Soccer Bull(sh!t)

In honor of the World Cup starting today, I thought I’d offer up my past experience playing futbol on the pitch (that’s soccer on the field for all of you dumb Americans).

I played soccer for I think 5 years in the Belle-Clair soccer league. I don’t remember being bad, but I’m assuming that I was considering the coaches got the fine idea to make me the goal keeper. Goalie, actually, was probably a pretty good place for me. I was tall, gangly, and had lightning quick reflexes. Okay, I was just tall and gangly, but no one looked as cool in the long sleeve striped shirt as I did. Additionally, while all of my buddies were out there running their bottoms off, I got to be lazy and just stand in goal. It was perfect for me.

I have very few memories of these soccer years as they were a looooong time ago and I have killed way too many brain cells since then, but I do remember that over the course of those 5 seasons we were yellow team, the light blue team, and the black team (I think) – and we pretty much stunk every year. Over my entire career in the league, however, there was one constant. There was one great team and everyone knew it. The team wore red and ran roughshod over any team that dared to get in their way:

The Bullets

The Bullets were just awesome and seemed to go either undefeated or near undefeated every year. They had a reputation (even at the tender age of 9) as being a great team. Players hated to play against them and coaches hated to coach against them. You just knew that when you looked at the schedule and saw a game against The Bullets coming up, you may as well just mark an “L” by that date and move on.

Or so we thought

Like I said, my memories of soccer are vague at best, but there are one or two memories that really stand out. One of those memories is from a weekend game in which it had rained horribly the night before. We had taken the field and my teammates were warming up by taking shots at my goal. Me, being the good little boy that I was, didn’t want to make my mom mad by getting all muddy from diving into the mud in my ultra-cool uber white short soccer shorts that came with our uniform. I figured that burning holes in all of my school pants by sliding into base while playing kickball at recess was punishment enough for her so I would try to keep my shorts clean.

Well, one of the coaches (my buddy Aaron’s dad) saw that I was avoiding the mud and came up with a brilliant idea. He halted the warm-ups, came over to me, and basically threw me in the mud. I lay there, pretty much covered from head to toe in filth and knew that both he and I were going to be in trouble. In all actuality, he was already in trouble with my mother because a few weeks prior during a cub scout meeting, he had drawn out for me the meaning of the word “assume” just for me, so he either figured “what’s a little more trouble” or my mother had not gotten to him about that yet. Either way, once he threw me down, he ordered me to roll around and just get covered with dirt which turned out to be a lot of fun. I don’t know if we won or lost the game, but I remember that it was fun being that dirty.

The other memory I have involves The Bullets. Damn those Bullets.

From what I recall, we played the bullets around two times each season. I’m not sure if this was the first or the second time we played them, but either way, this game was going a little bit differently than usual. At some point in the game both the players and the parents realized that we seemed to be playing with this team the entire game. There was a lot of scoring but neither team could really pull ahead. I’m also not really aware of the score at the time this next event happened, but I do know the end result of the game and I feel personally responsible for it to this day.

The penalty kick

I don’t know who or what caused the penalty, but it was late in the game and you could definitely feel a buzz in the air that something big was going down. In fact, I’m pretty sure that all of the surrounding games had been halted and there were representatives from not only the local news outlets, but also from CNN and ESPN there to cover the game. I could be wrong about that, but let’s just pretend that I’m right. Oh, and we were also playing in front of 85,000 screaming fans. At the Bullets home field. In Brazil.

Anyway, as the player lined up to take the kick, I could hear the crowd chanting “BUL-LETS, BUL-LETS!” But, at the same time, you could hear some of the crowd starting to lean our way. It was kind of like Rocky IV where the Russians started cheering for the underdog Rocky because of his undying heart and determination against a heavily favored opponent. In fact, I’m pretty sure this was where Sylvester Stallone got the idea for the plot of that move as he (and many other A-List celebrities) was on hand for the game. The small spattering of people were chanting “SCO-TTY SCO-TTY!” I was pumped! I was energized! I knew how much this game meant and I wasn’t going to let my team, my fans, and the entire world down. This was my moment.

Let’s do this!!

As the kicker looked in I stared him directly in the eyes as if to say “this is my house, bitch, and you best stay clear if you know what’s good for you.” Without losing my gaze, I bent over, grabbed some dirt off the ground and rubbed it into my hands. I then bent over again, grabbed some more dirt, and rubbed it directly into my eyes. That’s right, I was so confident, I was going to stop this penalty kick blind. You heard me – blind.

I heard the crowd gasp in amazement at the audacity of a visiting goalie being that cocky and confident against a team as powerful as the 5 time defending World Cup champion Bullets, but it only fueled my intensity. I soon felt the presence of the ref who had walked up to me to offer me a towel to wipe the dirt out of my eyes, but I merely pushed him away and told him to mind his business. This was between me and the kicker.

After what seemed like an eternity of crowd noise, flashbulb pops, and words of encouragement from my teammates, the referee blew the whistle signaling the start of play. The kicker was free to kick the ball at any time, but seeing as that I was temporarily blinded and playing with a full leg cast (did I fail to mention that before?) – on both legs – I had to wait until I heard his footsteps prior to making my move.

Now, I had come into this game prepared and had watched tons of video on this guy. He always went to the goalie’s left with the ball. Always. This guy had already broken the FIFA record for most penalty kicks made all time. In fact, he had never ever in his life missed a penalty kick. He had something like 12,054 consecutive penalty kicks and 12,054 consecutive goals from them. He was that good. But I had an advantage over him that he didn’t know. I had instincts and now had the support of the entire 85,000 in attendance and the tens of millions watching on TV around the globe. Word has it that once the networks picked up the live feed, our ratings blew the MASH finale out of the water. This moment was that important. The world was watching.

I could hear him breathing heavily from the pressure that my underdog team had put on both him and his team. Having no sense of sight at the moment, my other senses were peaked so I was also able to hear his heart beat. As it beat faster and faster, I knew he was about to make his approach on the ball. I searched my soul for the proper move to make. I knew he would go to my left, but would he go high? Low? I had to make a decision and I had to make it now.

I heard the ball hit his foot and all of a sudden my instincts took over. It was almost as if Obi-Wan was guiding me to trust my feelings. Then, I did something I never thought I would do – I dove right. As I dove through the air I felt the collective breath of everyone in the stadium leave their body as this blinded, double leg casted hero dove the wrong way on a guy that always kicks it the other way. But before they were allowed to recapture that breath, something amazing happened – my hands touched the ball.

