King of my Castle

Due to my extreme case of heartburn this morning and my awareness of exactly what caused it, I decided to pen this little ditty.

Sung to the tune of the Gambler


On a warm summers evening, In a car bound for nowhere
I passed a White Castle, but I was just too tired to eat
Then my mouth started droolin’ out the window at the building
The hunger overtook me, I pulled a u turn in the street

The voice in the box said, “Welcome to White Castle”
I said give me ten cheeseburgers, a large coke and some fries
He said “if you don’t mind me saying, I can tell you’ve been out drinking
For a dollar and a penny more, I’ll give you some advice”

Pulled up and gave him my Visa, and he ran it through the reader
Gave me back my receipt, put some napkins in my bag
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression
Said, “if you’re gonna eat White Castle, tomorrow’s gonna be bad

So you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, but if you can’t hold ‘em
Know when to walk away, and know when to run
You never trust your belly, when you’ve eaten at White Castle
They’ll be time enough for gambling, after you’ve had some Tums

Now every drinker knows the secret to surviving,
Is knowing when to call it quits and grab something to eat
And though Denny’s tastes really good, Denny’s is for losers
And the best you can hope for is a 20 minute wait to seat

So when he’d finished speaking, he went back inside the window,
Grabbed my food and my drink, then handed it to me
Then early that next morning, The White Castle it got even
But in my medicine cabinet I found some possible relief.

But you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, but if you can’t hold ‘em
Know when to walk away, and know when to run
You never trust your belly, when you’ve eaten at White Castle
They’ll be time enough for gambling, after you’ve had some Tums


Wierd Al would pay me a fortune for this.

Thanks for reading

A puzzling problem

I love that Ben is walking/talking/playing/growing and doing all of the things that a normal 3 year old can and should do. I love that he’s creative and is capable of playing by himself while using his imagination. I also love that he can look at things and know enough to ask questions as to why something is one way or another. I think that Carol and I are going to have a really smart kid on our hands (which really makes me question his paternity, but that’s another story). One thing that he has really gotten into ever since he started playing with them is puzzles. He is really good at them and even his teachers have commented on his ability to do puzzles beyond his age group. That makes us ecstatic.

To a point

For as long as I can remember, Ben has also been addicted to Toy Story, or as he calls it, Toy Towry Tree. It doesn’t matter if it’s the first or second installment of the movie, any and all things related to Toy Story are referred to as Toy Towry Tree. He will call the characters by name such as Buzz, Woody, Boozeye (Bullseye), Mr Doodoo Head (Mr Potato Head – no I did NOT teach him that) and so on, but for the most part, it’s all Toy Towry Tree. I am also fine with that as the movies are really entertaining and are definitely suitable for his age group. The problem came when the two worlds of puzzles and TS3combined.

About a week before the TS3 opened, one of Carol’s employees was kind enough to bring in a puzzle she had received at the Shriner’s Parade. She was aware of Ben’s addiction and thought that while she would make Ben happy, she may also get a couple of brownie points with the boss (maybe not, but I’d definitely make fun of her for it if I worked with her). As soon as Carol brought it home Ben was in love with it. It actually came in two parts – the first part was the actual puzzle itself and the second part was a picture of what the puzzle is supposed to look like when completed. The good news about 3 year olds is that it was pretty much the equivalent of two separate gifts. At first, he’d just as soon carry the picture around as he would make the puzzle.

That is until about a week ago.

Once we went and saw the movie, he acquired a horrible infatuation with this puzzle. The puzzle is roughly 80 pieces so it is a little out of range for a 3 year old. I’m sure that if I left him alone for an hour or so that he could do it, but I also know that he’s 3 and unless it’s Buzz and Woody on a television or movie theatre screen, there is no chance he’ll be focusing on anything for an hour straight. That’s where Mom and Dad come in.

I stopped counting how many times a day he asks us to help him with his puzzle. I never mind playing with him (except for when we play with blocks and he knocks my towers down) and I really don’t mind doing puzzles. This puzzle, however, takes a while to make. It’s not that it’s a difficult puzzle, but there are two or three pieces missing, Ben has a habit of sitting on the remaining pieces, taking apart sections that you have already completed, and once the puzzle is completed, asking me so sweetly to do it again. And again. And again.


The infatuation with this puzzle is so strong that yesterday morning Ben let Carol know that he was ready to wake up by knocking at his bedroom door. Normally when we open the door we are greeted by a cute little boy rubbing his eyes due to the bright lights and saying “Good morning Mommy/Daddy.” Yesterday, however, when Carol opened the door he was standing there holding one of the missing puzzle pieces. He quickly brushed past Carol (no “good morning” or anything), went to the living room, and placed the missing piece exactly where it belonged as if he had been contemplating it all night.

Once Carol told me this story, I knew I was in trouble that night. On Mondays, I like to go home and relax on the couch because Monday is one of my busier days. It’s the first day back after the weekend and usually requires a bit more rehabilitation time than the other days of the week. As a result, if Carol is working that night I’ll get home, cook some dinner for Ben and I, give him a bath, and then put on a movie for him while I relax in the other room. This day, however, I just knew that I would not be able to relax because he would want to do the puzzle over and over and over again. That’s when I did something that I was immediately ashamed of but did it anyway.

I hid the puzzle under the rug.

When we first got home Ben had to use the bathroom. I took that chance to put my plan into action and went to the living room where I slid the puzzle underneath the area rug. After washing his hands, he immediately went looking for the puzzle and, of course, couldn’t find it. He came to me and asked me where it was and I, playing stupid, asked him where he left it. He looked a little confused, but went to his room in search of where he might have left it. I felt like crap, but it’s a feeling I’m used to so I brushed it off and went about making his dinner.

After dinner we skipped the bath and he immediately went looking for the puzzle again. It was my intention that if he couldn’t find the puzzle right away, maybe he might just forget about it and play with some other toys. I would even have been fine with making the Spongebob puzzle as it has much bigger pieces and takes a fraction of the time to put together. Unfortunately, not only did he not find the puzzle, he began carrying around the picture of what the puzzle was supposed to look like as if it were a map leading him to his treasure. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I called him into the living room and asked him where he last remembered seeing the puzzle. As he pointed to the ground, I lifted up the area rug which I had previously swept the puzzle under, and exposed what he had been looking for. His eyes looked upon me with such a gaze of admiration and wonder that I felt like the hero that I was. Then, reality sank in and I immediately felt like the ass that I was for hiding it in the first place. To compensate for my cruelty, I asked him if he’d like to make the puzzle. His answer: “No, I watch Dora.”

So, I put on Dora the Explorer, went into the other room, and got my relaxation. Somehow, though, I didn’t feel settled. He had no idea what I had done, but I did. About 10 minutes before he had to get ready for bed, I went into the living room and sat down to make his puzzle. Not 15 seconds had passed before he was down there putting the puzzle together with me. As we put the puzzle together we began singing the silly songs that we usually sing. The songs can range anywhere from Ben being a big boy to how much Daddy likes making puzzles with Ben. I began to feel much better about my indiscretion and was starting to think that maybe I wasn’t such a bad father after all. Heck, Ben was in awe of me for both finding his puzzle AND for being the best puzzle maker in the whole world. To celebrate our fun, I began singing about how Ben was my best friend. Then, Ben took over the song and sang about his best friend.

It was Kaitlin – his teacher at school.

Serves me right.

Thanks for reading.

Drum sticking it to ya!

Well, I played with Crunk Whitey again this weekend. We weren’t great but we didn’t suck either. I know that in my two part series “the rise…” and “… and the fall of Crunk Whitey” I claimed to have quit the band. And the truth is, I did. I have no idea how I got suckered into playing this gig, but there I was Saturday night, sticks in hand, playing 7 songs with my boys and having a great time. Well not really.

Let’s back up a bit.

About a month ago, Carol and I celebrated our 5 year wedding anniversary with a day at Hidden Lake Winery in Aviston, IL. We invited a bunch of friends and family and had a great time. Among the guests (actually, the first one there) was our friend Amber. We hadn’t seen Amber in a while so we got to catching up and chatting over glasses of wine. As the day went on and more guests showed up, more wine was consumed and people started getting a little looser with their talk. Apparently, during the course of this loose talk, it was brought up to Chris and/or Dan that Crunk Whitey should make an appearance at Amber and our other friend Angie’s upcoming dual 30th birthday celebration.

Now, having quit the band months prior, I had no say in whether Crunk Whitey accepted the gig or not. If they accepted it and wanted to play, that’s great. I would love to see them play from the other side of the stage. The problem came when I was consulted about this and chose to be Aretha Franklin in the backseat of a hot car on a warm summer’s day (Snickers commercial reference). Having quit the band and knowing how they DESPERATELY needed my guidance and skills, I made the claim that I would play the gig (even though I should have held out for a separate dressing trailer and a cash advance of about $5k) but only if something as silly as practice didn’t get in the way. I was willing to take the glory of the gig, but not willing to put any effort into it whatsoever. I can be such a jackass sometimes it’s not even funny.

Oddly enough, we all agreed to this stipulation and were set up to perform a 7 song set which we decided immediately would be the six songs on our album “Membrane” (not available on iTunes) and a cover of CCR’s Fortunate Son. We knew the songs like the backs of our hands and if we sat down once or twice to practice by ourselves prior to the gig, we knew we’d be okay.

About two weeks after the winery party and about two weeks prior to the birthday bash, I figured that I’d better do some rehearsing. I hadn’t really sat down with my drums since January of 2009 which was when we played our last gig at the Crunk Whitey Reunion/Farewell Tour show. I knew I hadn’t played in that long because as I went downstairs to take inventory of my equipment, I remembered that I had broken one of my drumsticks on our last song that night and had since failed to replace it. So, the following Saturday, I took Ben with me to Guitar Center and bought a couple pairs of drum sticks. Considering that was the closest I’d come to actually drumming in almost a year and a half, I counted it an accomplishment and didn’t even take the sticks into the basement for another 4-5 days. Obviously, I was committed to putting on a good show.

