Short Stories with Tragic Endings

Recently, I've spent most of my days at home surrounded by luxuries like a Playstation 3, HDTV and iPad. I mostly use all 3 at the same time and since I consult from home 15 hours a week, my life is mostly spent getting blown up by 12 year olds from Japan, staying up way past their bedtime to destroy schlubs like me. It was a recent Friday night that my girlfriend noted I probably needed to go outside of the apartment. She had made plans that I had no interest in and I was content to stay at home watch Fringe on repeat. Win/win?

No. On her way out, she dropped this bomb - "you know, I think you might have FUN if you go out?" Little did she know that my definition of fun for the night consisted of video games and not walking around in freezing weather, getting wasted and gorging myself on chips as I stay up till 4 AM watching Pawn Stars. Sober TV watching is a lot more reputable than drunk TV watching. But when you are love, guilt can run your life. Some friends were having a party on the bad side of town that was a) the bad side of town and b) way too hard to get to, so I called up a friend and we met at a bar.

We had been to this bar for day football games before and it was fine - cheap beers and decent food. On a Friday night, its true self came out and its true self looked like an amalgamation of a Jeremy Lin fan club (too soon?) and a single peoples group. You know, the type of group where overweight 35 year olds who can't meet anybody all get together and try to find true love. The JLFC was very loud, yelling across the bar as other members entered. The singles people group seemed to already be paired off - perhaps these are just sad, overweight couples - and this bar had a BOOT special, which the couples quickly jumped on. I could smell the anticipation of the sloppy sex about to happen in 3 hours. Oh, that's another note. THIS WAS 9 PM.

Things got worse when the bar started blaring old school hip hop and 80's jams. I can't remember any specific song but my friend definitely noted - it's 10pm, this song is a 2 AM song. Perhaps this bar knows its clientele, the singalong to the 2am song ensued at 10, just like it was 2 am. The sadness loomed over us. After two beers and one shot, we went our separate ways, but my excitement did not end. I was already on the street I live on - about 4 miles down. The cab ride could not be easier - drive straight - yet the cab driver, who was a 20 something AMERICAN with the rare combination of coke problem/obesity got confused went 3 blocks south in the wrong direction then 4 blocks east in the wrong direction. Eventually he just turned the meter off and muttered how sorry he was. I wondered if I was just carrying the sadness stench with me.

The Time I Got Weirded Out at the Gym

As a current fatty, I'm trying to get my weight down. I signed up for a gym just blocks from my apartment and I soon hope to represent Wendy's in an ad campaign similar to Jared's from Subway. This gym is unique - although the only other gym I've been a member of was a college gym - whose mix of naked professors and almost naked 20 year old girls became the norm. This gym is special because it has not meathead front desk guy, silently judging you as you come in with a magazine. This gym is open 24 hours and you just type in your code and go whenever you want - sure it's a safety issue - someone will inevitably collapse under a dumbbell and need an "I've fallen and I can't get up" necklace, but that's not my problem yet.

I enjoy this. Often there is no one there, no judgy eyes, no nothing. I can lift my 20 lb weights in peace or plod along on the treadmill while my feet sound like thunder. It's glorious.

More recently, I keep going at times when there are personal trainers and their clients. Now, this gym is quite small, 6 treadmills, 3 ellipticals, a bike and some free weights. If there are trainers, there is no room to move. It was even worse today when the trainer was coming on to his client like this was gymnastics class at a bar. Even worse, this girl was reciprocating. She wore makeup and earrings to workout. She stood there in her Alabama t-shirt pretending she didn't know how to do an arm curl. Seriously. "Oh, trainer, can you put your hand on the small of my back and use your other arm to push my arm towards my chest? Here let me push it out for you," her body language suggested. I was deep in post rock running mode and thus could hear nothing, but the interplay said it all.

She got to a point where she just couldn't take anymore and he edged her on like a personal trainer should, put he edged her on by placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing. What does a person do when they are watching the makings of a porno about to happen? The answer, as it turns out, is write a blog.

The Angry White Bus Driver

Today, I had the same bus driver two days in a row and this is only of note because on the first day I had him, he tried to destroy my soul. If you are unfamilliar with public transit and the people who operate the buses and trains, you can generally imagine people that don't give a shit about you and will most likely try to make you shit your pants while speeding around corners in a 53 foot death trap. This is actually preferred. Bus drivers often let slews of people on when their transit cards don't work and show about as much effort and respect for the job as Eddie Murphy when he decided the Adventures of Pluto Nash was a good idea.

This makes it easier for everyone, you don't bother them and they only bother you when are at a 45 degree angle looking over the roof of a Ford Taurus. These last two days I was not lucky enough to have such a bus driver. My transit card is a UPass, given to me by my school for use throughout the semester. It has my picture on it (where I attempted to smile and came out looking a little too creepy to be within 50 feet of a school) and the picture is smack in the middle of the card. When you swipe the card it swipes through a machine vertically and thus when it reads, the entire card is in a machine. In the 8 months I have had this card not once has anyone given me trouble for using this UPass.