In an attempt to fool the blind, double leg-casted goalie, he had gone the opposite way of what he normally does – and I knew it. Having my wits about me, I took all of my years of training plus my amazing natural instinct and pushed the ball over the top of the goal. I had stopped the unstoppable and had done it in amazing fashion. Not two seconds later, the referee blew the whistle signaling the end of the game. We had beaten the Bullets in their own stadium and all 200,000 people (did I say 80,000 before? I meant 200,000) were on their feet cheering, screaming, and dancing because they appreciated this as being one of the most defining moments ever in the history of soccer. Maybe even in the history of the universe!! There was dancing in the streets all over the world as David had slayed Goliath. We were on top of the world.

As I left the stadium to get into my mom’s Cutlass for the drive back to the teams hotel (which hopefully would include a stop at McDonalds for a Happy Meal), I was stopped by an elderly gentlemen with tears in his eyes. “Superman,” (which is what they were now calling me), he said “Superman, I have lived on this earth for darn near 100 years, and in all my time, never have I seen anything even half as courageous as the display that your team, and you in particular, have put forth today. I can now die a happy man. May I hug you?” And with that, he embraced me and I felt the life leave his body. He died right there in my arms a happy and fulfilled man.

At least that’s how I remember it.

It could be that there really was a penalty kick and while diving to my right I did in fact stop the ball. It could also be that while holding the ball, my entire body was behind the line so the referees signaled it a goal. I’m not sure if that’s the right call or not, but that’s the call they made. We didn’t beat the Bullets that day, but we did tie them 5-5 which was a huge accomplishment for us.

I kind of like the other story better.

Have a great weekend and thanks for reading.

The Top Five

From what I understand (or at least from what I choose to believe), every couple has a “top five list.” “What is a ‘top five list?’” you may ask. A top five list is a list of the top 5 celebrities that you are allowed to have a romantic encounter with the added benefit of your spouse not being allowed to get angry. Sounds great, right? Of course it does. What man doesn’t want an iron clad list of five women (or men if he prefers – I’m not here to judge) that he knows he can sleep with without fear of repercussion? I’m sure women get excited about the list as well, but let’s face it, women are better than men and if the situation actually presented itself to them, women would turn it down for the benefit of the relationship.

Not men.

Give a guy a gun and he will shoot it. That’s why the list is so awesome. It is an actual binding legal contract (trust me, I’ve done my research) that prevents me from getting in any trouble whatsoever should I end up bumping uglies with one of my top five. I can pick any five celebrity women in the world to have my way with and be worry free about it for the rest of my days.

But the problem is finding the five.

Over the years my list has changed considerably. I know I’ve only been married for five years, but every man has been thinking about his “top 5” for as long as he can remember. From the very moment that you realize that women are attractive, you start making a mental list of which ones are hotter than others. Whether it’s intentional or just a fleeting thought, if you see Pamela Anderson and Brooke Burke standing next to each other on Dancing With The Stars, you’re making a mental note of who would be ranked higher on the almighty list (Brooke Burke is mega hot, but Pam has a crazy side to her and that may be kind of fun… see how this works?).

Additionally, as you grow older, your criteria change. Back in the 80’s, it was pop princesses because they seemed so innocent and sweet. Then it became the heavy metal chicks because they were dangerous and you never knew what to expect. Then, there are always the supermodels because they’re just so “perfect” in every way. After a while, some of your favorites from past lists grow up to be a little crazier than expected (see Brittney Spears) so maybe you stick with the girl and base your criteria on what she has turned into. That’s the beauty of the Top Five List…it keeps changing and, unless you do what Ross did in the Friend’s episode where he laminated his list, it’s a pretty much ever changing list that can be amended at any given time to fit the situation.

I like to think that my Top 5 is an eclectic list encompassing different genres, body types, and personalities. It is a beautiful group of women (no, contrary to popular belief I do not have Joel McHale on my list) whom I believe would feel both honored and excited to know that they were on my list. I am, after all, quite a catch. Carol bought me funderwear that says so.

Based on that, I’d like to present you with both Carol’s and my Top 5 List.

Scott’s list

In no particular order

1) Pamela Anderson, Brooke Burke, Brittney Spears, Mariah Carey, Lindsay Lohen, Stacey Kiebler, Megan Fox, Tina Fey, Tori Wilson, Mila Kunis, Kim Kardashian, Khloe Kardashian, The other Kardashian, Eva Mendes, Audrina Patridge, Scarlett Johansson, Amanda Bynes, Jennie Garth, Tiffani Amber-Theissen, Christina Aguillera,

2) Eliza Dushku, Jessica Biel, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Aniston, Gabrielle Union, Erin Andrews, Chelsea Handler, Kara DioGuardi, Kelly Ripa, Alison Brie, Heather Graham, Lauren Graham, Trish Stratus, Laura Prepon, Kristin Wiig, Eva Longoria, Merryl Streep, Sally Fields

3) Kate Hudson, Katie Holmes, Queen Latifah, Jamie Lynn-Seigler, Katy Perry, the girl from “Chuck”, Anna Kournikova, Elisha Cuthbert, Lois Griffin, Mandy Moore, Sarah Chalke, Fergie, Beyonce, Carrie Underwood, Cindy Lauper, Amy Adams, Halle Berry, Princess Leia, Holly Madison, Kendra Wilkinson, Bridgette Marquardt

4) Danica Patrick, Blake Lively, Alysson Hannigan, Elisabeth Shue, Drew Barrymore, Carmen Electra, Cameron Diaz, Heidi Klum, Claudia Schiffer, Rachel McAdams, Lacey Charbet, Rose McGowan, Denise Richards, Paulina Rubio, Shakira, Hayden Panettiere, Charlize Theron, Salma Hayek, Penelope Cruz, Isla Fisher, Lindsey Vonn, Maria Sharpova

5) Jenna Fischer, Anne Hathaway, Jenna Jamison, Amy Smart, Daisy Fuentes, Tara Reid, Shania Twain, Nicole Eggert, The Little Mermaid, Elle MacPherson, Courtney Cox, Eve Torres, Gina Gershon, Rihanna, Joel McHale’s twin sister, Keira Knightley, Uma Thurman, Daryl Hannah, Ali Larter, Lark Voorhies,

*disclaimer – this list is subject to change at any time based on what celebrity I may encounter at any given time.