When I finally found time to rehearse our set, I grabbed my iPod, found my new sticks, went down to the basement, found our album on my playlist, pressed play, and I went to town. The problem with playing my drums along with my iPod is that the volume on it can only go so high. As anyone that has ever heard me play the drums before, they know I only have one volume - loud. After all, I figure that if I’m the strongest part of the band, I should definitely make sure that my instrument is heard above all others to camouflage their mistakes. Anyway, when I’m playing along with my iPod I can only hear certain parts of the songs to know that I’m where I’m supposed to be. Now, obviously something was wrong with my iPod that day because every time I was able to hear one of those parts, its timing was off. I’m not sure if the battery was low or if the high volume was putting extra strain on the playing mechanism, but it kept slowing down and speeding up to the point where I couldn’t play anymore. It’s as if it had no rhythm whatsoever. To add to that annoyance, I had developed a blister on my finger which had ruptured and was now nothing but raw skin rubbing on my wooden drumstick. So, after playing for only about 8 minutes, I was done.

I was gonna nail this

After giving my blister about two weeks to heal (I didn’t want to rush it and put my entire drumming career in jeopardy), I was now just a few days out from the show. I found time one evening to briefly go downstairs and play the basic riffs of each song, but only played for about 3-4 minutes before remembering how awesome I was and knowing that any additional practice would be unnecessary. I just hoped that the rest of the band was practicing their asses off because they’d need to just to be able to keep up with me and my thunder sticks. I was ready for the show.

Once Saturday arrived, I woke up about 9:00, cleaned house, watched the first half of the US’s losing effort to Ghana in the World Cup, drove Ben out to my sister Melissa’s house, came home, and had some lunch. We were going to set up at the Eagle’s Hall about 5:30, but I wanted to get out there first so that I could advise the band on what I wanted them to do and where to do it at. I began tearing down my drums and packing them in my car about 4:30 and was done fifteen very hot and sweaty minutes later. Rather than wait around, I decided to leave and ended up getting to the Eagle’s Hall around 5:00. Perfect. As the various band mates of the group that I was now a special guest and featured performer of showed up, I quickly instructed them as to where to put their gear and how to set everything up. Being the professional that I am I was mostly set up by the time the others arrived, so I had ample time to deliver instructions on how I knew the night should go.

Once we were all set up I began to get a little pissed because not one of the guys had thanked me for coming out of retirement to help them put the show on tonight. As I mentioned before though, I’m a professional and was not about to start an argument 3 hours before we performed. As a result, I kept my mouth shut and we decided to run through three of our songs just to warm up and to check our levels (for the layperson, that means checking how we sound).

After the three songs (still without a thank you), we realized that it was going to be a HOT show – both literally and figuratively. Hot literally because it was close to 100 degrees outside and the heat was slowly creeping inside, and hot figuratively because I was on freaking fire and they were gladly following my lead.

After the warm up that I was kind enough to join them for (let’s face it, I didn’t need the practice), I left to go pick up Carol and grab a bite to eat before the party. After running into countless unexpected people (yet oddly no reporters from the local, national, or foreign press), we ate our dinner, had a few drinks, and made our way back to the party. It was showtime.

On our arrival, however, I was once again a little disappointed by the lack of pomp and circumstance that my guest appearance with Crunk Whitey was receiving. Not only was there no mention whatsoever on the marquee outside, but once I got inside the only sign I saw was a banner that read “Happy 30th Amber and Angie”. WTF? As if in the grand scheme of things this party was actually about them… I quickly realized that due to the magnitude of this occasion, they were probably waiting for a bigger moment to make a more formal presentation. I kept my head high, grabbed a beer, and started socializing.

Around 9:00, the DJ said that after the cutting of the cake, Crunk Whitey would be performing. This was news to me. First off, shouldn’t he have said Crunk Whitey and a special guest appearance by Scott Hopfinger? I mean, I’m not really even in the band anymore. I was there as a favor. Secondly, when I was in the band, we had a strict regiment before each show of taking a shot of warm vodka and chasing it with Stag. But where was the Stag? Sure, they provided free beer all night, but shouldn’t they have asked “the talent” if we had any special demands? Surely I would have required that there be Stag present not only for the pregame ritual but also for my/our drinking pleasure for the remainder of the night. Instead, we were drinking Bud Lite. Plus, we didn’t even get our green M&Ms! I’m not sure what kind of Podunk Rodeo they were throwing here, but this was ridiculous.

When I damn well felt like it, I grabbed a pitcher of beer (that’s right, not a glass – a pitcher), we did our shot, and make our way to the stage. At that point we knew what songs we were going to play but hadn’t really discussed the order. Obviously, I knew in my head what it was going to be, but had yet to verbalize it to the others. Luckily, Dan had the same idea as to the order so when he mentioned it, I had no reason to correct him. I thought of changing it up a little bit just to show that I was the pack leader, but I didn’t want to upset them before the big lifetime achievement type celebration they no doubt had planned for me. As a result, I let it slide.

As we played our first song (a ballad entitled “Gravity”) I looked around at my former band mates and realized two things. 1) I’m so much better than they are, and 2) I sure missed playing with these guys. When we moved into the 2nd and 3rd songs (“Monkeyburst” and “Put the Kids Away”), we brought out the fire and skill that only Crunk Whitey can bring. In fact, we were so awesome that half of the party either left or went outside just to make room for our awesomeness. We were that powerful.

The only hiccup of the show occurred during our second to last song. The song is entitled “IV” and is one of the first songs we wrote. I had just gotten my own drum kit (that’s what you laypeople call a drum “set”), and had a double bass peddle with it. The song basically calls for me to use the double bass pedal the entire way through it, so about a quarter of the way through the song when the hammer slipped on the left pedal and I was left with only the right one, I grew slightly concerned. Luckily, my skills are quite honed and the solution came to my brain before I even really realized the nature of the problem. I would begin explaining it to you, but you probably wouldn’t understand. Just know that I abandoned the left hammer altogether and did double time with my right foot. No, it’s not an easy transition - especially in the middle of a song – but except for the two or three notes between the factory defect which obviously caused the problem and my brilliant adjustment, I pulled it off flawlessly and none of the 18 people left in the hall were aware of what had happened.

As we were playing the final notes of our last song (“Fortunate Son”), I began preparing myself emotionally for the inevitable “thank you Scott for coming back to us for this one glorious night. We truly treasure you as a drummer, a friend, and a mentor. As a token of our esteem, we have bought you a new Corvette. It’s parked outside and we want you to know that we are truly honored to have been a part of this evening, and this life, with you” speech. As the song ended, I broke into one my infamous drum solos to close the show with a bang. But, as soon as we were done, there was no presentation. In fact, it wasn’t two seconds after we hit the last note that the DJ started up again. There was no applause. No presentation. Not even a “thanks Scott” from any of the Crunk Whitey guys. This was bullshit.

I figured that surely as I made my way across the hall to give Carol her aftershow kiss (she loves that she’s married to a rock star and likes to flaunt it whenever she can), I would definitely be bombarded with a “great show” and a “great to have you back” from random people, but I got nothing. I wandered around the party for the rest of the evening with beer in hand feeling sorry for everyone. Obviously, they didn’t know how to handle being in the presence of greatness.

As a result, I have decided that not only am I too big for Crunk Whitey, I’m too big for the Belleville area. None of them know how to show appreciation for the things that I do and the tireless effort I put forth into preparing for a show. I am now officially retired - again.

I would like to thank Amber and Angie who both personally thanked me for playing, however I still have not received any type of gift card or cash for my efforts. If you paid the band, just let me know and I’ll collect my 60% from them. I need to have a little chat with them anyway regarding proper recognition and public decency. Thankless bastards. Good luck finding another drummer with rhythm and skills like mine.

Thanks for reading

Nude Pix of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston

Got your attention, didn't I?

This idea came from my sister. Based on the laws of the big sister/little brother relationship, I should really just ignore any idea she may have, but I kind of like this one. She wrote:


"I’ve thought of a new feature for your blog. You know how you find a picture to go along with each post? Once a week, you should let your ‘followers’ submit photos. You would choose one from the many entries and then you would have to associate a blog post about the winning photo. Photo submissions could be due by Tuesday each week and the corresponding post could run every Friday. You could even give it a catchy name. And of course there’d be a prize for the winning photo submitted. An autographed printout of the post perhaps?"

I think I may give this a shot. So please, if you find a funny picture, send it to scottyhop@gmail.com and I'll see what kind of article I can write about it. Since I'm running out of drunken stories, maybe the old pictures will conjure up some old memories or even force me to write a random story based on the photo.

Since an autographed printout of the post would probably depreciate the value of the paper it was printed on, I was thinking that an autographed photo of me might work better. Besides, who wouldn't want to read my blog with a 4x6 black and white glossy of my smiling mug looking down at them?

Thanks Melissa.

Also, this counts as my post for the day. It won't win me any awards, but it did give you a 3 minute break from your day...

Thanks for reading.

Tequila Night

It’s time for another embarrassing Drunken Scott story. I’m quickly running out of these, so please enjoy them while they last. I don’t plan on adding to these alcohol fueled endeavors in the future, but I hear that there’s free beer at the birthday party that Crunk Whitey is playing at this Saturday, so you never know. Of course, if you’ve been reading these regularly, you know how well I do with free beer. It could really go either way.