This bus driver, probably hoping for a promotion, decided that he needs to see the picture on the card as it swipes through the machine. A process that takes 1.3 seconds to swipe, and this driver thinks he will catch a glimpse of my chubby face in a 1 inch picture from 4 feet away. As I swiped the card and began my journey past the horrific faces on the bus (generally, only crazy people take the bus, I'm not sure why, since it's a valid form of transportation and I'm not sure if that also makes me crazy) and he stops me.

"See your ID?" he grumbled in a voice that had obviously been tarnished by years of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

"Huh?"

"SEE YOUR ID?"

I take my headphones out and he says it one more time with this delightful explanation attached. "You are covering the picture on the card because you don't want me to see who is actually on there, so I need to see your school ID."

I hand him the ID and he then stops the bus completely and compares the two for at least 6 seconds (the pictures on each card are the same) and then begrudingly realizes I wasn't trying to scam the CTA and tells me not to cover the picture anymore. This card is the size of a credit card and you have to hold it from the top to swipe it, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to show him my picture without mashing it against his eye.

This morning, when we met again, I pulled out the card like a dainty southern belle holding out her hand to be kissed at the Kentucky Derby (although I forgot my fancy hat). I clutched the card so gently from the top corner with just my thumb and index finger, that a light breeze would've blown it away. The angry white bus driver knew it was me, I held the card up to his face and then swiped and he nodded, allowing me the honor of sitting on a bus I had already paid for. The moral of the story? You can't trust whitey.

Scraps for My Scrapbook

I am the emo Tucker Max. If you are unaware of who Tucker Max is or what emo refers to, I will do a quick recap. Tucker Max is a douchebag that thrives on destroying the dignity of young women and then writing about it. Tucker Max has been doing this for years, writing about it for years and has now reached a level of fame that would rival adorable kitten videos on youtube. Yet, somehow girls still sleep with him, knowing that they will probably be treated like a hooker of varying degrees (solely based on their attractiveness). This is probably the Girls Gone Wild syndrome.

Emo might be the antithesis of Tucker Max. An emo could widely be considered depressed, pathetic, romantic and of course, emotional (to an excessive point). I think at least two of these attributes should be real winners in the minds of girls. An emo tends to excessively think about his or her level of sadness based solely on his or her relationship status. (Questions that might arise during this thinking session probably include: Does she like me? Do I care too much? What do I have to do to get her to like me? Does she like me? Was she hooking up with someone who is not me last night? Does she like me?)
So if you pull these two distinct definitions together, you get someone who is obsessed with girls, forms awkward, weird relationships with them, is overwhelmingly unsuccessful at said relationships and then writes about them.
I am the emo Tucker Max.
In my 25 years of existence, and more accurately, my 13 years of opposite sex awareness, I have had xx girls. (Had = been obsessed with, dated, hooked up with, stalked, etc. You know, the usual). This clarification is important, because if I had just said that I had xx girls, you would think I was at least halfway to Tucker Max douchebagdom. Out of these xx girls, I have seriously dated (small number) and slept with only (smaller number). This is an alarmingly low ratio. I have now written this down and I am alarmed.
Naturally, I had interest in almost all of these girls but for some reason things never worked out. I’d like to blame the girls in this scenario, but it has recently come to my attention that any girl who offers me any sort of attention will probably cast some sort of spell on me and I will be interested in them. Girls are witches, a proven fact from American history (especially in Salem, MA).
This is not a whoa-is-me story (I have a livejournal account for that). This is a story to document the weird minutia of my love life. The girls’ names have been changed (to numbers) and I have selected a few of the more awkward girls. I do not want you to feel bad for me (maybe just a little), I want you to rejoice at the ridiculousness of these girls and the signs they give off and never, ever mean. You will only read about a few of them, but then go back and remember this has happened to me xx times in, ostensibly, 8 years of active dating life, I am the emo Tucker Max after all.

