First (and last) thoughts on Tiger Woods

As some of you know, I play golf sometimes. I'm not very good but I enjoy it tremendously.

For the last ten years I have given nary a thought to Tiger. When he was on his game, he was unstoppable. He had this squeaky-clean image of an All-American white kid that just happened to be black and asian by birth, complete with suburban Connecticut accent. He's got a Stanford education. He's a billionaire. He married a supermodel. Basically he's been the paragon of success, and the hero of hypercompetitive malcontents everywhere.

To me, he's just been boring. Uninteresting. Boring because he didn't seem real. I don't mean that in a "I knew it all along--he was too good to be true!" sort of way. I mean that in that way that people that I find interesting are usually layered and flawed; Tiger seemed the opposite of that. In an odd way, this "scandal" actually makes me pay attention, because I am starting to find him somewhat interesting.

The people that I find hilarious in this situation that are cheering his downfall. Like, "Oooh! Tiger's gonna get his now! Did you see Gatorate pulled his product line? He's gonna lose all his sponsorships, the dirty cheater!" Ummm, no. Fucktards.

Let's do a little math here: Eldrick Tiger Woods is a fucking billionaire. Let's be very conservative and assume he's only 10% liquid. Now lets be even more conservative and assume that $100M is only earning him a 5% rate of return. Simple math tells you the man will continue to earn at least $5M a year for the rest of his life if he never swings a club or signs another endorsement deal ever again. And that's a very conservative estimate; in reality it's probably closer to $20M annually.



Tiger doesn't give a shit what you think, or what I think. Nor should he. He doesn't give a shit what Gatorade or Phil Knight or Tim Finchem thinks either. More than likely, the only people who's opinions matter to Tiger are those of his wife and kids, family (his mother and his three siblings) and his close friends.

Regardless of levels of success in any (and every) other aspect of life, from here on out people will be judging Tiger for this indiscretion. That's his business. Not yours and not mine. All the same, I can't but help and find the whole thing...interesting. Finally.

Christian Audigier is a pederast

It has to stop, people. This is utter insanity. It's bad enough that we've been subjected to shitty Ed Hardy shirts, jeans and hats, but now we've got cups, candles, air fresheners and seat covers? Holy fuck, isn't there a recession going on? Why on God's green earth are people spending $50 for a shirt that looks like absolute crap?

I mean, generally the deciding factors in buying any sort of apparel are quality, price and style. We're talking 50-60 bucks for a fucking tee shirt here; how great can the quality really be? If it last five-ten years that makes it...oh, just about as durable as every other tee shirt I own. If this was the coolest thing since the Wonderbra, I could dig it, but seriously? Look at this shirt. LOOK AT IT!


That's a professional model in that pic and the shirt still looks hideous. They all look hideous. Your average Ed Hardy shirt has a disgusting combination of hearts, roses, tigers and eagles vomited out in random disarray and covered with Swarovski crystals, sometimes including scrollwork with the ubiquitous quote, "Love Kills Slowly." Yeah. Like, whatever the fuck that means. Ed Hardy shirts come every color imaginable, yet still manage to look bad with every article of clothing ever created. Its a rare accomplishment for one shirt to suck this much; the only things that go well with Ed Hardy clothing are fake orange tans and social ostracism.

The one redeeming quality they have is that they usually serve as an excellent social barometer. If I meet a dude wearing an Ed Hardy shirt I can immediately tell one of two things.

• He’s under 23. Mom and dad are still shelling out ridiculous gobs of cash to support his various habits, which include jaegerbombs, absurd amounts of hair product, bad fashion choices and cocaine. His faux-goth urban hipster ass just graduated from shopping at Hot Topic, but it hasn't evolved an iota.
• He’s over 23. He’s a complete douchetard that has no sense of fashion and an even poorer sense of silly things like “self respect” and “good hygiene.” Yes, I’m talking to you asshole; spraying on Axe until your eyes swell up is no excuse for bathing. You do not look "hardcore" or "edgy." You look like a fucking douche. Plain and simple.

And because a picture says a thousand words:


So that's my feelings on the subject. Had to get that off my chest as the holiday shopping season is upon us. Cheers, people.

Goodbye, Brandon Graham...

The 3rd Saturday of November has come and gone. Michigan turns the page on another disappointing season. New Years Day will roll by in 2010 (like in 2009) with me not being overly excited about anything...a feeling that is still somehow unfamiliar. What is left for the kids and coaches heading into the 2010 season is hope. Hope that the game slows down; that "bigger-faster-stronger" becomes a reality; that The System shows it can work; that the hard work pays off eventually.

For a small group of outgoing seniors, that hope is gone; they will never play college football again. Some will move on to the NFL and others will have success in areas outside of football. But this isn't about that. This post is very simply a heartfelt "thank you" to one man: Brandon Graham. BG55. Double Nickels.

I can honestly say in almost 20 years of watching football, I have NEVER seen a player on a team (and a defense) as atrociously bad as the 2009 Wolverines play so damn well. I've never seen a player on a team that bad play so hard on every single snap.



Coming out of high school four years ago, I'm sure you saw Big Ten championships, BCS bowl games and maybe even a run at the National Title in your future. I'm sorry that it didn't work out that way, kid. But the defense this year wasn't your fault.

• Not your fault that in Lloyd’s last three classes, he only signed four DTs, two of which (Kates, McKinney) didn’t stick around.
• Not your fault that Jones and Graves decommitted last year, and that Martin has no help inside
• Not your fault that the LBers behind you might have been the worst-coached UM linebackers in 40 years.
• Not your fault that in 2009 UM had exactly one scholarship player (Williams) at Safety on the roster.
• Not your fault that Cissoko couldn’t take school seriously, leaving Warren as the only legitimate B10-caliber CB with any experience at all.
• Not your fault that Witty didn’t qualify on time or that Turner showed up late and out-of-shape and couldn’t give #6 any help.

My buddy Johnny says it more poetically than I ever could about you: "When you are calm, leadership is all procedure. I have been here a while and I will say uplifting things; that is my job. Beyond that, it is up to them. They recognize your pain but they do not feel it as thoroughly as you do. How could they? No one else’s talent is as immense, as glaringly squandered on this embarrassment."

So I'm sorry it's over for you at UM, BG55. I know this wasn't the way it was supposed to be; the most talented defensive player to walk through Schembechler Hall since Woodson shouldn't have left not playing in a Bowl Game as an upperclassman nor ever having beaten OSU. But that's the way it worked out. The football gods owe us big-time and one of these years we are going to collect in a major way.

For now, get ready for the draft. And if you ever stop and wonder about the things you didn't accomplish at Michigan, or maybe "what if" about what might have happened if you went elsewhere, I have only one thing to say.

Thank you. For everything.

Swine flu is scary...if you're a big pussy

In less than six months I've managed to acquire a furious hatred of the swine flue for a variety of reason. And no, this obviously isn't one of those, "Oh I got the swine flu and it was terrible. Boo-hoo..." columns (if I ever write anything like that, I'll make sure I stab myself in the face with a potato peeler) because--as most of you are no doubt aware--I can't get swine flu due to my badass immune system. But more on that later.

No, the reason I hate swine flue falls directly at the feet of the National Panic Inducing Media of America (who knew I could be redundant and ironcal at the same time?), who have been running with this H1N1 thing for months now. Enough with it, already! People, stop paying attention to these dipshits trying to sell suscriptions/airtime/whatever and quit worrying.

