Not a Great Wingman

So, um... yeah.

The conversation is going pretty well. Three of them are talking to the three of us. One of the girls spots a woman with a slight weight problem dancing with another chick. It really was only a slight weight problem. However, in addition to that, she had a really bad “I buy my pants two sizes too small to make myself feel better about eating Crisco for breakfast” problem. There was also a “my shirt doesn’t cover my midriff problem”. This led one of the girls we were talking with to refer to the dancer as a muffin top. I followed it up with “Haha, yeah. I should go tell her that anorexia worked for me.” This was followed by nothing but horrified looks in my direction from the three girls. The conversation just never really recovered, and we parted ways.

We never found out for sure, but apparently, one of these girls was damaged. While I was pretty damn sure the one I danced with never had an eating disorder, perhaps one of the others had at some point. So maybe I’m not such a bad wingman. I think I am just good at weeding out the psychos. I see it this way. While dating an anorexic could save you money, if she somehow got into bulimia, you would pretty much just be flushing money down the toilet.

My Brother Became a Bro

My little brother moved up to Colorado Springs last Wednesday. Up until now, his residential experiences have been limited to various small towns around southern Oklahoma. Since this was his first weekend as a Colorado resident, I felt it was my duty to take him out and show him around town.

The night began well enough. Dan came over for some preclub drinks as did a couple of his friends. The destination for the night was Blondies. It’s a pretty decent club in downtown Colorado Springs. And there is no cover, which is always a bonus. After a few drinks, we head downtown, my brother rode with me, Dan rode with his friends.

Jose Cuervo Silver sucks!

My brother is unfortunately only nineteen. If we had been in Canada, Australia, or pretty much any other country on earth, this would not even need to be noted. But since the U.S. blows in regards to its drinking age, this posed a slight problem - only slight because my brother used a fake to get in. The bouncer made him sign his name on a notepad three times. I guess he then compared this to the signature on the ID and then let him in. Once inside, I offer to buy the first round. The order: two vodka tonics. The price: $16.50.

Seriously!? I didn’t order Grey Goose and tonic or Absolut and tonic or even Skyy and tonic. Vodka. The cheap well shit that sits in the plastic bottle costs me $8.25 a drink. So much for no cover. They are just clever enough to make you pay it in installments each time you visit the bar. So after that first round, we stuck to beer.

We stuck to beer for about fifteen minutes until a drink girl came along offering free samples of Cuervo Silver. I am a bit of a tequila drinker. I had never had Cuervo Silver. I wasn’t expecting too much from a Cuervo label, but I expected something. This stuff went down pretty rough. My brother later told me that he almost had to go puke immediately after. It was pretty bad.

After a while at Blondies, I ran into a couple of guys I know. One of them happened to be dating one of the dancers from the next club over, Rum Bay. I explained the situation with the fake ID. The guy’s girlfriend offered to take Jordan through the back door to the club. (It’s all about connections, ladies and gentlemen.) As for Dan and I, we had to go through the front and pay the cover.

Once inside, things got a bit blurry for a while. I of course ran into more people I knew. One of them had a nice looking blond friend who seemed to really be into Dan. She liked him enough to be all over him throughout the night. In fact, she liked him so much she waited until the end of the night when we were leaving the bar to tell him she had a boyfriend. At one point, I saw Jordan in the VIP section. I’m not entirely sure how he got there. I think the same dancing girlfriend most likely took him. The next time I see him, he’s back with us common folks with two huge black X’s on his hands. That means he had been cut off. Again, the circumstances surrounding why or how will likely never be known.

But for a first night, it was pretty good. He got in with a fake, took a shot of tequila, got snuck in the back entrance to the biggest club in Colorado Springs, and somehow made his way into the VIP area without paying. For these accomplishments, it’s with great pride that I got to witness my brother officially becoming a bro.

The Not-So-Exciting Celebration of Dan’s 28th

This year, Dan decided to have his birthday on a freaking Tuesday. Seriously, dude, Tuesday? Anyway, it wasn’t supposed to be all that bad. Pretty much my favorite watering hole in Colorado Springs was this little dive bar called Rowdy’s. I only ever went there on Tuesdays. On Tuesdays, Rowdy’s offered penny pitchers of watered down, lukewarm beer and had fifty cent pool tables. Really, what’s not to like?