Girl # 39

39 and I went to college together. It was one of those friends of friends type things, but she was always overwhelmingly nice and she was as cute as a baby deer (are those called fawns? I feel like fawns is a cuter term. So let’s say fawns). She was as cute as a fawn. Big brown doe eyes, long brown hair and really, a fantastic smile that would often make me seize up in terror, because I’m not used to such lovely smiles specifically smiling at me.
In college, our contact was kept to a fair minimum, as we didn’t really have an excuse to talk or hang out unless a bunch of other people were around. I did not yet have the ability to strike up conversations with attractive girls I didn’t know well (this is still 84% true.) In the first few years, I would always joke with her friends, who were also my friends, about how cute she was, we even gave her a nickname. Mousey. Mousey Girl #39. (Her actual name made the nickname sound much better. Trust me). The mousey was a compliment and directly referred to her looks and her shy, quiet personality. I wonder if she knows about this name, I think I hope that she does, she might find it cute and perhaps I would still have a chance at some point in life. Yes, this is how my brain operates.
Fast forward 2 years. We become better friends in our senior year of college, so much so that, I think I may have a legitimate shot with her and make a choice between her and the girl [SPOILER ALERT] that turns out to be #36. Fast forward another 2 years. #36 and I have long burned out, and #37 and I are in the middle of 1 of our many break ups. I realize that #39 is living less than 2 hours from me and decide to give her a quick message on the ole Facebook. To my surprise she responds, although rather slowly. (SIDEBAR: In this day of instant communication, I am absolutely a product of AIM. If people don’t text me, call me, email me or Facebook message me back within a few hours of my original contact, I’m apt to have a panic attack.) We exchange emails for awhile, just catching up/getting to know each other, since we probably had less than 2 hours of actual conversation in our 4 years of college together.
Eventually, it was decided that it would be acceptable to hang out at some point and one weekend in the late fall of 2008 I made the almost 2 hour journey to go visit her. Her and the Charlotte Bobcats, that should be noted, I suppose. Originally, I didn’t want to come off as desperate or weird driving that far just to see her, and it just so happened that I was a pseudo season ticket holder for the Charlotte Bobcats (they are a professional NBA team, if you were unaware. Really, go look it up.) So, after a Bobcats loss, I ventured over to her apartment to pick her up.
When she came out, she was clearly dressed like this wasn’t a date. Although, she was still incredibly cute. She was wearing those workout pants that are tight like leggings, but girls still manage somehow to work out in, a baggy sweatshirt and a sports bra whose strap was semi-visible. Her hair was thrown into a messy bun (I like to call this sexy messy, because it IS and because it’s a fun term) and I’m sure she was not wearing makeup. These things did not matter, she was beautiful and she was going out to dinner with me. That is all I need to fall in love.
We tried to pick a restaurant close to her apartment, but it was almost 10 PM and it was a Sunday, so we settled on this pizza place that turned out to be one of those, Italian/$20 pizza places that somehow taste different (and thus cost more) than “generic Italian first name’s Pizza” down the street. They looked at us like we were crazy, I was in jeans, slip on shoes and a hoodie promoting my favorite band of 2008, Brand New. She had just finished working out. We were not welcome, but they seated us anyway.
The dinner conversation was unbelievably pleasant. I had never assumed or believed #39 to be deep or be interested in the same sort of stuff I was, but we had now been out of college for a full year and we were in the same position in life and had gone through the same things. We both hated our jobs, lived in separate cities where we knew almost no one and longed to live in a city that actually had things to do. We bonded and I’m prone to latch on to any connection with any human I can stand, thus I was endlessly happy. We ended up splitting the bill, as I knew this was not a date, and did not want to overstep any opposite sex friend boundaries. I drove her back to her house, we sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, wrapping the night up and ended with her reaching across the center arm rest of my Prius and giving me a hug. I was hooked (I’m an easy catch).
I had such a great time, that I decided that this needed to happen again, immediately. We made plans to meet up again the next weekend, I would again make the two hour drive and this time I wouldn’t have to sit through a horrific Bobcats game. I didn’t even need directions to get to her apartment, I already had it memorized and I was very impressed with myself at this accomplishment. If memorizing streets and left hand turns isn’t love, I’m not sure what is.
We had a plan for this particular November day and it started at a museum. I’m not sure the name of museum but it was pretty small, we walked through it in less than an hour and the only notable piece I remember was AAA-level Andy Warhol painting, you know not quite the Campbell Soup painting, but hey at least it’s Andy Warhol. Museums only serve to magnify any portion of your social life, they just seem more important and make whatever you are doing that much more significant. If we had gone to a movie, we would have had to sit through Jennifer Lopez failed attempt at a return to romantic comedy and I would’ve been able to predict every joke in the movie. I can’t predict art, I can’t even begin to know the meaning behind these pieces. So for two people, on a pseudo date to go to an art museum together on a beautiful day, it kind of seems perfect and makes the date seem more real. (Right? I might be reading into things that aren’t really there again. Which is why I get into situations like the one about to happen.)
