...and the fall

Part 2 of 2

For those that didn’t read the first installment, here it is: http://scottchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/05/rise.html


So Crunk Whitey was now a band. With the confidence we had gained from the basement show, we decided that it was now time to play in front of people who weren’t obligated to cheer for us. There was a bar in Belleville called Main Street Jazz and Blues Bar (now known as Blue Agave) that Dan had become familiar with. He knew the owner and talked to him about the possibility of us playing there. The owner agreed and we had our first gig set.

Sort of

After we booked the show at Main Street J&B, we became aware of another show that may fit our style. The show was some sort of benefit that I can’t even remember now and was being held in a creepy bar in St Louis appropriately called the Creepy Crawl. We figured that this would be a good way for us to tune up for our show at Main Street J&B which would be a week later. We accepted the gig and we were ready to go. We practiced and practiced and were really psyched up about our little two week mini-tour.

Then Terry wanted his drums back

For whatever reason, Terry had agreed to sell his drums to one of his buddies even though we had an agreement that he would sell them to me as I made payments over time. This story and the details of it have been debated over and over again with no one really willing to admit who was right and who was wrong. It put a big strain on mine and Terry’s friendship for a long time, but that has since been resolved and is water under the bridge. But the bottom line is that he decided he wanted them back 3 days before our first show and seeing as they weren’t mine, I had to give them back which really put me in a bind. Luckily, I have the greatest wife in the world and she saw how much I was enjoying being in a band and, quite honestly, I think she enjoyed being the wife of a rockstar. She was kind enough to evaluate the situation and accompany me to Swing City music where we purchased my very own drum kit.

It was beautiful

Three days later, we got to our gig at the Creepy Crawl and played to a packed house of about 30 people. Given the fact that only one of the four of us had ever done this before, I think we did quite well. I was a little nervous about setting up my drum kit prior to playing and then tearing it down as soon as we were done so as not to upset the flow of the bands playing before and after us, but I managed. The nerves weren’t as bad as I thought they would be, and after our pre-show ritual of vodka and Stag, we were ready to go and, compared to the 3 or so acts we had seen up to that point (who ranged from odd to WTF?) we had so far stolen the show. We were ready for Main Street J&B.

But were they ready for us?

After us booking the gig but prior to the actual date of the extravaganza (thanks Liz), the bar had been sold. The new owners were more than willing to allow us to play, but they had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Seeing as that we’re dorks and accolade whores, we had invited everyone we had ever known who might have cared in the least bit that we were now in a band. We were calling people, sending e-mails, promoting on Myspace, and basically telling anyone who would listen that we were playing a show. As a result, we had an amazing turnout for our breaking out party. And, if you know our friends, you know they can drink.

Not only did the new owners have to deal with an understaffed bar, they also had to deal with a raucous band on stage, a group of our very thirsty friends, and the fact that their refrigeration system went out on their first night running the bar. They couldn’t have been happier. Rumor has it that the “Crunk Whitey” show was the benchmark for all future big nights at that bar for quite awhile. We have since been overtaken, but we were the darlings of the new owners for quite a while.

That show was amazing. We saw family, friends, and acquaintances that we really had no expectations of showing up. To say we were baffled and extremely grateful is an understatement. The outpouring of support at that show and all future shows still amazes me to this day. Whether we were good or bad (sometimes we were really, really good, but sometimes we were really bad too) we always had the support of our friends and family. If I haven’t thanked you all yet, please let me take this chance to do so. I think I can freely speak for Chris, Dan, and Duane when I say that you all made what we did up there so much fun for us. We couldn’t and wouldn’t have continued to do it without all of your love and encouragement. You were all as much a part of Crunk Whitey as we were.

After that show, we were flying high. I distinctly remember taking Tina for a walk (which I never do) the next morning with the hopes of being recognized as the drummer for that hot new band out of Belleville. I actually felt like a rock star. But, no one honked. Not at all. I don’t even think Tina cared that she was being walked by a music God.

Over the next couple of months, we were lucky enough to play a few more shows at various venues across the area. Mostly though, we stuck with Main Street J&B. They were good to us, our friends hung out there anyway, and we had built an extremely tiny fan base. It was a nice venue and we had a blast playing there. Plus they sold Stag.

That following winter, we decided that maybe it would be a good idea to record some of our songs. We had written a good chunk of our own songs at this point (most of our shows were 50% originals, 50% covers) and we were really tightening them up the more we played them. Chris contacted someone whom he’d been introduced to and we set up a time in January 2007 to record a 6 song CD. Recording the CD, however, wouldn’t be cheap. Chris, the dedicated bandmate that he is, offered to pay for the session and then we could repay him with the money from the CD sales and from money we collected during our live shows. No problem. We were guaranteed to make that money back in no time. The CD sales to just our friends and family plus the gate from the release party should pretty much pay him back entirely. We decided to do it.

We recorded the CD over the course of a weekend in the basement of a locally well known guitar player. It was painstaking at times (mostly because I laid the drum tracks down within the first two hours and then waited two whole days with nothing to do) but we got it done and it was off to the producer for mixing. Now, all it needed was a name.

I think it’s been clearly established that I am a dork. I make no attempts to hide that fact and almost wear it as a badge of honor. That being said, I figured that the best way for us to come up with the best album name was to do it NCAA style. I commissioned the guys to each come up with 16 album titles and then we’d add them at random to a 64 team grid that I had made. Some names were good, some were great, and some were just awful. Most were based on either inside jokes from our practice tapes or amusing plays on words (fond mammories). Either way, we did the tournament by voting on each one individually. It took an entire evening, but we finally whittled it down to a name that sounds kind of silly to anyone else but makes us laugh everytime:

Membrane

I won’t go through all of the issues that came up during the printing and duplication of the CDs and their cases, but let’s just say it was a nightmare and it came down to the day of our CD release party until they were completed. Either way, we got them done and Crunk Whitey had CDs.

We expected a pretty big crowd for our CD release party so we decided that we’d go back to our old faithful – Main Street J&B which was now operating officially under the name of Blue Agave. We set up a table at the door for our buddy Mike to collect money and sell our CDs. We were really excited about this and couldn’t wait to see what kind of crowd we’d bring in.

We drew a large crowd, but nothing like we had at earlier shows. Plus a lot of them didn’t buy the CD. We weren’t upset by any means because we played a great show (thanks in large part to the warm up gig we’d played the night before to an audience of 7) and had a great time, but we also didn’t make a lot of money to pay Chris back. We felt bad but were determined to make up the difference.

Now, around this time, Carol was about 6 months pregnant with Ben. Duane and his wife had also just announced that they were also expecting. There were two future Crunk Whitey members coming along and things began to change. I wanted to be at home a lot more with Carol because I was already going out way more often than I should. I wanted and needed to be there for her in case she needed anything. Plus, even though it rarely stopped me, I felt bad going out knowing that she would be sitting at home alone.

The conflict with this was that in order to sell CDs (we had about 500 of them made) we needed to play gigs. In order to play gigs, I needed to be gone from the house while Carol was there by herself and pregnant. I was having a difficult time with this because I loved playing in the band and I loved hanging out with my friends. I also loved Carol and wanted to be home with her. The combination of these two things twisted me up inside. I ended up feeling trapped while I was at home because I wanted to be out with the band, but also trapped while with the band because I felt almost as if I was required to be there. That feeling of requirement almost made it seem like a job which is the exact opposite of how a basement band from Belleville should feel. Seeing what my true priorities should be, I slowly began to back away from Crunk Whitey.

We played a few more gigs and had a lot of fun. Carol had a due date in early May and the band decided that we’d book a few more gigs and then cool it for awhile after Carol had the baby. Maybe we’d come back, maybe we wouldn’t, but we were definitely going to take some time off and get our heads about us. One of our last gigs was in the basement of Panorama bowl in Belleville. It wasn’t a bad show by any means, but towards the end I had the feeling as if this might be the end for Crunk Whitey. Maybe it was me making up my mind (which I hoped not because we still had another gig planned) or maybe it was a sign that something was going to happen to change things, but I felt that way and was sad yet relieved at the end of the show.

Needless to say, something did happen. Something big. Ben came into this world on April 18, 2007 – three weeks earlier than expected. We had a gig scheduled for the following Friday, but that should have been no problem seeing as we would have had Ben at home for at least a week at that point. The problem came when Ben had to go to the NICU at Cardinal Glennon for a week after he was born. It was rough week on both Carol and I, but we got through it together and were told that we’d get to bring Ben home on that following Friday – the day of our last show.

I called the guys and apologized but told them I would not be able to make it. It killed me, but some things are just more important. I so badly wanted to spend time at home with my new son that you couldn’t have dragged me away with wild horses. Carol knew how much the last show meant to me and even told me to go play, but I couldn’t do it. As a result, the guys played an acoustic show which I heard was pretty cool. Crunk Whitey was officially on hiatus.