When I first started hanging out with my buddies about 10 years ago, we always went to Show-Me’s. It started out with Chris reintroducing me to a bunch of his buddies that he’d known forever and that I had met a few times but never really hung out with. I had just gotten out of a long term relationship and really didn’t have a lot of friends to hang out with as I had abandoned most of them in favor of my relationship. Chris, being the loyal friend that he is, knew that I needed to get out of the house and hang out at a place where I could find friends, good food, scantily clad women, and alcohol. That place, which would become a fixture in my life for the next 4+ years, was Show-Me’s.

Now, these guys had been going up there ever since (and probably before) they were legally allowed to drink. They knew the waitresses and the waitresses knew them. When they, and eventually I, walked in the door they would have our drink waiting for us by the time we got to our seat. We got away with murder (and sometimes worse) in that place and had a helluva lot of fun doing it. Some of the guys dated some of the waitresses. More of the guys just ended up messing around with some of the waitresses. The shy ones, like me, even got in on the action by being given the occasional boobie flash. We were the kings of that place and odds are that if you picked any random day or time to stop by there, you could find one of the regular waitresses, bartenders, or patrons that you could spend some time with over a few drinks.

I would have to say that Show-Me’s was the start of my “drinking days.” I had gone out and had drinks in the past. I’d even been drunk my fair share of times (see the Cheegle Incident), but I was never a regular drinker. More often than not, I’d be more apt to have a Mt Dew in my hand than an alcoholic beverage, but that quickly changed at Show-Me’s. Being such a big fan of Mt Dew, I always hated the first few tastes of a beer because of the switch from sweet to bitter. These days, the first few drinks of a cold Stag are one of my favorite tastes in the world, but back then I was looking for something else. While most of the guys were drinking beer, Jeff was drinking vodka and cranberry. It looked a little girly, but it was also pretty damn tasty. And, being a regular at the bar, they would often hook us up with stronger drinks than everyone else. So, I decided, that would be my new drink. This is also where I discovered shots. I knew from the get go that I was not a fan of whiskey. I had heard nothing but bad things about it and once I had a taste, I was convinced that it was not for me.

Tequila on the other hand…

Chris was, is, and always will be a tequila guy. Hell, at that age we all were. It may have something to do with the tequila shooting action with the salt and the lime and such. It may also have to do with the fact that tequila just sounds like something fun to shoot. Either way, back in those days if you weren’t shooting Jagermeister or some other concoction with a horrible name like Vietnam (remember those Shane?), you were shooting tequila. I never really enjoyed the taste of it, and quite often it was the cause of a horrible next day, but because I wanted to prove to this new group of friends that I was a badass and that I could hang, tequila became my shot.

That brings us to my story.

As I said before, you could go up to Show-Me’s on any given night and run into someone you knew. And, because I was 23 and living with my parents at the time, I looked to get out whenever I could. So, one Thursday night, after I had exhausted my address book on my phone and couldn’t find anyone who could go out that night, I headed up to Show-Me’s on my own. I should’ve taken the fact that no one else was going out on one of our bigger drinking nights of the week as a sign, but I didn’t. I headed up there, was greeted by a “Hi Scott” from various waitresses and the bartender Stacy, and had my fully leaded vodka and cranberry waiting for me at a barstool when I got there. Luckily, my buddy Mike, who I had neglected to call, was up there as well so we sat down, had a few drinks, and began talking.

Well, drinks turned into more drinks and those, in turn, turned into shots. I know I had drank at least 3 vodka and cranberries and had about 2 shots of tequila when the biggest punch to the gut that I could have ever received at that point in my life happened.

My ex fiancée walked in – with another guy.

When I first saw her, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Firstly, I hadn’t seen her in quite awhile and even then, it hadn’t ended up well. Secondly, I couldn’t have dragged her into Show-Me’s while we were together, so it was odd that she would come into this place now. The fact that she was with another guy blew my mind. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen a few girls here and there since we had been broken up, but that was me. How could SHE have gotten over ME that quickly? We all know how awesome I am…

Anyways, when she saw me she had the same look of utter shock in her eyes that I had in mine. We both said our brief “Hello. How are you? Good. Well, okay. See you later.” (she had no choice but to pass where I was seated) and then her, her guy, and the couple they were with went into the back room.

After she left, Mike and Stacy the bartender asked me who that was and why I seemed so tense all of a sudden. When I explained that it was my ex-fiancée and a little bit of the story, Stacy felt a little bad for me and poured me a shot of tequila on the house. Well, at that point, I was still dealing with a lot of issues concerning the breakup, so eventually I started talking more and with more talking came more concern from Stacy and with more concern from Stacy came more shots of tequila. As the night got later and later I accumulated more and more shots of tequila (some on the house, some not) along with the vodka and cranberries that kept appearing in front of me. Needless to say, I got a little tipsy.

Eventually, my ex walked out of the back room to leave for the night and saw me still seated at the bar. I’m sure that we were both trying to avoid this uber awkward moment again, but it had to happen. I put on my very best “sober” face (which is hard to do with 7 shot glasses piled up in front of me – pretty sure I didn’t pull it off very well), gave her a pleasant goodbye (which probably sounded like something like “flabberg-simaloppin”) and watched her on her way out the door. I turned to Mike and asked him if I sounded sincere (because that was really important to me at that time of the night) and he just stared at me. I take that as a sure sign that I had pulled it off. To celebrate that, I did a few more shots and left.

No, I shouldn’t have driven home.

The next morning, I woke up with a stomach full of the worst feeling I can ever imagine. Not only was I drinking all of that tequila, but I had also topped it off with an order of 10 hot wings. The rumble in my tummy was causing tremors in southern California, but I was bound and determined to go to work. I made it through my shower without throwing up and even made the hour long drive to work okay. My head was aching and my body kept breaking out in cold sweats, but I was determined to make it through the day. Back in the days of living with my parents, I felt bad about calling in sick to work and then going out that night (I mean, it was Friday…), so I toughed it out and made it in to the office.

I felt like hell all morning but still didn’t throw up. In retrospect, I realize that doing so probably would have made me feel a TON better, but I knew that if I did heave, I’d convince myself to go home for the day. I made it through the morning as good as I possibly could and was even rewarded for making it because the office manager had announced that he was going to cater in lunch for the entire staff. I began to wonder what we were going to have because I could think of a few things that would really coat my stomach and make me feel human again. I was going to survive.

This is where it gets bad

As lunch approached, I saw various office personnel going to the back room to set up chairs and tables for the impromptu luncheon. By this point, my stomach was growling very loudly. My head was still throbbing, but the urge to upchuck, for the most part, had left me. There was still a twinge of “what the hell did you do to me and why the hell did you do it?” left in there, but it was going to take a lot to get it going again. That’s when I got the call.

Being one of the few men in the office, I was often called upon for the lifting jobs. So, it was no surprise when my boss got down to the parking garage that he called me to help him bring the lunch up from his car. I still didn’t know what we were having, but being that it was a hot summer day and knowing the trends of our office, I figured that he had gone to Sams and picked up a bunch of sandwich trays. I got on the elevator which, because it often had to go to the garage level, was typically a surefire indicator of the weather outside. Sure enough, when I stepped in it was as warm and muggy as it was outside. The trip down was only 3 floors, but being trapped in that heat was not good for my head/stomach/well being. The feelings of upheaval in my stomach were soon brought back again and I thought that as long as I can make it to the garage, I’d just grab a sandwich tray and take the stairs back up. That’s when I hit the garage level and the elevator doors opened to my worst possible nightmare.

Olive Garden

Had it just been the salad and bread sticks, I would have been okay. Unfortunately, there was pasta. And pasta sauce. There was white sauce, and red sauce, and garlic and about a dozen other things that I didn’t want to smell right then, but I had no choice. I looked around the pile of non-hangover-friendly food frantically searching for something that I could grab and carry up the stairs, but I had no such luck. It was all on a cart that my Branch Manager was waiting for me to help him pull up the one step (that was all I was really needed for) so that we could roll it into the elevator. That hot, humid, enclosed elevator that was only going to hot box the smell of that food.

I’m never been much of a praying man. I mean, I pray for the big things, but I always figured that the little things in life will take care of themselves for the greater good so there’s not a lot of use in praying for them. That day, however, if I could have fallen on my knees and prayed to God that I could make it through that elevator trip without horking all over the food, I would have offered up my soul to whoever was willing to take it. Unfortunately, my boss was in a hurry and I didn’t have time for such a prayer. We pulled the cart up the step, rolled it to the elevator, pressed the button, and then I caught a whiff.

Do you remember the first time you smelled something that didn’t agree with you? I’m not talking about the smell of asparagus that someone puts in the microwave at work which smells up both the microwave and the entire office for the rest of the afternoon. I’m talking more of the “my roommate went to the chili cook-off last night where he tried the chili at every single booth, topped it off with a 12 pack of Stag, and then went to White Castle at 1:00 in the morning for a crave case and just got out of the bathroom where I’m sure I can hear the paint on the backside of the door peeling off as it melts in the utter shit sauna that is now our bathroom” smell. The kind where once you open the door you curse the lord in heaven for having ever given you the sense of smell kind of smell. Well, that’s what I had facing me in that elevator.

We stepped in and I could already feel last night’s tequila making a comeback. I did my best to hold my breath, but my boss felt the need to make small talk and I didn’t think that standing there with Dizzy Gillespie cheeks while just shaking or nodding my head was a good career move. I did my best to give short answers, but it’s very difficult to talk while trying to keep everything other than words from coming out of your mouth. It was then that my boss said laughingly “Oh, I guess it helps if you push the floor button.” I hated him.

We only had three floors to go up, but it seemed like an eternity. I began thinking that maybe if someone on the first or second floor would need to use the elevator that I could stick my head out when the door opened and catch a breath of fresh air. No such luck. For what seemed like 10 hours, I was stuck in this elevator being dutch ovened by the aroma of pasta, garlic, and countless herbs and spices. I could feel myself turning green. I had officially chosen to ignore anything my boss said from this point out as I was sure to spew the entire contents of the prior night’s debauchery all over what was intended to be a very nice gesture by him.

