never really addressed the inevitable topic for this weekend: the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, where 20 children and 6 adults were killed by yet another deranged gunman.

We have to do something about guns.  After events like this, the first thing we hear is “now is not the time.”

If “now” isn't the time, when is the time?  We've already had mass shootings in a college, a movie theater, a couple of high schools, and right out on the street corner where a US Congresswoman got shot in the face.  What has to happen before we have a rational talk about guns in this country?  Twenty little kids just got murdered by another psychopath.  Must we wait until some brooding nut-case shoots up a nursery?

These were little kids!  Kindergarteners and first graders!  What the fuck?

The problem is every politician in America is scared shitless of the NRA.  They know that supporting any legislation that has even a whiff of gun control is tantamount to political suicide.  And if there’s one thing politicians hold more dearly than children’s lives, it’s their own political careers.

We have a very serious gun problem in this country, where it is no longer just about defending ourselves; it’s a whole fetish.  This gun culture has been lifted to an almost sacred level, despite the tens of thousands of lives lost via bullets.

Yes, I know the knee-jerk argument: “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people,” and many other glib bumper sticker sayings that mean the same thing.  But why do we have to make it so goddamned easy to kill so many?  Of course a person can kill another by any number of means, no question.  But how often do you hear of a mass killing with a knife?  Or a baseball bat?  Or a car or any other lethal means?

I don’t buy the frequent counter that we’d then have to ban knives or box cutters or letter openers.  A killer using any of those things can be stopped long before 5 or 10 or 20 people are killed.  That is the difference.  Only a gun allows a lone psycho to murder so many so quickly and easily.

I know, what about bombs?  Bombs can do the same thing quickly and easily. 

That’s true, but there’s also a trail.  In the post 9-11 world, it raises questions when someone buys a truckload of ammonium nitrate, or frequents bomb-making websites and chatrooms.  There are opportunities to intervene before anything blows up.

There is no intervention with these lone gunmen.  I saw someone on Facebook asking how it’s possible for a guy to get these weapons into a school.  I didn't respond, but I was thinking, “Are you fucking kidding me?  It’s a cakewalk.” 

Most schools don’t have metal detectors or pat-downs, or security of any kind.  And even if someone tried to stop an intruder at the gates, he would merely become the first casualty.

Another argument is that there should be more guns, not less, which to me is like saying the answer traffic gridlock is to produce more cars.  Too many people believe the Hollywood hype that you can have a shootout in a public place and just take out the bad guy.  The general gun-carrying public is not trained for crowded shootouts.  Sure there are some well-trained exceptions, I’m thinking ex-military, but they are few and far between.  There’s a big difference between hitting a target on a range versus hitting a single, armed target amid a swirl of chaos, noise and rushing bodies. 

There has to be some kind of middle ground between all guns and all ammo allowed to everyone all the time, and no guns for anyone ever. 

The problem is that we’re boxed in right now.  The gun lobby is right about one thing.  If guns were made illegal, the only people turning them in would be upstanding, law-abiding citizens.  Next thing you know, we’re living in a Batman movie. 

I say we have to start with re-enacting the ban on assault weapons and ammo and make it stick… no expiration date.  No one needs that kind of firepower for home protection.  No one.  Nor do hunters.  No one needs those giant ammo clips either.  The only thing these guns are good for is killing a large number of people at once.

Just because this restriction won’t solve ALL the problems doesn't mean it won’t fix SOME.  And some is better than none, when it comes to innocent lives being taken.

Further, we have to do more to regulate who guns go to, at minimum doing more than what we do to hand out a driver’s license.  I’m thinking proficiency, IQ and psychological tests.  There needs to be a criminal records check as well.  It’s appalling that we do more to check into a person who wants to operate a common device with a positive use, but is potentially dangerous, than we do with a person that wants a device whose singular purpose is to kill living things.

I don’t think there’s a chance in hell of the NRA ever letting that happen.  In this day and age, they will fight anything that comes between them and their “right” to obtain any gun for any reason right fucking now.  To them, the Constitution is made up of the 2^nd Amendment, and then everything else.