But something didn’t set right with me. As time went on and things changed for everyone, it slowly began to look like Crunk Whitey may never play again. We’d talk about a show, but it would never come to fruition. We’d talk about getting together for a practice/drinking session, but things always came up and we’d have to cancel. I was okay with not being a “band” again as my priorities had shifted greatly, but something stuck with me about CW playing a gig, its last gig, without me. Maybe I’m selfish (okay, I know I’m selfish) but that didn’t seem right.

After talking with the guys who were more than willing to do so, we decided to book a reunion/farewell show at the Blue Agave. We practiced, learned a new song or two, and got ready to play. When that night came, I couldn’t wait. We got on stage after nearly two years away from it – and we rocked. It felt great. It felt right. It felt complete. I was up there with three of my best friends and we had as much fun as four guys can legally have. We were now retired as a band and I had closure.

As per the norm with CW, that wouldn’t do though. About a year later, we discussed another reunion show, but the hassles of working out a time when all four of us would be available to practice was getting to me. Duane now lived in Missouri with his wife and son, Dan now lived in Breese, and Ben had an early bedtime. Chris was very flexible, but it seemed like whenever three of us could practice, the fourth couldn’t. Maybe it was the hassles of getting the practice together, maybe it was the fact that I was being a brat because nobody could meet MY schedule, but I started looking at the big picture and realized that I didn’t care if we didn’t practice. I didn’t care if we actually played the show. Bottom line, I didn’t care about CW anymore.

With a heavy heart, I sent out a group email to the guys and told them of my decision to quit the band. I didn’t want to talk about any more reunion shows or practices and I figured the best way was to just quit. If they wanted to find a new drummer (with more than the one beat that I still hadn’t switched from) I would be more than supportive and would love to see them play sometime. Nobody felt that the band would be the same with anyone other than the four of us in it though, so the decision was made at that point to pretty much end Crunk Whitey.

Crunk Whitey had a short, but excellent run and I feel closer to my bandmates for having shared that experience with them. It was one of the most exciting times of my life and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to duplicate the feelings that I experienced not only on stage, but also just practicing in my basement with those guys. It was a sense of camaraderie and oneness that I can’t even begin to explain. When we were on, we were on and it struck the room like a bolt of lightning. I love those guys and still miss it to this day, but we’ve all moved on and Crunk Whitey as a musical band is no more. Crunk Whitey the legend, however, will live on forever.

Maybe even for one more show.

Is that vodka and Stag that I smell?

The Rise...

Many moons ago, my buddy Terry bought a drum kit. Terry didn’t have anywhere to keep this drum kit, but he bought it regardless. After keeping it at a few friends’ houses, I finally volunteered for my turn. I had always liked the drums and had even wanted to play them as a youngster, but my parents had talked me into something more musical – the saxophone. I’m glad they did because I loved playing the sax and regret to this day that I traded it in for an acoustic guitar which I in turn sold to my buddy Duane and used that money to buy a massage table which I eventually sold in order to buy Christmas presents a few years later. But that’s beside the point. Carol and I were renting a house with a basement which turned out to be the perfect place to store the drums.

When I first got them, I had no idea how to play. I banged around on them in an attempt to create some sort of rhythmic noise, but I was fairly hopeless. With the addition of alcohol, however, I thought I sounded a lot better than I was. Over time, my buddy Chris started bringing over his guitar and we would make a ton of noise together all while drinking a ton of beer and thinking we were the next coming of the Beatles. Around that same time, Duane started coming over with his bass guitar (I think he’d abandoned the acoustic I had sold to him) and we also began drinking beer and rocking out.

Sort of

When I say that we were rocking out, it kind of went like this. We had “figured out” how to play “Fortunate Son” by CCR and played it nonstop. It was never really any good, but it was a song and the beer told us it was really good. We also dabbled around with different riffs that we each would come up with, but with Chris being the only one that had ever taken lessons at his instrument, we were all fairly clueless about how to put things together. It didn’t help that I really only knew one drum beat.

Now, we had a good friend named Dan who was actually a very skilled musician. He had been playing guitar and singing with different bands for as long as I could remember – and he was good. Dan had actually lived with Carol and I in this house for a brief period of time but had moved out prior to me getting the drum kit. We began calling him on a fairly regular basis when we knew we’d be getting together and asking him if he wanted to come over and play, but Dan was usually either busy or just avoiding the cacophony of sound that was emanating from my basement. Every once in a while he would say he would come over and then we’d wait for him, play a while, drink some beer, call him to see where he was, drink some more beer, play some more, and then maybe, just maybe, Dan would show up. We’d fool around for awhile, but that was it. As a result of this waiting, we actually came up with a song called WTFID. The song was horrible and went nowhere, but we loved to play it – especially once Dan got there and we told him what it meant.

Around this time Duane, Chris, and I began considering ourselves a band. We had no official singer, no desire to play in public, and no actual songs, but we were a band. Like any band that was going places, we needed a name. This was back at the time (2005 maybe?) when the word Crunk was being thrown around as the next cool word. I knew what it meant, but enjoyed throwing it into everyday sentences as a noun, verb, adjective, or whatever I could just to use it. It was stupid and I knew it, but it was fun to say. As a result, I suggested that our band should be named Crunk.

Keep in mind that the point of our band practices were twofold: 1) to practice our “music”, and 2) to drink with our buddies. Most of the time we did a lot more of number 2 than we did number 1, which resulted in the addition to our name. Chris and I differ on the origins of the second part of our name – he says it was my idea but I’m fairly certain that it was his suggestion. Either way, we knew Crunk wouldn’t cut it as a band name. We were a fairly intelligent and witty group of guys so we expected more out of our band’s name. I don’t remember what else was suggested, but I’m pretty sure that at one point, after many beers while waiting to see if Dan would show up, Chris said the word that would change it all:

Whitey

Crunk Whitey

It was stupid and made no sense at all, but was just catchy enough that we laughed our drunken bottoms off at it and decided from that day forward, we would be known as Crunk Whitey.

Eventually, Carol and I moved out of that house and bought one of our own a little bit across town. Terry still hadn’t asked for his drum kit back, so I brought it along in the move. We kept our schedule of practicing around once a week and were actually getting somewhere. We really didn’t have any complete songs, but we had enough riffs that the next time we convinced Dan to come over, he seemed impressed and a bit excited about our little project. I think he saw something raw that he could lend a hand to that would really help him personally as a musician. He came over a few more times and a little more frequently after that and we actually began writing songs. Something was really starting to come of this.

On January 22, 2006 (Dan’s birthday) he came over to the house for a practice. Chris, Duane, and I had discussed it prior to him getting there, so once he arrived we asked him if he would like to become an official member of Crunk Whitey. Dan gladly accepted our offer. We thanked him, but told him it wasn’t that easy and that it was now time for his initiation. I whipped out a jar of peanut butter, told him to drop his pants, and called my dog Tina downstairs. I won’t say what happened next, but let’s just say that Dan and Tina have a very special bond.

We officially had a band and Crunk Whitey was going to rock the world.

We began practicing regularly and my basement ended up loaded with guitars and amps and cords and more amps and a microphone and monitors and a ton of other stuff that a band needs. We also began recording our rehearsals on a small 4 track recorder Dan had that resulted in some of the best laughs I’d ever had my entire life. We’d play for a while, say stupid things that we knew were being recorded, go outside for a smoke, and then come back in and listen to our recording. We laughed until we cried sometimes. Dan was kind enough to convert a lot of those rehearsals to CD for us so that we could listen to things we had written and try to work on them, but we just used them as comedy albums. Some of the things that we laughed at would actually play a part in later band business. But that’s later.

Once we had a few more regular practices and had pieced together a few more songs, Dan brought up the idea of playing in public. I suppose we all knew that it would have to happen one day, but the idea terrified me. I still really had only one drum beat and just changed it slightly so that every song wouldn’t sound the same. We still didn’t “gel” yet and were really busy trying to figure out our own things rather than trying to figure out how to play as a band. Despite those fears, we all agreed that maybe we should start off slow and just play in front of our friends who we hoped would listen to us, lie to us because they’re trying to be supportive, and then use that false confidence to build up to a public show.

And that’s exactly what happened.

We had what will forever be known to the four of us as “The Basement Show” a month or so later. We got a large sized group of our friends and crammed them into my basement which I had adorned with Christmas lights and other cheesy things to make it seem “bandish.” I was nervous all day and was getting really close to vomiting when the time came for us to take the stage when Dan called us all out to my garage. Having been the only one of us to have performed in public, Dan gave us a pep talk and handed us what would become a tradition before all of our future shows – a shot of warm vodka and a Stag. After the shot and chugging a good portion of the beer I was so worried about not throwing it all back up that I forgot about my nerves and just went downstairs and started playing.

And we rocked.