As I watched the floors changing on the elevator’s indicator lights, I began to go into my happy place. There was no sound, no movement, but try as hard as I could I couldn’t get rid of that smell. WHAT IN THE HELL IS TAKING SO LONG? I swear to God that I could have read War and Peace in the time it took that elevator to ascend 3 floors. When I saw the light show that we had reached the second floor, I let out a sigh of relief knowing that there was only one floor to go.

Big mistake

Once that sigh left my body, I was forced to inhale again. With that inhalation came every smell and even taste that the pile of Italian evil had to offer. Before I knew it, I felt it come up. I was lucky enough to trap it deep in my throat, but it wanted badly to come out. With sweat dripping down my forehead and vomit in my throat I was ready to just give up and let it all go when I heard the “ding” that saved my life. As soon as those doors opened I jumped over the cart, sideswiped my boss, and breathed in the cleanest office air that I could ever have imagined. Luckily, that breath satisfied the coup in my stomach and all rebellions were stifled. My boss gave me an odd look (which I was used to from him) but didn’t say a word. I guess he was used to my strange antics.

When we finally got the food into the office, I passed on the luncheon. As much as a few bread sticks may have been good to soak up the poison in my belly, I was not going to risk going around that food again. I was given a gift by not heaving while stuck in the elevator and I was not going to tempt fate. The tequila may have won the battle but I won the war.

I have since stopped drinking tequila. I’ve had a random shot here or there but have regretted every one as soon as I did it. I’ve also stopped eating at Olive Garden. Not that I was a huge fan of it to begin with, but this was definitely the nail in the coffin. I wish both the tequila and the Olive Garden the best in their future endeavors, but respectfully decline to be a part of either of their new lives.

And this, Carol, is why I never want to eat at Olive Garden.

Classic Cruising

While driving to my parents house the other day, I turned on the radio to find out that 105.7 The Point was having another “way back weekend.” The premise of the “way back weekend” is for them to play nothing but songs from the early to mid 90’s and even some songs from the late 80’s – and I love it. I started doing some math (I had to pull over because I needed my fingers AND my toes) and realized that some of these songs are going on 20 years old now. It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long but The Point debuted in 1993 and I remember some of the songs being played at the time of their inception as not being new. That’s when it kind of hit me – these songs will soon be “oldies.”

Now, when I say “oldies” I say it with a great deal of respect. There is nothing wrong with oldies and, quite frankly, I think some of the best music ever written was penned in the timeframe now considered “oldies.” I fondly remember driving around with my mother in her maroon Cutlass Sierra listening to the radio wherever we went. If I recall correctly (day and station could be wrong), on Sunday evenings KLOU 103.3 would play oldies from the late 50’s and 60’s. This, along with my mom’s 45’s, was my first exposure to some of the most amazing and fun music ever recorded. It was when I was first introduced to The Beatles, The Turtles, Lovin’ Spoonful, Jim Croce, Dion, Donovan, The Platters, The Coasters, The Drifters, Ricky Nelson, and so on. It was when I discovered that music could be fun and inspirational. Granted, I listened to different stations when I wasn’t in my mom’s car, but I always enjoyed those evenings when they would play the golden oldies.

But here is my problem: I was driving around with my mother in her car in the mid 1980’s listening to music from probably 20-25 years earlier, and they were calling them oldies. Now, as I listen to The Point’s “way back weekend” and I realize that this music is closing in on being 20-25 years old, I wonder what will Ben think? Will he listen to the music of my generation and get the same feelings that I got while listening to the music of my parents’ generation?

I look at all of the classic artists that came out in my parents’ generation and I realize that the star power that came from that timeframe totally demolishes the music from my own. They had The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, CSNY, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, The Who, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Elvis, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Little Richard, plus those listed two paragraphs prior and numerous others that I’m not listing because it would just take too much time.

Who do I have? Pearl Jam, Madonna, Michael Jackson, REM, and Nirvana? Even if I cheat and go back to the 70’s, there are very few that I can grab: Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Van Halen (you’re welcome Chris), and Elton John? That’s not a bad lineup, but it really pales in comparison to the quality of music and production that was issued in my parents’ generation.

I feel even worse for my Ben’s kids should he someday (loooong from now) have some. Are his kids going to have to look back at Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers as the musical icons of his generation? I’m not saying that modern music is horrible as there is actually some really good stuff out there, but the shelf life of today’s artists will only last until someone who is slightly better looking or can do it in a more outrageous fashion comes along. Most artists nowadays have two or three albums and then you hear nothing from them anymore. The record companies simply buy a new toy and throw the old artists out with yesterday’s garbage. I know that it has always been that way, but it just seems that the older artists who wrote their own music could veto those decisions because, as long as they were writing the music that the people were buying and that no one else could write, they held a certain amount of power.

This is not a rant against modern music. There is actually quite a lot of good music out there these days that I have hope for. I think Christina Aguilera has an amazing voice and I could be talking about her 20 years from now as being a definitive icon of this generation. Mariah Carey is the precursor to Christina and is already iconic. I hate Nickelback, but they seem to have a following that could push their name into the upper echelon of modern bands. I feel the same way about Dave Matthews. I don’t have to like their music to be able to respect their abilities as performers.

What I guess I’m getting at is this: I used to love driving around with my Mom as she sang along in the front seat to some of the same songs that I still listen to daily courtesy of my iPod. As if on cue, the Silhouettes “Get a Job” just came on. I’m sure that in their time, some of these artists were looked at as flashes in the pan in the same way that I look at some of the artists today. I’m sure that some of the music I love and respect from that time frame had its detractors as well. My only hope is that while I’m driving around with Ben, I give him a proper representation of not only my parents’ generation, but also that I pick out some winners from my own. Hopefully, he’ll latch on to some of that and build a frame of reference of his own as to what music he likes. I know that those trips with Mom were the building blocks of my musical tastes. Thanks mom.

That being said, I should really remove some of the things I have on my iPod. Not sure that I want him listening to Crunk Whitey and thinking that it defines a generation.

Thoughts? Feelings? Omissions? Please let me know as this is a highly debatable topic and I would love to hear your views.

Thanks for reading.

Man amongst Toys

As it has been documented without a shadow of a doubt in past blogs, I am not the manliest of men. I’m not a petite little flower either, but I think those that know me and have read past blogs could fairly say that when it comes to being a big, burly, outdoorsy, rough and tumble, kick-your-ass-just-because-I-can kind of guy, I’m lacking a little in the testicular fortitude department. I do, however, pride myself at being kind of a stronger guy when it comes to emotions. I’m not emotionless as my love for my family, friends, and Cubs is worn on my sleeve, but for the most part I can keep my emotions in check when necessary. I’m usually the one that tries to keep things in perspective and maintain my cool when others are getting emotionally bent out of shape. I don’t know when or why I started that, but it seems to be my role. Even if what is going on upsets me greatly, I’m the one that can keep his composure.

Unless it’s a cartoon

I don’t cry at movies. I just don’t. Last night Carol and I were watching “Shutter Island” and there is a horrific scene involving dead children and Carol lost it to the point of almost sobbing. I’m not sure if it’s because I read the book and knew what to expect or if it’s because I realized that it was just a movie, but while my wife was crying and covering her face, I was secretly wishing that she’d be quiet so that I could hear what was being said - sorry honey : ) It’s odd because this scene was really disturbing and I probably should have lost it as well, but it just didn’t hit me that hard.

I only wish that had been the case earlier in the day.

For Father’s Day, we decided that we were going to take Ben to his first movie theatre to watch Toy Story 3. We had been prepping him for this for the past few weeks to the point where we’d ask him what we were doing the next weekend and he’d respond “Toy Towy Tree” with a huge grin on his face. When the time finally came to go, he had his Toy Story shirt, his Toy Story shoes, and his Toy Story popcorn box that one of the teachers at his daycare had gotten him. We were all excited to go and couldn’t wait for the movie to start. Carol and I were a little nervous as Ben had never been to the theatre before. He has my attention span (SQUIRREL!) and ability to sit still, so we knew that it may be a struggle to get him to remain seated for an entire movie. As a precautionary measure, we went over the rules of a movie theatre before we even walked in the door. If you asked him today, he would still tell you that the rules are “be quiet, and sit down.” Not difficult, but for a 3 year old, they could be.

We had decided that rather than go out to the O’Fallon 15, we would try out the Lincoln Theatre in downtown Belleville. Carol had never been there and I had not been there for close to 20 years, so we figured, “why not?” We had snuck candy into the theatre for the two of us, but Carol and Ben wanted popcorn so we got a huge bag for them and sodas for all three of us. We eventually entered the theatre itself (which they must have remodeled and cut the size in half because I do not remember it being that small when I was little) and found our seats.

All of my fears of having a talkative and roaming child were soon taken away as the theatre was soon filled with kids. Some were talking, some were crying, and some were waiting in eager anticipation of the movie, but either way, even if Ben started acting up at all, he wouldn’t be the only one. It was then that I relaxed and was able to enjoy watching the movie that was now starting.

The funny thing about the Toy Story franchise is that it makes you view not only your toys, but your kid’s toys in a different way. I’m not saying that they’re going to start talking to me and running around the room (mostly because that’s against their rules), but it does make you reminisce about some of the favorite toys from your youth and how you treated them. I’m going to try and avoid making direct reference to any plot spoilers in the movie as it only opened 4 days ago and I’m sure most of you haven’t seen it yet, but I can give away that the major plot line is that Andy has grown up, is going to college, and must now decide what to do with his toys. It’s a decision that we all made at one point in our lives and, whether we remember it or not, was I’m sure a bit of an ordeal. I still have a bunch of my toys and have already tried forcing them upon Ben. He didn’t really care with the first go around, but I’m not giving up hope that within the next 3 or 4 months, Ben and I will be playing with Rowdy Roddy Piper and Captain Lou Albano in our makeshift Lego Arena. It will happen.

