The Results

I don't wanna talk about it.

God, Family, and America

Well, tomorrow is the day that it finally happens. After months of talking, media coverage, expert analysis, and my opponent cowering in fear, the event ultimately happens. The event I am speaking about, of course, is the 2010 Golf Challenge.

For those unaware of what is going on, my friend and fellow blogger Kathy Morgan (pictured above) had the gall and utter lack of respect to challenge my manhood and claim that just because she moved to the big city and was now all hotsy totsy, that she could come back to Bellevegas and whip me at a round of golf. Now, I am just a humble, humble man but when someone who deemed themselves too good for Belleville decides to come back and spit on both myself and my beloved city, I have to stand up for myself. I have to stand up for Belleville.

See, aside from a few years away at college, I have lived in this beautiful city all of my life. Sure, I had job offers from all over the country and even in some European countries that would pay me a salary commensurate to that of a king, but I chose to stay home in this fair city of Belleville because it’s my home and I love it. Yes, I could have been making more money and living in a larger home, but something about meager surroundings suits me best. I love my small town and never felt the need to move to a big city in order to make a place for myself. And, if our great lord and savior Jesus Christ had plans for me to move to such an urban environment, I certainly would not come back and both verbally and emotionally attack those that I had grown up with just because I considered them “small potatoes.”

So, when Kathy made the challenge, she didn’t just challenge me - she challenged Mike who’s been working at the corner deli for the past 30 years making those delicious poor boy sandwiches that only he can make. She challenged Loretta the postal worker who has been delivering mail along the same route for so long that she’s seen the original homeowner’s kids have kids of their own. She also challenged Mr. Hooper who runs the little grocery store over on the corner of Main and Sesame. But most of all, she challenged you. She challenged you the loyal, hard working, small town, damn proud to be a fine upstanding citizen in nowheresville middle America. She challenged your dignity. She challenged your way of life – and I’m not going to stand for it.

I could have gone Kathy's route and trash-talked her this entire time, but I'm better than that. I would never stoop to the level of insulting someone's intelligence, sexuality, or gender. I am above that. I have but three loves in this life and they are God, family, and America. By listening to their guiding wisdom, I am able to avoid such city-living pitfalls as trash talking and just pure downright humiliation. I will avoid such tactics and instead do my talking on the golf course.

As a result, I’m going to accept this challenge tomorrow and beat her. I’m going to do it to show her that we small town people don’t take too kindly to people coming in and calling us worthless. I’m going to do it to show that we Bellevillian’s are proud of our town no matter how big or small or dumb (as I personally overheard her calling us) that others think we are. Damnit, I’m going to do it for America!

So, for all of you Bellevillians and all of the rest of the good, church-going, apple-pie eating, God fearing people out there, I’m going to wake up tomorrow and drive to Elmwood Golf Course. I’m going to get in a cart with my opponent, look her directly in the eye and let her know that she’s not just facing me today. She’s facing every one of you, and with all of your support I’m going to bring a firestorm of eagles, birdies, and pars all over my opponent’s big city ass!

Thank you for reading and God Bless the United States of America

Results will be posted tomorrow afternoon

Things I'm Not Going to Write About

Since I’m only in the office 3 days this week, I feel obligated to write a blog for each day I’m here (on my lunch hour, of course). The problem is, I’m so focused on my big golf challenge this coming Friday that I can’t think of anything else to write about. So, I decided that instead of just writing nothing, I’m going to make a list of things that I’m not going to write about today. Here we go

1) I’m not going to write about my dear, sweet, innocent Lindsay Lohan being sent to prison for 90 days and then to a 90 day inpatient rehab facility. This is a BS sentence and was only passed down because the judge is jealous of LiLo’s beauty, fantastic body, supreme acting skills, and ability to drink a proud Irishman under the table. Judge, it was only a couple of DUI’s, a little cocaine, and 9 out of 28 missed alcohol ed classes… don’t we all make mistakes?

