Made plans to go out dancing again. C was coming back into town and we had two dances and two private lessons lined up.
Everything was going according to schedule. Went to the more mellow dance on Friday night. Took our lessons Saturday afternoon. Went clothes shopping (his request, I swear) and then prepared to hit the town Saturday night. This Saturday night dance is a little more fun, simply for the fact that there is a bar available. A couple of beers and my dancing gets much more wiggly and entertaining :) Only two though. More than that and it goes beyond entertaining to dangerous. Free spinning me on 3 or more beers and all of the sudden a social dance floor becomes a bowling alley. I'm pretty good too...I can usually take out at least 4 or 5 people on one good triple spin. As usual, the "social" ends at midnight and C and I are always at a loss as to what to do.
First we decide food is in order...."Burger King" C says. The closest one is over by Mall 205. In our semi-inebriated state as we circle the blocks of one-way streets to get into Burger King, C notices/remembers that Club 205 is right across the street. I think his exact words were, "A nudie bar....let's go to the nudie bar." I'm good with this so in we go. I'm making my way to the rack to sit down and C is trying to figure out where I'm going. I inform him that I never sit in the back and up to the rack we went. I think at one point he told me he was in heaven....it was the liquor and naked girls talking, I'm pretty sure.
Now for the really good part of the story. We leave Club 205 and go across the street to Burger King. Just to be clear, Burger King. You know, where they serve hamburgers. We pull into the drive through and up to the speaker. I start with, "I'll have a #1 with a Coke, a #8 with a Coke..." and the squawk box cuts me off with, "I'm sorry, we're out of burgers." What the fuck?!? C and I look around like, OK...where are the cameras? I repeat back to the squawk box, "You're out of burgers? Isn't this Burger Fucking King?" The squawk box responds with, "I'm sorry, sometimes this just happens." The box then asks me if I still want my #8 meal, which was chicken. I asked the box if that now made them Chicken King? The box seemed to find little humor in that. I said that, "No." I did not want just the chicken meal. I was trying to feed 3 people and 2 of them wanted, oh I don't know, fucking hamburgers. So I pull away from the squawk box, around the corner of the drive-thru expecting to just be able to pull away. Not so much. There was a car stopped at the window. Apparently Chicken King was OK with them. This didn't sit so well with C over there in the passenger seat. He started honking my horn and yelling at the people in the car in front of us to get the hell out of our way. (3 beers and 2 rum and Cokes is good stuff for him.) After the car in front of us pulled away, we proceeded to the next Burger King to get something to eat. I told him we should have eaten at the strip club, but those damn girls took all my money again.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Just A Thought...
This is a story my dad told me a long time ago. I blogged it once before on MySpace, but I think it bears repeating.
There's this little Bluebird and he and all his little Bluebird buddies are starting to talk about going south for the winter. They are talking about how much warmer it is down south, etc. etc. Well, the one Bluebird is pretty sure he doesn't want to go. Too far to fly, winter can't be that bad, I'll just tough it out here he thinks to himself.
So all of his little buddies fly off south for the winter and leave him alone. Well, about December when it's freezing outside, the little Bluebird is really starting to regret his decision not to fly south for the winter. About that time, he becomes so frozen that he falls out of his tree. He's lying there on the ground thinking to himself that this must be the end. He's going to freeze to death, all alone. He's thinking of his buddies and how much he is going to miss them, when all of the sudden a cow wanders by and shits on him. With cow shit being fairly warm, the little Bluebird starts to warm up and feel a little bit better. He starts feeling so good and so optimistic that he starts chirpping and singing from under that pile of cow shit to let the world know that he's there, and he's going to be OK. About that time a fox wanders by, hears the chirpping and singing and digs the little Bluebird out and eats him.
The moral of the story: Not everyone that shits on you is your enemy and not everyone that digs you out of the shit is your friend.
There's this little Bluebird and he and all his little Bluebird buddies are starting to talk about going south for the winter. They are talking about how much warmer it is down south, etc. etc. Well, the one Bluebird is pretty sure he doesn't want to go. Too far to fly, winter can't be that bad, I'll just tough it out here he thinks to himself.
So all of his little buddies fly off south for the winter and leave him alone. Well, about December when it's freezing outside, the little Bluebird is really starting to regret his decision not to fly south for the winter. About that time, he becomes so frozen that he falls out of his tree. He's lying there on the ground thinking to himself that this must be the end. He's going to freeze to death, all alone. He's thinking of his buddies and how much he is going to miss them, when all of the sudden a cow wanders by and shits on him. With cow shit being fairly warm, the little Bluebird starts to warm up and feel a little bit better. He starts feeling so good and so optimistic that he starts chirpping and singing from under that pile of cow shit to let the world know that he's there, and he's going to be OK. About that time a fox wanders by, hears the chirpping and singing and digs the little Bluebird out and eats him.