Ever since people started realizing that Magic Johnson has been living with AIDS for like 30 years now the media has been trying to figure out new ways to scare the crap out of us via infectious disease. First it was SARS. Run! Panic! Oh wait...less than 800 people died from that worldwide. Next is was H5N1 Bird Flu. Run! Panic! Oh wait...less than 400 died from that shit too.

So far in 2009, roughly 200 people have died in the US from swine flu and now they're trying to pawn this thing off as being the Next Global Pandemic. Really? Okay, let's take a look at the symptoms of H1N1:
* fever
* sore throats
* coughs
* muscle aches
* headaches
* lethargy
* conjunctivitis (eye infections)
* breathing difficulties
* chest pains.
Hmmm...maybe you can't see any difference between those symptoms and the symptoms for regular flu. You know why? Because there isn't any difference, fucktards! Guess how many people die from regular flu every year? According to the CDC, it's approximately 36,000 people. Wow, my degree isn't in math but by reckoning that makes the common flu about 150 times more lethal (and thus, 150 times more awesome) than swine flu.

If you're still somehow concerned and want to flu-proof yourself, don't take some bullshit vaccine that doesn't even counteract the strain of flu it was intended to; come see me. Okay, first picture the most badass thing you can, I don't care what it is. Now imagine it somehow being twice as badass as you pictured it. Got it? Okay, cool: that's what my immune system looks like from the inside.

I've never called in sick to work (and actually been sick) a day in my life. I get a cold like once every three years and it's gone in two days. Once (in 2005) I got the flu (the regular awesome variety) and it fled screaming in terror from my body in less than 36 hours. Hang around me long enough and you will stop getting sick, too.

Internal view of a B2K™ white blood cell standing over a mound of dead flu pathogens

As most of you know, I tend to not worry about much of anything. I sure as shit am not going to start worrying about some bullshit mutant flu virus that only packs enough punch to kill 20 people a month. But if you're still a bit nervous, swing by Ann Arbor and let me cough in your face. Or, if you're a hot chick (if you've forgotten how I roll in that department, click HERE) we can make out. After all, it's for your own good.

One beer at a time

So in today's Daily Dose of Awesome, the story begins with a jaunt to the bank, courtesy of the lovely and talented Katee Jones. It's an absolutely beautiful fall day in Michigan. The kind of day that makes you love this state: a crisp 50 degrees and not a cloud in the sky; trees beginning to change colors and just the hint of a breeze complete the effect.

Due to a somewhat complicated set of circumstances, I worked yesterday (Saturday) but have all of today off. Cool, right? Seems to be a perfect day to just chillax and watch some football. Well, except for the fact that the 49ers have a bye this week and the Lions play with all the pussiance of a wounded baby seal...but I digress. Anyways, on the way back from the bank we have to pass right by Golfside Market, which is the closest liquor store to Casa de B2K. I figure a quick pitstop for some brews is in order.

As I'm walking in to the market, I notice an old homeless dude sitting on the curb out in the parking lot, but didn't really think anything of it. Of course, as Im perusing the beer aisle, the thought occurs to me: yeah, it's an almost perfect day outside, but it might not be almost perfect if I was homeless. It might, in point of fact, suck balls. But--if I was homeless--it would probably suck less (or smaller) balls if I had a beer to take the sting off the hand life was currently dealing me.

So I plunk down some cash, grab my brews and head back out into the wonderful sunshine. At this point I turn to said homeless guy and offer him a beer. He says yes, and thanks me as I hand him one.

Image courtesy of getaway driver Katee Jones

As I pick up my case and head to the car, he says something I can still hear ringing in my head. "Turned out to be a beautiful day, didn't it?"

I'm not sure if he was talking about the weather or my small generosity or both, but in retrospect it doesn't matter. The answer is the same either way: Yes. Yes, it surely did.

MNF + Elton John = WIN

Anyone that watches the NFL on a semi-regular basis is probably aware the UM alum Chad Henne powered the Miami dolphins to an inspired win over the NY Jets last Monday night. Anyone that knows me knows that, as a third-generation 49er fan, I have a newfound hatred for the NY Jets and their Crabtree-tampering asses. Anyone that has any taste at all in music should appreciate the dulcet tones of Sir Elton (or someone that sounds eerily similar to him).

Thus, my friends, enjoy...

Never had it in the can. And proud of it...

I pretty much dislike all things Budweiser. Well, except their commercials. This one is my new personal favorite.

Hilariously vague anal sex reference sanitized for mass media consumption = WIN!

Crabtree signs with SF. Queue the conspiracy music!

So first round draft pick Michael Crabtree finally signed with the 49ers today, 72 days after contract talks began on July 28th. Okay that's all well and good; we need a a gamebreaker at wideout (and have since TO took his sorry ass to Philly) and we finally got one. What I find interesting here is the timing.

--September 20th. Crabtree is the only NFL rookie yet to sign with his respective team. Crabtree's agent Eugene Parker and the 49er brass are apparently "far apart" from coming to an agreement to get Crabtree signed.

--September 21st. The 49ers accuse the New York Jets of tampering and file charges with the NFL. The Jets deny the allegations. The 49ers believe the Jets contacted Parker, to let him know they'd be interested in trading for Crabtree's rights, or in drafting him in 2010 with a better salary than the 49ers were offering. Both of these are totally illegal under NFL draft regs.

--October 5th. Talented but drama-prone former UM wideout Braylon Edwards is involved in yet another off the field fracas. The Brown are publicly displeased with this display of douchery, especially in light of Edwards' stinking it up on the field this year.

--October 6th. Edwards trade talks begin between the Cleveland Browns and--wait for it!--the NY Jets. Perhaps not coincidentally, Crabtree and his agent Parker charter a plane and fly to SF to begin contract negotiations with the 49ers brass.

--October 7th. Edwards is officially traded to the Jets. Crabtree and the 49ers finalize their deal within an hour.

So let's see here...the team that was accused of tampering with the contract status of an Elite WR A manages to sign another Elite WR B via a completely different set of circumstances. The moment this happens Elite WR A loses all leverage and he and his agent start capitulating like the French in 1940. So call me crazy but I have to think Rex Ryan and the Jets were completely full of shit when they so vehemently DENIED said tampering charges.

And somehow lost in all this drama is the fact that the mystery matchmaker that media sources are crediting with getting both sides together at the 11th hour is none other than MC Hammer. No, you can't make this stuff up, people. Apparently Hammer is an associate of both Eugene Parker and 49ers COO Andy Dolich; Parker from his current circle and Dolich from the days when Hammer went by Stanley Burrell and was a bat boy for the Oakland A's.

Hey, whateva; we got us a wideout and look to be playoff bound. As my man Stanley says:

Sparty will rise! He will rise up...

Okay, so it's that week again: Michigan-Michigan State week. This is maybe my favorite time of year in Ann Arbor. Crisp days and cold nights; changing leaves, hoodies and mornings built around slippers on my feet and a triple-shot grande tuxedo mocha (no whip, tyvm) in my hand. Fall is here and hooray for that.

With Fall and MSU week comes the inevitable banter that pops up if one lives in the state of Michigan. I have been involved in this "rivalry" since 1997, so I have a pretty solid idea of what's going on...or at least I did, until this year.

You see, last year Michigan did the unthinkable and went 3-9; losing record and no bowl game for the first time in 40 years. This of course prompted mass hysteria amongst the maize and blue faithful...