2) I’m not going to write about the World Cup. Once the US got knocked out, I remembered that I think soccer is boring to watch. Sorry cousin Ryan, but once my patriotism runs out, so does my interest.

3) I’m not going to write about how back in high school Kathy Morgan used to call me at all hours of the night BEGGING me to go on a date with her. Pathetic Kathy. Really pathetic.

4) I’m not going write about that 4 year old girl who was abducted and then found 70 miles away from her home unharmed. I’m also not going to tell her parents and all parents who may read this that even if you are the winners of the “Best Parents in the World” trophy 10 years running, we can all be better parents. Hug and kiss your children every chance you get.

5) I’m not going to write about the Cardinals utter collapse last night where they gave up 9 runs with one out in the 9th inning to lose the game. I’m not writing about it because quite frankly, the Cubs are horrible this year and even though the Cardinals got their asses handed to them late in the game, they’re still in contention for the division.

6) I’m also not going to write about how even though the previous statement is true, it sure is funny to watch the overly-used phrase “cardinal nation” freak out about one game like it’s the end of the world.

7) I’m not going to write about how cool it is when you get a kiddie pool for your child, and then once they go to bed, you and your wife use it to sit in while drinking beer on a hot summer night.

8) I’m also not going to write about how that mere fact alone has more than likely solidified our membership into the Southern Illinois White Trash Association.

9) I’m not going to write about how the Italian beef that I had for lunch was a little pink and I’m really curious about what’s going to happen to my stomach for the rest of the day.

10) I’m not going to write about how I caught Kathy Morgan in my garage the other night trying to bend all of my golf clubs so that my swing would be off this Friday for our golf challenge. Cheaters never prosper, Kathy

11) I’m not going to write about my recent infatuation with Garth Brooks. As a rocker at heart, admitting to liking country music used to be an unforgivable sin. Now, I’ll justify it by saying that some of the greatest rockers ever were inspired by early country artists. I have no evidence whatsoever to back that up, but it sounds legit so I’ll keep it.

12) I’m not going to write about my facial hair – ever again.

13) I’m not going to write about Lebron James. While the sensationalist part of me is interested because it’s the current “big news”, in the long term I’m not going to give a poop where he ends up, who’s going with him, how many titles he wins, and his place amongst basketball’s best players ever. Once they start playing basketball again in that league, maybe I’ll care.

14) I’m not going to write about the fact that I just realized how old I’m getting by complaining that “something now isn’t as good as what it used to be”

15) I’m not going to write about how the Italian beef is beginning to make its presence known

16) I’m not going to write about my recent addiction to chocolate. Whether it be Snickers, Kit Kat,3 Musketeers, Junior Mints, or Peppermint Patties, I must have chocolate at least once a day

17) I’m also not going to write about how maybe the chocolate thing just means that it’s my time of the month

18) I’m not going to write about the MTV series “The Hard Times of RJ Berger” and how hysterically funny it is. I’m also not going to write about how ridiculously hot Amber Lancaster is. It’s okay, she’s 20 – Wikipedia confirmed it.

19) I’m not going to write about how even though any idiot with an account can post “information” to Wikipedia, I still accept most things that I read on there as fact. If there was a page about me that listed me as a 4’5’ woman with a horrible cause of scurvy, I would more than likely believe it.

20) I’m not going to write about my disappointment that they are tearing down the old BAC Quad theatre in Belleville, IL. I’m also not going to list all of the girls that I’ve kissed either in that theatre or behind it.

21) I’m not going to write about the fact that the above statement makes me sound both douchey and cool at the same time, I think the number is really only two. Or maybe three.

22) I’m not going to write about how back in the day I used to be able to tell you exactly how many girls I’d kissed, and in the exact order I’d kissed them. I’d like to say I lost track because of the infinite amount of girls that the list turned into, but in all actuality I lost track because the list was not that impressive – quantity wise, not quality wise. Anyone who was gracious enough to make out with me was definitely high-quality in my book.