After the museum we walked around the artsy section of uptown Charlotte - going into record stores, old antique stores, and really just enjoying each others companies. If this were a movie, it would be a pure romance and Nicolas Sparks would’ve written it and Adam Brody would be playing me on screen. I would never actually see this movie in theaters though, I’d need the privacy of my own room, as not to let anyone see me weep openly. The sun soon set and it became too cold to really stay outside, so we once again grabbed dinner and picked an Asian place relatively close to her apartment. Once again, we picked a place that did not serve food for less than $14 a plate. We had a lovely time, I offered to pay and she declined, cordially, and we both ended up splitting it, going back to her place and watching a movie - Vanilla Sky.
At this point in time she had just adopted a 3 legged dog from the pound and although he was sweet and weirdly adorable, he plopped himself down on the couch right in between us. How can you make a move over a dog? The dog didn’t move the entire length of the movie and although we both really enjoyed it and felt a connection to it and (hopefully) to each other, nothing happened. I left that night with a pretty deep hug at the door and was on my way back home again, high on the activities of the night and confused as to what was actually happening. This is the theme of my life: Being overly happy about a situation I am completely unaware of.
I decided, as I often do after days of over analysis that I needed to be sure of what the situation was, I cannot possibly make a move on a girl unless I know for a fact that she wants me to, or unless I feel some outrageous spontaneous outburst of human connection, but I’m fairly certain that only happens in Charlie Kauffman movies. My company Christmas party was right around the corner and this was the perfect opportunity to ask her out. I called her up, chatted for a few minutes and then using at least 95% of my courage, asked her if she wanted to be my date to my company’s party. She said yes, unflinchingly. This was going to happen, she agreed to an actual date and she was going to drive 2 hours each way just to come to my party. Not to mention the fact that I would have a super hot girl to take with me to a party consisting of my fellow employees (who, of course, later questioned me on how I was able to bring such an attractive girl. I considered this a success.)
In the days leading up to the party, she asked me what she should wear and I was told that it was dressy casual, that I was wearing a sweater/tie combination and jeans. #39 decided she could get away with a nice top and jeans and it was settled. She arrived at my place a little bit before the party, deciding against bringing the 3 legged dog (though I told her she could bring him, so she wouldn’t have to rush back home to walk him, you know in case ..uh...she wanted to stay). This was disappointing as I knew that she wouldn’t be staying the night. When we got to the party, we were probably the most under dressed people there, I had been misinformed about this and as a result I ended up looking like a hobo compared to my coworkers, who apparently thought they were Justin Timberlake at the Grammys. She never said it, but I think #39 was thoroughly embarrassed. Not a good way to start a date.
However, the rest of the night at the party went well, I made great conversation, made everybody laugh and we had great (free) food. She was also partaking in the open bar, and I was sure that this was a not a bad thing. Then it came. An hour and a half into the party, she decided she needed to leave to get back to her dog. This made sense, she had already been gone 4 hours and had another 2 before she could even get home, but it was still incredibly disappointing. We left suddenly, went back to my place, where I walked her to her car, gave another hug and that was that.
For the next two weeks, she didn’t return my phone calls or texts or emails. I explained this very situation to anyone who knew both of us and tried to determine what I did wrong, because I assuredly did something wrong. I asked one of her good friends what she thought, and after some Mary Kate Olsen level sleuthing, she determined that she just didn’t like me in that way. This was OK, I thought, I can make her like me. Christmas was around the corner and I had the perfect gift. During the museum trip, she had opened up to me about her aspirations to be an interior restoration designer. Essentially, taking old homes and restoring them to their classic states, internally. I did some research and found a huge coffee table book on this very subject. I purchased it and tried to make plans with her before Christmas, so I could give it to her.
Unfortunately, she never really got back to me. So, after a Charlotte Bobcats game, my old college roommate and I drove down to her place and pulled off a secret operation, dropping off the book (all wrapped up, and with a cute note) on her doorstep. I was incredibly proud of myself for fighting off vengeance and giving her a gift about something she had mentioned in passing, but that was clearly something important to her. Aren’t these the type of things that girls go nuts for? Days later, I got a simple text message thanking me for the gift and that was that. No call, no attempt to see me again, apparently my last grasp effort wasn’t strong enough and a girl who filled my life with joy for a month just didn’t feel the same.
It was around this time that I started making music again and thus girl #39 has two songs written about her and one of which was even released on our first CD. Almost a year later, I was in Charlotte on business and staying for a few days and asked if she wanted to grab food. We talked as if nothing had ever happened and that we were just old college friends, even though the crux of our friendship had been developed post college in a one month span in the fall of 2008. We stay in touch randomly, she moved to a city with friends and people and I did the same. When she moved to this city, she came and saw my band play on tour and bought a CD. All of our mutual friends asked me to sign their CDs and I obliged and signed hers “thanks for coming, you have effected some of these songs more than you’ll ever know.” Girl #39, another scrap for my scrapbook.