While I was away, Rowdy’s became Dino’s. Yeah, like the damn Flintstone’s dog. Dan and I checked it out a couple of weeks ago and it had pretty much gone to shit. First, it went from country music (great for playing pool) to this really bad DJ mixing everything from Britney to Boyz II Men. They went from a dozen pool tables to four. And the price went up to seventy-five cents. Oh yeah, and the cover went from five bucks to eight. The only thing that they did keep was the penny pitchers.

Andi

First, he has a soul patch. That isn’t some merit badge girl scouts get for going to church. It’s that nasty tuft of hair directly beneath his lip, shaved into a triangle that is usually only sported by art majors. If you happen to have one, shave it off. And use a very sharp razor. Second, he’s sporting a collared shirt unbuttoned all the way down. Yes, he was not the least bit ashamed of the massive gut he carried around. He put it on display with only the thinnest white t-shirt stretched over it. Yipes! I know all of this because he tried to hang out with us. We chatted with him long enough to get a free shot then immediately left.

But, hey, it’s Tuesday. Where else are we going to go? So a small group of us get to Dino’s, and it is pretty much exactly what we were expecting. The dance floor is deserted. The pool tables are overcrowded. The women are behemoths. Andi is out in full party mode. He even added some five o’clock shadow just for the occasion.

It was pretty obvious from the first walkthrough that I wasn’t going to be able to get Dan laid for his birthday. In fact, had I hooked him up with someone from Dino’s last night, I’m fairly certain he would be missing an arm now. (Just think about it.) So I decided to just try to booze him up instead. I bought him a drink. I found Andi and convinced him (by convinced him, I mean said hello) to hook us up with some alcohol. He brought out a round of red shots that really resembled Hawaiian Punch.

Then he brought out a bottle of champagne. I have no idea why a place like Dino’s would even keep champagne. He brought it out, on ice, with enough glasses for everyone. It was pretty awful stuff. I do not remember the name, but we drank it out of something that looked like the love child of a coffee mug and measuring cup.

And that pretty much ended the night. Happy Birthday, Dan. I know it sucked. But that’s what you get for having your birthday on Tuesday.

The Drunken Samaritan

Dan and I went to Tejon Street (That’s downtown Colorado Springs.) Friday night. I think we started at the Ritz. We then ventured down to Rendezvous. The place was way too crowded with people who did not look good enough to be in our presence so we left immediately. We then decided to hit up Cowboys. Although, it isn’t really the best spot downtown, but they do have a mechanical bull that is always good for a laugh.

We make a couple of laps around the club. We complain to each other about the lack of quality women and the overpriced beers. We watch people try to ride the mechanical bull.

Rule #2: If you wear a tie, do not ride the mechanical bull.

We drink. We walk. Dan smokes. We walk some more. We finally spot a couple of cute girls sitting by themselves next to the dance floor.

Since I have a wonderful girlfriend (Hi, Leanne.) and am out for no other reason than to hang out with my friends and enjoy Colorado Springs, I approach them first. (This might not make sense to some of you. Let me digress for a minute. I am playing what is called “the wingman”. My job is to do whatever it takes to help out my friend short of grenade jumping, of course. [Hi, Leanne.] In this case, I will approach first so that they will think I am the overly intoxicated flirt just looking to play some games. And Dan can be the good guy.) So I approach them first.

You can’t expect me to remember exact dialogue at this point. Dan was playing the role of DD and insisted I get tanked. I obliged. I do know that the young ladies were named Shayna and Snow. I swear to God I am not making that up. So I am talking to Shayna for a couple of minutes, maybe not even that long. Snow is dancing with one of her platonic bumpkin friends. Then Dan comes up. I halfway introduce them because I have already forgotten Shayna’s name. Whatever. I then get up to go refill my rum ‘n Coke.

As I’m walking back to my seat, I hear a “Psssst!! Hey. Come here.” I look around and see a fairly large, obviously intoxicated, redneck with a handlebar mustache and a trucker cap. This cap was not inspired by Ashton Kutcher. This cap is older than Ashton Kutcher. I cautiously approach and notice the poor woman sitting next to him is just looking down and shaking her head. This dialogue, I do remember.