We played a series of I’d guess 7 or 8 songs, took a break, and then came back and played those 7 or 8 songs again. They weren’t the best songs we’ve ever played and it certainly wasn’t the best we’d ever played them – but people clapped and cheered regardless. Carol even threw a pair of BIG granny panties at me to give me that whole rock and roll star type feel. The adrenaline rush was amazing and I was on top of the world for the rest of the night and all of the next day. We had recorded the show on Dan’s 4-track and listened to it after the show. I don’t think you could have wiped the smile off of any of our faces. I had been friends with Chris and Dan since high school. Chris and Duane had been friends other pretty much from birth. As a result, we were all pretty close. We were four very good friends who had now become something else. Something more. We were now a band.

Crunk Whitey had arrived.

(part 2 tomorrow)

Spin the Black Circle

Maybe it’s the hiss and pop as soon as I put the needle down. Maybe it’s the feeling of removing it from the sleeve. Maybe it’s the anticipation that is brought from the time you hit play until the arm lists off of its rest, rises into the air, moves slowly to the side, and slowly descends onto the spinning vinyl below until the music actually starts playing. It’s probably this plus a million other things, but the fact remains - I love vinyl records.

I can remember being little, sitting in my bedroom with my little record player, and listening to my Disney records with the accompanying book that you could read along with and turn the page every time you heard the “ding.” I also remember a few years, but not too many, past that when I started listening to my mom’s 45’s on a regular basis. She had Chubby Checker, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, etc. One of my favorites was “Ode to Billie Joe” by Bobbie Gentry. I would listen to that one over and over. There were a ton others piled neatly into my sisters dark red record holder with a twist off top and I listened to them all. I think it was at that point that I realized that I didn’t care what was popular on the radio – if I liked the way a song sounded and it moved me in any way, I was going to listen to it (hence my passion for Air Supply).

It wasn’t only the 45’s though. Mom also had quite a collection of 33’s as well. From what I can recall, she had Air Supply, Kenny Rogers, Barbara Steissand, Crystal Gayle, Mac Davis, Bee Gees, The Woodstock Soundtrack, and numerous others. I remember sitting in front of the record player on some of the days that I’d be home sick from school (bugs in my throat), listening to and singing along with all of them. It was the only time I had the house to myself and I took full advantage of it to feed my appetite for more music.

I didn’t really pay much attention to the fact that all these songs were on vinyl, it was just what was available to me. I had tons of cassette tapes, but this was before the days of CD’s and file sharing and iTunes, so if you wanted a song you actually had to go out and buy it. Screw that! If I want to listen to “Copa Cabana”, I’d just put on mom’s Barry Manilow record. No big deal.

I also didn’t really have an affinity for vinyl, I just knew that some things were meant to sound a certain way. Every Christmas season growing up, Mom would play “Andy Williams’ Christmas Album” and every Christmas season I looked forward to it. It may have sounded just as good on CD, but the album was part of a Christmastime tradition and if it wasn’t the record, it didn’t count. I also feel this way about the Grease soundtrack, but it’s not as much of a staple around Christmas and therefore doesn’t hold as much meaning.

My buddy Chris has liked vinyl for as long as I can remember. If I like vinyl, than he loves it. If I love vinyl, he is addicted to it. If I am addicted to vinyl, then he wants to make sweet passionate love to it on a secluded beach in a tropical location. See what I’m getting at? He makes my love of vinyl seem like a childhood crush. As a result, when he and I became roommates I brought as much of my mother’s vinyl as she would let me take.

Luckily for him, our friend Jeff works as a warehouse supervisor for a furniture company. Sometimes on deliveries, he’ll be asked to discard some old furniture. If it’s in good condition, he’ll sometimes offer it to his friends. Well, shortly after we moved in, Jeff was delivering to a home that was getting rid of an old console stereo complete with a non-working 8-track player and a fully functioning record player. It sounded unbelievable and I was jealous every day that it was Chris’s. Actually I still am jealous. This thing was awesome and we definitely put it to good use.

He still does.

Over time, my record collection grew very slowly. I’d get one here and there, but it wouldn’t increase by any substantial amount. Carol got me the White Album as a present and I listened to that over and over. I also somehow acquired Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” which I would also listen to a ton. But I didn’t really start adding to my collection until I discovered:

The Flea Market

I have spent more money on records at the flea market than I’d like to admit. I’m pretty sure that Ron (the record guy) has made a car payment or two from what I’ve spent at his table. For awhile, I would go every 3rd Saturday of the month and visit Ron first thing in the morning. I would go through his 10-12 crates of records and pull anything that interested me. After I was done with that, I’d look at the stack, whittle it down a bit, and then ask Ron how much I owed him. He’d give me a price, I’d head to the ATM, and then I’d come back and pay the man. Most of the records were $3 a piece, but some were more expensive, few were less. Either way, my record collection was growing.

But the problem was, I couldn’t wait for the third weekend of every month. I’d had a taste and now I wanted more. That’s when I discovered the devil known as Ebay. I would sit at my old job on my lunch hour and scroll through pages and pages and pages of records and buying some quite frequently. Occasionally, I would hear a song on the radio or be reminded of a band that I hadn’t heard from in years and I’d go on Ebay, find the album, and bid. The problem with that is that I don’t like to lose. I’d bid a fair price but would get outbid shortly thereafter. Well, no one was going to outbid me – that’s my record! Let’s just say that as a result of this I sometimes paid more for an album than I should have simply because some bastard had the nerve to outbid me.

Ebay is also the reason that I have Debbie Gibson, Tiffani, and NKOTB albums (yes, they ARE awesome BTW).

After a while, though, I got sick of paying shipping and handling. Sometimes it would cost more to ship the record than what I actually bought it for. I needed another outlet, but didn’t know where to go. Enter craigslist.com.

Through Craigslist, I acquired a good chunk of my collection. Through various individuals and near mob-type shakedowns (don’t ask), Chris and I both added a ton of records to our collections. The good thing about Craigslist is that a lot of people are trying to unload a bunch of records at a time. So, instead of paying $3 or more per record, we received almost 400 records for around $80. Now, a lot of what we got was crap, but we most definitely got our $80 worth. My collection was growing.

As of today, I have close to 700 records. Not a lot by some collectors standards, but way too many according to other people. I’ve definitely acquired some from wonderful people who were just looking to clear out their basement, and I’ve definitely paid for more at various yard sales. Either way, I have a ton of records and I love each one. I have classic albums, one hit wonder albums, never heard of them albums, and what the hell is this albums. I have never been opened albums, looks like they’d never been opened albums, and looks like they got run over by a car with chains on their tires albums. For a while I tried to listen to each one as I got it, but when I started buying in bulk, it got a little more difficult. Either way, I love my records and listen to them every chance I get.

Now, the question remains as to why have I felt the need to collect so many records. Couldn’t I have just saved time, gone on to one of the free file sharing websites out there and just downloaded any of the songs that I wanted? To be honest, I have no idea. Once I started buying them, I couldn’t stop. Every time I got one album that I had wanted, I came up with a different one that I wanted. It was like crack in vinyl form. I don’t regret for a second any of the albums I have ever purchased (well maybe Bruce Willis’ “The Return of Bruno”) as Ben will have an entire library of good to great to iconic music to listen to as he grows up. Also, it has given both myself and Chris the opportunity to pool our “lesser albums” and open up an online record store. Our goal is to sell our records at a reasonable price so that we can make money to buy more albums for our personal collections. It will be a slow moving process, but we’ll get there and have a lot of fun doing it.

Also, it will be an opportunity for us to get together and listen to great albums together.

Some people claim that the sound on a record is superior to that of an Mp3 or any of today’s music. It may be. It may not be. I don’t care. I love taking a record off of my shelves, admiring the artwork on the cover, opening up the gatefold to look at the inside, slipping the record sleeve out, taking the record out of the sleeve, admiring the shine and glow that a pristine record offers, placing it on the player, and pushing play. It brings back memories from as far back as I can remember. It brings sounds that I associate with various points of my still very young life. It brings a sense of happiness that music is meant to bring.

I think tonight may be a “The Coasters” night.

Scotty Hop's Day Off

Before I reached my current level of maturity and responsibility one might say I was prone to taking the occasional day off of work under the guise of being sick. Not that I wasn’t sick some of those times, but the illnesses were either usually self-induced or I felt a little ill and I convinced myself I was more sick than I actually was. Most of the time I just wanted to take what I refer to as a “mental health” day. Mental health days were the best because usually what ailed me could be cured with just a few more hours sleep. I would often wake up to my morning alarm, decide that I was not going into work that day, set my alarm for 8:00 so that I could call when my boss got in, sleep until that alarm went off, call in sick (sounding very, very ill), go back to sleep and not wake up until my body’s internal alarm clock went off.