Carol’s list
1-5 ) Me


While Carol’s list is very solid, I’m sure that I’ve overlooked someone on my list. I feel that I did a good job of paring it down to only five to make a good definitive roster. If you feel that either Carol or I have neglected someone on our list, please feel free to comment as your suggestions are always welcome.

As always, thank you for reading.

Cheesy Bread

I am a sucker for cheesy music. I have always been aware of this, but sometimes it’s clearer than others. Yesterday was a prime example of this. My buddy Chris updates his Twitter account (I have no idea how to, nor do I have any desire to “tweet” – ever) with albums that he’s playing on his record player throughout the day. Chris works in his underwear (a nice term for working from home) so he is able to listen to many albums a day and they’re usually really good. I’ll get facebook updates that he’s listening to Led Zeppelin, or The Beatles, or Pink Floyd and I’ll be jealous that he gets to enjoy that during his day. Not that I can’t get that on my iPod whenever I want, but the enjoyment of listening to it on vinyl plus the fact that he’s doing it at home makes me a little envious.

So, yesterday, I finally had a day home from work. I had a lot of odd jobs to do and the house was in shambles, so I figured I’d take advantage of my day to get some stuff done. While doing these things, I thought it would be nice if I put on a couple of records. So, having over 700 records at my disposal, what is the first motivational rocker that I pull out to listen to?

Air Supply’s Greatest Hits

I love Air Supply. I truly do. I only sing along to some songs as my voice really can’t get that high anymore (I’m no Justin Beiber) but the ones that I do sing, I sing with the power and determination of 10,000 Canadians. I know just how to whisper and I know just how to cry, I know just where to find the answers and I know how to rock an Air Supply song when it comes on the radio.

I used to work with a girl named Gianna who would practically choke me anytime an Air Supply song came on my iPod as she sat directly across from me. Knowing how much she LOVED the great Canadian duo, I would purposely turn my radio up a little and point it in her direction so she could hear that I was All Out of Love and so lost without her. She didn’t care. In reality, it only prompted her to come up with MORE colorful names for me. After I left the airport and took up residence at my new job, I told her that I had removed the Air Supply from my iPod and had only kept it on there to annoy her. That was a lie. I love Air Supply and am not frightened to admit it anymore.

But it only that were it

My next selection was Elvis Gold. Now Elvis isn’t bad – at all. In fact, he’s The King. The problem with Elvis, though, is that it’s Elvis. You can only be told so many great things about a person/place/thing before you get REALLY sick of hearing about it and begin to detest it. I think that may be why I detest the Cardinals so much, but that’s a story for a different time. Either way, once I listened to the album I realized that Elvis was in fact quite awesome and I was glad I had put it on. I didn’t gain any man-points, but I certainly didn’t lose any either…

Until my next selection

For my next album, I had to specifically look for it. Normally, when I want to listen to an album I go to one of two places. I have a closet full of about 500 records sitting on shelves that my father and I built. I call these my “B” albums. They are, in essence, my “USA Up All Night” albums. There might be one or two good moments, but you keep waiting for the climax and it just isn’t there. There are many great artists on these shelves, but it is usually their lesser albums that nobody cares about.

The other place I go to are the end tables in our living room. Carol has graciously allowed me to display about 200 records in the living room end tables because a: they look kind of cool, and b: it shows that I actually live there. Most of the décor in the house has been picked out and perfected by her. I love our house and everything that she has done with it, but quite honestly, you can tell that it was her that did it. Outside of the PS2 and the Wii under the entertainment center, without the records you really couldn’t tell that a grown man lived there. Not that our house looks girly in any way, but I have no eye for art or decoration and most everyone that knows us is well aware of that.

Anyway, the records in the end tables are my “A” collection. They house my Beatles, Dylan, CCR, Zeppelin, Elton, Wonder, Young, ZZ TOP, Hendrix, etc. The crème de la crème if you will. I will typically get 90% of the records that I listen to out of this collection, but occasionally I will get the urge to listen to something a little off of the beaten track. Yesterday was one of those days. I got a specific song in mind, went to the closet, found the B’s, and picked out the Best of Bread.

For anyone who’s ever listened to Bread, you know that they’re no Zeppelin. Hell, they almost make Air Supply sound manly. But they have this one song that every once in awhile I just have to hear. The song is called “If” and is one of the cheesiest songs I’ve ever heard. From the music arrangement to the choice of instruments (I have no idea what they’re playing), to the lyrics, this song is pure unadulterated cheese – and I love it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGfVOdTiUEc


If a picture paints a thousand words, Then why can't I paint you?

The words will never show the you I've come to know.

If a face could launch a thousand ships, Then where am I to go?

There's no one home but you, You're all that's left me too.

And when my love for life is running dry,

You come and pour yourself on me.

If a man could be two places at one time, I'd be with you.

Tomorrow and today, beside you all the way.

If the world should stop revolving spinning slowly down to die,

I'd spend the end with you. And when the world was through,

Then one by one the stars would all go out,

Then you and I would simply fly away

That’s it. That’s the entire song. Two verses lasting a total of about two minutes of pure heaven. In fact, it’s like manna from heaven. (see what I did there? Bread = manna?)The rest of the album is cheesily as good (see what I did there too? I’m awesome.) but this song stands out as the cheesiest of the cheese.

Those are just the albums that I listened to yesterday, and I’d like to think that it was just a one-time occurrence, but it’s not. Just browsing through my iPod, these are some of the artists that I have on there and more than likely have some of the most plays.

Air Supply (given)
Bangles
Barry Manilow
Billy Vera and the Beaters (it’s the song from Family Ties - you’d know it)
Bonnie Tyler – Total Eclipse of the Heart
Bryan Adams (Canadian thing maybe?)
Chris de Burgh – Lady in red
The Dream Academy – Life in a Northern Town
Eric Carmen
Glen Campbell – Rhinestone Cowboy
Hall & Oates

That’s only through the H’s, and I’m sure I skipped over some that seem normal to me but others would give me a WTF? look. Plus, I’m not even getting into my obsession with 80’s music. That would take forever.

So, while Chris is rocking out to ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres, I’m listening to John Denver’s Greatest Hits. That’s just me. I can’t help it. I obviously appreciate the classics and love them to no end. In fact, if you ever see me driving around with my windows rolled down, you’re very likely to hear me playing Heart, Fleetwood Mac, or Jefferson Airplane. I have a great collection of all of them and play them religiously. But, if you come over to the house when I’m there by myself or if you see me driving along with my windows rolled up and singing along to something on the radio, rest assured that I’m probably having a sing off with Neil Diamond or Rod Stewart.