“Do you know who you were talking to over there?”
“No, actually, I just met them.”
“Well, I think you two make a pretty good couple.”
“Um, thanks…I think.”
“Really, I’ve been sittin’ here all night watchin’ ole guys hit on those two. But you two would actually make a good lookin’ pair.”
Nervous silence from me.
“Want me to take care of him for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“That blonde guy there talkin’ to your girl. Want me to have a talk with him?”
“Dan!?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a pretty good friend.”
“So you don’t mind him talkin’ to your girl?”
“She’s not my girl. My girl isn’t here. We just met those girls.”
“So you know him?”

At this point, the last Boy Scout’s wife (I just know she has one of those shirts that says “WIFE – Washing, Ironing, Fucking, Etc.”) puts her hand on her husband’s arm and whispers something too low for me to hear. I see his face go from excitement to confusion to understanding.

“Oh! You and him are friends!”

I affirm his conclusion, silently mouth “Thank you” to his wife and get back to my seat to relate the tale to Dan, Shayna, and Snow. I periodically check over my shoulder throughout the night. Sure as shit, Handlebars was back there watching us the rest of the night.

The Little Things

First, I want to apologize for waiting so long to post anything. I finally got back from Iraq ten days ago. I was kind of waiting for some truly awesome event to take place that would provide me with an excellent topic to write about. I was thinking maybe there would be some sort of great epiphany for me upon returning to Colorado Springs after fifteen months. Or I was hoping to see something truly great that would inspire adjectives and adverbs galore. Well, none of that happened.

It is not because things have not been great since I have returned. It is just that I had forgotten that it really isn’t any big thing that I was missing. It was just a culmination of all of the little things. And so, here now, is a list of some of the little things I have learned, experienced, or felt coming home.

I have learned that my cell phone may just be the smartest single thing in the world. My last cell phone had texting, voice calls, and a camera. Now, with my new one, I can sit in my truck, google a store’s address, pull up directions to that address, take a video of myself, send it to Mom, update my Facebook, check out the newest rankings in college basketball, order a pizza, and call home. My phone has mastered gravity. Even if I pull it out of my pocket upside down, the screen will rotate to face right side up. It is currently teaching me to type using only my thumbs. I think it is planning on running against Obama in 2012.

I felt the smallest flash of what it is like to be a concerned parent. I took my dog, Bullock, to the vet last week for a routine check up and some vaccinations. I dropped him off in the morning on my way to work and went back in the afternoon to pick him up. The vet pulled me into one of the private rooms and told me that she believes Bullock has a heart murmur. Panic, distress, and fear all went through me in an instant. She guessed from the look on my face that this was new news. She told me that I should avoid any strenuous exercise. I immediately regretted the six mile run B and I had gone for the day prior. The rest of this story will play out over the course of the next few weeks.

I discovered an ingenious method for cleaning out my coffee grinder - canned air. Okay, so it isn’t really all that fantastic, but it was something that had never occurred to me to try before. It works better than anything else I have ever used. A word of warning, though: do not look directly into the coffee grinder when you pull the trigger on the canned air. If you do, the resulting cloud will have you smelling like a barista and looking like a chimney sweep. I am not making this up.

I have experienced scotch, and I just do not think it is for me. Scotch is the sophisticated man’s drink. It shows refinement, class, and elegance. Therefore I just do not see much point in me trying to sip it if I shudder, gag, and get goose bumps whenever I turn up my glass. I will probably just mix the rest with Diet Coke and binge on it next weekend.

I have learned that I have grown accustomed to the quiet. Now I love my family dearly. They really are the world to me. However, when I had my four month old nephew crying, my niece’s DVD player blaring “Under the Sea”, Mom laughing at something, my sister and her husband lovingly debating with each other, the dishwasher washing, the dryer drying, and an uneven spin cycle giving my apartment Parkinson’s, I almost lost my mind. I do not blame them for any of this and love them all no less than I ever have. However, after over a year of spending my time in my trailer with just me, a sleeping roommate, and a computer, I suffered from a case of audio overload.

I realize now that there are too many kinds of everything. Do we really need fourteen different versions of canned green beans? I counted. Between Del Monte, Kroger, French cut, home style, and the like, it bordered on insanity. And this is green beans. I used to think there were two kinds: hot and cold. And do not even get me started on televisions and toilet paper.

I believe those have basically been the biggest things to happen to me since I have been back. And all of it is great. I am very appreciative of everything that has happened to me since I got home because, whether it is good or bad, it has all been better than nothing.