Eventually, the toys in the movie go through the story, face some obstacles, fare however they may, and the story came to its resolution. Like I said before, I may not be the manliest of men, but I’m also not a petite little flower. I don’t get overly emotional and I DON’T cry at movies.

Unless it’s a cartoon

I don’t know what it is about cartoons that get me. I’m not talking Saturday morning cartoons or anything. I don’t cry when Brainy smurf gets kicked out of the village for being a jerk and I don’t cry when the Wile E Coyote fails to capture the Road Runner (really dating myself there). Actually, now that I think of it, outside of Pixar movies I’m not sure I’ve even cried at a cartoon before. Damn those geniuses at Pixar.

They started off fine. First they had “Toy Story,” an amazing digital cartoon for kids and adults alike. From there, they had “A Bugs Life” (nothing sappy), “Toy Story 2” (again, nothing heart wrenching), and “Monsters Inc.” They soon followed those with “Finding Nemo” (okay the Mom dies, but we didn’t get attached to her), “The Incredibles” (nothing), “Cars” (nope), “Ratatouille” (haven’t seen the whole thing, but don’t think so), and “Wall-E” (never saw it). There were nine good movies good for kids and parents alike with good messages and lots of laughs. I liked those movies. The world liked those movies.

Then they had to go and mess it “Up”.

When Carol and I first watched “Up,” we had the intention of having a movie night with Ben. We pulled out the sleeper sofa, made some popcorn, got our jammies on, and put the movie in. Within the first ten minutes two things happened. First, Ben had become bored and left the room to go play with his toys. Second, Carol and I were bawling our eyes out like two little girls who had just lost their Barbies. We felt ridiculous, but if you’ve seen “Up” and didn’t cry at the opening montage, then you have no heart. There are no exceptions there. If you made it through that first ten minutes without at least one tear dropping down your cheek, then you are a heartless, soulless, shell of a human being. At least that’s what I tell myself to justify my waterworks.

I had also forgotten about that at the time of Toy Story.

As I mentioned, the story eventually came to its emotional resolution and as I watched, I felt a lump in my throat. I’ve gotten that lump before, but I’ve always been one to hold it back in order to maintain control of the situation. As the scene went on, I heard sniffling all around me. I looked to my right and saw Carol crying and then scanned the room to see lots of people wiping at their eyes. As the scene went on, I felt my throat burn more and more. I kept taking drinks of my soda in order to kill the teary beast (not sure how that was going to help) but the more I watched, the more I felt the burn in my throat and the water in my eyes.

Something about this scene just really hit home, as it more than likely will for anyone who sees it. I tried everything I could to not cry in the theatre. Had I been at home I would have let it go, but my fear was that the film could end any second and that they’d turn the theatre lights on and everyone would be staring and laughing at my tear streaked face. I was not going to let that happen. But the scene went on and rather than look away, I watched and was finally sucked in. Before I knew it (between drinks of soda and stretches and seat adjustments and anything else I could think of to prevent it from happening) I felt the tear fall down my left cheek.

There could have been a ton more if I had let it happen, but I was in public and had to maintain what sense of manliness I had left. I quickly figured that the best way to get rid of this before anyone noticed was to scratch my cheek as if the tear was just an itch that had to go away. I scratched, but unfortunately had missed the tear which had by now moved on down to my jaw line and was resting there waiting for someone to point at it and laugh. Rather than continue my scratch from just under my eye all the way down to my jaw and give the impression that I had some sort of facial rash that required an entire facial overhaul, I decided to stop the scratch, give it a second, and then do the “checking for stubble” top of the fingers scratch on my jaw. It went off without a hitch and I got the rogue tear before anyone had seen it. My throat was still burning and I had to keep my eyes open wide for fear of blinking out another dribbler, but I had cleared the tear and was good.

After the movie mercifully ended and the audience applauded (only the second time I’ve seen that in a theatre – this movie was very good) they turned the lights up and dozens of adults (men and women both) were wiping their eyes. I looked at Carol who also was wiping her tears away and at Ben who had barely even budged the entire movie. Being that it was Father’s Day and looking at my wonderful family, I got a little emotional. The tears welled up again and the burn got worse, but I wasn’t going to cry. Not this guy. No way. Of course, it got pretty easy when we looked at Ben’s seat, saw a huge wet spot, and had to determine if it was soda or pee (soda thank God), but either way, I had had a great day with my family.

On the way out of the theatre I saw other guys with red eyes. Some were even still wiping the tears away minutes after the movie was over. I watched them and part of me wanted to admire them for being able to show their emotions like that. Part of me wanted to go up to them, give them a hug and say “I understand brother. I cried too.” But instead, I went with the part of me that likes to make fun of guys who cry in public – especially at cartoons - and call them a bunch of pansies.

Manliness intact.

More Randumb Thoughts

It’s a randumb thoughts day.

Last night, the Chicago Cubs left fielder Alfonso laid down his first sacrifice bunt since 2006. The next batter knocked the run in and the Cubs eventually won the game. Note to the Cubs: This is how a lot of teams play baseball. It’s called small ball and has actually produced a few World Series wins along the way. You are familiar with the World Series, right? It’s that series of games that are being played to determine the best team in baseball for that year while you’re off enjoying your vacation. Maybe it’s time to test these new waters a little bit…

I am feeling much better today and my vomit pile from Tuesday night has been removed from the parking garage floor. Thanks for asking.

I have discovered a new television show that makes me laugh out loud. It’s midget wrestling + Jackass and it’s called “Half Pint Brawlers.” If anyone ever wants to throw a massive party in my honor, please visit this site www.halfpintbrawlers.com and hire these guys. You will be my best friend forever.

My golf tournament is this Saturday morning and I have to register at 6:30. My golf game was going to be bad enough, but now I can at least blame my horrendous play on the fact that I’m tired. It won’t fool anyone, but any excuse that I can use for my horrible play will be thrown down like a lay down loner in euchre.

God, it’s been FOREVER since I’ve played euchre.

We had a seminar yesterday where the speaker kept referring to himself in the third person. That’s normally a prime target for me to make fun of, but his name was Scott and I really began to get confused after awhile. Scott didn’t know whether Scott was talking about Scott or Scott.

I’ll be celebrating Father’s Day by going to see a matinee of Toy Story 3 with Ben and Carol. The premise of the movie is that Andy is going off to college and has decided to get give all of his toys to charity. Didn’t he watch the second movie? Doesn’t he know how much Woody is worth? Sell that crap on Ebay man!!

Can you imagine if the plot of Toy Story 3 revolved around Andy taking his toys to his college dorm with him? If college is still anything like I remember it, they’d really have to change the rating slightly and possibly introduce other toys such as “keg tapper” and “Trojan man.”

Alright, that’s enough Toy Story jokes.

Okay one more. In the first movie, we met Andy’s toys. In the second, we were introduced to some of his little sister’s toys. If Andy’s mom is still single during the third installment, do you think they’re going to introduce any of her toys? Mr. Vibrato maybe?

My friend Kathy, who also blogs, recently wrote an apology/thank you to her parents in her blog for all of her cussing and less-than-saintly behavior in her stories. I’m pretty sure my parents knew this was inside of me all along and are pretty surprised that it took this long to come out. Even so Mom and Dad, thank you and I’m sorry. I’m sure it will get worse before it gets better. I’ve got a LOT more horrible stories that are going to blow your mind. Some of those, however, will never even grace these pages and as you can see, there’s not a lot I don’t share 

Apparently, my old band Crunk Whitey will be playing a short set at a private birthday party (makes us sound really cool, doesn’t it) next Saturday the 26th. I have officially played my drums once in the past year and a half and that was just last Tuesday. I was really bad and got a blister. Additionally, we have decided that even though it’s been about a year and a half since we’ve played together, we’re not going to practice as a group until our sound check that day. If any band can sound just as good without practicing as they would have with months of practice, it’s Crunk Whitey…

BP executives are now apologizing profusely for the oil leak that, even after almost two months later, has not yet been stopped. Since they either don’t read my blog or didn’t think that my giant tampon was a good solution, I have another. Why don’t you each take your multimillion dollar bonuses for the past year or so, change them all in for smaller bills, and stuff them into the hole to block the flow. If you need help getting down there, I’m sure we could find a few million residents of the Gulf Coast region who wouldn’t mind buying a brick or two to tie to your body to weigh you down.

Salami and cheese sandwiches really stink up my cubicle.

My friend Jeff, who was always the fat friend, now weighs less than me. I’ve lost some weight recently too, but he’s lost about 60 pounds. I’d say “good for him,” but screw him. I don’t wanna be the fat friend. This is bullshit.

I have around $300 in free Southwest Airlines airfare and have no idea how I want to use it. I have to use it by mid-October so I have a little time to choose. I know I’ll end up using it for a trip to Chicago, but every time I go up there it gets harder and harder to leave. I love that city.

I heard on the radio this morning that Keith Richards of Rolling Stones fame is mad at Mick Jagger because Keith wants to make more money by going on tour. He said that the problem though was that they can’t go on tour without a new album and Mick doesn’t want to get together and write. Sorry guys, but people stopped giving a crap about your new music somewhere around your 95th birthday. Please, go on tour, play the old stuff, and come to St Louis. Please!! Oh, and don’t die first.

Speaking of that, there are a few bands that I’ve never seen live that I absolutely have to before I (or more than likely, they) die: The Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, U2, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles (not likely), CSNY, James (a wonderful British band), and Prince. I’d say Madonna, but she just looks scary now. She’s in that best heard and not seen category. Oh, and Brittney Spears. I don’t think she has a lot of time left here on earth.