Sunset Drama King

I wrote the following story for a friend's art project this semester at graduate school. The theme was "It was only a moment, but it changed everything."

I am not afraid of car crashes. People always say that the likelihood of dying in a car accident is much greater than dying in a plane crash, but people in plane crashes perish at a rate of 99.9% (unless you are on Lost, where the soft ocean cushions your fall, then the ratio falls to 84%). This is not why I'm not afraid of car crashes, and in fact, any logical, reasonable answer you could think of would also be incorrect. I am not afraid of car crashes because I have an invisible shield of protection around me (the reason for it's magical existence is up in the air, but I suspect wizardry of some sort).

I have been in two fairly significant car crashes, but only one changed everything. This car crash is really about a girl (because the two are very closely associated) and a realization that comes from having your life explode onto a highway in the middle of winter. She and I had had "a thing." The type of relationship that only happens to love struck boys who are not so secretly in love with their best friend. I wasn't completely crazy, we dated, just not seriously, because of her inevitable "last relationship." The casualness of our relationship was apparent to only her; her friends and roommates swore we were going out, every waking hour was hanging out, just the two of us, making each other dinner and planning trips together.

So it was the fruition of one of these trips where this moment occurred. The two of us, woke up before the sun even rose one December morning to drive down to Florida, a 12 hour trip, to spend the Christmas holiday with her family (I hope now, you see my romantic confusion). It was sleeting at 6 AM, and being from Florida, she had no idea how to drive in the sleet. I offered to drive and she stuck to her stubborn self. It was only 20 miles later that her maroon Suzuki Grand Vitara went careening across four lanes of major highway. It was the ice caked on the wipers that caused the accident, wiping away sleet with ice picks never works. She decided to pull over, to remove the ice from the wipers and the moment happened.

Three lanes of traffic were no match for the sporty SUV, it was the fourth that was the problem. As we slid diagonally across the highway, I noticed a semi tractor trailer at our 2 o'clock. I had seen this before, the car slides under a tractor trailer and its passengers are decapitated. As we slide closer and closer she kept screaming my name out of fear and the possibility that our lives would end together. This made me feel loved. Then we smacked the side of the trailer flush, like a gigantic hand clap, and went spinning back across the highway. It was not over though, the Grand Vitara spun several times, finally pointing its' nose back towards oncoming traffic, and facing another tractor trailer barring down upon us. Luckily, the tractor trailer saw us and slowed down enough that the second hit only gently pushed us backwards.

It was then that everything changed for me. I was no longer the pathetic kid trying to make her love me, I was instinctively holding her and calling her mom at 7 am. I was dealing with the cops and the second truck driver. I was calling her friend to bring us home and figuring out how to get down to Florida anyway. The adrenaline caused me to be someone who was capable of being of loved. This is why I am not afraid of car crashes, they always make you feel more alive after you cheat death.

This subway busier is literally the worst musician I've ever heard. Can't keep a beat or sing a tune. He alternates between playing bongos and snapping and singing. He's wearing a lab coat with a pen in the pocket (no pocket protector).

The Time Google Murdered Me

So, you might have noticed that there are no longer ads on this website. Google took them down. After earning over $220 thanks to people who click ads because these ads interest them (and only that reason, of course), google took interest in a blog that only gets 30-50 readers per day and saw that it was making money and decided it was illegal. So they took it all back and I'm never allowed to use adwords again. Yikes.

Tomorrow, I'll have a twitter recap of the VMAs. I hope you still read this blog, even though the only content now is my writing, I know you all loved those ads!

The Time I Almost Got Knifed (Theoretically)

I recently put my iPhone up on craigslist, it was old, it was broken and I just wanted some money for it. I put it up for $100, listed all the issues with it and still got six responses within 3 minutes of posting it.

The responders had names like "KoKo" "D-Block Dave" and "Keiko Nguyen". There was an overwhelming feeling of illegality, but maybe that's just me being biased against prison references. I was trying to be fair and thus, I emailed the first in line. Koko.

I text messaged KoKo as he requested and told him the phone was indeed still available if he wanted to pick it up the day of. He instantly got back to me and our conversation went something like this:

Me: Ok, where do you want to meet, I live near the Sheridan redline stop (its a big train station, if you know the city, its easy to find).

Koko: I dont know where that is. Give me the exact address.

Me: (Deciding to give him the address of the bar down the street) 4000 Sheridan Rd.

Koko: Oh, yeah I know where that is. I'll be there sometime before 5. Will you have the money?

Me: Uh....I'm SELLING a phone.

Koko: Oh yeah..uhh ok, I'll be there soon.

Me: (Now extremely nervous) Nevermind, I have someone else that will buy it sooner.

Koko: HOW SOON, I CAN GET THERE RIGHT NOW

Me: Dont worry about it. Sorry for the mixup.

Koko: ILL GIVE YOU $110!

Koko: (5 minutes later) ARE YOU WAITING FOR ME OR NOT.

Me: No.

So how do you tell a possible psychopath named Koko that you are scared he might be a psychopath. The man wanted to know my address, wasnt even totally aware of the transaction and was desperate to meet me. Yeah....I was about to get knifed.

Then, I decided to throw out the rules and just email the person with the most normal sounding name. His name was George SOMETHING VERY RUSSIAN. But he could pick it up very quickly and he actually knew that he was buying it, always a plus. He says to meet him on a neighbor corner, so I stand out there for 15 minutes, looking like I was ready to make a drug deal.

The russian pulls up in a tinted window Scion and I'm immediately certain he's in the russian mob and he needs a bunch of extra cell phones (I know how this works, I've seen the Wire.) He checks the phone, chastises me for not using a screen cover and then gives me a speech about how hes going to have to replace parts and bla bla bla, apparently its worth it to refurbish old iPhones from 3 years ago when new ones can be purchased for $200. So he gives me $80, and in fact pulls out a wad of cash that ONLY has $80 in it, which seems weird because he had originally said $100, so I'm thinking he was thinking $80 the whole time.

