the bowling bachelors of billburg

Went to a bachelor party on Saturday afternoon-evening in Non-Colonial Williamsburg.

My college pal, with whom I just reunited after about 18 years without contact, is getting married in like three weeks. Another of our college pals was there. Plus like 6 of the groom-to-be's new pals. They all seemed like nice fellas.

groom-to-be:


nice fellas:

Started things off at the local 8-lane bowling alley:

I didn't have my oh-so-fine-209-level-game going. Whatevs. It was fun. I recommend the place, but it was fucking hot in there with no A/C.

Then went to a bar one of the dudes owned. Owning a bar seems like a damn fun thing to do. Why don't I own a bar? Why don't you own a bar? You're a real schmuck, y'know that? This was a nice little place.

There was a perfect garden in the back. Somebody had a dog there that was actually a fox, I believe. Kind of fuzzy on that one.

One of the Groom-to-be's pals is a trivia expert, and we got to talking about the greatest snubs in Academy Awards history. I know the Oscars are political bullshit and who cares blah blah but man, listen to the shit that went down in 1989. Sorry if this is a big ol' rehash.

Best Picture Nominees:

Driving Miss Daisy (winner)
My Left Foot
Born on the 4th of July
Field of Dreams
Dead Poets Society

Pretty mediocre list, right? Dead Poets Society? Please. And Driving Miss Daisy is among the all-time lamest Best Picture winners. Now look at these three awesome awesome movies that were not even nominated:

1. When Harry Met Sally -- perfect romantic comedy, and it kind of created the template for every romantic comedy since, not to mention Seinfeld. Only strike against it is having to accept Billy Crystal as in some way Sexy to Women.
2. Crimes and Misdemeanors -- I haven't seen it since it came out, but if I can trust my memory it is one of the top 5 Woody Allen movies, and maybe his best blend of comedy and drama.
3. Do The Right Thing -- this is such a fantastic movie, and it holds up beautifully today. If this isn't Oscar material, what is?

20 year-old movie spoiler alert!

We started talking about Do The Right Thing, and I mentioned that I had read an interview with Spike Lee where he said that the thing that white people ask him about all the time, the thing that really bothers them about that movie, is why Mookie throws the garbage can through the pizzeria window at the end. He said not once has anyone asked him about Radio Raheem's senseless death at the hands of the cops. So he figures people care more about a pizzeria than they do about a young black man's life. I brought this up at the bachelor party and of course half of the people I was talking to were like, "Well, we all know why Radio Raheem dies. But why does Mookie throw the garbage can through the window?" And I was like, wow, THAT's a movie, we're still getting all worked up about it 20 years later.

I also thought about the irony of Mookie, played by Spike Lee, throwing the garbage can through the window, and probably costing Spike an Oscar nomination in the process. If he doesn't throw the garbage can, I'm sure the movie would have been selected. But Mookie, and Spike, went with their heart when it really mattered. Nothing gets neatly tied up in Do The Right Thing. The characters don't necessarily do what you want them to do. That's one reason it's so good.

After that we went to a big beer hall place which was really nice and spacious.

I was getting pretty full/drunk/tired at this point, and the 900-ounce beers they sold us there didn't help me.

I failed to observe Eastwood's Law, leaving a half-full beer on the table as we departed.

We went to the next place and I just wasn't feeling right. Not nauseous or dizzy, just beat up and defeated. I was having a great time but the body kept repeating "No mas" gently in my ear. So I went next door to the world's poshest San Loco with my old college pal (non-groom) in an attempt to soak up some of that beer with nachos. Didn't work, and after a cameo at the next bar, I was forced to call it a night around 10. Drunk and tired at 10.

My conclusion: I can drink pissy American beers for a hundred years straight without a break, but as soon as I start mixing up all these fancy microbrews and fruity bullshit beers and anything with "moon" or "special" or "Autumn" in the name, I will bloat up quick. Love trying new beers like that with a nice meal, but if I am out on the town pouring 'em back I need to stay within my comfort zone:

Bud
Bud Light
Miller
Miller Lite
Rolling Rock
Yeah I said it, Rolling Rock light
Pabst
Old Milwaukee
...and assorted variations.