I use the same cereal bowl every morning for breakfast (at my desk, of course). I rinse it out with hot water every time, but really only wash it with soap about once every two weeks. I’m going to google the ramifications that this could have on my body.

A few updates to past blog entries:

1) Fishy McFisherson is still alive and kicking (or whatever it is that fish do)
2) I have not been sent to timeout in at least a month
3) I totally forgot to add Susanna Hoffs to my Top 5 list – plus about 13
other lucky ladies that I can think of off the top of my head
4) Joel McHale has been quiet as of late. I think he’s just biding his time…
5) I’m wearing the Marvel Comics funderwear today



Finally, comments to my blog posts are always welcome and, in fact, encouraged. If you would like to know something about me, heard a rumor that you’d like confirmed or denied, or just plain want to tell me that I suck and I’m full of crap, please let me know. I enjoy writing this blog and your interaction makes it that much more enjoyable. Additionally, I’ve had reports that some of the select list of 10 people that I’m allowed to e-mail this to who don’t have Facebook accounts (what are you, cavemen?) have not been receiving this. If you do receive this email today, please respond with a “howdy” so that I can further delve into the problem for those that didn’t get it. For those of you who are reading this on Facebook or who just go directly to scottchronicles.blogspot.com, please pass this link on to anyone that you might feel may enjoy it. I’m an attention whore and am proud of it.

Thanks for reading.

Free Beer Sucks!!

I must be allergic to free beer. I can’t think of any other explanation. Don’t get me wrong, if there is beer in your fridge and I didn’t put it there, more than likely I’ll drink it and be fine. Or, if I’m at an event and either run out of beer or didn’t bring my own to begin with, I will have no problem taking you up on your offer to have “a few” of yours. Those kinds of beer are not a problem and are also very much appreciated. The kind of beer I’m talking about has only presented itself to me twice and both times, despite all of the anticipation, planning, and excitement about the mass quantities of free beer that I was going to consume, I got sick. Oddly enough, this has happened at the same event for the past two years and actually may be a blessing in disguise.

Every year, my employer sponsors a night at Busch Stadium for all of their corporate employees to enjoy baseball, each other, and free food and drinks. This is a wonderful gesture and although I have to suffer through a Cardinal game to experience it, I always look forward to it. I like hanging out with my co-workers, I love baseball, and I adore the idea that I can have as many 8 oz beers as I want prior to the 7th inning stretch. Plus, being a HUGE fan of ballpark hot dogs, I can eat them until I’m ready to burst. That was definitely the plan going into last night, but my body had other things in store for me.

Last year my coworkers and I started out at Shannon’s bar directly across the stadium and a block away from our office prior to the game. We get off work at 4:30 and the free food and beer don’t start until thirty minutes prior to game time, so we usually have time to drink two or three (or more) beers that we pay for prior to going into the stadium. That’s always a good time because people are able to let loose and drop their “professional” persona while enjoying a few frosty cold ones. Also, Shannon’s provides a nice meeting spot for spouses, friends, kids, or whoever else may be joining us for the game that evening. We always end up leaving there with smiles on our faces and expectations of having a great time.

Once we got into the stadium we took the stairs to our section where we proceeded to pick out a table, grab a free beer, and get in line for the buffet. Oh what a spread. It started off with cookies and brownies, a platter of buns (hot dog and hamburger), a plate of hot dogs and sauerkraut, a pot filled with beans, a nacho station, and a tray of beef brisket. I was in heaven. On my first trip I grabbed two hot dogs, a beef brisket sandwich, some cookies, brownies, and a plate of nachos. I decided to skip the beans because a) I don’t like them, and b) I thought it might make me look like a pig. I went back to my seat still feeling a little fuzzy from the beers at Shannon’s, ate all of my food, drank my beer, and watched a little of the game. In the middle of the first inning I went back to grab another hot dog, some more nachos, another brownie, and an 8 oz beer. By the time I was done eating that, I realized that I hadn’t touched my beer.

I looked at the beer and knew that I was thirsty, knew that I liked beer, and knew that the combination of the two should make me pick it up and take a drink, but it didn’t happen. I just couldn’t. As the innings passed, I looked at that beer and wondered why I couldn’t drink it. Surely I would get to a point where I would cherish the thought of picking up that 8 oz cup of joy, slamming it, and then heading back to get another, but the thought of it made me sick. Really sick. First, I was sick at the idea that my company not only wanted me to drink a shit ton of beer, but that they were also paying for me to do so and I couldn’t pull the trigger. Second, I was sick at the thought of the taste of that free beer swimming down my gullet. I finally had to push it away and not even look at it. For some unknown reason, that free beer left a nasty taste in my mouth and I wanted no more of it. I left the game around the 7th inning drove home to go to bed.

Fail.

This year was going to be different though. It was brought to my attention that maybe (just maybe) I had eaten too much last year and THAT was why I started feeling bad at the game. I decided that no matter how convoluted that sounded, maybe (just maybe) they were right and that I should hold back on the buffet this time.

We started out again at Shannon’s where we proceeded to have our two or three (or more) beers prior to heading over to the stadium. I was midway through my first beer when the need arose for a cigarette. Oddly enough (being the nonsmoker that I am) I found a pack that had mysteriously appeared in my pocket (half full) of a brand that if I were a smoker, I would enjoy. I was about to ask for a lighter but again, oddly enough, there was also a lighter in my other pocket. What are the odds?

I was halfway through my cigarette when I realized that it didn’t taste so good. The beer (as was usually the case) tasted delicious, but the cigarette just tasted horribly. Now, if I were a smoker, I would know that sometimes the first one may taste like pooh but then the following ones taste much better. I decided to put that theory on hold for awhile as not only did I not have many in my pack (the person who put it there must have smoked a lot the night before) but I was around other nonsmokers who I try to be courteous of – if I do have the occasional one.

After I began my second beer, I decided that I’d get up and have another smoke. Unfortunately, this one also tasted like pooh. Not having many on hand to last through the evening though, I proceeded to choke the rest of it down hoping that maybe it would quench my desire for nicotine for the evening. It lasted awhile, but not long enough.

After my buddies Jeff and Terry met me at Shannon’s, I finished my third beer, paid the bartender (who was SO checking me out – yes, it was a girl), and we walked over to the stadium with Chris and Sarah who were also at the game bur not as part of the Ralcorp group. On the way over, I made several remarks about being able to see Chris and Sarah from our “free beer” seats, but I really don’t think they cared. Most of my jokes turn out that way but I keep making them anyway. Yes, I’m that guy.

On the walk over, though, I still wasn’t feeling right. Ever since I stood up after my first cigarette I had a buzzing in my head and uneasiness in my stomach. But, I figured we were on our way to the stadium and once I conducted some business regarding Jeff, I would dive into the free beer that I missed out on last year and have a great time with my buddies and my co-workers.

Like the prior year, we walked into our section, got some beer, picked out our seats, and then hit the buffet. It was the same delicious spread as last year but, heeding the advice about eating too much, I only got one cookie, one brownie, one hot dog, one beef brisket sandwich and no nachos. That’s it. I assumed that as the little 8 oz beauties were imbibed throughout the night that I would need to take another trip up there eventually, but for now one trip was good and I could begin my evening.

I had gotten through the sandwich, the hot dog, and the beer and quickly realized that I was full. I didn’t even touch the cookie or the brownie. Good. Soon the food will settle and I could start drinking the second beer that I had in front of me. I took a quick drink to wash the food down and then realized that I felt odd. I knew this feeling. It was a bad feeling that was telling me that getting this beer down was going to be a struggle. This free beer was once again posing a challenge to me but this time I was going to face it head on.

In order to loosen our bellies Jeff, Terry, and I went downstairs to have an after dinner cigarette and to walk around a little. The walking was great and I actually became quite thirsty. At numerous points we passed different beer vendors who were hawking that tasty brew and I momentarily considered buying one, but then realized that I have all of the free beer that I want upstairs on the Coca Cola patio. I could wait. The cigarette once again tasted like crap and I decided that I was done even trying for the night. No more smokes. I think I waited one cigarette too late though.

When we got back to our seats after visiting Terry’s parents who were also at the game, I sat down and noticed my still half full beer staring me in the face. Realizing that it was probably pretty warm but also aware that if I didn’t finish this one I couldn’t get another (one cup per person), I attempted to down the 4 ozs I had left and go get another.

I couldn’t do it.

Something about that free beer just wouldn’t allow me to drink it. It was perfectly good beer and God knows I like beer, but I’m assuming I must be allergic to it or something. After feeling not so good at the start of the third inning and then feeling REALLY not so good after the top of the seventh, we decided that we’d go back to Bellevegas, feed our addiction at Jeff’s house (MLB the Show 2010), and I’d take some Tums to soothe my stomach. Outside the stadium I bummed a cigarette off of Jeff thinking that maybe mine just tasted bunk and we headed in separate directions to our respective parking garages. As I lit up the bummed cigarette I realized that it wasn’t just my cigarettes at all – this one too tasted like pooh. As I got closer to my car I realized that not only did this one taste horrible, but it was also stronger than the brand that magically appeared in my pocket earlier in the evening. As a result I threw the cigarette down (in an appropriate receptacle, of course), unlocked my car, opened the door, got in, leaned out the door, and horked all over the ground. Not pretty.

Once I was done (and I had found a warm bottle of soda that had been sitting in my cup holder for a few days to rinse out my mouth), I immediately called Jeff to let him know what I had just done and that I would NOT be coming over. I then called Carol, told her I was coming home, and did just that.