Matthew 13:50: "And there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth."

This I expected. As a self-proclaimed "rational" college football fan, I understand that every major dynasty in CFB has endured the dreaded "rebuilding" year at least once in the last four decades...except Michigan. Guess what? We were due.

What I did NOT expect was the widespread outbreak of apparent brain damage amongst the majority of MSU fans statewide. "State is on the rise!" and "The balance of power has shifted!" have been heard around the Mitt as the rallying cry of the Spartan proletariat.

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Sparty. I have several friends that are loyal MSU fans and I have no problem with that. Hell, I can honestly say that over the last decade I've rooted for MSU to win every game they played that wasn't against Michigan. But enough is enough. Dim-witted vitriolic quotes by MSU coach Dantonio have combined with enough hollering (loud noises!) by the green and white masses and incessant myopic media drivel to finally push me over the edge.

So...in a word: no.

The balance of power has not shifted, idiots. UM is still the winningest program in the history of college football. Most wins and best winning percentage? Check. Big Ten Championships? We have 42. Sparty is the proud owner of seven. Seven total titles; not like "seven in the last decade." The University of Chicago(!) has more Big Ten titles than that. National titles? Eleven to State's one. Hell, MSU has been to the Rose Bowl one frickin time in my entire lifetime. Scoreboard, bitches.

And let's take a quick look at this "on the rise" farce. It's been happening for decades now, so like ummm, shouldn't they have actually risen at least once or twice?

"We're about to enter a season that could produce major changes, in perception or reality. It's huge for the Spartans because the ceiling appears to be rising."
--Bob Wojnowski The Detroit News, September 5, 2009

"Everybody at Michigan State seems intent on building a consistent Big Ten contender. This is wonderful, and it is not just talk. This clearly is a program on the rise."
--Michael Rosenberg, The Detroit Free Press, January 3, 2009

"MSU is 6-2 and, apart from a bad loss to Ohio State last weekend, has been on the rise under second-year coach Mark Dantonio."
--Lynn Henning, Detroit News, October 22, 2008

"At times, they've looked like a program really on the rise under second-year Coach John L. Smith."
--Dave Dye, Detroit News, November 28, 2004

"Instead of the injury to Dortch -- he's the fourth cornerback MSU has lost since preseason camp opened -- breaking the Spartans' spirit, it actually seemed to inspire them. "It's the sign of a program on the rise," secondary coach Troy Douglas said of MSU's ability to handle adversity."
--Dave Dye, The Detroit News, October 28, 2001

"Rumor Is Saban Has Spartans On The Rise. This could be a breakthrough year for the Spartans, who are ready to jump out of the shadow of the Maize and Blue monster to the southeast."
--Andrew Bagnato, Chicago Tribune, August 13, 1997

"He thinks the Spartans are on the rise again. That was evident last year, he said, because despite the 5-6 overall record, MSU finished third in the Big Ten with a 5-3 mark."
--Tim May, September 3, 1993

"Michigan State is the fastest-rising team in the nation."
--Tom Lemming, February 5, 1993

"They're a team on the rise right now."
--Chicago Tribune, September 5, 1985

So don't get mad, Little Brother. Stop talking about rising and pull a Nike: just do it. Stop whining about being disrespected; you've been a .500 program for the last four decades. You want respect? Go earn it.

Space/time continuum redux: Hitler gets it right

Anyone that that knows me knows that I love college football. It's my favorite spectator sport. And almost anyone that knows how much I love college football knows how much I hate USC. I hate them for alot of reasons: I hate the fact that they cheat; I hate the fact that everyone knows they cheat and they still get away with it; I hate their ghetto front-runner fans; I hate their spoiled crybaby fans...I could go on.

Well, it looks like some enterprising U$C fan with too much time on his hands shares my sentiments about the "spoiled" part. Check out Hitler defending Carroll in what might be the most hilarious Downfall remix to date.



"FLORIDA PLAYS CHARLESTON FUCKING SOUTHERN! THAT'S NOT EVEN A REAL PLACE!!!"

Pure awesome.

When Keepin It Real goes wrong: Detroit Lions Edition

Last Sunday the Vikings played the Lions at Ford Field. The Lions lost (disappointing, but no surprise) and Adrian Peterson was stifled for most of the day, putting me in a fantasy football hole that I would need 207 yards by Frank Gore to climb out of (disappointing and shocking.)

However, even if the action on the field was boring, my fellow Michiganders decided to keep it lively with an exciting in-stands melee. Observe:



The description of what started the ruckus, from the guy who filmed it: "The two girls in front of us were drunk before the game started. They grabbed one of our signs and trashed it (real classy) because we're Vikings fans, and then spent most of the first half mocking us instead of watching the game because the Lions were ahead.

They left their seats and we thought they were gone for good but somehow they managed to buy even more beer and get back to their seats. They were spilling beer on themselves, the seats, and some of the other fans. After they spilled quite a bit of beer on the guys in the row below them, they turned around and told them to SIT DOWN. One girl didn't like that so she poured the rest of her beer on his head. Then I knew it was time to start the camera."

Well done, sir. Isn't technology grand?

On Roadtrips, Purple Rain, Johnny Appleseed and Saying I Love You

So last week, I get a call from my friend Amanda. She’s calling me because she has an extra ticket to the Rascal Flatts concert at Memorial Coliseum in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Better yet, the concert tickets are free (courtesy of her friend Veronica, who is friends with the guy that owns their tour bus) and she’s got a hookup on a hotel room as well: $30 bucks for the night. Am I in?

Doing some quick math, I decide Hellz Yes I’m in. That’s like $20 a person for the entire trip, including gas money. So I make the necessary manipulations at work to get my schedule covered for that Friday (the concert was the night of Friday, Sept 18th) and—since I don’t work Saturdays anyway—I’m ready to rock.

Friday shows up. I wake up and head off to the gym to get my day started. After a quick workout I shower and eat, but I’ve got an hour to kill before she arrives to pick me up. I decide to do a little research; after all, I have no idea who the opener is and I figure I should probably check that shit out. A quick bit of googlage reveals that the “special guest” is none other that Darius Rucker. Fuckin Hootie! Sweet!

I will admit that am a so-so fan of Rascal Flatts. I like their music but I don’t really love it. I basically jumped at this concert opportunity because 1.)It was practically free, something I’m always a fan of, 2.)I’ve never been to Fort Wayne, and 3.)It’s a country concert, so pretty much by definition there should be tons of scantily-clad hotties there.

But Hootie is a different matter. I will admit that I have a man-crush on Darius Rucker. I loved him as Hootie and I’ve been a huge fan of his ever since he done and “gone country.” By the way, thank you for that obnoxious and uncultured-sounding (but accurate) euphemism, Alan Jackson.

So I’m all fired up by the time Amanda shows up to grab me at 12:30. We leave A2 and have to stop in Pleasant Lake to pick up Veronica and her friend, Jennifer. Apparently I have met Veronica before, although I don’t particularly remember it. No biggie; she seems nice enough, as does Jennifer.

We roll out and pit stop at the Meijer in Jackson en route to Fort Wayne. Fifteen minutes and ten buck apiece later we are back in the car, now accompanied by a case of bottled water, two bottles of booze, four sippy-cups full of ice and various mixers. No shocker as I play bartender on the way there, mixing up delightful refreshments to ease the thirst of our travel. After only one (yes, ONE!) bathroom pit stop, we arrive in Fort Wayne. Amanda’s new Garmin gets us to the Hampton Inn where we check out our digs for the night.