23) I’m not going to write about how I just remembered one that was not high-quality. Gross. Oh well, we all have our dry spells.

24) I’m not going to write about the oil spill. I’m done with it. Maybe it would be easier if they just found a way to get the water out of the oil’s way.

25) I’m not going to write about how Kathy Morgan is responsible for the oil spill.

26) I’m not going to write about how I haven’t seen Truckballs on the road in a while nor will I write about my role in the reason for his absence.

27) I’m not going to write about Joel McHale. His day will come.

28) I’m not going to write about my urge this morning as Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” was blasting into my head via my iPod to start dancing around the street and sidewalk and singing at the top of my lungs West Side Story style in order to get the other commuters to join along and brighten everyone’s day.

29) I’m also not going to write about how the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I can neither sing nor dance. The will was there, the ability was not.

30) I’m not going to write about how Kathy Morgan killed Jesus


Thanks for reading

Scott Gets Punched

Over the weekend, I got a few reactions to my previous post about “The Challenge”. Some were good, but most were in favor of Kathy knocking my teeth in. I accepted both with a grin as I knew that 1) Kathy stands no chance of beating me this Friday, and 2) even if she did by some grace of God beat me, I’m still a man so, by definition, I’m automatically better than her. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. To quench the gullets of all of you bloodthirsty hounds out there, however, I will share with you now a story of the one and only time in my life that I’ve been punched.

The only fight that I ever remember being in was back in the 8th grade. I don’t know if I’d even call it a fight though as it was mostly just two guys swinging each other around by their clothes. It started out as a football game at Union School in Belleville with a bunch of guys that I went to St Mary’s with. Some were in my class, but most were in the class above me. The Kaffer brothers were there and Ryan, who was in my class, was on my team while his older brother Derek was on the other team. Apparently during the course of the game Derek didn’t like how I tackled him so he started screaming at me. Ryan, one of my best friends at the time, took the side of his brother and ran at me with a flying tackle. We got up, began wrestling around with each other, and ended up with handfuls of the other’s shirt and jacket. Having never been in a fight before, I was pretty sure that I was supposed to punch him, so I balled up my fist and swung hard at his face.

I didn’t connect directly, but I made enough contact to stagger him and make him think twice about coming back in for more. We eventually got back to the game and finished it out. I have no idea who won as I was certain that as soon as the game was over, the Kaffer brothers and the other guys that were there (who were all of their friends) were going to get even with me and beat me to a pulp. My mind was so focused on getting out of there as soon as the game ended that once somebody scored the final touchdown, I never quit running the play out until I reached my bike, hopped on, and rode home where they couldn’t get at me. The incident was never mentioned again by any of us. That’s when I first figured out that when guys have a problem they throw a couple of punches and then it’s over. It’s so nice to be a guy.

That was my first and only fight ever.

But that was not when I got punched.

Having been in that little skirmish in the 8th grade plus my 25 year viewership of professional wrestling has always led me to believe (falsely) that if need be I would be able to handle myself in a fight. I’m not saying I would win, but I think I could do enough to prevent myself from getting seriously injured. But, I don’t go looking for trouble and, in fact, tend to shy away from it if at all possible. Whatever trouble my mouth or actions may get me in, I’ve always been able to joke my way out of it. It always seems though that for every tool you have in belt to prevent you from getting into trouble, a bigger tool will come along with something to prove and nothing to lose. That idiot brings me to my story.

It was about 10 years ago and we had been out at Shenanigans having a few drinks that night. I’m not sure of the entire group, but I do know that Brian and Jeff were there simply because they were both in my car that night. As usual, Shenanigans got really crowded, really loud, and really annoying, so the three of us decided that we were going to leave. Back in those days, Jeff didn’t have a car so even though I had driven out there, I had Jeff drive back. Jeff is the self proclaimed “alpha male” of the group so being able to drive gave him that “in control” feeling that he so wanted. Now, I’m not a small guy, but in comparison to Jeff and Brian, I was kind of the runt so I graciously decided to sit in the back seat.