It’s funny how conservatives are always saying we need more “Constructionist” judges, (as in interpreting the Constitution exactly the way is was written).  Obviously, this doesn't apply to the 2^nd Amendment, or else everyone would have the right to a single-shot musket and powder horn.  But where’s the fun in that, right?

Maybe one day we’ll see some politicians grow a pair and take on the gun lobby to try to enact some kind of common sense limitations.  And granted, any attempts to rein in automatic weapons and large clips will take time to produce the desired effect.  And in this age of immediate gratification, any delay in results will be portrayed as failure, in order to justify a return to the way things were.

In the mean time, our little kids are getting slaughtered at school.  There’s some more of that “American Exceptionalism” for you.  Yee haw.

Late Update: My dear friend Cassie sent me a link to an article that makes many of the same points I made, only better and more clearly.  Granted, that bar is not set very high, but I'm glad to know that I'm not off base here.  Check it out by clicking here.

Living Dangerously

It occurred to me this morning, as I was putting in my contacts, that I should probably be dead already, by my own hand.

I don’t mean ‘intentionally’ or anything; it’s just that I violate things like “conventional wisdom” and “safety precautions” as a matter of routine.  Take my contact lenses, for instance.

The warnings say I should put in a new pair every month or I may risk an eye infection.  I’m also supposed to empty and dry my lens case after every use.

Bah!  I keep my contacts for at least 2 months, or until I notice they don’t feel so fresh any more.  That takes my 6-month supply and turns it into a 1-year supply.  As for my contact case, I replace the saline every other day and rarely dry them out.  And do you know what?  I’ve been wearing contacts since 1980 and have had zero eye infections or any other eye problems.  Well, besides my vision deteriorating, but that’s just the onward march of time.

Food safety is another thing.  Pinky is all about food safety, having worked for the county as a kitchen inspector for assisted living places, and I regularly ignore and refute just about everything she tries to put into place at home.  Like leftovers…

She packs all the leftovers up into Tupperware containers and has them in the refrigerator within minutes of the end of dinner.  And if I don’t eat them within a day or two, she threatens to throw them out.

I say “threatens” because that would start WWIII.  The Dude does not tolerate wasting food under any circumstances.  Well, if it does indeed spoil, then that’s the exception.  But the thing is, during my bachelor years, I’d keep stuff in the fridge for ages and still eat it.  And I didn’t even HAVE Tupperware… it was more like a bowl with foil on it.

Same goes for leaving food out.  I can remember when I was growing up, Mom used to make the traditional Friday night Mrs. Paul's and Mac n’ Cheese.  After dinner, the macs stayed in the crock pot on the counter, and any leftover fish sticks were put on a small plate, where they stayed overnight.  Most times, I’d eat the fish sticks for breakfast the next morning.  (Leftovers don’t usually last long in a house containing a teenage boy.)

But the thing is… I didn't die, I didn't get sick, and I didn't get the runs… nothing.  It was the same with other simple foods that don’t necessarily require refrigeration, like cakes, breads, cookies, peanut butter, and whatnot.  We never kept that stuff in the fridge and none of us were any worse for wear.

Pinky and I used to go round and round about meat preparation too, especially with pork.  She was still laboring under the misconception that you have to cook the shit out of it or else you’ll get worms or something.  I insist that you can cook pork so that it remains juicy and not tasting like shoe leather, without facing mortal peril.

All I can say is that I've cooked juicy pork chops for 20 years, and have never become ill from it.  In this day and age, The Pork Menace is a myth, left over from when transporting meat in unrefrigerated trucks and rail cars was common.  That’s no longer the case.  Luckily, over the years I've been able to bring her on board the juicy pork wagon. 

"Juicy Pork Chop Wagon" would make a great band name.  So would "The Pork Menace."

I know Pinky’s just trying to look out for me and I appreciate that.  But the fact is no one can convince me that “Action A” is harmful when I've been engaging in “Action A” for years without any measurable consequence.  I call that “hard-won experience.”