The problem with this was I would often wake up around 10:00 or 10:30, realize how many times I had pulled this recently, feel guilty for about 5 minutes and contemplate going in for the afternoon, realize I told them I had a fever or nausea (which were no-no’s in terms of going into the office), and then soak in guilt the rest of the day because I knew I’d probably be talked to about my excessive absences when I got in the next day. It’s amazing how 10:30 a.m. thinking is so much more lucid than 7:00 a.m. thinking. Oh well, what choice did I have at that point other than to enjoy the day?

Let’s get back to the excuses though.

I had all sorts of excuses. I used anything from the flu to a bad back to stomach viruses. I was convincing too. The initial phone call would usually provide many more details than would normally need to be shared, but I wanted them to know that I sure would make it in if I could, but these extenuating circumstances are really preventing me from doing so. Sometimes, I was so convincing that I needed a second day off to make sure that I was fully recovered. Then, once I returned to work I would continue playing the part to hammer home the point that I was really, really sick. I know, I know, I’m a horrible person but if anyone reading this can honestly say that they’ve never faked being sick and took a random day off here or there, you can throw the first stone at me.

Well, I’m still standing here stone free so I’ll continue.

My favorite excuse of all time is a little unsettling. It’s a story I concocted pretty much on the spot and was amazed that a) anyone believed me, and b) that anyone wanted to be anywhere near me afterwards. I will use fake names and locations to protect the innocent (even though I’m pretty sure none of them read my blog), and to also protect myself from prosecution.

Having a big mouth in those days, I was always spouting off on what I was going out to do that night. This was back in the days when Carol and I were dating and living together (GASP!!) but still not married. We were both prone to going out and having a good time whenever we could and since Carol’s work schedule often gave her days off in the middle of the week, we would often consume a few frosty beverages on those nights. On this particular night we were going to Slow Eddie’s (fake name) in Not-Alton, IL (fake city) to meet some friends for a few drinks. As I mentioned this at work, my boss kind of gave me a look as if to say “you’d better not be hungover tomorrow.” I assured them that we were only going for dinner and then were heading right back home. I would not be hungover.

Of course I wouldn’t be

Well, needless to say, the next morning came and I felt like poo-poo. I thought about calling in as it had been awhile since I last did that, but remembered the look my boss had given me the prior day and decided that I had better go in for better or for worse. I made it there on time, sat down, started working, started feeling bad, kept working, started yawning, and just kept feeling worse. It wasn’t the nausea as that has rarely been an issue when I am hungover, but the headache and the exhaustion were killing me. I needed to go home and it needed to be soon. I knew I would probably be in trouble, but I was accomplishing nothing while I was there, so why not? That’s when I hatched my plan.

Because I didn’t work at an airport, I definitely did not work in an old airplane hangar that had been converted into office space. If I did, however, I would guess that the walls would have been pretty thin. Given those non-facts, I made my way into the bathroom and closed the door to a stall that shared a wall with my office and where I knew I could be heard. I then proceeded to make noises as if I was vomiting into the toilet. It was very convincing. I added the cough and sniffles and everything else I could think of just for effect. I washed my face off, walked back into my office which I may or may not have shared with a guy named Rod (fake name) and said over the course of a longer conversation “man Rod, I feel fine, but I keep throwing up. I’ve been doing it since last night. We didn’t even make it to Slow Eddie’s because halfway up there I had to have Carol pull off to the side of the road so that I could throw up. We just went home after that.”

I then went back to my desk and repeated this process of going to the bathroom and “vomiting” about 3 more times over the next hour. The funny thing is, I was actually coming out of my hangover due to the excitement of my new project. The adrenaline had me going, but I was already this far in and I was not turning back. I was dedicated.

After my last trip to the bathroom, I came back with a very concerned look on my face. My boss was gone for the day but my supervisor was there and standing in my office.

Perfect.

“Marie (fake name),” I said, knowing that she was well aware of my frequent trips to the bathroom that morning, “I’ve got to go to the doctor. I’ve been throwing up all morning but this last time I was throwing up a little bit of blood.”

Marie gave me a look of disbelief but told me to do what I had to do. I went to my desk, called my doctor (who amazingly enough had the same phone number as my house) and made an appointment to go in and see him that afternoon. I left my office, told Marie that I would be back tomorrow, and left for the day.

I don’t remember if I did anything fun that day. I really don’t think that I did. In fact, I probably went home, played some playstation, took a nap, and that was about it. Whatever I did though was sure better than being at work. But I still had to come up with a reason that I was throwing up blood. I knew they thought that I was hungover (correct) and that I was faking the extent of my illness (also correct) so I really needed something good when I came back in. It was like that scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off where he said “This is my ninth sick day this semester. If I go for 10, I’m going to half to cough up a lung.” This was figuratively my 10th day.

On the way into work the next morning I still had nothing. Well, I had something, but I didn’t think anybody would believe it. It was outrageous and I would be immediately busted. As I walked in the front door I was a little freaked out because I had a long hallway I had to go down prior to reaching my office. Along that hallway was my bosses office and seeing as I didn’t have my excuse panned out yet, I was really hoping she wasn’t in there yet. Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I passed her office she saw me and called me in to ask what had happened yesterday. I still didn’t have anything good so I went with what I had been toying with. I was screwed.

“Oh my God Brandy (fake name),” I said with a scratchy voice “it’s so gross I don’t think I want to tell you”

“Well,” Brandy said “It better be good”

“OK, well, apparently (get ready for it) while sleeping or something one night, a bug crawled into my mouth and made a sort of nest in the back of my throat. I had noticed my throat being a little scratchy lately, but didn’t think much of it. Well, apparently through eating and swallowing and everything, I irritated it and whatever nest or eggs or whatever were in there broke open and started oozing into my stomach – hence the vomiting.”

She looked at me half disgusted and half in disbelief. I needed more. Details were key.

“Thankfully, the blood that I was throwing up wasn’t from my stomach lining, but instead was from where the nest had been and I was more or less just throwing up the blood that had already drained down there.”

She was totally buying it, so now I just needed to send it home

“They spent about 10 minutes scraping the rest off the back of my throat, gave me an antibiotic, and sent me home. All in all it was pretty gross.”

It was silent for a few seconds while she tried to figure out how to respond to that.

I waited.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” she finally said sounding very concerned.

VICTORY!!

I had won. I had pulled a story out of my ass, laid it on the ground in front of my boss for her to trample on, and had gotten away with it. I was fully expecting for her to call my bluff and reprimand me both for leaving work early and for coming in with a bullshit story, but she didn’t. In fact, I even worked another half day off out of it later that week for a follow-up visit with my “doctor.” I had won.

Sort of

One of the things that I didn’t count on with a story like that is its staying power. Not only was I required to repeat that story to my coworkers all day long, but I was also required by Rod to repeat it to any new hires that we had coming in for the next 3+ years. I actually got so good at repeating the story that not one person ever doubted me to my face. It was embarrassing after awhile because I realized I had become “bug boy”, but at the same time, it was awesome.

I look back at that story now, however, with a little bit of sadness. First of all, I feel bad that I took advantage of my coworkers. I also feel bad that I had gotten to such a point with sick days that it was necessary that I come up with such an asinine story. I was young, I was stupid, I was irresponsible. I get it. I don’t do that anymore since I’ve had Ben. Yes, I may take the occasional day off, but I do it so infrequently that it’s not even an issue. I respect my job, my responsibilities, and my co-workers too much to do that. Plus, I wouldn’t want to put myself in a situation where my job is in jeopardy. I guess you could say that I’ve grown up.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to a doctor’s appointment. Apparently my hair loss has spawned a massive sinus infection which has spread to my eyes which gives me the appearance of having been up all night at a stripclub. See ya later!!

An Open Letter to Joel McHale

Dear Mr. McHale (assuming that is in fact your real name)


Let me begin by introducing myself. My name is Scott Hopfinger and I was a big fan of both “The Soup” on E! and “Community” on NBC. To give you little background as to why my fandom has ceased, I will refer you to this link.
http://scottchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/05/damn-you-joel-mchale.html
At the end of that article, I had mentioned that I would continue to watch both of your shows because of your humor.

That was before you broke my heart.

At the beginning of the series “Community” you made your affection for Britta well known. I accepted that. I saw it as the premise of the show kind of like Sam and Diane and then Sam and Rebecca on Cheers. We all knew where it was headed and that you’d end up together in one way or another someday. But, like any cleverly written series, there had to be some sort of catalyst to get in the middle of the eventual proclamation of your feelings for one another – enter Slater. I was okay with this. And even though you had yet to consummate anything with Britta, I knew it would happen and had resigned myself to the fact that Mr. I-have-big-muscles-but-hide-them-behind-my-killer-smile-and-witty-sense-of-humor would now have slept with two of the hot women on the show.

I laughed that off.

I slowly began to turn against you during the episode where you were the master-debater (yes, Mr. McAHole, read into that what you will) and you had the audacity to kiss Annie. At that point, my friend, you had stepped over the line. I watched the episode and saw the debate - the kiss had to happen. I know that. There was no way you were going to beat those douchebags unless you really upped the stakes. But did you have to do something as equally as douchebagish (I’ll make up words if I damn well feel like it McHale) to win? I guess that’s just the way you operate.