Halfway back to Brian’s house, we decided that we were hungry and since it was on the way, we should stop at Jack in the Box. I remember driving by the JITB on 161 and it was absolutely packed, so we made the decision to go to the one downtown in hopes that the line would be shorter. To our delight, once we arrived there was no line and we zipped right in and out of that drive thru equipped with enough food to feed ten people. Jeff then pulled back out onto 159 and we set course for Brian’s house.

That’s when we met our antagonist

For some reason that has always escaped me, we ended up driving side by side to a car occupied by two younger guys. We were about 23 or 24 at the time and these guys couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20. Now, us driving next to them must have really pissed them off because they started glaring at us. It wasn’t a playful “hey, let’s see who’s crappy car is faster” type look (I owned a Saturn at the time), but more of a “how dare you” type scowl. Because Jeff was focused on the road at the time and Brian was busy lighting a cigarette, I was the first one to notice these guys and jokingly pointed out the angry kids in the car next to us to my friends. At that point, we all three looked into their car which only further sparked their ire. This was going to get interesting.

It was at this point that I was reminded of the fight from the 8th grade that I mentioned earlier and all of the thoughts of preserving myself that came with it. I wasn’t scared of getting into a fight, and more importantly, didn’t even see why we would get into a fight with these kids who were now moving from right alongside us to directly behind us and back right alongside us again. We had done them no wrong and the only thing they had done wrong to us was act like a couple of assholes behind the wheel. If anything, we found their actions amusing and laughed it off amongst ourselves for awhile. When it came down to it, there were two of them and they didn’t look very big at all. In my car, we had three guys, all over 6’2, ranging in weight from 175 (me) to about 250 (Jeff and Brian). Additionally, Jeff and Brian were professed bad-asses who would beat the crap out of anyone if they were so inclined – and they both had the size and demeanor to leave no doubt that they could. They both worked together at Mueller Furniture in downtown Belleville and, according to lore, there was more than one occasion when the two of them would go at it just to prove dominance over the other. They were a little crazy back then, but that’s what I began to count on that night.

As the ride back to Brian’s went on we began to get even more amused by these guys. We were cracking jokes about them and having a good time. Being professional bad-asses though, Jeff and Brian were able to keep their game face on. Me, being a professional moron, was in the back seat smiling and laughing directly at the guys who were quickly turning into huge pests. We had decided that they were just bored and trying to garner some attention and that as soon as we pulled off of 161 into Brian’s neighborhood that the guys would keep going straight and leave us alone.

Wrong

As soon as we turned into Brian’s neighborhood, these little idiots turned right along with us and followed us all the way to Brian’s house. While we pulled into the driveway, they passed the house, turned around, and parked directly in front of Brian’s on the opposite side of the street. Now, had we been smart people, we would have waited in the car to make sure that they weren’t coming out of theirs with bats, pipes, or possibly guns to even up the three to two advantage that we had. Instead, we all immediately opened our doors, grabbed our food and drinks, and got out of the car.

Luckily, the driver stayed in the car, but the passenger opened his door, hopped out, and fast walked over to Jeff looking to start a fight. Jeff had already rounded the back of the car and was heading up Brian’s sidewalk on his way to the house when the guy reached him and got in his face. This kid started in on him: “What’s your problem man? You got a problem? What’s the f’n deal?” Now, from what I’ve heard from Jeff and others, you don’t get in Jeff’s face, so I was bracing myself for the exact moment when Jeff dropped his food and drink, grabbed the guy by the shirt, and knocked him into next week. What I saw, however, was totally different. Jeff’s bad-ass response to this was “Man, I just wanna go inside, eat my food, and relax. I ain’t got no problem.” With this, he turned his back on the little punk and walked to the front door.