The moral of the story: Not everyone that shits on you is your enemy and not everyone that digs you out of the shit is your friend.
Friday, August 21, 2009
What Is A Washlet?
Well...let me tell you. Apparently toilets are a really big deal everywhere except here in America. Maybe that's why everyone all over the world thinks Americans are uncouth. So here I am, looking through a magazine and I see an add for a "Washlet". According to the ad, this thing does everything but powder your ass when you're "done".
The ad read something like this, "...the Washlet is a toilet seat that fits virtually any standard toilet...clean water and amazing technology to clean and pamper you like never before...heated seat, and when you finish your business just reach for the remote control. Select the area you want to wash.......and a small wand extends from underneath the seat." That's the first problem right there. I can for sure say that I do not want anything extending itself from underneath my toilet seat. What if it malfunctions and I get a colonoscopy? And believe me, if anybody's "Washlet" was going to malfunction, it would be mine. The ad goes on to say that you will be..."cleaned with a gentle stream of aerated water. Precisely. Comfortably. Completely. Push another button and warm air drys you."
The ad read something like this, "...the Washlet is a toilet seat that fits virtually any standard toilet...clean water and amazing technology to clean and pamper you like never before...heated seat, and when you finish your business just reach for the remote control. Select the area you want to wash.......and a small wand extends from underneath the seat." That's the first problem right there. I can for sure say that I do not want anything extending itself from underneath my toilet seat. What if it malfunctions and I get a colonoscopy? And believe me, if anybody's "Washlet" was going to malfunction, it would be mine. The ad goes on to say that you will be..."cleaned with a gentle stream of aerated water. Precisely. Comfortably. Completely. Push another button and warm air drys you."
Ok. I have a few questions for these Washlet people. What happens when the remote control migrates to the space between my couch cushions? A perfectly legitimate question since that's where all of the remote controls in my house end up. And now for the real question. I could see this particular item as useful if say we were dealing with Taco Bell issues. Or morning after drinking issues. "Pandareha" as I also recently heard it referred to. But what about the times when it takes aproximately 1/2 a roll of toilet paper to clean your ass? You know, the day after you ate a huge steak. And your ass still isn't clean. (And don't pretend it's never happened to you, it's happened to everybody.) What then? If it's going to leave skid marks in the bowl after you flush you can bet your ass (pun intended) that no "gentle stream of aerated water" is going to get the job done. What then?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
So Many Things...
Where to start? Hooked up with an old high school friend...so excited about that. Always loved him :) Turns out he is learning West Coast Swing (my favorite...well, second favorite dance.)
Went to dinner with him, J and B last night and then he and I moved on to a very mellow West Coast Swing "Social". The dance is held at the Sunnyside Grange. Wide variety of people to dance with, everybody dances with everybody. Like I said, very social and the rules of "Dance With The One That Brung You" do not apply here. Married, single, young, old we are a very friendly group. C (the high school friend)and I then decided that we were not ready to call it a night when the nice social ended.
This is where it went wrong...or really, really well if you want to know the honest truth. We went to The Refectory. Or as some you know it, The Ref@$%tory. Dear God, that place hasn't changed in 25 years. When it's listed in Bar Fly Magazines category of "Meat Market", they weren't kidding. It's described as, "A dance floor of thirty-something delights or a charitable portion of Hell." And the exterior design is referred to as, "Garrish, resembling a Fisher Price STD Factory." How could I not have fun there?
C and I actually went to swing dance, because we like the faster "dance" music. The floor was a little full, but swing me around a few times, let me throw a couple of elbows and we found a slot to dance in :) As the crowd (and myself) got drunker, the elbows became bad because I start to throw them a little too hard. Time to go sit, talk (yell over the music) and people watch. Holy SHIT!!