I am a firm believer in the 5-Second Rule.  Also, the 10 or 15-Second Rule, depending on how much I like what fell on the floor.  See that earlier rule about not wasting food…

I also tempt fate, apparently, because I am not addicted to hand sanitizer.  Sure, I have some on my desk at work, but I've had the same little 2-oz bottle for a several years and it’s only half gone.  I wash my hands a couple times a day, and I get an annual flu shot and take some standard cold germs precautions.  I didn't used to do any of that.  And you know what?  I still get a cold about once a year, regardless.  Perhaps there’s something to be said for a childhood spent playing in piles of dirt.  I bet my immune system could fight off the Cloverfield monster.

“Did you see the size of those T-cells?  I’m outta here…”

Earlier this week, I had to pluck out an eyelash that was growing out of the corner of my eye and Pinky gave me a 5-minute dissertation on how to sterilize the tweezers before and after plucking.  I ignored all of it and just yanked it out.  I figure, the tweezers only touch the eyelash, which is then discarded, what’s the problem?  If I stick the tweezers into my eye, I’m going to have bigger problems to worry about.

It takes an act of Congress to get me to go to the doctor.  Pinky is always on me to go get something checked… blood pressure, blood vessels, cholesterol, bone density, colon integrity, you name it. 

I’m one of those “If it ain't broke, don’t fix it,” kind of guys.  And when something does seem broken, my first response is always to see if it will go away on its own, before seeking medical attention.  I’ll wait it out for months.  You’d be amazed how often it works out just that way.

I do take vitamins and fish oil, but I don’t think they do any good.  I feel like I’m perpetuating a fraud started by GNC.  Every study I read says that vitamins don’t have any perceptible impact when they’re taken as supplements, as opposed to via daily meals.  But given my vegetable-deficient diet, I’d better hedge my bets.

I got rid of my bicycle last month.  It wasn't because it was an old racing 10-speed that was 25 years old, or because the tires wouldn't hold air any more.  It was because Maryland has a law that says even grownups have to wear helmets when riding a bike.  That was the last straw.

When I was a kid, bicycle helmets caused injuries, because any kid seen wearing one would get the living shit kicked out of them, just for looking like such a Nancy-boy.  Even now, I won’t wear anything more protective on a bike than a fortified baseball cap.

You know what the biggest peril I face is?  Sleeping.  Seriously, every time I wake up, I have to take a full inventory on what hurts.  Is it my neck? My back?  Shoulders or knees?  It’s always something.  Next thing you know, I’m going to have to wear some kind of special helmet to bed.

My next most dangerous activity is stretching.  If I stretch too vigorously, I’m liable to produce a stabbing pain in my vertebrae, causing me to limp around for the next week.

Luckily, Pinky is a certified massage therapist.  She puts me on her table and straightens me right out.

That’s one time I’m happy to put my health in her hands.

I Knew the Bride

Wow, what a wonderful, wicked, wobbly weekend, which included a wedding, a stay at a luxury hotel, and a day spent at the bar.

First off, as noted in the previous post, my friend Jenny married the man of her dreams in a beautiful ceremony with a reception down at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

View from the 21^st floor (where the reception was) looking at the National Aquarium, Barnes & Noble and the Hard Rock Café.

This was looking out in the other direction.  

Closer view.  The fog and clouds made the view rather foreboding.  Although it could be because that’s the Ravens’ Stadium just to the right of the big dark building.

I’m not going to get into a bunch of details about the wedding… I know no one wants to read a bunch of crap about a wedding for someone they don’t know.  Suffice to say, the bride was a shimmering beauty and looked positively radiant.  Like I told her in the greeting line, "You look like you belong on top of a wedding cake.” 

See?  You can even see the radiance from here.

There it is again!

I also told the groom what I wrote in the last post, that he was the luckiest guy in the Mid-Atlantic.

OK, I know you at least deserve a decent look at the happy couple.  I did take a butt-load of pictures but the results left me a bit disappointed.  With the low lighting, any motion at all left me with blurred or fuzzy pictures, so I didn't get nearly the number of usable shots that I’d anticipated.  (Yes, yes, I know… I should get an SLR and go take some lessons.)