Fail

Having not gotten any satisfaction from Jeff, the guy next turned his attention to Brian and me. As he rounded the back of the car towards the driver’s side, he sized up his options, and decided that I would be the safer of the two to go after. “Hey what’s up Smiley? You got a f’n problem Smiley (apparently he liked my smile)? What’s your f’n problem Smiley?” Now, having seen Jeff in action, I figured that we were going to shrug off this little dude and not give him the attention that he was so desperately craving, so I also gave him the “man, I don’t have a problem. We just wanna go inside” speech. I also suggested that he and his friend should just leave as he didn’t want any trouble from us.

At this point, I leaned back into the car to get the rest of my food. While in there, the little troublemaker got in Brian’s face and gave him the same “what’s your problem” act that he had given to Jeff and me. I figured that at this point, Brian (who has a short temper) would have gotten sick of this and just knocked the guy out. I was moving slowly so that I could hear the sound of the guy hitting the driveway on his way down, but instead all I felt was Brian getting pushed into me as he and the punk began a little shoving match. Being a good friend and also wanting to watch, I pulled my head out of the car to see what was transpiring. Unfortunately for me, the only thing that I saw transpiring was a fist closing in my face

Once again, as I mentioned earlier, I have only been in one fight in my life. In that fight I threw one punch which was probably not the hardest punch in the history of the world. Not only that, but I had never been punched. Hell, before that moment I had never even had someone take a swing at me where I’d be able to use my amazing cat-like reflexes and backlog of wrestling maneuvers to dodge the punch, use the guy’s momentum against him, and turn it into a pinning predicament (I do have to pin a guy in a fight, right?). So, I have to say that I was both surprised and disappointed to see this fist coming directly at me. Surprised because I was amazed at how fast it actually happens, and disappointed because there was no audience screaming along to let me know that I should expect this punch allowing me to use my previously referenced skill-set. As a result, the only thing left to happen was the inevitable.

Crack!

As my head rocked back from this cheap shot to my mouth I quickly experienced two things that I’d never experienced before. The first was the realization that I’d been punched. It wasn’t like I expected it to happen, but it had happened nonetheless. I always pictured some elaborate drawn out affair where I was in a fight defending the honor of a fair maiden or fighting for her love. This was definitely a disappointment in that regard. The second thing I experienced was the realization that, amazingly enough, it didn’t hurt.

I’m not sure if it was an adrenaline thing, or if maybe the guy was just a pansy and punched like a girl, but either way I felt the sting but nothing else. I immediately tasted the blood from my lip and my gums but it didn’t bother me. I was pissed.

As I quickly got my senses back, I totally expected to see Brian, who was standing less than a foot from the guy when he punched me, pummeling him with both fists into a bloody pulp right there on his driveway. Nope. What I saw was Brian looking at me with a “did he really just punch you?” look on his face. Feeling the need to take action into my own hands I began fast walking (that’s right, FAST walking) towards the guy as he was running towards his car. He had gotten a head start because as soon as he punched me he took off running so by the time that I had fast walked halfway there, he was already getting in and the driver was speeding away.

I quickly turned back around expecting to see bad-ass Brian and bad-ass Jeff sprinting towards my car so that we could chase them down and beat the living piss out of them, but instead I saw Jeff still standing at the front door taking a drink of his water and Brian still standing there with the same dumb “what just happened?” look on his face. These were my bad-ass friends and we had let the punk get away.

When we walked into the house to enjoy our food, I immediately went to the bathroom to see the damage that this little punk had done to my movie star good looks. Thankfully, he had just busted open my lip and cut my gums a little. There was a lot of blood but not a lot of visible damage. I was kind of proud of myself at that moment as I had taken a punch and survived. In fact, I thought it was pretty bad-ass of myself to take a cheap shot directly to the face and not even go down. I was the man!