We relax for a bit and change clothes before getting ready. This involves the women applying copious amounts of makeup, hairspray and various other nice-smelling things. This involves me sitting on the bed with a cocktail as I try and not laugh at girls being girls. About an hour later, the taxi we called shows up and we’re off to the show.

We arrive at the will-call booth to pick up our tickets and…uh-oh. Nothing there. Veronica gets mad. Jennifer panics. Amanda and I laugh. V gets on the phone and calls her friend Cee (yes, his real name) in Chicago who is the aforementioned tour-bus guy and our hookup for these tickets. He tells her to wait and the tickets should be there shortly. We head outside and sit on a stone bench to wait. The girls smoke and seethe, while I chuckle inside. Hey, I’m in a new town with nothing to do tonight…could be fun, right?

About 20 minutes later the girl in the will-call booth motions at us from behind the glass with the thumbs-up. Wow, I’m impressed. V wasn’t bullshitting, I’m thinking: that’s some kind of hookup. We get our tickets, grab a beer and head into the Coliseum. I nearly pissed myself when we got to our seats. Wow! We were practically on top of the stage. These are seriously the best seats I’ve ever had at a major concert.

FUN FACT 1—People in Fort Wayne, Indiana are not attractive. I don’t care if it’s Nevada or Texas, Georgia or Michigan, everywhere I’ve ever attended a country concert there’s always been a seriously high talent ratio. Not so in Fort Wayne. Lots of pasty, semi-chubby white chicks. The Coliseum that night made a Brad Paisley show at Pine Knob look like a night at the Playboy Mansion—END FUN FACT 1.

Before long, Cletus T. Judd comes out and does a few songs, setting the stage and getting everyone amped up. Then it’s time for Hootie! Rucker comes out and he’s good. He does his country stuff, mixes in a few old Hootie songs as well as a sweet rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain” that no one in the audience expected but everyone loved. After Rucker finishes up, Rascal Flatts comes out and I have to say I’m impressed in spite of myself. These guys sound almost exactly the same in concert as they do on their albums, and the show was seriously entertaining.

It’s funny how far the showmanship aspect of country music has evolved over the years. I’ve been going to country concerts since the early 1990’s; I think either Garth or Alan Jackson was my first show. While I enjoyed the music, the whole concert “feel” was much more staid; the overall energy level wasn’t even close to a rock concert. The same cannot be said now. In the last six months I’ve seen Brad Paisley, Kenny Chesney and now Rascal Flatts and I have to say that (even though I feel the music has slipped as a genre in general) country music has come a long way in the live performance department.

Moving on, the concert finishes up and we head outside to a nice surprise. Turn’s out V’s friend Cee wanted to make up for his mistake (he didn’t get her the tickets initially because he thought V was going to see Toby Keith in Chicago the next night instead of Rascal Flatts) so he got us a limo to make up for it. Nice, right? So for the next few hours we prance around Fort Wayne in style and hop from club to club.

Eventually we stumble back to the hotel room and crash. The next morning rolls around and we decide to make a pit stop on our way out of town. According to the Garmin, one of Fort Wayne’s most famous attractions is the gravesite of Johnny Appleseed. WTF? I mean, I remember hearing about JA as a kid, but I always thought that was some sort of American myth; sort of like Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Oh no, my friends. Turns out this shit is for real.

John Chapman was real guy who lived to an atrociously old age back in the 1800’s and was buried after his passing in Fort Wayne. So as we’re on our way to his gravesite, we discover something else: it appears that the annual Apple Festival is happening right now. Today. And it’s being held in the same place Chapman’s grave is.

So we roll in, just for shits and giggles. Turns out this is a pretty big deal in Fort Wayne. There are probably over ten thousand people congregating on this park. There’s food vendors (and because nothing says “fest” like smoked turkey leg, I had to get one) as well as live music, bagpipes, square dancing, a civil war reenactment (!), and dozens upon dozens of purveyors or old-schools arts and crafts. We’re talking blacksmiths, flint-knappers, leatherworkers, etc. My personal favorite was the stand selling Native American charms; this guy had everything from eagle-feather headdresses to a chief’s staff complete with a coyote skull mounted at the top.

I wasn’t shelling out $75 to buy this thing, but I definitely considered it. It figured it would be an awesome gift for, yunno, like a girlfriend or something. If I had one. Because...well, because nothing says “I love you” quite like coyote head on a stick. See?



After about two hours of ponderous crowds full of slow-moving, pasty, chubby people and turn of the century neo-Americana, I had to get the hell out of there. So we said our goodbyes to Indiana and rolled out. Another weekend in the books.

So I have a new crush...

And I mean "crush" in the most hetero, man-tastic way possible. Said crush is the band Steel Panther, which some of you may remember as the band Metal Skool (of Drew Carey's "Cleveland Rocks" fame) or Danger Kitty from the infamous Discover card commercial HERE.

While it seems amazing to me that a band that has been the recipient of the "Best Tribute Band in the Universe" award (All Access Magazine) should have escaped my noticed, that's not even the most incredible part. In addition to being glam-tastic (and as a child of the 80's, this is something I can appreciate), these dudes are fuckin hilarious. Okay, once again: how have I never heard of them?



These are the guys that have relesed albums titled Love Rocket, Hole Patrol (no, I'm not kidding) and Feel the Steel. Thier singles include the 2005 hit Fat Girl (Thar She Blows) and the recently released Community Property, the song that actually led to my discovery of these guys.

Said song includes such heartwarming lyrics as:

I would give you the stars in the sky
But they're too far away
If you were a hooker, you'd know
I'd be happy to pay
If suddenly you were a guy
I'd be suddenly gay
It goes on and gets better. But the video is truly epic. Check it out, yo. Crank it up and rock out, but know that it's NSFW. Cheers!

**Follow-up edit. It looks like the embedding was disabled by the by the artist, but you can still peep the video HERE.

6 Simple Rules

So my last blog was depressing as shit. There, I said it. In an effort to get back to myself (read: Happy Fun B2K) I decided to return to a conversation that I had with a few of my female friends recently regarding my bemoaning the local lack of heavily-inked hotties here.

Hey, it’s Michigan. I get it. My Holy Trinity of Hotness (tattoos, abs and fake boobs for those of you that missed it the first time) is almost nowhere to be found here in the Mitt, so what’s a guy to do? I mean, I have to maintain standards. FUN FACT 1—It’s a well known and long-established fact that I have standards, not morals—END FUN FACT 1. Going back to my last blog, those standards are probably the very reason that I’m not married and/or am not shelling out child support for a bunch of Mini-Bs.

So in an effort to clarify for my friends, and perhaps give a smidgen of hope to whatever ladies in the greater Detroit Metro Area have delusions of dating grandeur, let me present the Official B2K Deal-Breaker list. I mean, if I can’t have what I want, I may as well explain what I don’t want.

1. Must Look Good Naked. I’m a guy and as such, I love a great set of tits. But I’m not a “tits guy.” I’m actually an “ass guy.” But this ass should be accompanied by at least some (read: non-concave) development in the breast area. Abs are a bonus, but if you ain’t got em, it’s not the end of the world. But cankles, muffintops and any other assorted accoutrements resulting from too much beer/too little gym are definitely a no-go.