I didnt want to get stabbed by anyone else, so I took the deal and was happy. The lesson, as always, never ever sell electronics on craigslist. God forbid there be a normal soccer mom who wants to buy an iPhone for her son. No, it has to be all phone refurbishers and dealers who literally spend all day scouring CL to buy iPhones so that they can sell them again.

The Time I Hung Out With Adam Carolla

Living in a city has accomplished one thing that living in a rural part of the country never could, going to events that Twitter makes you aware of. Earlier in the day, the famous Adam Carolla tweeted that he would be doing standup at the opening of the "Craftsman Store" in downtown Chicago. In addition to this knowledge bomb, he also tweeted that it was free, with free food and drinks. You can guess which of these things made a poor guy like me trek down to a hardware store. Craftsman.

So, I sent out some feelers to friends (one didnt know who Adam Carolla was), and got nothing at all, but decided I could probably handle this on my own. So I hit the train and headed downtown. When I got to the store, there were "brand ambassadors" (a term widely used in a previous life of mine) on Segways, handing out fliers and I got giddy. I got in and the store was massive and beautiful, I'm quite positive that a real man, who actually knew how to use tools would be incredibly impressed. Inside, there were stations upon stations of tools and mowers and steel plated steel. A true man's man type store. However, the marketing team behind this event decided to go a different direction with food and service. When I entered, I had to sign in using one of them upscale iPads and I was given two tickets, which I assumed were for the comedy show.

I saw the stage right in front of me and to each side a bar for food and alcohol, I didnt want to spend money (or be embarrassed if I assumed the drinks were free and they werent). But, around me caterers dressed up like they were at a formal were serving things like Sushi and some sort of cheese crumble wrapped in cardboard. (It legitimately looked like a cupcake wrapper, but you had to eat it). In preparation for the night, I had thrown on one of my plaid long sleeve shirts, rolled up, with a pair of blue jeans with a rip in the knee, and I made sure not to wear my heart skull shoes. I was bound to fit in!

Wrong. In addition to the servers, at least 60% of the crowd was dressed in suits (Craftsman corporate) and I realized this was really for them, not us rough and tumble folk. I proceeded to wait near the stage for the standup to begin and it started within 5 minutes. Let me begin by saying getting to see a B/C list celebrity in a room with less than 100 people is pretty cool and surreal. I saw those huge eyebrows miles before he even hit the stage and I got excited.

His act was short and pretty funny (this was only my second comedy show ever) and it was laced with tons of product placement, but who cares, Craftsman got they wanted (people out to the store and talking about the event, like in this blog, so technically I'm schilling too.) After his set, I decided to look around and try out some of the tools. Below is my night in pictures.

This is the sanding station. I legit dont know how to use one, so I took a picture of someone else doing it. I tried it after and almost cut my hand off.

Such presence.

The old corporate lady spokesperson. She wasn't sure what twitter was.

Lawn mower, mowing artificial turf, naturally.

A look at the fancy TVs and rigging around the store.

SO CLOSE! I could almost literally touch him.

I didn't realize that the tickets I was given as I entered were drink tickets until it was almost time to leave. I chugged this. Does this count as drinking alone?

Some sort of Jack challenge, my arm muscles atrophied at the site of this challenge.

Ugly electric cars that apparently someone at Craftsman drives to work.

Grout cutter! I tried this too, and got mostly tile.

The Time I Went to the Record Store

So yesterday, trying to fool myself into thinking I had anything to do, I went to the record store about 20 minutes from my apartment to try to sell some records (and then buy some food with that money). I woke up, with a hankering for Whole Foods cookies which seemed like the perfect solution to my hungry/poverty needs. A whole case of delicious cookies for only $4, I was sure I could eat these cookies as lunch AND dinner and only spend $4. I'm nothing, if i'm not savvy.

So, I woke up bright and early (around 10:30) and checked the Reckless Records website to gauge their CD buying policy. They claim to have the best prices and take almost anything music related. Unfortunately for me, I left most of my 1,000 CD collection in storage in NC, but I did have about 5 cds I could sell here, and a ton of crappy music DVDs. I felt that this was at least worth $20 (or 5 packs of cookies.)

After making the journey down (and taking advantage of the shady side of the street) I plopped the discs on the counter. The lovely man then told me "I'd need to take those out of the bag," AS I was reaching my hand into the bag to take them out. Very courteous.

He told me to look around the store, because this would take a few minutes. Literally 30 seconds later he handed me back all of the DVDs, and told me he would get me $5 for the 5 CDS (3 of which were unopened and 1 of which I had bought BRAND NEW FROM THIS SAME STORE 4 days before). But $5 meant 1 pack of cookies, so I took the deal and ate like a king yesterday.

The Time I Drank for the Second Time

So, this story dates back nearly 2 weeks now, but after some gentle prodding, I decided to write about it (although there isn't much to tell). If you are an avid reader, you will recall the night before my birthday and people wanting to do Irish Car Bombs with me, but me being scared to drive under any sort of alcoholic influence.