Congrats to the groom, sorry I leaked out like a little 9th grader.

I got it good

Look, we all feel low.

Every one of us has days where the world rubs our nose in the stench of failure all day long.

We all get fired and get dumped and tear ligaments and crap our pants and none of us look as good in the mirror as we used to.

Sometimes we don't get invited or included. Sometimes our feelings get hurt. Sometimes we like people and they don't like us back no matter how obvious it is that they should.

We all drop the easy touchdown pass, we all get overlooked for the big promotion in favor of the asshole, we all get stuck with the empty ice cube tray now and then.

Sometimes we get sick for two weeks straight. Sometimes the old lady busts our balls to the point where it almost becomes funny, but not quite. Sometimes money problems kick our ass.

And eventually, we all get nailed by tragedy. Or at least death. Somebody we love dies, or gets paralyzed, or goes to jail for ten years. It's inevitable.

Any of this stuff, especially when it comes in bunches, can make you want to cry, scream, give up, run away, or kill somebody. And in the past, when it happened to me, it always made me wonder: Do I have a right to get truly upset, do I have a right to feel sorry for myself, do I have a right to true frustration?

After all, there are kids in 3rd world countries starving, being raped, being murdered. There are folks down the block begging for a buck so they can eat dinner. There's your cousin Cathy who's 300 pounds, 45 years old, and has never had a date. So who the hell are you to feel sorry for yourself?

But then I thought about it rationally: if it weren't for our ability to embrace our frustration for what it is rather than viewing it in a larger context, we'd all go out of our minds. Life is good sometimes, then it punches you in the back of the head, then it's OK, then it karate kicks you in the nuts. Obviously every human has a right to react to these changes, to feel down when things don't go his or her way, to get depressed and pissed off and to let out a loud "FUUUUCK!" as soon as the boss is out of earshot.

Makes total sense.

But then I was watching a talk show and there was a girl in the audience who had submitted a piece of art to the show because she was such a fan of the host. It was like a scrapbook or something and they gave her a little shoutout. They cut to her...she was in a wheelchair and she looked to be about 18 years old but she might also have been 12. She couldn't have been more than 3 feet tall. Big thick glasses. I don't know what her particular disability/handicap was but whatever it was it was serious as hell. Life had been cruel to her since the moment she took her first breath.

And if you saw the smile on this girl's face, the sincere thrill she was feeling, how lost she was in the joy of this moment, it would have broken your heart. She was like, "Fuck you God. I am going to rock and roll every day despite whatever you hit me with. Look at me motherfucker. I'm on top of the damn world."

I almost cried and I made a vow that for the next year, when work bullshit or any other negative crap threatens to alter my sense of cosmic tranquility, I am going to think of this heroic little girl and her total lack of self-pity and I am going to buck up.

Really, if you have a home, and you have a nightstand with a book on it, and you get to lay in bed every night reading in comfort and then you wake up in the morning and walk around on your own two feet and you have no terminal illness, and you have nobody in your family about to croak, and you have a friend you can meet at the bar every now and then, and a cheeseburger has passed your lips in the last 30 days...then you've got it all.

Here is a handy guide for legitimate sources of personal grief. You need at least one of group A and one of group B to qualify.

Group A:

1. you are dying or dead
2. you or someone you love is crippled/disabled/all fucked up physically
3. you have just lost a loved one or are in the process of losing one
4. you have recently been assaulted
5. you are starving/broke/wondering how you're gonna eat or pay rent
6. you are in real and immediate danger of somebody killing you or kicking your ass
7. nobody in the world likes you
8. something else completely obvious I've overlooked

Group B:

1. you have no nightstand

If you qualify, go ahead and feel sorry for yourself, and allow me to express my sympathy. Otherwise, shut up and get back to work.