2. Must Have a Strong Desire to Suck Dick. Mine, preferably. Figured I’d get this one out of the way early. I’m not particularly worried about skill level here; I can teach technique. FUN FACT 2—I once dated a girl that, over the course of the day regularly requested to go down on me. "You stressed, baby? How bout a blow job?"—END FUN FACT 2. Umm, yes. Yes and yes. Please and thank you. That’s exactly the sort of motivation I’m talking about here.

3. Must Not be Stupid. Pretty self-explanatory. I don’t need to date a rocket scientist or even someone exceptionally intelligent. But if we have a three minute conversation and you feel the need to run and check the thesaurus more than once, it probably isn’t meant to be. Sorry, toots.

4. Must Not be a Douchebag. If your Myspace profile is covered in Louis Vuitton and D&G logos and large glittery graphics that say things like “Classy Bitch,” chances are we won’t get along. If you regularly go to any club and have jerked-off, blown or fucked either the promoter or the DJ, sorry to break it to you, but you’re basically a party favor. Hey, I have no problems with party favors; I just tend to like mine a little less whorish.

5. Must Possess an Intense Desire to Alleviate My Boredom. I have a tendency to get bored. Often. However, having an insatiable desire to have sex with me as often as possible will go a long way towards curing that. You coming out of the shower and crawling onto my lap asking to be spanked piques my interest. You purposely bending over in front of me and pretending to tie your shoes even though you're barefoot gets my attention. It's your job to keep our sex life fresh and exciting. It is my job to get bored with you and want to bang other girls. If you do your job, I'll be too busy to do my job.

6. Must Be Mildly Epicurious. No, this doesn’t involve other girls or assgasms (although an appreciation for both goes a long way in your favor) but food. I’m a foodie. I don’t expect you to be. Nor do I expect you to known the difference between a New York and a Kansas City Strip, or the difference between a Shiraz and a Malbec. (Bonus points if you do, btw.) But if the only thing you ever order in a restaurant is “chicken,” you are undoubtedly going to be pushing my boredom button soon…and we all know where this is going once that happens.

That’s pretty much it. And ladies, don't hesitate to make suggestions of things I might add to the list. Perhaps you have some special quality I should be looking for in a girl (unlikely) that you think you have (you don't), or you'd like to sabotage the chances of other women in some clever way. By all means, add your silliness to my list.

With this blog addition I feel like I’ve clarified a few things, as well as getting one step closer to finding my one true love. I know she's out there, somewhere, just waiting to reveal herself to me so we can live together in eternal bliss.

At least until I find out she used to blow the DJ.

Kisses!

Born on the 3rd of July

So if my Dad was still alive, he’d be 66 today. In September, it will have been six years since he passed. Seems like yesterday.

It’s funny when you think about “time” and how it passes. I can remember stretches of years that seemed like...well, they seemed like years. But since the old man left, I dunno. It’s weird. Sometimes it seems like I just blinked and he was there, and now he’s not.

Part of it’s probably just growing older. You get more time under your belt and more memories in your head, the less any one particular thing stands out. Maybe. Could be because I’m still single with no kids. I don’t have anything like an anniversary or a child’s birthday to give me tangible evidence of the years passing.

It gets even weirder when I break out the photo album. I was just looking at this pic today.



This photo was taken ten years ago today. That’s two of my best friends in Danielle (who also happens to have a birthday on July 3rd) and Dave and I at Dani’s birthday party. Dave now has a beard, but otherwise looks the same. Danielle’s gained like five pounds but basically looks the same. I’ve got a few more lines on my face, but I pretty much look the same too. WTF?

And then I think: this was ten years ago. In fact, going back to the time that pic was taken, it’s amazing to think my father has been alive for less than half of that decade. Double WTF!

But time flies and you make the best of what you’ve got. Hopefully you live happily ever after. But sometimes you don’t. Cancer, after all, is a motherfucker. So live, laugh and love, people, because you never know what tomorrow may bring. Well...actually, in this particular case, I do: another birthday. Happy birthday, America.

Further proof that Ohio is The Suck...

Yes, I love Cedar Point. And Skyline Chili is awesome when you're wasted. But other than that Ohio pretty much blows. The fact that you're reading this blog means you're obviously an intelligent person, so this point should be self-evident.

However, if you had any doubts at all, I submit to you further proof.

Posted by Associated Press June 16, 2009 07:25AM

TOLEDO, Ohio — Some people here are complaining they received $25 parking tickets last week when their vehicles were parked in their own driveways.

Toledo Mayor Carty Finkbeiner defends the citations, saying they were issued under a city law against parking on unpaved surfaces--including gravel driveways.

The mayor, who's facing a recall vote, says he stands by the city's acting commissioner of Streets, Bridges and Harbor, Susan Frederick, who authorized the tickets.

During a news conference Monday, Finkbeiner ignored a reporter's question of whether the crackdown and fines are at all related to the city's budget crisis.

City Councilman D. Michael Collins calls the ticketing "Mickey Mouse nonsense." He has told residents he'll try to have the citations rescinded.

The three-term mayor faces a recall vote in November. Critics have claimed he's wasted city money.

City Councilman D. Michael Collins calls the ticketing "Mickey Mouse nonsense." He has told residents he'll try to have the citations rescinded.



Wow, I just don't have any comment for something that ridiculous...kind of speaks for itself. Enjoy. Link Here

Gayness finds a mascot. And there was much rejoicing.

One of the "advancements" of society that I'm most thankful for is a general acceptance of tattoos. I mean, when I was kid, pretty much the only people that had tattoos were soldiers, sailors and felons. Nowadays, you can catch some ink on doctors, lawyers and pretty much anyone else and it's no big deal.

Personally, I love tattoos. I have several, and plan on getting more. I like looking at tattoos, especially when they are located on attractive female real estate. This, in point of fact, is probably my biggest bitch about living in Michigan. Not the weather (2nd) or the lack of good sushi (3rd) but the virtual absence of hot chicks with tattoos.

Back in Cali I can go to any bar or club and check out a veritable bevy of hotties with ink--not to mention abs and fake boobs, all of which comprise B2K's Holy Trinity of Hotness--but in A2 and surrounds, babes like that seem to be an endangered species. But I'm waxing tangential right now. The point of this blog today wasn't about good tattoos, no matter how delicious their location. Nope, this one is about bad tattoos.

I've seen some bad tattoos in my day. Alot of them, actually. I have a cousin that has been striving since he was 15 years old to be Professional White Trash, so I can thank Rob for much of that. In addition, if you spend any time in a South Georgia trailer park (and I've spent alot of time there, folks) you will indubitably see some bad ink.

However, all the bad ink I've ever personally winessed doesn't even come close to something I saw today. Imagine a mental picture of Neal Patrick Harris wearing assless chaps and riding a unicorn. Now imagine that picture committed to ink on your flesh in a very, very permanent fashion. Got the idea?



Okay, so it's Patrick Swayze and not NPH. And he's not riding a unicorn, but he's a fuckin centaur! And there's no assless chaps involved but, comsidering the rest of the tattoo, there probably should be. This thing isn't even bad in the usual sense; is so awesomely bad that it's kind of cool. Seriously. I mean, if I was gay, I would have thi shit as my coat-of-arms. Dragon in flight or lion rampant? Fuck that, gimme the Swayzaur.

That is all. Cheers, people.