On the bright side, I was so busy messing around with my camera during the ceremony, I didn't have the time to get all weepy.  (Well, except maybe a bit when the bride’s voice wavered during her vows.)  Things came out much better when everyone was standing still, like at the cake-cutting.

As a veteran of a whole bundle of weddings, I thought I’d seen all the best stunts, but I learned something new with this one.  It was brilliant.

Soon after we all sat down, the groom’s uncle came around to the tables.  To all the guys, he handed out these quarter-sized metal washers and said that these were “keys” to Jenn’s house.  After the toasts, he was going to go up and make a speech and tell all the guys that “now that Jenn is married, anyone with her house key needs to bring them up and turn them in.”  He had a metal coffee can for us to drop the washers in, so they would sound like a metal key plinking in.

So he made the speech and then about 40 or 50 guys got up to turn in their “keys.”  It was hilarious!  And then for a kicker, after all the guys were done, Jenn’s and my mutual friend Kristy scurried up and dropped off a key of her own.  And THEN one more old guy, who must have been in his 70s, shuffled up and dropped in the last “key.”  The whole routine just killed the room.  I can’t wait to pull this stunt on my nephew one day.

Back when my buddies and I each got married, our “stunt” was a ball and chain.  And I don’t mean some little thing; I’m talking about a big (hollowed out) steel ball, just a tad smaller than a volleyball, attached to a big, thick stock of chain, with an iron ankle clasp attached.  The thing was formidable.

I think my buddy John (VP of Hell No) made it (or had it made) and I know we used it when his son got married.  For my wedding, Rik (Chairman of Fuck Off) brought it out and to use on Future-Ex.  That didn’t go over real well with her, though, so she didn't have it on for very long.  They put it on me for a little while, but I had my new step-son carry it behind me.  Then finally we used it for my friend Brill’s wedding, after which it got thrown out when they moved.  So we’re due for a new wedding trick.

But because the “key” idea wasn't mine, I got to pose with this exquisite bride.

“I can see her now with her Walkman on/

Jumpin’ up and down to her favorite song…

She used to wanna party, she used to want go/

I knew the bride, when she used to rock and roll.”*

When the reception wrapped up, it was only 7:00, so there were still activities afoot, out on the town.

We got together with Jenn and some her friends at the hotel bar across the street (where Pinky and I were staying) for a short after-party.  It was nice because we could finally talk to the bride and groom without swarms of people pulling at her and photographers constantly circling and putting lights in our faces.

Rather than changing first, Jenn insisted on going out in her wedding dress.  She said, “I only get to wear this once, so I’m getting my money’s worth out of it.”

Not so much for the shoes though…

The Bride, changing out of her sparkly red pumps.

It was a great end to the night, as we got to see the happy couple off to begin their honeymoon and new life together with a sense of love and friendship. 

We didn’t linger much the next morning because I needed to get home and change into my Steeler game apparel and head out to the sports bar.  The Steelers and Chargers were playing opposite the Ratbirds game, so it wasn't on local TV.

This time out, I was meeting Sunshine, who used to be my “work wife.”  It was funny because I’m always showing up at this place with a different girl.  They know Pinky because we have lunch or dinner there fairly often.  But for games, (which Pinky doesn't care for), I frequently meet up with Sitcom Kelly or Sunshine.

So when I saved the adjacent bar stool, the bartender said, “Oh are you meeting your lady friend again?”

I said, “Yes, but a different one this time…”  I had to laugh, because I could hear how that sounded.  I said, “It’s a different girl but she’s another ‘friend’ and the Redhead knows all about it.”  I said, “Bartenders have to keep our secrets though, right?” 

I figure it’s like doctor/patient confidentiality, or attorney/client privilege.  Bartenders have to keep their mouths shut about what they see if they want people to come back.  The bartender, a nice English lady, probably about mid-60s, agreed.  I said, “But I’m not putting that burden on you, OK, this is on the square.”