At the same time, I was under the impression that it was in the heat of the moment. It was done out of necessity. The debate had to be won and there was no chance the two of you would ever kiss again. You had Britta and Slater to deal with and after a few more episodes, Annie had Vaughn (don’t even get me started on that guy). There would be no more tongue wrestling with you and my Annie.

Or so I thought.

It’s taken me a few days to fully process what I saw on the season finale of Community. At first I was shocked. Then I was mad. Now, I’m infuriated. Britta loves you. Sure, we knew that was going to happen. Slater wants you back also. Sure, we knew there had to be a wrench thrown in there. But Annie? Really? You can’t just be happy with the feminist and the slut teacher? You have to go after pure, sweet, innocent, virginal Annie also? I had said from the beginning that she was the true beauty on the show and I was thankful that at least you wouldn’t be getting your hands on her again. You, Mr. McHale, have failed me and are now on my list. It’s not a good list to be on.

It wasn’t enough that you had the other two women (and probably Chevy Chase if you wanted him) – you had to get one more? If there had to be one more, why couldn’t you have gone after Shirley? Is it because she’s black? On top of being a muscle-hiding-until-ANYONE-asks-me-to-take-my-shirt-off-jackass, are you also a racist? Should you start spelling your name Joel McKKKale? What other reason could it be? This, my friend, is just sad.

And to top it all off, you go on The Soup the next night and make no mention of Annie whatsoever? Does she mean nothing to you? Annie is a thoughtful, beautiful, naïve girl and you, sir, have taken advantage of her. You have taken her innocent heart and gulped it down like the ravenous, thoughtless, musclebound, sexy beast that you are. You should be ashamed of yourself. Plus, isn’t she supposed to be right out of high school? Aren’t you supposed to be in your early 30’s? You make me sick.

Just so you know, I will be forwarding a copy of this letter to both the executives at E! and NBC to advise them of my displeasure with you. I will also ask that they meet the following criteria. If they don’t I will also be forced to forward this letter to the President of the United States of America.

These are my demands

1) No more episodes where you, Joel McHale, are shown wearing anything but a snowsuit

2) I would like the entire last episode of season one rewritten to exclude the kiss between yourself and Annie.

3) If a third love-interest is required for you to add drama to the show, it must be Ryan Seacrest
4) I would like this episode to air on Sunday, July 4th 2010 as both a birthday present to my sister and as a lead-in to a nationally televised hour long fireworks show put on by the Army Corp of Engineers emanating out of my own back yard

5) I would like the entire cast of Community, including the lovely Allison Brie (Annie), to be my personal guests at said fireworks show

6) I would like you, Joel McHale, to be forced to serve Allison and I drinks all night in the 100 degree St. Louis heat wearing the abovementioned snow suit

7) I would like the producers at NBC to provide us with a catered meal from Bert’s Chuckwagon

8) I would like the producers at E! to take my wife on an all expenses paid trip to Europe so that I can be alone with Ms. Brie

9) I would like Chevy Chase to provide both a divorce lawyer and a minister for the night in the off chance that Ms. Brie is utterly smitten by me and must have me right then and there.

10) And lastly, I would like a job as a writer for Community so that I can personally ensure that something like this never happens again.

Joel, I hope you are now aware that there are consequences to your actions. I want us to be friends, but you just keep doing things to get in the way of that. In the future, please ask yourself the following question prior to making any decision involving either taking off your shirt or kissing any of your other “Community” cast mates: Would Scott Approve? That, my dear Mr. McHale, is a life lesson for you that you won’t learn in Community college.

Sincerely



Scott Hopfinger



P.S. Should any of my demands not be met, not only will I contact the President of the United States of America, but I’ll also donate my legs to Ryan Seacrest so that he can be as tall as, if not taller than, you. Say goodbye to your short jokes McHale. MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

I’ll be standing by for your response.

Gullible

This is a list of things that I’ve been gullible enough to believe in my life. Some have been proven untrue and some - I just know better by now. I’m sure many of my current beliefs will also be proven false as I have shown time and time again how gullible I really am.



Billy Corgan was the little dude from “Small Wonder”

Marilyn Manson was Paul from “The Wonder Years”

Athletes are role models

My epidermis was showing (it still is, but I was mortified at the time before I knew what it was)

Your first love is real love and it will last forever and ever

After the release of “Faith”, George Michael got all the ladies

Politicians really have the people’s best interests in mind

Organized religion is interested in saving souls

Next year is the Cubs year

“if you lay down on the ground I promise I will not fart on your face”

Playing the piano is for dorks

Playing in the band is for dorks

Being in theatre is for dorks

Being a dork keeps you from having friends

“one more beer” on Thursday won’t hurt on Friday

If I can eat whatever I want at 20 and not gain a pound, it will stay true for my entire life

Once the sparkler is extinguished, it is obviously not hot anymore

The Hooters waitress is flirting with me because she really does like me

Pro wrestling is real

Watching Pro Wrestling has prepared me for actual fights

There would always be ring ropes around for me to deliver a flying elbow from if the situation arose

Getting punched due to an inability to find ring ropes wouldn’t hurt much at all

High School was the greatest time of my life

College was the greatest time of my life

Henry Rollins was in Devo

“one more beer” on Friday won’t hurt on Saturday

Good guys always finish last

Problems not talked about just go away in time

These Beanie Babies are going to be worth a fortune!!

If I could just meet Debbie Gibson, I know she’d fall in love with me

“Seriously, why would I want to fart on your face again?”

Eating Pop Rocks while drinking a Coke will make your head explode (seriously, who didn’t try this?)

8 tracks will make the same comeback that vinyl has

Brittney Spears is a good, clean girl

I’m only attracted to good, clean girls

The only good songs on an album are the ones on the radio

The ability to drink a 12 pack of Bud Lite and not be hammered makes me a true drinker

Maturity is determined by age

You have to grow up

My parents have no clue what I’m up to

You need to make others look bad to make yourself look good

If I don’t wear Nike’s and ride a DYNO GT, nobody will like me

You have to take yourself seriously

What I do as a kid will not come back to haunt me as an adult

“Ask Tim how much his dad can bench press”

Believing Tim when he got mad and said his dad had no arms

Yoko broke up the Beatles

Just trying it once won’t hurt me
I could out-drink Jeff’s dad (technically I did, but we both lost)

Charm can get you through life

“you’re too smart to let me to fart on your face again. Go ahead and lie down. I swear I won’t do it again” (love and miss you G-Roy)

You can wait until next time to tell someone you love them

Joel McAHole is just one of us normal tall, skinny, funny guys

You can’t confuse a cop who’s pulled a U turn to follow you by winding through neighborhoods at 2:30 in the morning when you really shouldn’t be driving

Karma won’t catch up with you

“One more beer” on Saturday won’t hurt on Sunday

You can’t bullshit a bullshitter

The backseat of a car is a romantic place that really sets the mood

If I eat White Castle for dinner and am not “affected” by it that evening, it has obviously passed me by and I’ll be fine the next day

The “onions” on White Castle burgers are actually cabbage

Santa Claus isn’t real

Loving someone means that you have to also like them all of the time

Air Supply isn’t cool

The dumbest question is the one that isn’t asked


And finally,

If I start a blog, I’ll be discovered as a writer and they’ll move me and the family out to Hollywood so that I can write for sitcoms or for Conan O’Brien. (I’m almost a month in and still waiting. This is crap.)

Addicted to Grass

Once again, it’s raining and I have yet to mow my lawn. Luckily, Carol was off yesterday morning and was able to mow the front yard so that people driving by get the impression that I take good care of my lawn. My neighbors who can see the back yard, however, they know differently. It’s not that I don’t want to get out there and mow the lawn, but the weather, mine and Carol’s schedule, and my laziness always seem to throw a wrench into my plans. I always have big plans for my yard and what I’m going to do, but then spring passes, it gets too hot, and nothing gets done. I go through this every year and I don’t know why I let it get to me, but it still does. Actually, I think I do know why.

It all has to do with my father.

For anyone that has ever visited either my parent’s old house in Belleville or the new one in Millstadt, you know one thing – the lawn is perfect. There is not a weed to be found. There is not a crooked line from the lawn mower wheels. There is not a single flower, bush, tree, rock, piece of mulch, leaf, or anything out of place. It’s as if you could take the cover photo for Better Homes and Gardens right there for every single issue. It is the most beautiful, well manicured, and well maintained lawn you will ever find from a man who works full time. Scratch that. It’s the best you’ll ever find.

You see, my father is a lawn artist. In fact, let’s make up a new word and call him a lawntist. Of course, I’m not so sure that the new word will be able to catch on and be applied anywhere else as I’m pretty sure that he’s the only person who does what he does – without getting paid for it. I am actually partially convinced that one of the reasons my father agreed to move to Millstadt from his home in Belleville is that his lawn canvas had been filled and he was looking forward to a new one. He was a master lawntist who after 30+ years at his old house had perfected his craft and was now moving into a new studio to apply all that he had learned to his new surroundings.