2 girls 1, sub

Regardless of what you think about the quality of subs that Quiznos produces, you have to absolutely love their moxie when it comes to advertising. Check out the follwing internet ad "2 girls, 1 sub."



This is, of course a spoof off "2 girls, 1 cup" (which I will most definitely NOT link, but if you've been living an a cave and wish to do the internet search on your own feel free...as long as you're prepared to be really and truly disgusted*) and Quizno's didn't actually produce this ad. But Playboy did, and Quizno's had to give tacit approval or there would be lawsuits flying right now.

I'm a fan of just about anything that gives the Finger to Clearchannel and the other Zombie Media outlets that produce sanitized, homogenized bullshit for our mass consumption. Thus, I love this. I feel redundant in giving props to Playboy, but I'm all about showing Quiznos some love for this; I think a turkey, bacon & avocado might be in order tomorrow after the gym. Mmmm...toasty.

Cheers, all.


*By "disgusted" I mean that if you have a sensitive stomach, you will probably vomit all over your computer. I'm not kidding. Do the internet seach if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Back on the loan horse? Maybe...

For those of you that don't know, I spent almost four years in California selling loans; three of which were fiscally the best years of my life (by far) and one of which was the worst.

Since getting laid off by Countrywide in July of 2008 I have been exceptionally leery of any kind of Loan Officer (LO) job. Most of them out there are 100% commission and the nature of the mortgage biz is such that it invariably takes 30-60 days to see a commission paycheck from the day you start working, and I haven't had the cash reserves necessary (or seen an opportunity I liked enough) to give it a run.

But something has changed; about a week ago a good friend turned me on to an ad he saw in Careerbuilder about a LO position. Turns out it's for a major bank. Citigroup, in fact. Yes, that Citigroup; the second largest financial institution in America and third largest in the world. I had my telphone pre-interview on Monday and my first real interview today.

During my interview I find out that Citi has their retention division located right here in Ann Arbor, MI; "retention" meaning that the only thing they focus on is refinancing current Citi clients. Finally, the gig starts off with a really solid base pay, unlimited overtime opportunity and a commission structure that puts most LOs back in a tax bracket not far where where I used to be not too long ago.

Are you fucking kidding me? The best job I've ever had in my entire life was selling loans for Ameriquest, when I was part of their Portfolio Retention (PR) division located in Sacramento...basically doing this exact same job. I'd probably still be there today if I hadn't learned that PR's closing (and my being laid off) was imminent back in late 2006. I went job hunting that November and PR ended up closing it's doors three months later, laying off over a thousand LOs with no notice.

So somehow it just so happened that two years later I moved back to this little midwestern town--not because of any job or career opportunity, but because I love it here--and come to find out that less than ten miles from my house is the hub one of the world's major financial instititutions that specializes in one of the few things on earth that A.)I really like, B.)Am extraordinarily good at, and C.)Can get paid (well) to do.

The interview went well. I'll keep y'all posted but I'm mentally swimming right now...this whole damn thing just feels serendipitious. Cheers, all.

So I got fired somehow today...

First time in my life. I've been laid off before; had a few times when my boss and I had to sit down and "reasess the parameters of my employment," but never once actually fired. Two weird and slightly hilarious factors have arisen out of this. The first is that I'm not particularly angry, bitter, resentful or any other emotion so much as baffled. The second--which plays into the first--is that I truly have no idea why.

For those of you that don't know I've been bartending at the Melting Pot for the last six months, paying the bills while struggling to get my fledgling finance company off the ground. About two months ago, the owners asked me if I would consider becoming a "key hourly" or "manager on duty" twice a week, basically something to give the full-time salary managers a day off during the week. It was a bti of a pay cut, but I figured having a steadier hourly paycheck might be a nice change. Plus I still got to bartend four nights a week, so it worked out.

Three weeks ago, our general manager quit. Basically the owners were in a quandry, because they only had one other guy available and he was a single dad living in Grand Rapids and they said they really didn't want to ask him to commute. So they asked me to move up to full-time manager. I weighed the pros and cons and, in the end, it wasn't worth it. I would be taking about a $1000/month paycut, working the same hours, having the ten times the responsibility and pretty much giving up any hope of having a weekend day off again for the forseeable future.

Against my better judgement, I said yes. I didn't want to screw the restaurant and I felt like if I said no, I would be doing exactly that. What followed was two short weeks probably pretty typical of managing in any restaurant that has no clear sense of direction and is not making alot of money: long hours, chaos and stress. No problem, yunno? Thats just part of the deal.

Last wednesday I went into work and the owners, Mark and Lisa were waiting for me. "We need to talk," Mark says, and all I could think at the time was: "Thank God." So followed about an hour of discussion where they were concerned about how happy I was, if I was stressed out or not and if the job was "right for me" at the time. No mention of performance. Nothing that most people might, yunno, consider critical to hiring and/or firing someone. But it seemed to work out at the time; I went in the next day and re-interviewd for my job with the new GM, and reported to work Friday for bartending.

The weekend passed without incident; I bartended Friday-Sunday and made some decent cash, as it was graduation weekend and had a few days off as the new schedule was supposed to come out today. Instead I got a call from Mark today telling me they had to let me go. Again, no mention of performance. Basically something to the effect of, "Well...you know the restaurant isn't doing well right now...and we like you, we really do, but we just think too far away from where we are in the way the restaurant should be run. If the restaurant was doing better, we'd like to keep you on and work with you, but as it is we have to let you go."

Ummm...are you fuckin serious? It's not like I'm your goddam accountant or a public relations manager; I'm a bartender for fuck's sake. As long as I do my job well (I do), don't give away drinks (I don't) and don't steal (I don't) what the hell is the problem? If I'm not sewing dissention at work, how the fuck does it matter if I think you're doing a shitty job running your restaurant? So you're telling me you're firing a competent, honest employee that bent over backwards for you from day one for some esoteric bullshit? Sweet. Good work.

The most hilarious part of all was the end of the conversation where he asked me to maybe give him a call once the economy turned around and they would consider me working for them again. Are you for real, dude? You just fired me without giving me any valid reason and then said it would be cool for me to work for you again "once the economy gets better"? I have no idea if that's gall, lack of anything resembling an EQ, or just sheer stupidity...either way, I can guaran-goddam-tee you that shit will never happen.

I'll find another gig in the meantime, I guess; it just feels totally surreal the way the whole thing went down. Whatever. Time for a beer and a Battlestar Galactica marathon. Cheers, people.

Does Aaron Lewis suck metaphorical cock for money?

Okay, so last night a good friend of mine gave me a heads up about a free concert that Detroit is putting on this Sunday called the My Coke Fest. It seemed cool enough, especially when I found out Staind was going to be playing. I saw them in concert in 2006 when they openend for 3 Doors Down; they put on one helluva show that day, inculding an amazing cover of Rotten Apple by Alice in Chains.

However, since then, things regarding Staind have started to get a bit weird. In other words, there's something amiss at the Circle K in San Dimas. Staind's last album (Chapter V) came out in 2005 and--as far as I know--there's no announcement for any forthcoming album anytime soon. Despite that, Aaron Lewis has apparently been on tour nonstop for the last three years. I mean, everywhere I go I see poster for this guy playing acoustic at some fleabitten Indian casino or similar venue of ill repute. "Yes, tonight! LIVE! Aaron Lewis at the Tuscaloosa County Fair and Gun Show!"