Anyway, I hadn't seen Sunshine since my birthday last year, and we didn't really get much of a chance to talk then, so we had an awful lot to catch up on.  She’s a Cowboys fan and they were playing too, so for the 1:00 games, we just watched the Cowboys, Steelers and Ravens games.  Her ‘Boys won while my guys lost, so that was kind of a bummer, but then the Ratbirds lost too, which redeemed the day a bit. 

(Note to Self: Don’t wear the black Polamalu jersey to the bar any more.  Bad mojo.) 

A lot of people around us kept asking if we were together.  She’d go, “I’m married, but not to him.”  You should have seen the looks.  But it was really nice to spend some time with a good friend.  It’s not for nothing that I called her my Work Wife.  When we worked together, we were very close.  When the second games came on, we straight-up yapped through all of those, until we finally left around 7:00.  Seven hours at the bar will give you a good case of Barstool Ass.

But all in all, it was a sweet weekend.  I got to see a dear friend get married, hang out with another old friend to drink beer and watch football, and then go home to Pinky.

As I heard her tell some people at the wedding, “He’s pretty lucky I understand that all his friends here are women.”

And I am, at that.  How many girlfriends would be OK with my going out and meeting up with various women as often as I do?  In fact, consider my trip to Pittsburgh last June, where I met up with two girls (Sitcom Kelly and her sister), and had dinner with a bunch of other female bloggers (Cassie, Jessica, Bethany, Facie and Ginny).  Granted, most of them brought their husbands, boyfriends or kids, and thank goodness for the Carpetbagger, or else I could have been on shakier grounds. 

So remember, when we’re out and I’m taking pictures of everyone, it’s not because I have a thing for pictures; it’s that I want exculpatory evidence!

*Director’s DVD Commentary: “I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll” is a song from the 80s by Nick Lowe.  Huey Lewis plays harp on it too.  Look it up; it’s a classic.

Oh, and I’m not collecting evidence because Pinky demands it.  I just feel better if I can corroborate that I’m doing what I say I’m doing.

When Little Girls Grow Up

I've got a big weekend coming up, featuring the wedding of a dear friend of mine.

I've written a bit here about Jennifer before.  She’s the one we used to prank by slightly moving things around in her orderly cube, and secretly swapping out her pristine red binders for torn, sloppy black ones.  She’s also my friend that had her house broken into and burglarized several times, right around the time her job was eliminated.

Jenn joined our staff in 2002, coming straight out of college.  She instantly brought a breath of fresh air into our stuffy department.  Jenn and another new girl kick-started a whole period of great after-hours gatherings of fun and merriment. 

Jennifer, December 2003.

Jenn is significantly younger than I am by a solid 18 years, which is a fact she takes great joy in reminding me whenever I tell an old story.  Nevertheless, we bonded right off the bat.  I've always tried to look out for her and give her the benefit of the hard-won wisdom my advanced years have given me.  She may be a die-hard Ratbirds fan but she has a huge heart and all the loyalty and integrity in the world.  To me, she’s someone that I feel duty-bound to protect and shield from harm.

When she first joined our department, she was a real Wild Child.  Sure she was smart, organized and composed, but she took great pleasure in shocking the crap out of people by doing things like dropping the occasional “C-word” into a casual conversation.  (The male-oriented C-word.)  Sometimes she’d come out to lunch with my brother and me and some of our buddies, and they’d do spit-takes over some of the things she said.  I was so proud.

Back when our company still threw a lavish Christmas Party, Jenn and I always went together.  It became our tradition.  We’d be all dressed up (it was the only time all year I ever wore a tie), and I’d always wear my long wool coat and black fedora.  I loved walking in there with Jenn on my arm; we’d always turn heads.  I assumed everyone was thinking, “What’s the hot chick doing with that old fuck?”  They probably thought I was her Sugar Daddy.

She’s reined in the Wild Child over 10 years’ time and grown into a model of decorum and professionalism.  When our original department folded last year, I was relieved that she was able to latch onto another job in a different department.  I tried to get her into mine, but we never had the right opportunity open up.

So while we no longer work together, we still see each other around the building and go out to lunch every so often.  No matter how long it’s been, we always slide right into our easy rapport.  I never know what the subject of the day is going to be, but it’s always entertaining.