I woke up this morning feeling slightly better, but still a little down knowing that my damn allergies to that free beer had acted up again and made me sick. I’m not sure what it is as I definitely don’t have an aversion to draft beer. Maybe it’s the plastic cups that they hand out. Maybe I’m having an adverse reaction to the “free beer” wristband that they give you upon entrance to the patio. Either way, I need to figure this out because this will NOT happen again next year. By process of elimination I know it’s neither the amount of food because I had much less this year, nor is it the smoking as I happened to have a pack magically appear in my pocket last year as well and they tasted fine at the time. The only common denominator between the past two years has been that free beer. That damn free beer. Maybe I’ll have to go see a doctor or something.

Maybe I’ll also have to call the parking garage because while pulling in this morning, I saw my “reaction” to last night’s allergic episode still sitting in a pile on the ground. They better get that cleaned up soon because it’s going to be hot today.

Thanks for reading.

Memphis Playboy

Due to yesterday’s lackluster effort (really? A history of my facial hair? That was pathetic.) I have decided to make a desperate attempt to get back in your good graces by telling the story of yet another embarrassing yet proud moment of my life. So without further ado, I give you:

Memphis Playboy

For anyone that knows me, you are more than likely well aware of the fact that I can’t dance. At all. In fact, when Carol and I slow dance, she leads. She lets me believe that I’m leading, but in all actuality she has the situation in her complete control. The few times that she has actually allowed me to lead, we just end up swaying from one foot to the other around in a circle like a couple of drunken penguins - and that’s just slow dancing which is supposed to be easy.

The sad part is Carol is not part of this story. As a result, she was not there to laugh or to rescue me from my endeavor. There were others there that could do either one, but they chose the laughing route over the rescue. Good friends, I say, as I would have done the same thing for them. That being said, let me set the scene for you.

A group of friends and I had traveled down to Memphis, TN for what was my second consecutive (and unfortunately, last) Memphis in May celebration. Memphis in May is also known as the Beale Street Music Festival and is a weekend long concert held down on the Mississippi riverfront off of Beale Street. It is an amazing time and I hope to one day go back. The group included (but was not limited to) Myself, Jeff, Joe, Sasha, Duane, Gary, Vicky, The Morlygags, Chris (who didn’t get there until the next day), Johnny Z, and Kim.

The concerts don’t start until Friday night, but seeing as we lodged at the state campsite because we didn’t want to drive all day, set up camp, and then head to the show, we arrived a few days early to enjoy both Memphis and each other’s company. Some people weren’t able to make it down until the next day or so, but that didn’t stop us from partying and having a good old time. Whereas the prior year we had spent the days playing four square and going to Graceland, this year we just relaxed at the campsite shooting the pooh while imbibing a few drinks. Needless to say, by Thursday evening, we were getting a little antsy and decided to go downtown for a night out. A Boys night out.

Apparently, some of the guys had planned on going out on the town one of the nights we were in Memphis because they had brought appropriate clothes for the event. Well, those people also forgot to tell some of the others about this so a couple of guys (myself included) were stuck going out in the clothes we had brought along for camping and going to day-long music festivals. If I recall, I was dressed in cargo shorts, some sort of tie-dye t-shirt, and melted shoes (more on that later). Needless to say, we could’ve looked better.

Our first stop was a very quiet bar that I’m pretty sure was in a restaurant. Like I said, we had been slowly sipping beers most of the day at the campsite so even though I was by no means intoxicated, my recollection of certain details is a little sketchy. Either way, we each sat around the bar at varying intervals trying to catch the eye of the various women that were making their way through the bar as well. This was back in my single days and I was on the prowl! We did the cool thing and made sure that there was always a vacant seat next to our group just in case we were able to lure one of the ladies over to us - but it was all in vain. The only women that came through the bar were either with guys or were not interested in us. Maybe it was my clothing. Maybe it was just not my night. Or, maybe it was because I had been camping in the Memphis humidity for two days and even though I had showered repeatedly, I still looked and smelled like I had just come from a campsite. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the rubber and plastic on my tennis shoes was melted because Rich Morlygag had the bright idea to dry our rained-on shoes by placing them about 6 inches from a blazing hot fire. Not sure. But either way, it was obvious that we had come from a campsite. Nothing screams romance like taking a girl back to your tent for a night of sweet sweet loving. Regardless, we were bored at this bar and decided to try a different one on Beale Street.

About five years ago, I probably still could’ve told you the name of this next bar as it has been both a source of pride and humiliation in my life, but for the life of me I can’t remember it. All I know is that it is/was on Beale Street and it was hopping. Some of the guys had made their way back to the campsite, but I know that for sure there were four of us remaining: Duane, Joe, Jeff, and myself. We found a table near the back of the bar near the dance floor so that we could get a good view of both the band and the girls dancing. The band was a kind of techno/electronic band and they were pretty good. They actually played a really good version of the song “Where’s Your Head At?” by the Basement Jaxx. Now, the funny thing is that this band could have actually been the Basement Jaxx for all I know. I didn’t see any advertisement for the band, but I also wasn’t looking for any as we walked in, and I’m not even sure that if I saw “The Basement Jaxx” on any signage that it would have clicked as I don’t think I even knew who sang that song back then. So, in a nutshell, I may have seen the Basement Jaxx in Memphis or I may not have. But that doesn’t matter.

That’s not the story.

As we sat there at our table, we had more beer. And more beer. And then some more. We were getting to the point where we were sick of drinking, realized that we had a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and decided to maybe call it a night. That’s when we saw them. At first, we weren’t quite sure what we were looking at, but we knew we liked it. Dancing on the dance floor were three incredibly hot blondes. And when I say incredibly hot, I mean 9.5-10 hot. I mean Playboy hot. In fact, after a little bit of conversation amongst us, we quickly came to the conclusion that not only were these girls hot enough to be in Playboy, they WERE in Playboy. What we were watching and admiring so much were:

The Dahm Triplets.

Oh yes! Hotness times three! If you’ve never seen the Dahm triplets, I highly suggest Googling them at your earliest convenience. Playboy has definitely had more beautiful women grace its hallowed pages, but they haven’t had those women times three. We sat in awe of what we were witnessing as the three of them danced around a virtually empty dance floor. They would dance with each other a little, but for the most part they just kind of danced by themselves as if they were looking for something. Or should I say - someone.

I’m not sure who brought it up to whom, but Duane and I made the decision that we were going out there to dance with these ladies. For whatever reason, Jeff and Joe decided that they were either too cool/too drunk to cut a rug on that dance floor, but Duane and I had no such reservations. Well, I had reservations. Duane may not have as he’s a good looking guy with a good sense of rhythm and a basic ability to dance. Myself, on the other hand - not so much. I’ve already described my impeccable appearance for the night, so I knew that I wasn’t going to be on the cover of GQ any time soon. I also knew that my dancing ability ranks right up there with Joel McHale’s ability to keep his shirt on when asked to take it off – it sucks. Despite those factors though, I decided that these were the Dahm triplets and I’d be damned if I let the chance to dance with Playboy Playmates pass me by. So, after some ego boosting, Duane and I made our way to the dance floor.

It was then that I noticed the beer was winning.

Beer winning is not always a bad thing as it tends to relax your inhibitions, but it also gives you a feeling of looking cooler, singing better, and dancing better than you are actually able to do. As I walked out to the dance floor, the room got a little blurry and I had to grab hold of the table for support as I got my wits about me. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have just sat back down and watched Duane work his magic out there, but as I said, the beer was winning and I had already pumped myself up to go out and dance, so that’s exactly what I did. Sort of.

What I know of as dancing and what I actually do are two totally different things. In my mind, dancing is a somewhat graceful art form that involves rhythm, athleticism, and a sense of “coolness.” I have none of those. What I do have are two eyes and those eyes were watching what Duane was doing. However Duane was dancing 6 feet away, I would try to emulate in an attempt to make it look like I knew what I was doing, but would fail horribly. Hell, it wasn’t even close. I had two left feet, the rhythm of the guy from “Mr. Holland’s Opus” that couldn’t bang that drum to save his life (until he got good with the help of an old white guy – how funny), and a head full of beer. But the problem was I thought I looked good. I thought I was a dancing machine. Beer, unfortunately, will do that to you. This was not going well.

At this time, I also became aware that there were still really only 7 or 8 people on the dance floor. It was Duane, the Dahm triplets, a few other people, and I getting jiggy with it. But still, no one was dancing with the Dahms. Maybe they were intimidated by the Dahm’s beauty or maybe they saw us coming onto the dance floor and realized that compared to us, they didn’t stand a chance. Either way, we had a clear path to our destiny.
Duane was getting close to making his move, but they were still basically dancing with themselves. Now, I don’t know which sister this was, in fact I couldn’t tell you any of their names, but I looked to my right, saw a Dahm sister within striking distance and decided to make my move. Putting on my “sexy face,” I started gyrating my body in what I assumed was a cool dance move but more than likely resembled some sort of seizure and started closing in on sister #1.

Now, sister #1 must not have seen me coming over as she kept her back to me and kept facing her sisters during my entire approach. I’m guessing that she didn’t see me because when I got close enough, she turned around and actually started dancing with me. Well, that’s where things went wrong. I don’t think she was dancing with me for more than 2.73 seconds when she noticed my killer moves. I think I intimidated her with my graceful style because she just turned right back around and started dancing with her sisters again. Thankfully, she spared me the humiliation of either screaming “CALL 911” or attempting to give me the Heimlich maneuver, but instead just turned her back on me again and continued to dance with her sisters.

Strike one.

The beautiful thing about triplets is that if you strike out with one, there are two left. The horrible thing about that is that while sister #1 had her back to me the entire time I approached her, sisters #2 and #3 had a pretty good view of my horrific contortions and knew what was coming as I moved in.