So it was nice to hear that Staind was actually back together and not playing some bullshit "unplugged" edition of thier former selves. Of course, that's until I actaully went online and saw the lineup for the My Coke Fest: the headliner is fuckin Fergie! Are you shitting me? You get people out to see Gym Class Heroes and Staind and then for the grand finale we get...Fergie?! I mean, its a free show so i really have no right to bitch, but who was the marketing genius that put this lineup together?

Oh, and that's not a slam on Stacy Fergueson by any means. Really. She's hot, bi and used to have a chemical addiction problem...all of which makes her sound like any number of girls Ive dated before. I'm totally down with the Dutchess, folks. It's just that I don't see how the hell she ends up headlining the same venue that Staind is playing at. Does this make sense to anyone?

All that aside, I'm really starting to wonder about Mr. Lewis. Between playing any venue that will let him (how many millions of times can you clench your shaved pate and eyebrow ring in mock-agony while you sing "It's Been a While" after all?) and now opening for Fergie, is there no sense of pride or dignity left as to where you will or won't play? WTF, dude? I mean, there has to be a serious drug or gambling problem here that we don't all know about. I'm not trying to get all individualistic/anti-establishment/don'twhoreyourselfouttoTheMan but at this point Aaron Lewis, your choice of venue is the musical equivalent of you sucking cock for money.

That is all.

400 babies! The glory that is "Powerthirst!"

So for those of you that have never seen the youtube of POWERTHIRST! or POWERTHIRST II! I highly HIGHLY recommend spending 5 minutes and watching that shit. A friend pointed it out to me last night and I laughed so hard I was literally crying. Enjoy, folks.

The Saga of the 100 Beer Night

(This somewhat long-winded blog was originally posted on myspace about two years ago, but since it seems most of my peeps have gone over to facebook, I figured it needed to be reposted.)

So over the last couple years I've received a few requests to blog on past exploits...ahem...events in my life that I've shared with my peeps. Why? Well, rumor has it because I have a relatively colorful way of describing things that people seem to enjoy. I guess that could also be construed to mean—in other words—that I'm a pretty damn good salesman. So I can't be too discomfited by that; it's kind of an endorsement of the fact that I'm good at what I do for a living. If that's my cross to bear than, so be it. (Okay, all humility aside, it's pretty fucking fitting because I am a rockstar salesman. I mean, if rockstars were salesmen, than I would be fucking Elvis.)

This particular story was suggested by my good friend Jere Heartman*. This is somewhat ironic in the fact that everyone involved comes out of this story smelling of roses, except for Jere himself. However, I guess it makes sense if one actually knows my good friend Heartman. He and I met when we were both 20 years old in Savannah, Georgia and stationed at the 1st Ranger Battalion. (Meaning we were taxpayer-sanctioned, armed and armored killing machines that were extraordinarily good at three things: drinking beer, fucking dudes up and pulling ass.)

Do you know anyone that makes everything look easy? Yep, Heartman's that guy. And I know it ain't his fault, but every single time he does it, it makes me want to kill the fucker. Swim two miles? Sure. Run 10 miles? No problem. The only difference is that when we're done, I'm the guy drenched in sweat and my lungs are heaving in and out like a forge bellows. Fucking Heartman looks like he's ready to throw on some gel and go hit the bar. (Grrrrr. But I am digressing and you get the point by now. He is what those of us in the Special Ops world refer to as a Natural, where as I am—by comparison—an Avis; I have to try harder.)

Getting down to brass tacks, this started out a night much like any other back then. It was a Saturday evening in late October. Heartman, myself and our buddy Seamus from Alpha Company (they were the Bike and Jeep Geeks from across the compound) all went out in search of mischief and mayhem. October in Savannah means misty and in the 60s-70s at night, with a nice tropical breeze coming off the ocean and swaying through the Spanish moss above cobblestone streets.

We started out at a place call The Zoo, which was, at the time, one of the only real "clubs" in the city of Savannah. This place was three stories of 18-And-Up debauchery with a different theme on every floor. As time goes by and I see more of the world, it becomes less impressive, but at the time it was the shizznit. I mean, I had owned a fake ID for the better part of two years, but only been able to use it in Monterey, San Angelo, Texas and, to a very limited extent, San Francisco. So I was rather sheltered.

More importantly, it was absolutely teeming with hot Southern girls. All of whom were prim and proper debutantes, of course. But in the manner of Southern gals—and this is something you can only appreciate if you've been there, people—they were also just absolutely reeking of closet sluttiness. And while Jere, Seamus and I had nothing against wallowing in that particular aroma, tonight we had something of more pressing urgency on our minds. Beer.

But not just any beer. Or should I say not just any amount of beer. I'm talking about wretched, orgiastic quantities of beer. Frank the Tank quantities of beer. Make you want to shoot yourself with an IV to hydrate yourself and then keep drinking quantities of beer. (Pay attention, kids; you will see this material later) And beer like that could only be found at Hip Huggers.


Hip Huggers was—at the time—the swankiest place in Savannah. If all the college kids hung out at The Zoo and all the military punks were at Malone's, then all the older college kids and young professionals hung out at Hip Huggers. Wednesday night was Ladies Night, which meant 70's and 80's music. Ever been to a Polly Esther's? Same theme. It also meant that chicks got in free but guys paid a $6 cover. But that was of no matter, because it was 25 cent bottles between 10pm and 1am.

Yes, I said twenty-five cent bottles. The beer of choice that night was Michelob Light, for a variety of reasons. First, we were drinking light beer as to not get too incredibly fucked up; after all, the bars closed at 3am and we had to be awake at 5:45am and working by 6:15am. The second is that my tastes were a bit less refined back then and I had not discovered the glory that is Labatt Blue Light…but that's another story.

FUN FACT 1—I can drink beer. Drink it like it's my job. I don't know why, particularly. I can't chug for shit and after three or four shots of hard liquor, I'm ready to pass out. But if you give me a plain ol' bottle of beer (or a glass; I despise cans) I can drink from sunup to sundown. Kinda weird, but there it is. END FUN FACT 1.

So we walk in, grab a rail by the dance floor and I proceed to the bar. First round is on me and intend to get this party started. $3, please! Two minutes later, the bartender has 12 beers on a tray in front of me. I drop her eight bucks and head over to our little FOB (that means "Forward Operations Base" for all you cake-eating civilians) by the dance floor.

We proceed to drink copiously and make fun of each other, which is what most military guys do in situations like that; just being asses in general and having a great time. Of course, we're also eying the local talent, as well as making friends and influencing people. Seamus gets the next round ($3, please!) and by the time Hartman gets to his round ($4, please!) we've downed about 30 beers and have 10 more lined up on the rail next to us.

By this time, we've attracted a crowd of about six attractive local females from the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) and the beer is going down quickly. Seamus sneaks off to the bathroom and I yell at him to grab another round on his way back. He does his business and then hits the bar ($3, please!) only to get back to an empty rail. Jere and I are out on the dance floor with the girls, two of whom decide to make a B2K sandwich, making out with me—and each other—at the same time. The song (I think it was something by Nine Inch Nails) ends and as we head back to the rail, I see that Heartman is equally "occupied."

We get back to the FOB and we're all just bullshitting and having a great time. Seamus starts getting his swerve on with one of the available ladies and then reality hits me like a fucking freight train; it's 12:45! Shit! The special ends at 1am and we still have over two hours of bar time!