I have no joke to end this. I’m considering it literary therapy.

Bombing the Airport

I’m going to cheat today and use an old email that I had sent to my buddies Chris and Dan a few years ago. Chris has asked me to post this as it makes him laugh out loud every time he reads it. I find it pretty funny, albeit very embarrassing, also. I have cleaned up the language because my mother reads this, but for the most part, this is the text that I sent to them on that fateful day. I hope my humiliation makes you smile.

Written circa 2006

“Okay, so every morning I take a vitamin at 7:30 (not a specific time, that's just when I get to it). Now, I'm supposed to eat before I take it, but I never do. As a result of taking the vitamin on an empty stomach, around 9:30 every morning I get a little rumble in my stomach. I don't have to take a crap, but I have a buildup of gas that is out of this world. On an average day, I'm able to hold it until 11:00 when I leave for lunch and as I walk out to my car, I leave a trail of gas and sound that you can hear over the aircrafts on the runway. It's quite impressive and have often thought of recording it because every debut album needs a 10 second long fart on it (I'm not kidding on the length - the one time in my life when I don't lie about length).

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

So, around 9:30 this morning, I got the rumble. I was dealing well with it and didn't see any problem with holding it until 11:00 (some awful mornings I have to go the bathroom and release the gaseous beast) so I went on with my day. Well, my boss came to my desk about 10:00 to ask me some questions. At that point I realized that, hmm, maybe I can't wait until 11:00, but really had no chance of getting away so I had to stick it out. Well, the rumble grew worse. And worse. I was getting to the point where if I didn't fart soon, something was going to explode in my stomach. I decided that I was going to let out a squeaker (they don't smell, they're just long and loud) even though my boss was at my desk with me. I figured I could let out a silent one and no one would notice. Once I realized that I was going to fart right in front of my boss, my better judgment came through and I made the immediate decision to suck that fart back up into my butt.

Unfortunately, at the moment that I decided to suck it up, someone came into my office and cracked a joke about my bosses chest (or lack thereof). Well, I laughed - which was a very bad move. What I had originally planned to be a silent puff of stomach easing wind suddenly came out as a call to the wild. The first one squeaked out as most squeakers do, but my body has become accustomed to letting it all out at once... After the longest 3 seconds of laughing and farting and farting because I'm laughing and laughing because I'm farting, I was able to get up from my desk and make it into the bathroom to release the rest of it, which of course was audible to everyone outside the bathroom as well.

I came out of the bathroom 10 minutes later and was still red as a beat. I have since apologized to everyone and never want to come back here again.”

...

BTW, I have discontinued taking said vitamin

Bosom Buddies

A young man’s quest to see boobies is a never-ending journey filled with the occasional glimpse but mostly utter disappointment. Unless you were lucky enough to have parents who had the pay cable channels such as HBO, Showtime, or especially Cinemax, you were mostly left searching through their drawers and closets for some type of Playboy , Hustler, or Oui magazine. Even if you were able to find some of these magazines, the pressures of putting them back exactly as you found them plus the constant concern that you may be found out added a lot of unneeded stress to this method. Some of us were also fortunate enough to have a friend with a parent who had a collection of adult themed videos. If you didn’t have this friend, you usually found a friend who had a friend whose parents had these videos. I can still remember sitting in my buddy’s friend’s friend’s living room while a film entitled “Bubbles” was on the screen and noticing 4-5 guys all leaning forward and squirming uncomfortably in our seats. It was slightly awkward, but in the stage of adolescence between the ages of 8 to 33, the booby is the Holy Grail and you would do whatever you had to do to see one (or preferably both).

Sometimes, though, you were left with no options. Such was the case almost every weekend when Aaron and I would spend the night at the other’s house. Now, Aaron and I knew exactly where his dad’s magazines were, but we decided that the option of creeping into his parent’s room while they were sleeping and trying to quietly open up his dad’s nightstand to remove one or two was a little risky. When his parents weren’t home, those magazines were fair game, but on Friday and Saturday nights, they weren’t even an option. Neither of our parents had pay cable channels (I’m pretty sure my parents took ours away immediately after my dad walked in on my neighbor John and I watching “Bachelor Party” one night) and I didn’t find my dad’s stash of magazines until later in life (sorry to bust you like this Pop) so we were left with virtually nothing - except hope. And that hope resided in one place.

USA Up All Night

Boy, they weren’t kidding.

It seems that almost every weekend, Aaron and I were either sleeping over at his house or at my house. Well, sleeping isn’t exactly the appropriate word. We would talk about girls, play lots of Nintendo (he always had all of the coolest games and accessories), and do whatever adolescent boys do to keep them busy until “it” came on. And by “it”, I mean USA Up All Night. Up All Night aired on the USA network late at night and was hosted on Fridays by a vixen named Rhonda Shear and on Saturdays by Gilbert Gottfried. The concept of the show was to play B movies and sexploitation films – without any of the good stuff. But we didn’t know that.

They did play some well known movies such as the “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “Friday the 13th” series, but we were interested in the other films. The ones we’d never heard of. The ones that sounded SOOOOOO good in TV guide that this weekend, even though we had been disappointed last weekend, this weekend we were BOUND to see some boobies.

The movies we were interested in had titles such as:

*Assault of the Killer Bimbos
*Bad Girls Dormitory
*The Bikini Carwash Company (parts 1 and 2)
*Bikini Goddesses
*Bikini Summer
*Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death (no kidding)
*Cheerleader’s Wild Weekend
*The Last American Virgin
*The Malibu Bikini Shop (pretty much, if it said “bikini”, we were watching)
*Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell
*Reform School Girls
*Satan’s Cheerleaders
*The Sex Detective
*Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama (I can’t make this stuff up)
*Virgin High

I’m not claiming that we watched all of them, but it was pretty much standard practice that on weekend nights, Aaron and I would watch USA from around 9:00 pm until 2:00 am or until we fell asleep, whichever came first. We would get our Chewy Chips Ahoy, soda (Coke at his house, caffeine free Pepsi at my house), popcorn, and whatever other goodies we needed and set up shop in either my room or in his basement. We would watch the always large chested women walk onto the screen and talk about how we couldn’t wait until we got to see her boobies. Then, that woman would talk to another equally large chested woman and, having been privy to Aaron’s neighbor’s father’s collection of movies and the exploits of what two women can do while the boys are away, would soon begin talking about what would happen if we saw both of their boobies – at the same time. Once that movie was over and we were disappointed that we didn’t see anything, we watched the start of the next movie and our level of anticipation was again at a 10. We didn’t see any last weekend, and we haven’t seen any tonight, but maybe the next movie will be the one.