For example, one day last September, we had a lunch-long debate about chicken wings.   Jenn wondered why chicken wings are so small, when chickens are relatively large.  Her fear, you see, is that we are actually eating baby chickens.  She said the “leggy” pieces were actually baby chicken legs, and the other “wingy” pieces were the wings. 

We also had some lingo to work out.  What I call the “leggy” pieces, she calls the “drumettes.”  I think “drumettes” are the girls that follow Tommy Lee around.

I didn't think they were baby chickens, because we would have heard all about it from PETA if it were true.  I was sure that they weren't the wings from full sized chickens, but I also wondered why when you get wings from a Chinese restaurant, they were always HUGE!  Maybe those were the regular chicken wings and we really were eating baby chickens.  It was enough to make my head spin.

I later did some research online and emailed my findings to Jenn.

Bluz: This seems to be the consensus…

“Baby chickens don't have much meat on them because they haven't learned to fly yet.
Buffalo wings are made from regular chicken wings. They take the tip off and separate the other two parts and use them. So each Buffalo wing is like 1/3 of a real chicken wing.”

And that means that the leggy ones aren't really legs, they’re part of the wing.  My world suddenly makes sense again.

I still haven’t found why Chinese chicken wings are still huge…

Bluz (followup): OK, this has the most complete range of answers…

And apparently, the larger “Chinese” wings just come from larger chickens.  And it confirms that a full wing is made up of 3 segments, the tip (or inedible part) the double bone piece, and the drumette.

So there, you may put your mind at rest, that we are not devouring baby chickens.

Jenn: Hmmm… very interesting.  They have no remorse for killing cats and dogs but even they won’t kill baby chickens.  Maybe (the large wings are) to make up for the fact that Chinese are typically small?  The chickens being bigger than usual may be a compensating factor.

Bluz: Kind of like the way Americans drive SUVs.

Jenn: Exactly.  Little person, big chicken.  I wonder if they also make bratwurst.  Or maybe they do and we've just never seen them because they’re too good to let them out of the country without heavy tariffs.

Bluz: Maybe Wisconsin is doing the same thing, just to mess with Minnesota.

Now look at this... 

1-2-3 pieces to the wing.  I love the Internet.

Jenn: Neat!  I’d like my next order of radius and ulna extra crispy please!  Gee, I wonder why those terms never caught on.  “Wingys” it is…

Jenn’s current department threw her a wedding shower last week.

Besides a Bed, Bath and Beyond gift certificate, they got her a bottle of tequila and a Margarita Machine.

This one’s a hit.

When I sent some of the pictures to Jenn, she started telling me about the tight timing her church was making her stick to before the wedding ceremony.

Jenn: I'll be arriving with the girls at 12:15.  Sounds like a short time to me but the church was specific that they didn't want me there until 15 minutes prior.  They're making it sound stealthy too saying they'll send someone out to make sure the coast is clear in the vestibule before I come in otherwise I can hide in the confessional, lol! 

Bluz: Try to hide on the priest’s side of the confessional.  I've always wanted to know if they have some kind of Penance Conversion Chart in there.

Jenn: Hahahahaaaa.

Bluz: Scenes from a Confession

Jenn: Last Sunday, I took the name of the Lord in vain 17,000 times.

Priest: Let’s see… [consulting chart]… Name in Vain… 17,000 times… [moving fingers in perpendicular motions until they meet]… that’s 100 Hail Marys.  Wait; was that during the Ravens/Steelers game?

Jenn: Yes, Father.

Priest: Make it 50.  You were under duress.

Jenn: Love it.  I wonder if I can get it to 25, given that they were all in the last 60 seconds of the game.

I've already given Jenn her wedding present.  I’m not going into detail about it but it made her cry.  Call it a preemptive strike, because I know I’m going to be a mess, watching her walk down the aisle to marry the luckiest guy in the Mid-Atlantic.

The little girl is all grown up now.