Now, I had no idea how Duane was doing at this point as I was in the zone. My feet were moving, my ass was shaking, and my arms were going Mr. Roboto all over the dance floor. If I couldn’t dance before, I was sure that I was doing it now. I had rhythm, I had music, and I had moves that in reality probably resembled a fish flopping on dry land after you have just removed a hook from its mouth. It was that bad. But at that point I was on top of the world and I was ready to strike.

As I honed in on sisters #2 and #3, I could see them giving each other that “which one of us is going to be the lucky one tonight” look. They must have had some sort of triplet telekinetic powers though because I’m pretty sure that they decided (as sisters should) that since they didn’t want to fight over me, neither one would get me. As a result, as I moved in for the kill, they both separated and pretty much left the dance floor entirely.

Strikes two and three simultaneously.

Quickly afterwards, sister #1 joined them and they made their way towards the front of the bar. I’m guessing that they probably looked at their watches and realized that it was getting close to their curfew. Anyone who watches “The Girls Next Door” knows that Hef puts a curfew on his girls and that it is strictly enforced. Either way, the girls then left the bar and Duane and I were left dancing by ourselves.

We left the bar shortly thereafter and made our way back to the campsite. I don’t remember a lot of the drive home and am pretty sure that I crashed the second we got back to the campsite. I woke up the next morning a little hazy, but no worse for the wear and began to reflect on the happenings from the night before. I, Scott Hopfinger, the little guy from Middle America, had danced with (or in the general vicinity of) Playboy Playmates and was not tackled by security, did not have a drink thrown on me, and was not directly laughed at by any of the three of them. In my book, I’ll take it as a victory. Sure, my dancing may have scared them off. Sure, I probably didn’t look near as cool as I thought I did. And sure, they may have laughed about the campsite smelling guy with the melted tennis shoes who danced like an epileptic during their entire drive home, but I’m really okay with it. Outside of Duane and myself, I don’t know of anyone else who has even come within shouting distance of a Playboy Playmate. Do you?

I didn’t think so.

Thanks for reading.

Facial Hairstory

For the better part of eight years now, I’ve had facial hair. I’m not talking about the ability to grow it, but I have actually had a semi-manicured patch of hair on my face that would count as facial hair. Over the years I’ve had the chin hair, the fu man chu (for one day), the full beard, the goatee, the soul patch, and for one brief night, a simple, straight-out-of-the-80’s porn/child molester mustache. Some have looked better than others, some have looked downright awful, but regardless, for the past 8 years my face has been decorated with some sort of hair concoction.

I’m not sure if I started growing facial hair in the first place out of anything but spite. It wasn’t as though I got a really bad 5 o’clock shadow that required me to shave twice a day. In reality, I used to be able to get away with only shaving every third or even fourth day. So it wasn’t as if I was spending too much money on razors and figured that just by letting my beard grow I’d be able to save a few extra bucks. Maybe it just came down to laziness (as most things do) on my part. Let’s look back at my facial hairstory and see what we can figure out.

In college I would often try growing a goatee, but it usually came in pretty blonde and patchy. Additionally, my girlfriend at the time did not enjoy the scratchiness of it so even if I grew it, it only lasted about a week before I’d shave it off and be baby-faced again. Had I given it enough time to grow in fully, it may have looked differently and been a bit softer, but I never gave it the chance to fully develop.

On top of that, right out of college I got a job at a payroll company that was very strict about appearances. Even though our business was done 100% in the office and over the telephone, all of the men were initially required to wear ties and dress slacks. Additionally, we could not have beards of any sort. My buddy Daryl got away with his mustache (which I was SOOO jealous of), but I knew that I couldn’t pull off the ‘stache, so I had to settle with nothing. So now, I had a girlfriend who didn’t like me with facial hair and a job that said I couldn’t have it. This would not fly.

Eventually, two things happened that altered the course of my facial hairstory forever: 1) the girlfriend and I broke up, and 2) I changed jobs. I had failed to grow with either or those factors so through different measures and with a few years in between, I was free of both of the naysayers and was able to build my facial empire however I so deemed necessary. I had to grow it. People told me that I couldn’t but I would show them. I would grow my facial hair however I damn well pleased and the world was going to like it! Or, maybe they wouldn’t care at all, but I was going to rebel either way.

I had actually started pushing the envelope at my old job by growing a soul patch and claiming that by definition it was not a beard so it was definitely not against the rules, but my boss would give me a look as if to say “I will beat you to within an inch of your life if you make me write you up for this” and I would shave it off. A week or two later it would be back and I’d get the same look. We played this game countless times over about a 6 month period and she won every time. By the way, that boss was awesome and taught me more in my four years at Paychex than I ever learned in four years of college. Thanks Vicky.

Anyway, I had left the girlfriend and then the job and had started growing my chin patch the very second I gave my two week’s notice. That patch stayed on my face for the next few years. It sometimes got unruly as I had a piece of garbage for a hair trimmer and preferred to look like crap rather than to have that monstrosity rip the hair from my face like a gardener rips weeds out of the ground. I would literally bleed sometimes. Profusely. But, being a poor bachelor, I had no money to go out and get a new one, so I suffered. The chin patch is probably one of the most photographed versions of my facial hairstory as it is evident in both my engagement and my wedding pictures. I would have more pictures of other versions but a) I hate being photographed, and b) I really hate being photographed. I’ll give into it for the sake of others but I am NOT photogenic and really, really dislike looking at pictures of myself. If you haven’t figured it out yet, my vanity far surpasses the reality of my appearance and no picture of me (even though it’s probably exactly how I look) ever gets a passing grade in my book. Need an example of my vanity? I’m writing a blog about the history of my facial hair as if anyone on earth besides me could give two craps about it.

But you’re still reading so I’ll carry on…

The chin patch eventually gave way to the goatee which I have been sporting for the past 4 years or so. It started out with me shaving all of my facial hair off for a Napoleon Dynamite costume I wore for Halloween a few years back. The second I shaved off the chin patch, I regretted it. I was glad that I would be wearing a costume that night (and it was an AWESOME costume) because I felt so uncomfortable without my security hairnket (hair + blanket). The following Monday at work, I figured that because I still had a week or so before I could grow it back fully, everyone would notice and make a huge deal about how different I looked without it. Nobody said a word. As the day went on and I got more and more flustered, I finally started laying guilt trips on people who see me multiple times every day but didn’t notice. Oddly enough, no one cared.

After that, I decided to grow the full goatee. I had never had much luck growing a mustache, but I figured I’d give it another shot. When it first came in, my chin hair, which had become accustomed to growing, came in dark but my mustache came in very blonde. It looked very odd at first but eventually came in a little darker and didn’t look half bad. Like the chin patch, I would sometimes let this get very unruly due to my POS hair trimmer, but about this time I purchased an electric clipper for both my quickly receding hair and my goatee. Best $17 I’ve ever spent. I could now have a neatly trimmed goatee and would never have to go to the barber again. Plus, I wouldn’t be forced to cry while my old trimmers pulled out my mustache hairs. That shit hurts!!

I liked the goatee because it could be switched back and forth between a full beard and a goatee with just a few swipes of a razor. The full beard was nice for winter, but once it got hot out, I would have to trim it off. It’s not like I went hunting or ice fishing or logging or anything that would require my face to be warm, but I do have a nice cozy desk job in the city that has a parking garage about four blocks away. That little jaunt can get cold in the winter months if the wind is blowing the right way.

The only time I’ve been without the goatee in the past few years is when I shaved it down to a very pervy pornstar/child molester mustache for an 80’s party in honor of my friend Melissa’s birthday. That thing was creepy. I quickly shaved it off the next morning and went to work the following Monday once again expecting everyone to take notice and make a huge deal about how different I looked without it. Nobody said a word. As before, once the day went on and I got more and more flustered, I finally started laying guilt trips on people who see me multiple times every day but didn’t notice. Oddly enough, once again, no one cared.

This brings me to the climax of this very exciting tale. I’m telling you it’s the climax because it’s a story about my freaking facial hair and if you’re not bored to tears by now, you’ve probably nodded off three or four times. Not that it gets much more exciting from here on out, but the good news is I’m almost done so you at least have that to look forward to.

Looking in the mirror awhile back, I began to notice that my goatee had changed. It was still pretty full (in fact, it was more full than it had ever been), but it was beginning to lighten in some areas. In fact, it was beginning to lighten a LOT in some areas. And when I say lighten, I don’t mean getting blonder from the sun. What I mean is that my beard was turning gray. At first I could trim it down and it wouldn’t be as noticeable, but as time went on, it became more and more evident that something had to be done. I began to think about Just For Men, but even with all of my vanity, it just seemed silly. I wasn’t going to paint my beard just so I would look younger. This wasn’t about looking younger or feeling younger, this was about having a cool looking goatee. Having had the gray for awhile, people were sure to notice the difference and that would make my goatee a laughing stock. I was not going to subject it to that torture, so last Friday I did something that I thought I would never do.

I shaved it all off.

What began as a need to rebel had turned into a comfort zone and ended up as something that had to go. Now, as I sit here on a muggy Monday afternoon, I feel weird. I feel naked. In the past when I shaved I would do so on a Friday or a Saturday afternoon so that when Monday morning came around, I would shave the parts that I wasn’t growing back to have at least an outline of stubble for the look I was going for. Not today. Today, I shaved again this morning and my face is naked to the world. I haven’t seen a ton of people since I did shave, but so far, only one person has noticed and it hasn’t been here at work. I expected that surely, with how dramatic this move was in life, everyone would take notice and make a huge deal about how different I looked without it. As usual, nobody has said a word. I’m sure that once the day goes on and I got more and more flustered, I’ll finally started laying guilt trips on people who see me multiple times every day but haven’t noticed yet. And I’m sure that once again, no one will care.

Oh well.