But we never did

I know one time we saw a side booby (I’m amazed his parents didn’t wake up from the cheering), but that was it. Ever. I guess that the flow of testosterone flowing through our pubescent bodies was blocking any type of message that our brain was trying to send to our remaining parts about USA being on basic cable. They weren’t allowed to show nudity. They wouldn’t show nudity. All of these busty babes in bikinis were only meant to torture us into thinking that maybe tonight would be the night - this movie would be the movie. USA knew better but we didn’t. We could be sitting up every weekend from then until now and we still wouldn’t see one single booby.

The funny thing is, our lack of success never stopped us. It wasn’t like we planned the sleepovers just to watch USA Up All Night, but it always ended up happening. In fact, I’m not sure that it was ever discussed outside of our weekend bad movie-boobless marathons. We had plenty of other things in common to talk about and other mutual hobbies that we could work on so there was always a reason to hang out. We were best friends that really enjoyed each other’s company. The problem was, we weren’t always smart enough to realize the obvious.

The good news though, is that we never figured that out. I’m sure that as we grew up it started to make sense as to why we never saw any boobies on USA, but at that point we had started experiencing REAL boobies so we really didn’t care. Laying in our sleeping bags and waiting for the next “love scene”, however, we had no clue and, except for the initial disappointment, we didn’t really care. We knew that regardless of what movie was playing, regardless of what Nintendo games we had bought or rented, regardless if it was a Coke or a Caffiene Free Pepsi weekend, we were going to be spending the night at our best friend’s house and having a great time doing it.

I can’t even describe what I would give to do that just one more time.

Boobies or no boobies

Love and miss you Aaron


…

Wormburners, Lakes, Sandtraps, and Trees - The Scott Hopfinger Golfing Experience

On June 19, 2010, at 7:30 am, I will make my long anticipated return to the links. Granted, I’m no Tiger Woods and, as such, my return won’t be making any national or even local headlines, but I’m going to go to a place that I swore I would never return to again.

The Golf Course

From what I’ve written so far in this series of blogs, I make it quite clear that there aren’t many things that I’m good at. I can’t maintain my lawn, I can’t keep a rhythm while drumming, and I can’t even make it to the bathroom while throwing up Red Dog and Cheegles. But you can take all of those things, combine my inability to do them well, and it will not even come close to how bad I am at golfing. In fact, calling what I do “golfing” is like calling what strippers do “dancing.” It sort of resembles it, but in the grand scheme of things is nothing close.

I have the gear – sort of. I have a set of clubs that I got for my 19th birthday. They’re nothing fancy and the ones that I haven’t thrown against a tree, banged into the ground, or launched down the fairway are still in fairly decent condition. I don’t have golf shoes because I refuse to invest money in gear for a “sport” that I despise as much as I do. For the longest time I’ve been using a vinyl Wilson bag that was given to me by a friend and looks like something that would be a prize at the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks, but I’ve since acquired a new bag that will make me look a little more respectable – at least until it’s time for my first tee shot.

I’ve also never had a lesson. I’ve had friends instruct me on how to do various things, but I don’t golf often enough to make the tips stick. It’s actually a nasty cycle. I go golfing because it sounds fun and I think that I’ll be able to do better this year, I golf poorly, I get a tip, hit a few nice shots, hit some bad shots, get mad because the tips are no longer working, tally up a horrible round, swear I’ll never golf again, wait a year, go golfing again because it sounds like fun and maybe I’ll be able to do better this year. My grandfather actually used to be a golf pro and wants to teach me, but I’m not sure he’d have the patience for me. He’s in his advanced years and I’m scared at what seeing me golf might do to his heart.

I’m so bad that last year I was able to injure myself. I actually tore muscles in my neck from my horrible swing. I felt the normal soreness the next day that comes from 18 holes of around 120+ strokes, but as the days went on, the soreness kept getting worse. On day two I could barely move my head without a sharp pain running up my neck, soI went to the doctor who told me I had torn muscles in my neck and he gave me some dandy pain pills to help me out during my business trip/visit to cousin Jeff up in Chicago. Even on the pills I was miserable and I vowed to never play golf again. I was retired.

Well, as I’ve proven before, my will is easily broken and I am back to playing golf. I feel like the Rolling Stones with how many times I’ve retired and then come back to doing things that I swore I was done with. I don’t anticipate me being back for the long haul as I’m only golfing on June 19th as part of a charity fundraiser. I don’t plan on winning (unless there’s a team beer drinking trophy – which I’ve been told there’s not, but even so my team is stacked), but I do want to have a good time for a good cause.

My friend Rachel, an extremely strong woman who has shown perseverance through situations that no human being should ever be witness to, has been putting on this tournament for the past few years to benefit Domestic Violence Prevention. A lot of my friends have played in the past and claim it to be an excellent time and for a great cause. If you golf, sort of golf, are aware what a golf club looks like, or just want to help a wonderful woman raise funds for a much needed cause, please read the flyer below and consider playing in this tournament. If you can’t play, please consider a donation. No amount is too great or too small. Additionally, if you can’t play but know someone who may want to, feel free to pass this on.

So, as I’ve said, I’m going against my better judgment and hitting the links one more time. The good news is, since it’s a scramble, I only have to buy 18 golf balls. The best ball format makes it so it would be hard for even me to lose more than one ball per hole – again.