Director’s DVD Commentary: The reception is downtown in the afternoon, so Pinky and I are staying the night at a hotel within crawling distance.  I was going to wear my long wool coat and fedora, but it’s expected to be around 60 degrees.  I’ll be a big enough of a mess, without adding flop sweat to the equation.

I’m going to have to step on it Sunday, though, because the Steelers game won’t be on local TV.  To get a seat, I’ll have to get out to my local sports bar by noon.  It’ll be like, “Sorry we can’t have breakfast, Pinky… I got to GO!”

Anyway, what I’m saying is that I probably won’t have a post up this weekend.  I’m sure you will be able to adjust…

Poster Boy for Cynicism

Are posters a “thing” any more?  I mean aside from at my place? 

I know I've always had posters up on the walls… I think I got it from my parents.  Of course they put theirs in our basements or rec rooms or laundry rooms, as opposed to the living room, like I do.

But I’ve been wondering if my folks’ old decorating habits affected my developing personality, because as I think back, some of the messages were pretty telling.

It started with my maternal grandfather, The Storyteller.  He used to have this on an orange felt pennant, displayed in his basement.

I never fully understood that one until I got a bit older, but from an early age, I got the hint that people suck.  And grandpas know things, so I believed it.

Even as an elementary school student, I understood this one that my parents had up:

A poster like this says, “There will be no arguing about bedtime.”

Our poster was yellow with black script, but was otherwise the same.  I just wish I could find which version of the Bible this is in.  I bet the big Moneychangers scene goes full on Rambo.

They also had this religiously themed poster:

This one looks exactly like the one we had.  In fact, I would say it is the actual one, if I thought my parents knew how to upload a picture to Flickr.

I came of age during Watergate, so I naturally picked up a cynical attitude regarding politics in general, and Richard Nixon in particular.  In order to curry favor with my parents, I brought this poster home with me from the local Spencer Gifts.

This was up in my room for ages.  Dad says it might have cost us a homebuyer or two, when they were trying to sell our house in Columbus.  It later found a home out in our Barn.

During a vacation to San Francisco in 1976, we found this poster in a little postcard shop.

This is a reproduction of DaVinci’s Last Supper, only starring Nixon, all of his advisers and other Watergate players.  That’s supposed to be Martha Mitchell on the phone behind the table, who was renowned for spilling things to the press.  The phone, of course, is bugged, and you can see another bug under the table.

I had this up in the Barn for years.  When I moved out to Cleveland, I had it professionally matted and framed.  I hung it in my dinning room, where as you know, Italians traditionally hang reproductions of the Last Supper.  I still have it around here somewhere…  Eventually these things lose their Thumb-in-the-Eye-of-the-Establishment credibility.

Back in the 70s, no self-respecting hippy was without the venerable “Desiderata” poem up on the wall.

Poster available at www.desiderata.com

We never had that poster, but I’d seen it at the local Spencer’s.  (I spent a lot of time hanging out in the gag gift section.  But I could never afford the fake poo.)  It was later made into a spoken-word 45-rpm single. 

I never heard that, but I DID hear something similar.  National Lampoon did a recorded parody of the Desiderata, called the “Deteriorata.”  Written by Tony Hendra, it took the stilted phrasing of the original and turned it into something far more cynical.

I know this is pretty dense, but have a quick look.  I used to pull some of the individual lines out to use when signing yearbooks…

“Let not the sands of time get in your lunch.”

“Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet.”

“Take heart amid the deepening gloom, that your dog is finally getting enough cheese,”  (this is a shot at one of the frequent TV commercial pitches for dog food) “and reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot, it could only be worse in Milwaukee.”

This stuff was gold.  Even in college, I read this for an Oral Interpretation assignment.  It killed because none of the other students had heard it, and the professor was happy to hear it again.  He even corrected me on a line I had wrong.

My favorite current poster is one I've had up in a frame since the mid-80s.  The classics never go out of style.

My boss once offered me $20 for it.  See, his father's name was Art.

So look around at your home decorations, even out in the garage, or down in the basement.  What might seem fun and funny to you might have a profound effect on young, growing minds.

I mean, look how I turned out…