And he did it beautifully.

As to be expected, after roughly 3 years at my parent’s new home, my father has transformed what was a very nice lawn and garden setup into another Dennis Hopfinger masterpiece. The flowers never wilt and are changed out with every season. There is not a single blade of grass that is shorter or taller than the other and every blade is greener than the next. The bushes and trees are all well manicured and standing as straight or laying as flat as they are supposed to do. Actually, they are beyond what they are supposed to be. It’s as if my father’s lawn is his army unit and he is the drill sergeant. He commands them to stand up straight and tall, to be clean shaven with freshly pressed uniforms and perfectly shined shoes, and to be all that they can be.

And they listen to him.

I am so proud of my father’s lawn and the pride he takes in it. It makes me even prouder when I run into someone who knows my father or lives in or around his neighborhood and they mention to me how great his lawn always looks. I also know that it makes him ecstatic to hear that as well. I vaguely remember a contest that the old Belleville Journal had to vote on the best lawn in Belleville. I remember going to the principal’s office during one of the days of voting (I may have been there for some minor infraction already, but I was planning on going there regardless) and calling to vote at least 20 times in the hopes that he would win. For some reason though, when the results were posted it showed that my father only got something like 7 votes. I was ticked. I don’t remember how many votes the winner got, but Dad took it in stride and claimed that the guy who won actually had a really nice lawn. I know deep down he would have loved to win, but he didn’t let it get him down. In fact, I think after that he may have even pushed his soldiers a little harder. Thanks for that lesson in life Dad. It was one of many.

That brings me back to my lawn. I keep hearing from various relatives that I’ll get the lawn bug and I too will be out there one day ordering my soldiers to attention. I used to be told that my grandfather had the bug and that my dad got it from him. Lucky for me, Dad dispelled that rumor a few weeks ago when he said that my Grandpa was never as into his lawn as my Dad is into his. That took a lot of pressure away as I thought that maybe I got some sort of recessive lawn gene and I would be a disappointment to the family. I was scared that I might be lawntarded. Either way, whatever it is that my grandpa may have had and my dad has in spades, I just don’t have it.

I try to keep my lawn looking nice. I do. I make sure to cut the grass in a different direction every time to avoid something that I was told that it would do if I didn’t. I plant flowers and bushes in my yard, even though for the longest time, I got my definitions of annuals and perennials mixed up and was always buying the wrong thing and getting confused when some would grow back and others wouldn’t. I use the weed whacker whenever I don’t flood it and end up getting mad and throwing it because it won’t start. I even have mulch, even though most of it has dried out or is completely missing in some places. Of course, most of the yard projects and reasons that my yard looks nice at all are all Carol’s idea and are usually partially completed with Dad’s assistance. I’ve discovered that I’m just there to maintain them after they’re completed. Even so, I’m the one out there (every two weeks or right before the family comes over) sweating my bottom off trying to keep it looking somewhat nice.

As a sidestory, we had Ben’s 3rd birthday party at our house a few weeks ago. That morning, I was so determined to make my lawn look presentable that I cut the front yard twice (once in each direction – diagonally!) and the backyard three times so that there was not a random blade of grass anywhere. I still hadn’t planted any flowers in our empty beds and outside of the grass itself, my yard was a wreck. Either way, when Dad got there one of the first things he said to me meant more to me at that point in time than anything he could have said.

“The yard looks nice.”

Dad, whether you were just trying to make me feel better or you actually mean it, those words meant the world to me. Maybe I will get the bug someday. Maybe once Ben is older and I can trust him to be inside by himself, playing outside away from me, or even helping me out, maybe then I can take the next step in my journey to be a lawntist. I doubt I can ever achieve that status as I think it may be reserved for only one man, but I’ll try. I mean, I’m only 33 years old. I’ve got time.

It’s not like Luke learned the force in one day.

Choices

On May 21, 2005 I married Carol Quigley. The following post is what I wrote to be included in our wedding program that day. I find it fitting today to share this with those of you who read this and to use this opportunity to remind her how lucky I still feel.

Choices

In the summer of 1995, two strangers made the choice to attend Southern Illinois University of Edwardsville. Those same two strangers also made the choice to join a “Learning Community” that was designed to accommodate college freshman to University life by integrating three classes with the same themes. It was in that community that Scott Hopfinger met Carol Quigley and they chose to be friends.

At the end of that school year, Carol chose to leave SIUE and attend Illinois State University, while Scott chose to stay at Edwardsville. Difficult as it was, they both chose not to express their true feelings about one another and they each went their separate ways without so much as a kiss goodbye.

In the ensuing six years, they each made choices that took their lives in many different directions. Carol chose to move to cities like Normal, Bloomington, and Champaign, to pursue employment and to stay close to her family. Scott chose to stay close to Belleville and finish his degree in English, only to take a job at a payroll company in Missouri with no experience required.

In 2002, Carol chose to move to Shiloh, IL with her sister, brother-in-law, and their two children to work as a loan processor for her brother-in-law’s business. That business that Carol worked for chose to use the same payroll company that Scott happened to be working for. One day in October of that year, Scott chose to pay attention to his work and saw the name Carol Quigley on some forms that he was processing. After determining that it was the same Carol Quigley he remembered, Scott chose to call her and ask her to meet him at his softball game so that they could catch up on the past six years. Without knowing what she was getting into, Carol chose to meet Scott that night. She also chose to meet him the next night, and many times thereafter. In the ensuing months, they fell in love.

Today Carol and I choose to spend the rest of our lives together and we are honored that you chose to celebrate this day with us. We would like to thank you all for being here and for supporting us in every choice that we’ve had to make along our long journey. I’m not quite sure which choice I made that led me to Carol, or if any of this was even a choice at all. Some things are just meant to be. I just know that today she has chosen to make me the luckiest man in the world. It was definitely worth the wait.

Since that day, Carol has made other choices. She has chosen to buy a house with me and turn it into our home. She has chosen to give me the most beautiful child and family that I could ever ask for. She has also chosen to remain my wife and be the best friend that I have ever had. I love you Carol and I hope that this first five years is only the beginning of a lifelong journey that we will choose each day to spend with each other. Thank you for everything that you do. You truly are the most wonderful and amazing woman I have ever met.

Happy Anniversay

I love you

P.S. Carol, this counts as your card : )

The Cheegle Incident

There have been many mornings in my life where I have regretted the night before. Since I’ve gotten married and had a child, those nights have definitely decreased significantly, but unfortunately, they do still exist. In fact, I think that due to the diminishing party lifestyle that I sort of once had, my mornings after a night out now seem worse because my body isn’t used to it. That’s good and bad. Never in my life, however, have I been as revolted and ashamed as much as I was after one night my freshman year in college. It was my first actual, real drunk and as a result, my first actual, real hangover. It was, and forever will be known as:

The Cheegle Incident

The day started off innocently enough. It was a Saturday and my first semester roommate Jim had gotten in late the night before. I had a girlfriend at the time and spent a lot of evenings at her house before coming back to the residence hall at a reasonable hour and going to bed. Jim, however, would stay out partying until 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning and would require an entire morning and sometimes an early afternoon to sleep it off. That was not a problem as I was fairly quiet, read a lot, and he could sleep through any noise that I might make.

When I woke up around 9:00, I was a little hungry. Being college freshman, there was never any food of substance in our room, but there was always junk food. I could have walked to the cafeteria, but it was far away and up a big hill and my lazy bottom just wasn’t going to take on that task this early in the day. My only other option was to scour our practically bare food shelf and see what we had. Jim always liked chili and would eat it like it was going out of style, so there was always plenty of that. Of course, he would also leave half eaten bowls of chili around the room which not only looked disgusting, but gave the room a really nice aroma as well. Had he ever been awake at the same time as me, I might have said something to him. I, on the other hand, wasn’t a big fan of chili so that was not an option.

The only other things on the shelf were a couple packets of Snack Pack chocolate pudding and a bag of Cheegles. For those not familiar with Cheegles, they were the Eagle brand version of Cheese Puffs. They tasted exactly the same, but were sold at the campus “grocery store” and I could buy them with my food card. I figured that the chocolate pudding would be a good breakfast and then I’d make my way to the cafeteria later for lunch. Two snack packs and a few television shows later (with Jim still sleeping on the top bunk), I was still hungry. I still didn’t feel like walking to the cafeteria so I grabbed the bag of Cheegles and proceeded to eat a few as I watched Clerks for the umpteenth time that semester.