Take care and thanks for reading



PEG Helpline
Benefit Golf Scramble
Saturday June 19th, 2010
Clinton Hills Golf Course
3700 Old Collinsville Road Belleville IL,


§ Entry Fee - $85 Per Person
(Includes green fees, cart rental, post-tournament lunch and prizes)
§ Guests welcome for lunch and post-tournament activities for $15 per person
§ Sponsor a hole for $100
§ In-kind donations appreciated
§ 18-hole 4 person team scramble
§ Mixed teams encouraged
§ Registration at 6:30am
§ Shotgun start at 7:30am
§ Lunch served at 12:30pm
§ Deadline for entry is Saturday, June 12th, 2010


For more information call: 618-534-4918 or 618-520-8100
or email peghelpline@yahoo.com
Proceeds to benefit:
Domestic Violence Prevention

Entry Form
Captain Name ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________
Address _____________________________________
Phone # ___________Email _____________________

Other Golfers Names 2) _________3) __________4) _________
Guest Meal ($15/Person) ____Y_____N_____# of Guests

I am interested in Sponsoring a Hole ______Y _____N
Deadline for Entry is June 12th, 2010


Hole Sponsor Form
Business Name ____________________________________

Contact Person ____________________________________

Business Address, Phone and Email ___________________
__________________________________________________

1 Hole for $100 __________ 5 Holes for $400 _________
Deadline for Hole Sponsor is June 14th, 2010
Proceeds to Benefit Domestic Violence Prevention
Make Checks payable to The Peg Helpline
Please mail form and payment to:
Rachel Embrich 417 Erin Drive, Fairview Heights, IL 62208
For More Information Call: 618-534-4918 or 618-520-8100

Ramblings

I really have nothing to write about today. Carol reminds me that I don’t have to write something every day, but I have this delusion that I have tens of thousands of readers who will be devastated if they don’t get their daily dose of the Scott Chronicles. Truth be told, I think on a good day I’m lucky to get 15 people to read this. But the fact that some of you come back to read this every day makes me genuinely happy and will keep me coming back to write this as long as I think I have something interesting to say.

On that note, rather than a story of some sort, I’m going to write about various topics that have sparked my interest lately. Here we go:

*While I’m bummed that all of my regular season TV shows are over, I’m excited that the following shows will be airing soon or have already begun to air:

Hell’s Kitchen
It’s Always Sunny in Philadephia
Tosh.0

*While I feel really bad for Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga for not getting the perfect game last night, I don’t think that MLB should go back and change the call. If that call had happened in the first inning, would it have been such a big deal? Yes, Jim Joyce blew the call, but baseball is full of imperfections. Errors are as much a part of the player’s game as they are the umpire’s decisions. Umps have missed calls since Abner Doubleday invented the game way back in the day. If they change this one call, they’re opening the floodgates for a host of people wanting various plays reviewed throughout the annals of time therefore changing baseball history as we know it. Sorry buddy, you got screwed, but that’s baseball.

On the same note, I am not a fan of instant replay in baseball. I don’t mind the home run vs. foul ball replay as I’m all for getting the call right, but I can’t say I’m an advocate of it either. If you don’t like what the umps are doing, hire better umps.

*I’m REALLY looking forward to seeing Lindsay Lohan in her new movie about porn queen Linda Lovelace. I’m not looking forward to seeing the movie, I’m looking forward to seeing Lindsay in the movie.

*I could give a crap about the NBA finals. Lakers vs. Celtics used to mean something, but that was back when they played actual basketball. Larry and Magic would be disgusted.

*Ben starts T-Ball tonight. I’m not sure if he even knows what T-ball is, but since Carol and I are excited about it, he’s really excited about it too. He’s on the yellow team. Why do I keep envisioning a “Chico’s Bail Bonds” sponsorship on the back of the uniforms?

*I got a text last night about Gary Coleman. Apparently he has his own personalized casket: http://www.gatorcountry.com/swampgas/showthread.php?t=154563

*I have a bruise on my forearm and I have no clue how it got there. I don’t bruise easily so I must have really whacked it, but I sure don’t remember what I did. I wonder if it has something to do with the cut on my forearm about three inches away.

*I’ve recently realized that most of my stories on this blog involve me drinking large quantities of alcohol and may give the impression that I’m a raging alcoholic. Not true. My intake of crack FAR outweighs my intake of alcohol.

*What ever happened to Norm McDonald?

*The Hardees Grilled Cheese Bacon Thickburger has got to be one of the tastiest burgers I’ve ever put in my mouth. It’s probably also one of the worst things I’ve ever put into my body, but it just tastes so damn good. When I die, I’d like them to be served at the luncheon after my funeral as they were probably the reason I died in the first place.

*Read my friend Kathy’s blog. She was kind enough to mention my blog in one of her entries so I’m returning the favor: http://adventuresofpippip.wordpress.com

*Fishing at my parent’s house this weekend was a pleasant reminder of fishing with my grandpa. I’m sure there will be a blog entry about him someday, but it’s going to take a lot of work and a lot of tears to do it justice.

*I hate switching cell phones with Carol for the day because the nosey part of me wants to go through and read all of her messages but the realist in me knows that she probably did what I did and erased all of her messages prior to switching phones.

*BP Amoco disgusts me. I understand that mistakes are made, but come on. It’s been over a month now and you still can’t figure out a way to stop the leak? I’m aware that it’s not as easy as it seems, but when the entire world is aware of the problem, certainly there have been some fixes suggested that might work. Here’s my suggestion: Insert a gigantic tampon into the hole to stop the flow. It may need to be replaced repeatedly, but after about 7 days, the flow should be stopped.

*I feel really bad for Charlie Sheen. The poor guy has to go to prison for somewhere short of 30 days for violating his probation from a prior arrest. Once he gets out, the poor sap has to go back to his job where he’ll be getting paid close to $2 million dollars per episode of his show. You’ve got it rough Charlie. You’ve got it rough. Do you know what normal guys get for violating their probation? Prison sex!

*Speaking of prison sex, I’ve been watching Pro Wrestling for close to 25 years now, and I think I may stop. It’s just not as exciting as it used to be. I find myself stopping to watch the interviews, but fast forwarding through the matches. The stories used to be told in the ring through the course of the match, but now the matches are just filler until the next interview. I think I’m watching it out of loyalty rather than enjoyment anymore. Plus, there are no more midgets. Midgets rule.

*I’m wondering if I actually put some time into it how many of these ramblings could have been worked into an entire blog entry.

*I’m also wondering if I stole one in the future and turned it into an entire entry if anyone would notice/care.

*There’s only one Golden Girl left – Betty White.

*The Gores are getting divorced and that saddens me. 40 years of marriage should be able to be saved. Certainly with today’s TMZ mentality any infidelity would have already been made public. I’m not a huge fan of either Al or Tipper (for reasons other than political as that is a topic I will almost never discuss) but I am a fan of marriage. I think if you’ve lasted 40 years with someone without killing them, it’s worth saving at all costs. At the same time, with how exciting Al is, Tipper may have been sleeping for a good portion of the 40 years and be under the impression that they’ve only been married for ten years or so.

*I’m torn by the fact that I want to be important enough to have to wear a suit to work every day, but at the same time, I would absolutely despise having to wear a suit to work every day.

*If I don’t stop writing this soon, I won’t have any job at all so the suit would be a moot point.

Take care and thanks for reading.