The people watching was fucking fantastic. There was of course the, "Tiny go-go dancing old man", (as described by Bar Fly Mag). I actually have him on video doing the robot...on stage. Then there were the two skeezy "thugs" (and I use the term loosely because I could have kicked their asses...at the same time) dressed as twins (they weren't), in white Yankee hats, white shirts with large embossed $100 bills on them, the fake-ass 400 pound "gold" necklace and the requisite jeans, 18 sizes too big and belted aroung the lower 1/3 of their ass. Not sure about the shoes...the jeans ate their feet. Oh, and they were like 5'2" and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. That's why they carry guns...they can't run in those pants and they're the size of 10 year olds. The awesome part was that they just hung out at the edge of the dance floor, standing about 6 inches away from it, totally waiting for crotch shots. Which, much to my amusement were not far away. There was the totally loaded, 40ish to 50ish lady in a flowered dress that looked like she would just roll out of bed (or the backseat of her car)and walk right into church Sunday morning, that literally lifted the dress from behind, did a spinning dance move and showed the entire bar her pantyhose covered ass. There was a young guy that was apparently feeling moved enough by the music that he repeatedly kept taking his shirt off and "riding" it. And my personal favorite, "Black Skirt Girl." She was the star. Even C couldn't help watching her. Her skirt was so short that just standing still you got ass cheek. God fobid she should start dancing...which of course she did. Ass everywhere. She was young. I felt kind of bad...like maybe I should tell her that if she did that in a different club she'd be making $500 a night. Hee hee. And you can't forget about the girls that escaped from the stock yard. You know, the ones that weigh about 250 pounds and wear clothes for someone that weighs aproximately 130 pounds. Good God, I can't wait to go back. Maybe I'll even get my own nickname some day.
Then, as if I wasn't feeling old enough already, I come rolling in at 3am to be greeted by B who promptly reminds me that since it is past midnight (ie: now August 9th) that it is his birthday. His 16th birthday. Fuck me, my baby boy is 16 and I just came home from The Refectory. I can't decide if that makes me pathetic or awesome in the parenting department?
Went to dinner with him, J and B last night and then he and I moved on to a very mellow West Coast Swing "Social". The dance is held at the Sunnyside Grange. Wide variety of people to dance with, everybody dances with everybody. Like I said, very social and the rules of "Dance With The One That Brung You" do not apply here. Married, single, young, old we are a very friendly group. C (the high school friend)and I then decided that we were not ready to call it a night when the nice social ended.
This is where it went wrong...or really, really well if you want to know the honest truth. We went to The Refectory. Or as some you know it, The Ref@$%tory. Dear God, that place hasn't changed in 25 years. When it's listed in Bar Fly Magazines category of "Meat Market", they weren't kidding. It's described as, "A dance floor of thirty-something delights or a charitable portion of Hell." And the exterior design is referred to as, "Garrish, resembling a Fisher Price STD Factory." How could I not have fun there?
C and I actually went to swing dance, because we like the faster "dance" music. The floor was a little full, but swing me around a few times, let me throw a couple of elbows and we found a slot to dance in :) As the crowd (and myself) got drunker, the elbows became bad because I start to throw them a little too hard. Time to go sit, talk (yell over the music) and people watch. Holy SHIT!!
The people watching was fucking fantastic. There was of course the, "Tiny go-go dancing old man", (as described by Bar Fly Mag). I actually have him on video doing the robot...on stage. Then there were the two skeezy "thugs" (and I use the term loosely because I could have kicked their asses...at the same time) dressed as twins (they weren't), in white Yankee hats, white shirts with large embossed $100 bills on them, the fake-ass 400 pound "gold" necklace and the requisite jeans, 18 sizes too big and belted aroung the lower 1/3 of their ass. Not sure about the shoes...the jeans ate their feet. Oh, and they were like 5'2" and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. That's why they carry guns...they can't run in those pants and they're the size of 10 year olds. The awesome part was that they just hung out at the edge of the dance floor, standing about 6 inches away from it, totally waiting for crotch shots. Which, much to my amusement were not far away. There was the totally loaded, 40ish to 50ish lady in a flowered dress that looked like she would just roll out of bed (or the backseat of her car)and walk right into church Sunday morning, that literally lifted the dress from behind, did a spinning dance move and showed the entire bar her pantyhose covered ass. There was a young guy that was apparently feeling moved enough by the music that he repeatedly kept taking his shirt off and "riding" it. And my personal favorite, "Black Skirt Girl." She was the star. Even C couldn't help watching her. Her skirt was so short that just standing still you got ass cheek. God fobid she should start dancing...which of course she did. Ass everywhere. She was young. I felt kind of bad...like maybe I should tell her that if she did that in a different club she'd be making $500 a night. Hee hee. And you can't forget about the girls that escaped from the stock yard. You know, the ones that weigh about 250 pounds and wear clothes for someone that weighs aproximately 130 pounds. Good God, I can't wait to go back. Maybe I'll even get my own nickname some day.
Then, as if I wasn't feeling old enough already, I come rolling in at 3am to be greeted by B who promptly reminds me that since it is past midnight (ie: now August 9th) that it is his birthday. His 16th birthday. Fuck me, my baby boy is 16 and I just came home from The Refectory. I can't decide if that makes me pathetic or awesome in the parenting department?
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