When Clerks was over, I looked down and noticed that I had eaten the entire bag of Cheegles. Like I’ve said before, in those days I couldn’t gain a pound to save my life so it wasn’t as if something like eating an entire bag of chips was that uncommon, I just wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t hungry anymore, Jim was still sleeping (around 2:00 pm at this point), and I had some homework to do so I headed to the computer lab thinking that I’d go to the cafeteria later for dinner.

The next series of events are kind of sketchy as I don’t recall exactly how it all went down, so I’ll summarize. I got back from the computer lab, Jim was awake and gone (but not showered – the dude rarely bathed but his hair never moved either. It was the oddest thing), and somewhere along the way, I was approached by a friend who said they were having beers in their room that night and asked if I wanted them to pick anything up for me.

Somehow, I decided upon Red Dog.

I’m not sure if I’d ever had Red Dog at that point in my life, but even if I did I certainly hadn’t imbibed enough to get drunk. I was a pretty good boy at that time in my life and even agreeing to go to a beer party in someone’s room IN THE DORM was a big move. So, I handed over $10 and waited for the call that the beer was there and the party was starting.

Eventually, after showering and straightening up the room a little, I got the call and made my way upstairs. Jim still wasn’t in the room but he must’ve stopped back by because he had eaten a bowl of chili prior to his departure. I know that because there was a half eaten bowl in his bed. I know that because the room stunk to high heaven and I had to sniff out the source like a hound dog. This dude was a slob.

When I got up to the second floor room for the party, I found a nice gathering of friends I’d made from a learning community that I had joined that year. I don’t remember if we played games or if we just sat around and talked, but I’m pretty sure that I managed to polish off most of that 12 pack of Red Dog. I didn’t like how it tasted, but I was a bad ass and I was drinking beer at the age of 18 in a dorm room where alcohol was prohibited. I was going to drink as much as I could.

I remember leaving the party. I’m not sure what time it was, but I do remember that the walk down the stairs and back to my room was pretty uneventful and I didn’t even remember feeling drunk. Jim wasn’t there when I got to the room but the bowl of chili had been removed from his bed and was now sitting in the bathroom sink – still half full of chili. I remembered at that point that I never made it to the cafeteria for dinner and laughed to myself that I’d only eaten two snack packs and an entire bag of Cheegles that day. I moved it to the side, washed up, and went to bed.

Here’s where it gets ugly.

Have you ever had one of those dreams where something seems so real, yet you know it’s a dream so you just let it take its course to see where it might go? Well, I had a dream that sometime after I went to bed, I woke up and was projectile vomiting everywhere. I was sure it was a dream because I certainly didn’t feel like myself (shit-faced) and there is no way that I would projectile vomit all over my room. I don’t do that.

Well…

A little while later I woke up feeling like absolute hell. In fact, I think being in hell might have been a better thing than the way I was feeling. My head was pounding, my eyes were burning, and for some reason, I couldn’t lift my head off of my pillow. Also, something in the room stunk and was making me nauseous. I looked around and realized that I had not, in fact, been dreaming but instead had managed to throw up all over my bed, my pillow, and myself. It was absolutely disgusting and made we want to vomit again.

I somehow peeled my head off of my pillow, stumbled to the bathroom, made my way into the stall, and puked again. And again. And again. Now normally when I puke from alcohol, I feel a little better afterwards. Not me. I felt worse. In fact, I felt so bad and was still so drunk that I went to the only place that I knew would make me feel better - my vomit covered bed. I laid down in the gunk, put my puke covered head right back on that puke covered pillow and went right back to sleep.

Then came the morning

When I woke up the next morning, I only had a vague recollection of the prior nights events. I knew I had thrown up, I knew that there would be a mess to clean up, and by the smell I knew I would need to take a shower asap. What I saw when I opened my eyes, however, let me know exactly how bad it was and how I was going to spend my day.

As I opened my eyes, I was blinded both by the sting of the smell of the vomit and by the sight that unfolded before me. If you were to have drawn a circle around me out 5 feet in every direction, you could pretty much be certain that everything within that circle was now covered in stinky, hardening, cheegle-colored birght orange puke. I had never seen vomit this color before in my life. Imagine your fingers after eating a few cheese puffs and now take that color, add some beer and stomach lining, and spray it around your room. It was almost glowing. It was on my bed, my covers, my pillow, me, my nightstand, the wall, the carpet, Jim’s nightstand, the lawn donkey that Jim had stolen as a prank earlier in the semester, everything. And it was drying quickly. And it stunk.

For the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, I spent my time washing my bedding (twice), wiping down my bed, my nightstand, the wall, the carpet, Jim’s nightstand, and the lawn donkey (who did NOT look amused) all while making trips to the bathroom every so often to heave once again. I was able to clean most of it up, but the orange on the wall would not come off. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more, but it was not going to come off. I moved out of that room after first semester, but I’m pretty sure that Jim got stuck with owing part of his security deposit due to them having to repaint the room. It was that bad

I felt absolutely horrible and after many hours of cleaning and then finally getting to shower (I wasn’t going to shower and THEN clean up puke all day), I was finally able to lay back down in my now clean bed and attempt to sleep off what was left of my substantial hangover. It was at this point that Jim finally woke up. He groaned, yawned, stretched, and made the first attempt at conversation we’d had in over a week. “Dude,” he asked, “what is that smell?”

I responded the only way I saw fit “It’s probably your freaking chili, jackass.”

I also didn't say "freaking"

Body of Evi-dunce

So, once again, I’ve quit the gym. I knew it would happen. There may have been a shred of doubt as to the inevitable outcome when I first started going, but in the back of my mind, I knew it would end this way. To quote Princess Leia after Luke told her that he’d found one he was her brother, even though she had already tongue kissed him prior to him knowing that he was her brother – “I’ve always known.” Gross.

Anyway.

This recent attempt at personal health started in February when I went to the gym during lunch with two girls in my office. They had been going almost every day for awhile and kept mentioning that I should go. They weren’t screaming “hey fatty, let’s burn those pounds down to the ground” or anything, but they put it out there that I may like it and that I was welcome to come with them if I wished.

I didn’t want to go for various reasons: 1) I’m pretty lazy at times 2) I hate the gym atmosphere with the grunting and the nakedness (yes, I’m still talking about the gym here) and the muscle bound dudes who make me feel out of place while I’m lifting my 15 pound dumbbells, and 3) I lose interest in things reeeeeeally easily. They quickly dispelled the first two by telling me that working out at lunch is great because you don’t have to wake up any earlier in the morning (bonus) and you don’t have to give up your evening either (double bonus). They also mentioned that there were mostly girls at this gym and there were no professional weight lifters there either. I told them that since I’d get a free week’s membership to try it out, I’d give it a go.

When I got there, I was amazed. It wasn’t like the Y or Gold’s gym, but instead was located in an office building and it was quaint. I looked out at the free weights and didn’t see anybody I would be intimidated working out in front of. In fact, I didn’t see anybody at all. I would, for the most part, have all of the free weights and machines to myself. Now this was a gym I could get into.

I did what I considered a workout, wiped the one drop of sweat that had formed off of my forehead and went back into the locker room to change back into my work clothes. This was awesome. I was pumped. I went out that night and bought a new bag and new workout pants. When I got home, I got online and looked for different workout routines that would give me the best 30 minute workout I could get. When I found one that didn’t involve any running (or at least one that I could easily ignore the running), I was so excited that I went outside and had a beer and a cigarette to celebrate. I was going to get in shape.

I started off going almost every day during my lunch hour and doing the workout I had found online. I was excited about it and even started eating healthier to the point where I became very annoying to Carol who had been trying all along to get me to eat better anyway. At the end of the first month, I got measured as I had been when I first joined the gym. The owner of the gym measured my chest, forearms, biceps, stomach, hips, thighs, calves, and weighed me.

No change.

Actually, I take that back. There was change. My legs had increased in size, and my forearms had increased to the point where they were now as big as my biceps. I also lost ½ of a pound. One month of going almost every day and this was what I got. Disappointment set in. As I pondered all of this over another beer and cigarette, I decided maybe I was doing this all wrong. Maybe I was working out the wrong way and should try a different routine. I got online again and found a new workout that was focused on building muscle rather than just toning it. Here we go. Round 2. I can do this.

After the second month of going probably three days a week (see the days dwindling already?), I got measured again. I just knew there would be a dramatic change this time around. I felt huge, healthy(ish) and started sticking my chest out whenever I walked around. I was in shape. And this time, thankfully, there was a good deal of change in my measurements. My biceps had gotten bigger, my stomach and hips had gone down, and my chest had increased by half an inch. You’d have thought that I had just won the Mr Universe competition the way I was now ridiculously flexing at every mirror I passed. To celebrate, I ate a lot of junk food, drank some beer, and took a couple of days off from the gym.

Those few days off were nice.