Hole-ier than thou

Apparently, I had the reputation as a bad kid while in grade school. In fact, it has gone down in Hopfinger family lore that at a parent teacher conference, my 3rd grade teacher made my mother cry because I was such a rotten kid. I don’t really see it that way as my actions were often misinterpreted, but nevertheless, that stigma will follow me around for as long as I live. I can’t remember ever doing anything with malicious intent – ever. It’s just not my style. Sure I talked a lot in class. Sure I couldn’t really stay in my desk. And sure, I thought homework was a waste of time (it’s not my fault that my teacher’s can’t teach me everything I need to know in the 8 hours per day that they have me). Due to some of the company I kept, however, I was automatically associated with wrongdoing whenever it went down. I’m not saying I was innocent by any means, but as I’ve discussed previously, my utilization of common sense was often lacking. Here is a list of some of the (many) things that I can remember getting in trouble for in grade school:

· Saying “wiener” in the boys bathroom (first trip to the principal’s office)

· Being part of a group of guys who made fun of a girl so much that she didn’t come back to our school the next year (I don’t remember making fun of her, but I was part of a crowd that did)

· Deciding with John to not take the bus home in order to hang out with two girls prior to going to Mr B’s arcade and then walking home. (apparently, teachers were out in their cars looking for us).

· Being pulled out of class and accused of adult activities with the above mentioned girls the following day by a teacher who happened to be the mother of one of our classmates who was in turn the object of my 6th grade affection.

· Writing profane words in two separate girl’s yearbooks (happened on the same day, so should really only count as one offense)

I’m sure there are many more that my parents, classmates, and teachers can remember. In fact, I spent so much time in the principal’s office during my grade school years that I probably could have asked him to be in my wedding party 14 years later. We knew each other that well. Thanks for putting up with me Mr. P.

The story that will stick with me forever though, and the one that I recall every time I visit St Mary’s for a fish fry, is the day I kicked the hole in the wall.

In grade school, if there was inclement weather during recess, you had one of two options on where to go. Normally you would go to the gym as it allowed for running around, basketball, jump rope, or many other games. That was always the desired location and suited the need just fine. St. Mary’s, however, had a smaller gym and when you have grades 5-8 out to recess at the same time, not all of the kids could fit in the gym. As a result, the fifth and sixth graders got the gym that day and the seventh and eitgth graders were forced to go to one of the two big rooms in the basement: The cold lunch room or the band room.

I know the “cold lunch room” was called that because years prior, if you did not buy a “hot lunch” from the school, you were considered a cold lunch kid and you ate in a separate room. The band room, however, confused me. We had a separate room for music class which also housed all chorus, band, and beginner band practices. Even our winter and spring concerts were held in the gym, so I have no idea why it was called the band room. Either way, on this glorious day, we were banished to the band room and I would meet my fate.

It started very innocently.

While you were allowed to run around in the gym, running was discouraged in the band room. There wasn’t a lot to do except for sitting around while working on homework, playing games, or talking to people. My buddies and I, however, found a new game that didn’t involve running. The ceiling in that room was probably around 9 feet tall, but there was a section right inside the door that hung about 6 inches lower. Being the basketball powerhouse that St. Mary’s was, we had a bunch of poor, poor jumpers in my class. I was easily 6 foot in my 8th grade year and possibly taller. Being the tallest one, however, didn’t mean squat when it came to jumping.

We all took our turns jumping and trying to touch the lowered ceiling. I’m pretty sure Danny, who was just a hair shorter than me, could get a full palm on it. The rest of us, however, could barely scrape it with our fingers. We would jump time after time trying to get as much of the ceiling tile as we could, but we just couldn’t get as much as we wanted.

I don’t remember who did it first, but I’m 99% sure that it was someone much lighter than me. I only weighed about 112 pounds then, but this was also 8th grade so most of the guys were still smaller than me. Either way, someone got the idea to take a two or three step jog towards the main wall of a closet in the room (which housed SOME band equipment, which may also explain the name band room, but that’s still kind of a stretch), place a foot on the wall to propel themselves up, and get a lot more of the ceiling.

And what do you know? It worked.

All of the guys tried it and it worked like a charm. I tried it a couple of times and it was awesome. It worked so well we were almost hitting our heads on the ceiling. We were flying like Michael Jordan. We were also leaving footprints all over the wall, but who cared? We were touching that ceiling and we were happy.

Recess was going to end soon, so I decided that I was going to take one last turn before the bell rang. I backed up, took my few steps, propped my foot against the wall and…

Oh shit.

I can still feel to this day the sensation of my foot going straight through the drywall. I wasn’t lucky enough to have that be it though. Not me. I had put so much force into this jump that not only my foot, but my entire leg went through that wall. And, because I had jumped a little to get a better lift off of the wall, I was pretty much stuck in the wall with neither foot touching the ground because I was hanging there – by my crotch.

I immediately knew I was in trouble (I came to know that feeling well), but hoped that maybe nobody had seen. Those hopes were dashed quite quickly as my entire class and the 7th graders below us either laughed out loud or gave a resounding “Scott’s in deep shit” gasp. I was about to plead my case and let them know that nobody saw anything, but at that moment, my buddy Mr. P came into the room and a 7th grader whom I played basketball with and who was also jumping with us grabbed him by the arm and pointed directly at me. Thanks Todd.

Well, Mr. P. gave me his disappointed look (a look I had come to know very well), helped me out of the wall, and took me up to his office. It didn’t help that I was also currently in trouble for the yearbook incidents listed above. I don’t remember my punishment for this offense as they all seemed to gel into one large 8 year long prison sentence, but I do remember that the janitor who had to replace the wall didn’t talk to me for a long time after that.

I’ve done worse things in my life. I’ve done things that will NEVER be written about in this blog. This one, however, always seems to rear its ugly head any time I’m around a group of my old grade school classmates. I’m not ashamed of it as I’ve already explained that it was not malicious – it was an accident. In fact, if anything is going to follow me around, I’m really glad it’s this as opposed to other things I’ve done.

I just really wish that St Mary’s would hold their fish fry’s in another room because every time I go in there, I see the wall. And I still see Todd pulling on Mr. P’s arm to point out what I did. And I still see Mr. P’s disappointed look as he helped me out of the wall and escorted me up to my desk in his office. And when I see all of that, I have to laugh because, looking back, it’s pretty damn funny. And then I look at Ben and I hear everyone telling me that whatever I did, Ben is going to pay me back for 10 times over. And then I don’t laugh as much.