BONUS: 22 GP's for anyone who can tell me how many times I hackishly employed the Rule of Three in this lame post.

better than gatorade

As Bernie Mac lay dying in a Chicago hospital last Friday night, a hapless female comic paced the tiny stage at Dangerfield's in New York City, dying a symbolic death of her own. Her death was temporary, the result of one too many bad vagina jokes and an almost remarkable inability to connect with an audience who wasn't asking for much.

From the last table to the left of the stage, I sat with my college friends, out on the town just like old times. We saw her. We wanted to feel sympathy for her. There were no laughs, not even groans. Just an occasional uncomfortable courtesy chuckle to break up the silence. She scrambled: she got dirty, she got racist, she got aggressive. Still she could not produce a genuine laugh. It was excruciating. Occasionally we yelled things, not to heckle but just to break the tension.

Four comics held the mic that night. Four working comedians, all of 'em 15 year veterans, for sure. None of 'em successful enough to have their names listed anywhere on the marquee, on the window, on the tickets that we printed out two for one from the website. No HBO specials. Just generic comedians, some funnier than others. The second guy had a darkness that kind of set him apart, but not by much.

The atmosphere at Dangerfield's was just what you'd expect: bad wood paneling, little red table lamps, velour cushions. Tourists, kids with fake ID's, and us. Septuagenarian waiters ambled from table to table, hearing every third order. I drank a terrible, nearly undrinkable margarita, because I figure when you are in a place like that you order a margarita and take your chances. I lost this time.

One summer morning in the year 2000, I woke up dry-mouthed, achy and depressed. It had been a bad night of too much to drink, followed by the usual hangover menu: anxiety and despair, with a side order of loneliness this time because my lady was out of town. After a greasy Veselka breakfast, I went home to try to sleep off the feeling. I couldn't do it. So I pulled myself together as well as I could and walked over to the movie theater on 3rd avenue and 11th street. I purchased one ticket for The Original Kings of Comedy.

Over the next two hours, four comedians held the mic. Steve Harvey led off. I knew him from Showtime at the Apollo and wasn't expecting much. He surprised me -- a very funny routine and a huge, warm presence that completely won me over. DL Hughley and Cedric the Entertainer followed him up with occasionally hilarious sets. I started to feel a little better.

Then Bernie Mac took the stage and destroyed everything. Destroyed the audience onscreen and the audience in the theater. Destroyed the three comics who had preceded him. And, finally, destroyed my hangover. It was one of the most disturbing yet accessible routines I'd ever seen. He was unlike anyone else, even though he stuck to the staple comedic topics: sex, family, men, women, kids, etc. His delivery and honesty and command was just unreal. He was untouchable, the perfect cleanup hitter. Suddenly I had a new favorite comedian.

Then he took the usual path of a successful comic: TV show (I watched it a few times -- it was OK), movies (mostly pretty bad), general famousness.

Now he's dead. Hedberg, dead. Carlin, dead. Pryor, dead. Yet two goddamn Gallaghers continue to walk the earth. Tell me how that's fair.

Would I still think Bernie's act was as funny today as I did that day eight years ago, in the throes of a hangover and desperate for relief? Probably not, but who gives a shit.

Thanks for the laughs, Bernie Mac. We could have used you on Friday night.

infrequently asked questions

In case you're new to this blog, here is some basic information about me that you might find helpful.

Q: How fast can you throw a baseball?

A: I can throw a baseball roughly 60 mph.

Q: How much Budweiser beer can you drink?

A: I can drink Budweiser beer indefinitely. Basically, until you tap me on the shoulder and say, "Enough."

Q: What's in those non-FDA-approved green health shakes you've been drinking?

Brown Rice, Glutinous Millet, Sorghum, Millet, Job's Tears (wtf?), Glutinous Brown Rice, Barley, Red Bean, Black Sesame Seed, Soybean, Small Black Sesame, Potato, Kale, Angelica Utilis (dirty!), Cabbage, Radish, Radish Leaves, Barley Leaves, Broccoli, Leek, Carrot, Burdock, Codonopsis Lanceolata (they just made that up!), Pumpkin, Citron, Tomato, Shitake Mushroom, Reishi Mushroom, Laver, Brown Seaweed, Sea Tangle, Sea Lettuce.