I then went into the living room to confront my two “bad-ass” buddies as to where they were and ask them why they didn’t have my back. They started throwing out excuses like “I didn’t even know what was going on,” and “I don’t want to have a fight in front of my house and have these idiots know where I live,” but I wasn’t buying any of it. The truth of the matter was that my two huge bad-ass friends had just stood there when it counted and only I had taken off at a decent half jog to make this punk pay for his actions. He’s lucky he got away.

And this, Kathy, is why you should be scared for this Friday. I am a bad-ass on and off the golf course. Be afraid, Kathy. Be very afraid.

The same goes for you McHale.

Thanks for reading

The Challenge

The challenge has been laid down and I have accepted it.

Apparently, my friend and fellow blogger Kathy http://adventuresofpippip.wordpress.com/ is under the impression that she can beat me at golf. I know that in a past article I wrote at length about what a horrible golfer I am, but I want to make one thing clear. As horrible as I am at golf I can definitely beat a girl. That’s right, I said it. I’ll even say it again.

AS HORRIBLE AS I AM AT GOLF, I CAN DEFINITELY BEAT A GIRL!

Kathy had the idea that we could golf against each other and each write our own versions of the day’s outcome on our separate blogs. On the surface, that sounds like a fun idea. But, what I interpret the underlying meaning to be is that she read my article, figured that I’d be easy pickings, and presented this challenge to me in an attempt to humiliate me on her blog. I’ve got news for you Kathy – it’s not gonna happen. And do you know why?

Because you’re a girl

Unless you’ve had years and years of training (and I don’t recall you being on the golf team in high school), or have even taken a few lessons from Annika Sorenstam, you will not and can not beat me. I am a man and by default, the smarter and more athletic person in this contest. It’s scientific fact. And I don’t want any of you feminazis barking (yeah, I said barking) at me about this either. I don’t make the scientific laws, I just abide by them. It’s a man’s world baby!

I am so confident in my ability to beat you, that I am willing to place a wager on this. Anything that you or any of our readers suggests is up for discussion. Anything. So, if you think you’re so bad that you can take me on, let’s place a friendly bet on it.

Next Friday 7/9 is the date, Kathy. Elmwood is the golf course. I would like to suggest a tee time of 8:00 am, but being a girl, there’s no way in hell than you can get your beauty rest, wake up, pretty up your face, do your required household chores, and still make it to the course by then. So, I’ll give in and set a tee time of 9:00. Does that sound good or are you going to need more time to pick out an outfit?

Let me know.

It shouldn't take much longer than 3 hours to complete this so you should be back home to finish any vacuuming or dusting that you didn't get completed prior to going out. We could have chosen an 18 hole course, but then I'd be forced to kick your butt for about 5-6 hours, and quite frankly, I have more important things to do.

It’s on girlie!!!

King of my Castle

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

Sung to the tune of the Gambler


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Wierd Al would pay me a fortune for this.

Thanks for reading

A puzzling problem

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

To a point

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

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

That is until about a week ago.

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

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


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

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

I hid the puzzle under the rug.

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

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

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

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

It was Kaitlin – his teacher at school.

Serves me right.

Thanks for reading.

Drum sticking it to ya!

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

Let’s back up a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

I was gonna nail this

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading

Nude Pix of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston

Got your attention, didn't I?

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


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

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

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

Thanks Melissa.

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

Thanks for reading.

Tequila Night

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

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

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

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

Tequila on the other hand…

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

That brings us to my story.

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

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

My ex fiancée walked in – with another guy.

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

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

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

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

No, I shouldn’t have driven home.

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

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

This is where it gets bad

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

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

Olive Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big mistake

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

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

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

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

Classic Cruising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

Man amongst Toys

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

Unless it’s a cartoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless it’s a cartoon

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

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

Then they had to go and mess it “Up”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manliness intact.

More Randumb Thoughts

It’s a randumb thoughts day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright, that’s enough Toy Story jokes.

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

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

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

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

Salami and cheese sandwiches really stink up my cubicle.

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

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

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

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

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

A few updates to past blog entries:

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



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

Thanks for reading.