I’m going to go Lowe’s tonight and pick up a couple of sheets of drywall – just to be prepared.

Illegal Briefs

Common sense is not one of my strong suits. Well, maybe I should say that utilizing common sense is not one of my strong suits. I have plenty of common sense, but usually I choose not to use it. I know the difference between right and wrong and I know the difference between appropriate and inappropriate. But if you give me a situation in which a proposed response is the appropriate one but the other option will garner more laughs, I’ll give you a guess as to which response I’ll give.

Like I said, it’s not that I don’t know better, but the problem is I’m always looking to get a laugh or to shock people. I was having a conversation with my mother the other night regarding my blogs and how sometimes I step over that line in order to get a reaction. I told her that was my entire goal. If it stuck with her as gross/inappropriate/wrong, at least it stuck with her. Now, I could tell you tons of stories of me not utilizing common sense (and I probably will as long as I know people continue to read this little blog of mine), but this morning I shocked even myself. In fact, I still don’t know what to think of it.

Let me set the scene

I took Ben into daycare at the normal time, and as he customarily does when he is really tired in the morning, he latched on to me and didn’t want me to leave. This doesn’t happen regularly, but it does so often enough that I’ve developed a solution to get him to go sit down and eat his breakfast: I bribe him. I barely leave myself enough time to get to work on time in the morning without taking him to daycare. Taking him there pushes me back an extra 10 to 15 minutes due to getting him ready and walking him into the building. When he does his “don’t go daddy” thing, it takes up even more time so I have rationalized that a bribe (even though it’s probably the reason that he continues to repeat this action) is justified because it gets me to work that much closer to 8:00. Anyway, Ben had latched on and I was just about to offer him his bribe of a Peppermint Patty for after dinner tonight when his favorite teacher walked in.

Now, the majority of Ben’s teachers are college aged girls and some of them aren’t ugly. No, I’m not some obsessed creepy pervy dad who drops his kid off to gawk at all of the girls that take care of Ben, but I’m also not blind and I can admit when I spot an attractive girl/woman. I will also let it be known that I love Carol and she is the only woman for me forever and ever. That being said, Ben’s teacher was showing a lot of skin today and it caught me off guard. She picked him up directly and he was a happy guy again. She told him that he was her favorite and that they were best friends. At that point Ben forgot about me and I was able to leave.

And you thought I was going to say something inappropriate to the teacher.

Shame on you.

Anyway, when I said I was able to leave, that’s not quite true. I was ALMOST able to leave when one of Ben’s friends said that Ben was wearing green – which he was. For some reason, this prompted me to look around the room and I noticed that almost half of the kids were wearing green today. To this, I mentioned out loud to the boy “I think almost half of the kids are wearing green today.”

I’m not sure if that broke some sort of gangland code or what, but as I took a few more steps out of the room about five of the little green wearing rugrats surrounded me like a gang of playground marauders and blocked my exit. I wasn’t sure what to do as usually the kids don’t pay attention to me at all. I tried to get to the hallway, but they continued to circle me. At this point, the leader of the gang looked at me with a look of determination and told me in all of the seriousness that a 3 year old could muster,

“I’m wearing underwear today.”

Now, had this been an adult, I would have come up with some quick-witted, snappy remark that would have evoked a laugh out of either the other person, the people surrounding, or maybe just myself. But, being as he was only 3, I developed a sense of pride for the little guy. Ben himself has just moved onto big boy underwear adorned with various Disney characters and such, so I knew how proud this little guy was in telling me that he was wearing them too. I didn’t want to discourage or ignore him, so I promptly responded with “I’m wearing underwear today too.”

This is where it gets weird.

See, I’m a big fan of funderwear. I’ve been a religious wearer of boxer shorts for as long as I can remember. In the past few years though, I’ve discovered boxer briefs which are quickly replacing all of the boxers in my underwear drawer. Carol, understanding what a big kid I am, has added to my enjoyment of boxer briefs by buying me what I have deemed “funderwear.” Funderwear are like Underoos for adults. I’ve gotten a pair of Superman boxer briefs (funderwear) and a very colorful pair of Marvel Superheroes boxer briefs (see above picture). I love these and am not shy about dropping a portion of my pants to show anyone who may be curious to see them. Ben is also wearing funderwear now as his most recent pack of little tighty-whities also have Marvel superheroes on them. As I was doing laundry yesterday, I was amazed at how cool his little underwear were. They weren’t the cool Underoos from my youth, but they were pretty cool.

So, when I told the little guy at daycare that I was wearing underwear today too, he proceeded to pull down his pants a little to show me what kind he was wearing.

Now, the old Scott probably would have looked because a) I don’t want to discourage the kid from wearing his big boy underwear and throwing him back 3 months in the whole potty-training process, and b) I was curious what other types of funderwear were out there. I mean, we buy Ben’s at Target and I know what’s on their shelves, but if this kid’s parents shopped somewhere else, maybe I’d have to take Ben there to get some even cooler funderwear than he already has.

The new Scott, however, (the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-jail-and-have-to-explain-all-of-this-to-my-wife-family-and-judge-only-to-be-comvicted-and-have-to-end-up-showing-my-funderwear-to-a-large-inmate-named-Bubba-who-calls-me-“sweetcheeks”-every-night Scott) realized immediately that this could turn out REALLLLLLLLLY bad despite my best of intentions, said laughingly “I’m not gonna show you MY underwear,” elbowed my way out of the gang of misfits, and made a beeline for the door.

As I passed the director’s office, she thanked me (apparently I have a loud voice so she heard the entire exchange) for not showing the kids my underwear as that would have caused problems that we don’t need to deal with. I was glad I had her approval.

As I got in my car, I reflected on what had just happened. I had used common sense and had been applauded for it. I felt good. I felt proud. I felt grown up. I also felt that it was a good thing that I wasn’t wearing my Marvel funderwear because those kids would have LOVED them.

Too far again, Mom? Love you!!

Thanks for reading.

...and the fall

Part 2 of 2

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


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

Sort of

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

Then Terry wanted his drums back

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

It was beautiful

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

But were they ready for us?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Membrane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe even for one more show.

Is that vodka and Stag that I smell?

The Rise...

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

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

Sort of

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

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

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

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

Whitey

Crunk Whitey

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s exactly what happened.

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

And we rocked.

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

Crunk Whitey had arrived.

(part 2 tomorrow)

Spin the Black Circle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He still does.

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

The Flea Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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