Q: How do they taste?

Like a combination of Brown Rice, Glutinous Millet, Sorghum, Millet, Job's Tears, Glutinous Brown Rice, Barley, Red Bean, Black Sesame Seed, Soybean, Small Black Sesame, Potato, Kale, Angelica Utilis, Cabbage, Radish, Radish Leaves, Barley Leaves, Broccoli, Leek, Carrot, Burdock, Codonopsis Lanceolata, Pumpkin, Citron, Tomato, Shitake Mushroom, Reishi Mushroom, Brown Seaweed, Sea Tangle, and Sea Lettuce.

You can't hardly taste the Laver at all.

Q: Tell us about your "dunk" again.

A: It was questionable, but it counts. Sorta. Oh, hell, just have a look.

Q: What do you think of Facebook?

A: I am kind of addicted, but also on the verge of deleting my account at any given minute. It is scarily effective at what it does, but I could also see it leading to a bunch of really freaky shit happening, from professional embarrassment to busted friendships to...MURDER! Seriously. Kinda.

Q: What do you look like?

A: On a good day, like this. On a good night, like this. In a distant memory, like this. After a rough day at work, a little like this. Most often, like this.

Q: What's your favorite Replacements lyric?

A: Man, there's a shitload of 'em. Here's a good one:

pretty girl keep growin' up
playin' makeup, wearin' guitar
growin' old in a bar
you grow old in a bar

Q: Who's your secret crush?

A: It's really no secret: it's Lily Tomlin.

Q: How do you want to be remembered?

A: As a good father, a good husband, and...that's it. That's life, and that's what life is.

Just kidding, I got that line from an old insurance ad from the 80's.

I'd really like to be remembered as a streetball legend, but time is running out.

Q: With your skill set, how tall would you have had to be to play in the NBA?

A: 7'9" -- with no problem at all.

Q: If you could give one food magical nutritional powers that would make it the only thing you'd ever have to eat, what food would it be?

A: Probably popcorn.

Q: What basketball shoe from your youth would you like to own again?

A: Maybe the green X-Man Spot-bilts. They were sweet.

Q: How much do you sleep?

A: About 5 hours a night.

Q: What song lyric do you most often find yourself singing for no reason?

A: "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez, and it's Eastertime, too"

Q: Why should I waste my time reading your stupid blog, you moron?

A: You got me.

Q: What makes you cry?

A: Thinking about my pop. September 11th. Kids dying. Watching certain moments of corny athletic triumph and/or camaraderie. Regret. Bugs in my eye. Being punched in the nuts while coughing.

Q: What makes you laugh?

A: Mr. Bean. That's it.

Q: Who are your heroes?

A: Only failures have heroes. I've got like 50. You know who you are.

Q: What's Sexy Now?

A: I've got to be honest here: me.

Q: What is the general standard of excellence that we should all aspire to?

A: Beer-bong-beer.

Q: What will make you tip your cap every time?

A: Ordering the 2-egg special with 10 additional eggs.

Q: What is the best sport?

A: Basketball (when done right).

Q: What is the worst sport?

A: Hockey.

Q: Where do you see yourself in ten years?

A: California.

Q: When will you grow another moustache?

A: No time soon. Maybe in like two years (don't tell my wife).

Q: What's the best nickname you've ever had?

A: I've never really had a good nickname. The best one was probably Big Cock George.

Q: What's longer, a) the list of people throughout your life who you probably owe an apology to, or b) the list of people who should probably apologize to you?

A: a) by a lot. I've been treated incredibly fairly by people, and I've often been a dick in return. Sorry about that, humanity.

Q: What does everybody else like except you?

A: The "Lord of the Rings" movies.

Q: What does nobody like except you?

A: My singing. And your mom.

Q: Anything else?

A: Maybe later.