Well, a few days later, the Irish Car Bombs were tried. A group of us got together at a delightful little establishment called Zupco's (if you are thinking Polish, you wouldnt be in correct). After spending a nice evening with Derril driving around New Brunswick, eating dinner with Charlie, and getting terrible service at IHOP (from someone who wasnt even wearing a nametag, so I'm not positive she actually worked there), we went to this "bar" in Dunellen, New Jersey.

If you are unfamiliar with Dunellen, New Jersey, please reference an old blog post about Manville, NJ. It's the same place. Anyway, Zupco's was unlike any other bar I had been to, it had low ceilings that seemed to leak asbestos, a weird "front only" seating arrangement, and I may be remembering incorrectly, but I feel like they had picnic table cloths on the tables. In short, it looked like some sort of pool hall, just a sad place in general. (The one bright spot was a HUGE LED sign, letting you know what beers were on tap. To call this an eyesore is an understatement).

So, Derril decides I need to try a black russian (vodka and kahlua) after some of my other poor alcohol choices and he buys me this delicious concoction. After spending, no joke, 12 minutes at the bar waiting to order, Derril discovers the bartender doesnt know how to make a black russian, makes them re-make drinks, and then we end up with a vanilla vodka. I could care less, Derril is unsatisfied. I try it and I like it, a very sweet coffee like flavor with a nice kick. It's very apparent why there are a lot of drunk Russian authors.

I sip the drink for over 30 minutes, as I was told this is alot stronger than other things I've had and I decide that I am done for the evening. However, Irish Car Bomb girl was back and hanging out with us and I made the mistake of bringing it up again (insisting that she buy me the drink). And she did. And by this point I was certainly feeling the Black Russian. She goes and waits by the bar for 3-5 minutes (not quite positive on this) and at some point, another of our friends, goes up AFTER her, and returns with a drink BEFORE her. She looks at me and I(apparently being hammered after one drink) almost say, "It's because you're not pretty enough."

Luckily, Derril stopped me before I finished the statement (she was definitely pretty enough, as you'll read on) and she quickly returned to the table with one Irish Car Bomb in hand. I demanded she drink with me and she said, "I am, but I only have 2 arms." To which I drunkenly slurred, "I wish you were an octopus." (Which, I immediately thought was hilarious.)

I drank the Irish Car Bomb (poorly) the shot of Bailey's didnt flip correctly, so I ended up drinking it afterwards, but I chugged the rest and everyone was very proud. So back to ICB girl, I had shown interest in her from a few nights before, become entranced with her backyard volleyball playing, and hoped for the best on this night (she DID buy me a drink after all). My friends offered help, telling her she could crash on the couch with me, to which she accepted (we agreed upon cuddling the shit out of each other. There were even high fives.)

Awhile later, we all decided to go to another bar, apparently she was fine to drive, but I wasnt getting into a car with her, so we headed to Manville. Derril and I somehow managed to beat everyone there by 15 minutes and I decided a sub from Quikcheck was immediately necessary (an apparent theme of my drunkenness). Once we got to that bar, last call was already happening, we (the entire group of people) stuck around for 15 minutes, watched some people drink and then headed to Derril's house. This was it.

Yet, she walked towards her car, saying her goodbyes, and deciding to go home (somehow miraculously sobering up after having a drink at the second bar). Her car wouldnt start, so Derril and I, using most of our brute strength, jiggled some wires and got the car going. We were heroes, there were hugs and goodbyes and that was it. I had only had 2 drinks all night, and I made sure to wait more than 2 hours before driving back to my place, since crashing alone on the couch just didnt seem right.

The Time I Moved to A City (Part 2)

I learn new things everyday here in Chicago. I fall in love with a girl on the train or in passing outside the Whole Foods (actually most of the time it's in Whole Foods. I should just hang out there in search of indie rock girls.) Today, I took far enough that I actually smiled at the girl on the train (she coyly smiled back, I was in). I told myself "if she gets off at your stop, you talk to her." She got off at my stop and walked towards my apartment and I let her get away, the mother of my children.

Today, I also learned that the bus system doesnt use the same card as the train system and thus, I had to walk an extra 1.8 miles to take a piss test today. Halfway through walking I found a guitar pick IN my sock (which was a relief, because I had felt it for awhile and assumed that parts of my foot were just falling off). Immediately following that, I was accosted by a homeless man, who even though I had headphones in and was looking at my phone map (yes, I was lost) tried to come up to me and beg me for money. The joys of a city!

If you were wondering about the whole piss test thing, I had an interview at a boat tour company (Vince Vaughn style) where I'll be a deckhand (aka deck swabbing/people greeting/making sure children dont die). Apparently the only requirement (other than my boyish good looks) was that I take a drug test. No problem. Except out of the list of testing center possibilities, not one was within 30 minutes of my apartment. So now, I have spent an entire day out in Chicago, traversed 4 different trains, 2 miles on foot, lunch with a friend, and picked up my DePaul student ID (in which I look like the odd combination of a fat coke addict!).