Being the Man of Action that I am, I mention this fact to the guys. Not to worry, I say. I've got this shit handled. 90 seconds later I am at the bar with a wide-ass, shit-eating grin. $12 please! Oh, yeah! The bartender looks at me for a second, but she's cute and I've been flirting with her all night, so it wasn't too big of a deal. Next thing I know, she's lining up 48 bottles of beer on the bar for me. I grab a bar tray—hey, I'd been working in restaurants since I was 16; shooting people was a relatively new profession for me—and start loading up. She has one of the cocktail waitresses grab a tray with the remainder and follow me over to our FOB.

So now we have the entire bar rail lined with beers, a full six-foot span that's two beers abreast. We are instantly the coolest guys at Hip Huggers. (Not that we weren't already…it's just that some of the patrons were somehow unaware of this obvious fact) We've got chicks swinging by just to randomly talk to us ("Omigosh! How many did you get? Can I have one?") and guys coming up with looks of bewilderment on their faces ("Dude! How many did you guys order?") It was priceless and totally worth the investment.

The next two hours was more of the same. Drinking, dancing, and carousing. Needless to say, we did indeed polish off all 100 beers that evening. It was about closing time that things started to get weird. Seamus heads off with one of the girls he met. Heartman rode with me, but he's heading home with two of the girls we met as well. (And yes, for those of you that were wondering, I was a complete gentleman that night and--after getting my tonsils boxed in--settled for a phone number. I'm sure somewhere on earth the sun was shining on a dog's ass at that moment…)

So I hop in the trusty Eclipse and reach under the front seat to grab myself an IV. I pop the needle into my arm and hydrate myself for the ride home. It's about a 7-9 minute drive from downtown Savannah to the gate the guards the base at Hunter Army Airfield and I know from experience that I should be relatively sober by the time I say hi to the Air Force pansies guarding the gate. I get home no problem and rack out almost instantly.

I am awakened about two hours later by a ruckus in the room next door. Heartman's roomie, a goodhearted, fast-talking hillbilly from Tennessee named Scott, is up and cussing up a storm in his Deep South vernacular that is difficult to understand at the best of times. Right then, with my head somewhat woozy, it was like listening to a cross between Larry the Cable guy and a furious Alvin the Chipmunk. Fearing the worst, I get up and head over.

It appears that Scott just received a call from Jere. He is downtown. On Montgomery Boulevard, in fact, which is NOT one of the nicer parts of Savannah. Oh, and he doesn't have any clothes. What the fuck?

At this point all I can do is chuckle and head back to sleep as Scott grabs the keys to Heartman's jeep and heads downtown to go pick him up. I got the rest of the story at 5:45 wakeup call.

*****

It appears that Jere went home with said seductress from the bar and her friend. I never really got the story to what happened to the second girl, but apparently she left. Back at her trailer (yes, there are a lot of trailers in South Georgia, and Hartman and I spent some time in most of them) things got hot and heavy. Apparently, right in n the midst of shagging, the door burst open behind Jere and two guys rushed in on him mid-stroke. (Yes, I'm laughing at this point as he's telling us) Apparently he turns around and clocks one dude pretty good, but between the two of them they manage to ball him up in the sheets and proceeded to pummel the crap out of him. Then—still wrapped up in said bed sheet—they carried him outside and deposited him swiftly in the trunk of the car. (I am now in tears, I'm laughing so hard.)

So the vehicle starts driving and Jere thinks he's dead. Piecing two and two together we later surmised that the temptress from the bar was obviously either married or very heavily involved, and her beau didn't take kindly to Heartman banging her brains out. A few miles later, the car stops and the trunk opens. The guys punch him a few more times for sport and deposit his sorry ass on some railroad track in the middle of nowhere.

Heartman finds himself on a set of railroad track in what appears to be South Carolina in the dead of night, with no clothes and only a bed sheet. Unconcerned, he starts walking. After about twenty minutes of walking the wrong way, he gets his bearings and turns around. Another 45 minutes of walking brings him to the Savannah Bridge (which of course is the bridge between South Carolina and Georgia) where he crosses over on foot. Apparently 4:30 in the morning is prime time for teamsters driving their rigs along the coast of Georgia and South Carolina and, to add insult to injury, they all decide to honk at Hartman's quasi-naked ass as he's strolling over the bridge on foot.

Finally arriving in Savannah, Jere tracks down a bum and talks the bum into leading him to a payphone so he can make a collect call to the barracks.

*****

I should note that his story became somewhat of a local legend for a time in Savannah. For over a year afterwards, people would occasionally come up to us when we were out on the town. "Hey! Are you the 100 Beer Guys?" All of which made for great fun of course. Not nearly the amount of fun we had laughing at Hartman, but still good fun.

So I guess the moral of the story is this, kids: If you go out and drink a crapload of beer and then go home with a married woman to screw her brains out in a South Georgia trailer, make sure you lock the door behind you.

Cheers.

*It should be noted for the record that Jere's last name is not precisely "Heartman," but rather something similar (but not exact) thus making him un-Googleable. Those of you that know him can find him HERE

Adventures in hair awesomeness

So I have great hair. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but it's pretty fuckin awesome. Granted, my perception of my own glorious locks might be a bit skewed because of the fact that A.)My father, grandfather and brother were all completely bald by the time they were 20 and, B.) My 30th birthday came and went with 100% of my follicles intact. But not to bullshit you or anything, I do have some pretty sweet hair.

It's somewhat ironic though, that it's taken me until my 30's to realize this. It makes a bit of sense, if you think about it though. I went to grade school in the 80's, an awful era for hair by any stretch of the imagination. I attended high school in Reno NV in the 90's and at that time the very apex of masculine coiffure-dom was the Billy Ray Cyrus mullet; looking back I'm so glad now that I wasn't that cool then.

I graduated high school and left five days later for the Army, where they promptly buzzed my teenage dome. Over the next 8 year in the military (both active and reserve) I pretty much kept the exact same haircut: one inch long at the bangs and shorter as it goes back; zero-cut with clippers on the sides and back, fade it up and blend. After I finished my reserve tenure (which coincided with my junior year of college) I went crazy and let it grow out to 1.5 inches at the bangs and went from a zero on the sides to a one. I pretty much kept this same haircut for half a decade until finally last summer during a period of unemployment I said "fuck it" and decided to not cut it.

The end result of that lovely experiment was that I realized exactly how kickass my hair really is. But what I also discovered is that making sure my hair goes where I want it takes so work. Like serious work. Over the last nine months I've gone through dozens of different combinations of gel, pomade and hairspray applied at various stages of dry, damp and wet; all in search for that combination of perfectly-placed shiny spikiness that makes men sigh in wistful envy and young ladies swoon with lust. I mean let's face it, girls: hair this good bypasses your ears and talks directly to your fallopian tubes.

So just a few days ago, after a dismal hair week I went out on a hunch and purchased a bottle of Bedhead Creative Genius. After a few showers and several attempts at finding the perfect level of dampness to apply, I discovered it's the perfect shaper to apply just before adding a final touch of pomade for glossy sheen. Four days running now and my hair has shockingly, gloriously perfect for almost 92 hours. Alas, in that time frame Ive been stuck at work or on a drunken Michigan basketball-watching binge so the time for one-sided uterian conversations has been limited, but I aim to remedy that soon. Updates to follow soon. Welcome to my page.