Over the past month since then, the days at the gym have dwindled. I’ve blamed it on being tired and other various BS excuses, but the fact is, I saw some improvement, was satisfied with that, and just got bored. I get bored easily. I was going to keep going to the gym when I felt like it and maybe the desire would come back, but it wasn’t coming back. I knew it wouldn’t because I know me. On top of that, it was time for my 3 month membership renewal. Rather than think of reasons to maintain the membership, I began thinking of every possible reason/excuse to not renew – this blog ended up being the main one.

You see, I have a new hobby now. I have a new passion. I love writing this blog and the opportunity it provides me to continue writing – something that I really missed doing. I never know when inspiration is going to hit, but it seems that it’s been happening right about 11:30 a.m., which is when I should be leaving for the gym. I’m not saying that my gym days are over forever, but for now I’ve made the decision to cancel my membership and just focus on writing this blog and utilizing the two games we have for the Wii at our house that will allow me to maintain the healthier lifestyle that I’ve been working on. I may never have the great body that I want my wife to salivate over, but at least I now have the benefit of being able to pause the Wii workouts at any time if I need to step outside for a smoke break.

You win this round McHale.

Sleeping with the Mermaid

For some reason, I was under the impression that all toddlers fall asleep in random places, and there’s nothing I want more from Ben. Once Ben was mobile, I was expecting that we’d find him all curled up with one of his numerous stuffed animals in random places throughout the house. Not that we don’t watch him, but our house is small and fairly childproof, so we do give him free reign more often than not. Like I said, I don’t know why I thought that, but I’ve always looked forward to one day finding him in his closet fast asleep in that “I’m too tired to move any further, so I just curled up right here” sleeping position. I liken to it to my buddy Chris having that 1:00 am “I’ve had way too much fun to move any further, so I’m just going to take a quick nap on this couch” sleeping position from this past New Years Eve, but I’m pretty sure that’s a little different - and a ton less cute.

I’ve almost gotten my wish a few times recently. Like all kids, Ben is a sucker to fall asleep in his car seat during a drive of any significant distance or after any amount of time spent outdoors in the fresh air. If we’re headed home, I usually try to keep him awake (usually by singing very loudly along with whatever song may be on the radio at the time) with the hopes that he’ll take a nap once we get there, but he usually ends up not napping at all. After fighting it for an hour or so, I’ll open his bedroom door to absolve him of his napping requirements. Then he will usually grab his blanket and his pillow and set up shop on his zebra print chair. After having gone through that process, I’ve caught him a few times on this chair with his eyelids getting heavy and that far away look in his eyes. No matter how quiet I try to be or how much I assure him that it’s okay if he wants to close his eyes, he has yet to fall asleep.

I don’t know why I want this so bad, but I do. There’s just something about looking into a room and seeing the cutest little guy ever fast asleep. He just looks so peaceful. Yes, I see him asleep in his bed all of the time, but that’s expected. I just really want to see the “I’ve been playing hard all day and even though I won’t admit to anyone, I’m tired as all get out and I’ve got to sleep right now” look.

Last night I got my wish.

Ben and I had been home all day cleaning house, watching TV and playing hard. Now, when I say we were playing hard, that usually means that he is using me as his personal jungle gym and the only way I can keep him from crawling all over me is to pick him up by his legs, arms, and/or both and throw him (carefully) around the living room onto various pieces of furniture. For some reason (possibly because of the numerous times I’ve accidentally hit his head on things) this tires him out completely. JUST KIDDING! Geez! No matter how many times I’ve hit his head he’s NEVER tired afterwards. Again, kidding. He doesn’t hit his head (near as often as he used to) anymore.

Anyway, by the time Carol got home from work, it was about an hour before his bedtime and we were all tired out from the day. As usual, once Carol got home Ben attacked her and wanted to hug her and kiss her and play with her in his room. After going through this process with him, Carol sat down next to me on the couch to eat her dinner while Ben was watching The Little Mermaid on his TV in the other room. (Actually, any TV in the house is his TV if he wants it – we’re usually left with whatever is left. Yes, he’s 3. He owns us.) We were watching the Survivor finale when we looked up again at the clock and realized it was time to put the boy to bed.

As per usual, Ben was being very quiet around his bedtime thinking that if he doesn’t make a sound, maybe we’ll forget about putting him to sleep. We called to him from the other room that it was time to go and brush his teeth so he needed to turn his TV off. No response. We called him again.

Nothing.

I got up first to go and check on him and what I saw was adorable. I asked Carol to quietly come over and take a look at what I was looking at. When she got near me, what she was Ben, in his adult sized zebra print chair with his too small Spongebob Squarepants PJs on, comfortably seated with his arm on the armrest and his head nestled into his elbow fast asleep. I wish we would have taken a picture, but he was so stinking cute we just had to pick him up. Carol picked him up, we tucked him in, and left his room so he could sleep for the night.

I love getting what I want.

The Vault

I was never a huge fan of Seinfeld, but I do remember a lot about the show. First and foremost, there was “the contest.” Then there were the close talker, the Keith Hernandez episodes, the parking lot, Putty, and so on and so forth. The reason I bring up Seinfeld, however, is not to discuss the effects that the show had on society. It’s not to discuss the awful final episode. It’s not even to discuss Jerry Seinfeld’s latest foray into primetime television with the almost unwatchable “The Marriage Ref” (seriously, have you seen this? It’s horrible. I could write a better TV show for a fraction of the money.). No the reason I brought up Seinfeld was for one thing:

The vault

The Jerry Seinfeld Dictionary of Terms and Phrases (oh yes, there is one. You can literally find ANYTHING on the internet) defines Putting Something in The Vault as: promising someone to keep something a secret.

I’m a fairly trustworthy person. I try not to lie. I don’t steal. I don’t cheat. In fact, I rarely get caught doing much of anything wrong. With a few minor exceptions, I’m a pretty straight and narrow type guy. I think that’s why people confide in me and allow me to put things in my vault. I think that’s why they trust me with anything from the latest trivial gossip to their deepest, darkest secrets. I appreciate the trust that people have put in me and I do my damndest to live up to the high expectations they have put upon my vault. I’ve kept so many secrets that I can’t even remember who’s secrets I’ve kept and what they are even about. Occasionally when out with someone, I will remember a secret that they’ve told me and giggle to myself because a: it’s usually pretty juicy, and b: I realize that I have ammo against them. Not that I would ever use it, but it’s there just in case.

“But Scott,” you say, “what’s funny about that? That’s awesome, people can trust you and you can keep a secret. Great freaking article. Thanks for wasting my time.”

There, my friends, is where you’re wrong.

Much like Elaine, I too have an unfortunate key to my vault. And although it’s not directly related to Schnapps, it does involve alcohol. Any alcohol. Any amount of alcohol whatsoever. If I so much as have half of a beer, I start talking. For those that hang out with me, you’ll know that unless I’m making a wise crack about something, my conversational skills are fairly limited. I’m convinced that nobody wants to hear my boring stories or listen to anything going on in my life. Like I said before, I pretty much fly the straight and narrow so most of my stories are pretty dull anyway. But once I get a few drinks in me, I want to talk. Since at that point I’m still convinced that my stories are dull, I realize that I have something else at my disposal. IOther people’s stories. Juicy stories. Stories that would be interesting if I told them and that would make me look cool for knowing them. Stories that always end up biting me on the ass because once again, I’ve opened my big mouth.

It’s nothing intentional and I mean no harm by it. In fact, I will rarely spill someone else’s story on someone who doesn’t have a vested interest in the person whom I am speaking of. I like to convince myself that I’m not gossiping, but instead spreading information for the good of the person with whom the story is about. I guess you could call me a mediator of sorts.

I guess you could call me a jackaass.

I wish I didn’t have this diarrhea of the mouth. I wish I could be given information on a confidential basis and keep it that way. I wish I didn’t have to show off that I know something that you don’t – it just happens that way when I get a few drinks in me. Once again, I keep the very important things to myself. I never share anything that would hurt someone. But it’s the little things that I find hard to keep inside. For instance, if you were drunk one night and used the potted plant in the corner of your room as a toilet, people are going to hear about it. If you slept with someone who you normally wouldn’t be caught dead with just because you were lonely, people are going to hear about it. And, if you tell me about some weird rash or burning sensation that you have as a result of sleeping with the abovementioned person, people are DEFINITELY going to hear about it.

Unfortunately, however, this is the cross that I bear. I am considered trustworthy and a good listener yet I know that I am only as trustworthy as the next bottle of Stag will allow me to be. I won’t stop people from confiding in me as I really, really want to be a good friend and a keeper of the vault. But, alas, it never seems to work out that way. My vault is easily opened.

So, for those out there that place your trust in me, although I’ve offered you no reason here, please continue to do so. Your deep dark secrets are safe with me. Please know that I always have your best interests at heart and if a little alcohol makes some of your secrets come out of me, then they probably weren’t important enough to be a secret anyway. And for those of you who still want to tell me your secrets, I promise to offer you my vault, but be aware that there is a key somewhere and people know where to find it.

On second thought, don’t tell me anything. We’ll stay friends a lot longer that way.