The Time I Looked for Work

Today is Friday and that means I have now been living in Chicago for 5 days. On the third day I was completely done settling in. I had built all my new furniture and cleaned my entire prison cell (room). This was great, except that I only know 2 people and we have been constantly together for the past week. So now, I'm kind of in a city where I don't know anyone and I don't have a job and school doesnt start for another 3 weeks.

On top of that, I haven't been employed since the end of July. Meaning I'm not even in the vacation period of being unemployed, I'm just bored and watching the entire 3rd season of 30 rock yesterday didn't make it feel better. So now, I'm looking for jobs. Would I be a good receptionist? No, of course not, but I feel like i could have a friendly disposition.

Would I be willing to travel 30 minutes to go be an IT guy at a company outside of Chicago? Normally, no, but when compared to a day watching ESPN updated Brett Favre's eating activities, I say yes. So here I sit, applying to almost every job on Craigslist within reason (I'm skipping the babysitting and dog walking ads, mostly because I think there is some prejudice about what types of people fit those jobs, and I do not fit into that prejudice - I'm not an attractive 19 year coed, unfortunately.)

I was accepted to work study at DePaul, but unfortunately they don't assign you to jobs. You still have to apply, so I did that today, until I realized that all of the jobs were for 2008. Fearing that my school no longer existed, I checked my email about Work study, found an email about a seminar for new students looking for on campus work this fall, and RSVP'd. Within minutes I received an email telling me this session was mainly for new undergrads, although I was still welcome to come (you know, if I wanted to stick out like a sore thumb/hit on 18 year olds.)

I applied for a job at Target (a mile walk from my apartment) and spent over an hour filling out their questionnaire. I get very anxious when I fill these out however, because obviously Target wants to hear you are a hard worker that wont steal, but I feel like the questionnaires are designed to filter out the top and bottom of people. For instance, I'm smart enough that I know what the correct answer should be on every single question. YES, I STRONGLY AGREE THAT ALL PEOPLE ARE HONEST. But, maybe Target knows that if you answer every single question "correctly" you are obviously too smart to work at Target, or at least smart enough to lie about what the right answers are, so it's obvious you dont actually believe what you are saying.

So I tried to incorporate some dumb answers in. How often are you late to work? Once in awhile (instead of never, because no one is ever NOT late to work. Target knows this. Target will destroy you.)

My new roommate said he might be able to get me a job on a tour boat as a bartender, I have been drinking for less than 2 weeks and know approximately 3 drinks. This will not work out well.

The Time I Moved to A City

I now live in a city. Which is crazy, it still has not hit me that I have to walk everywhere and if something is "1 mile" away, it means I'm going to have to walk 2 miles and endure a intense amount of thigh chaffing. These are things I'm slowly learning about city life.

Other fun things:

There is nothing cheaper than $2 at the grocery store. (Also, buying drinks at the grocery store is almost entirely out of the question, as I live .6 miles from the grocery store and walking 11 minutes with a 12 pack of Mountain Dew Voltage in my hand would make my arm fall off.)

Chicago apartments and houses all have a series of mazes behind the apartment that lead to weird deck/staircases and alley ways. It looks bizarre.

Parking is non existent.

I am supremely excited for Primetime TV to start at 7 pm and not 8 pm (although I still am confused as to why sportscenter starts at 10 and not 11.

My feet get extremely dirty from walking, if I showed you the bottom of my feet right now, you would swear I grew up in a desert on another continent.

Air conditioning window units are commodities and I don't know how to use them.

And finally, 88%% of Chicago speaks Polish.

I will update you on things I've learned from "the big city."

The Time I Went to Indiana University

After a 6 hour drive alone, in a van that had little to know visibility (due to our lives being packed away), with no AC and only one working window, I was about ready to pass out and eat (in whichever order the universe decided.) We all decided to eat and our host knew a "great place" just down the street. I was starving and ready to go, however the universe had other plans. Here are my tweets (@ummmwtfblog) from that night. I will admit that I was beyond cranky at this point.

Waiting to be seated at a "restaurant" (bar). 25 minute wait better mean best goddamn food ever. Ummm WTF?7:05 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
Unless it's a high tier restaurant why would anyone EVER wait for a table. You left the house expecting to eat food relatively soon.7:06 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
And the prices!! So reasonable !!! http://tweetphoto.com/392549407:13 PM Aug 15th via Echof

There is no air conditioning in here either. I just drove 6 hours in a car with no ac7:14 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
Food ordered approximately 5 minutes ago. I bet it takes more than 30 minutes to get here7:24 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
Food took 25 minutes. Was quite spicy. I may be having a hot flash8:10 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
About to walk around Indiana university campus in the heat ( no av)8:10 PM Aug 15th via Echofon
Correction ac. I'm definitely in menopause mode8:11 PM Aug 15th via Echofon

The food did turn out to be quite good and spicy enough to clean out all of my organs. Some additional benefits of the restaurant:

An abundance of mullets.

A waitress with Avenge Sevenfold Tattoos.

A man with the longest dreadlocks of all time.