PS - Here are a few minor things I have encountered or decided. If your hat faces any direction other than forward, you should not try to ride the mechanical bull. Colorado citizens still have not learned to drive. Cover charges still suck. Boxers make great alarm clocks because there is no snooze button. If you have a bloody nose in someone else’s home during the middle of the night, you should make sure to point out everything that you dripped on. And lastly, blogging while taking a bubble bath is AWESOME!

The Booth Dropped the Ball

On the last play of Super Bowl XLIII, Ben Roethlisberger took the snap and took a knee. But should it have ended that way? Pittsburgh played a great game. And this was a great game overall. It really wasn’t over until the Steelers recovered a Kurt Warner fumble with only four seconds left in the game. Now here’s my qualm.

The rule in the National Football League is that if the ball comes out as the quarterback’s arm is moving forward, then it is not a fumble but an incomplete pass. The NFL also has a rule for instant replay stating that in the last two minutes of each half, replay officials in the booth can call a timeout to review a play; a coach cannot challenge during this time.

The play should have been reviewed. For those of you who did not see it, Kurt Warner’s arm was hit when he was being tackled by a Pittsburgh player. Was his arm moving forward? From what I saw of the television replay during the game, I thought so. So did my friend next to me. However, we only saw a couple of angles of the play. I do not know if it was a fumble or an incomplete pass. That is what instant replay is for.

This is the Super Bowl. It is the single largest sporting event in the United States. Football rules in America. This was the game-deciding call, and the officials should have taken the time to make sure they had gotten it right. (Did I mention Arizona Coach Ken Whisenhunt had already won two challenges earlier in the game? He had.)

This was a great game. From start to finish, it was even more entertaining than last years. Who outside of Pittsburgh would not have loved to see Kurt Warner get one more shot to throw the Hail Mary on the final play of the game with Larry Fitzgerald, the league’s most dangerous receiver waiting in the end zone to outjump the quadruple coverage?

In all probability, the Steelers would have knocked it down and won, rushing on the field as Warner, Fitzgerald, and company scuddled off. Regardless of whether the ball was caught or not, the suspense alone of the second and a half hang time would have pushed this game over the edge.

WTF, Obama?

What the hell, Obama? You’ve been President for a day now. What is the deal? I am STILL in Iraq. My stocks went down AGAIN! There is still rampant Middle Easterner on Middle Easterner violence. I still have to mark I am of Caucasian descent on my college applications. And this case of bottled water I picked up still hasn’t been transformed into wine. Just what the hell are you doing over there in Washington anyway, celebrating? It’s time to get to work, bro.

Yes, that is sarcasm. Sadly, however, with this new instant-access, instant-gratification, instant-everything society we have built, I do not think it will be long until we start hearing these accusations. Now that the United States has elected its next leader, it is time for everyone to show a little patience. If I received a full week of training before I could wait tables without direct supervision then I am fairly sure that the President will need at least about a month before he starts performing miracles.

Unfortunately, it will likely be sooner than that when Ann Coulter and her type start trying to pick apart the 44th. In a sense, the Dems have talked all kinds of pregame trash up until this point so they may have it coming. However, it would be nice if America could actually come together to embrace this guy and give him a fair shot. And by America, I mean all the U.S. citizens, not just the ones who voted for him. It should be like a huge, dysfunctional family vacation. Sure we sat around and argued for countless hours whether Six Flags was really better than Disney World. But once the decision is reached, it is up to each individual to decide if they want to make the most of the destination or if they are going to hate it just to spite everyone.

I do not expect President Obama to cure cancer, global warming, the stock crisis, terrorism, and the BCS overnight. Nor do I expect to see school children bowing daily to Mecca, either. All I hope to see are Americans acting like rational adults and hoping that the man our country elected is the right man for the job. Sadly, deep down, I think that is still too much to ask.

I Can’t Wait

I have been trying to figure out when would be the best time to post the following. Post it too soon and I may forget to really enjoy these things. Post it too late and it will all be irrelevant. What follows is essentially a list of some of the things that I am so looking forward to doing once I get back to the United States. Some are legitimate life goals. Some are deadly sins. Some are a few of the little things that we all take for granted every day. This is not meant to win me pity or sympathy or accolades for saving the world again so please do not interpret it as such. It truly is nothing more than a dude closing his eyes and completing the sentence, “I can’t wait ______.”

I can’t wait to shower barefoot. Living in squalor sucks. I will spare you the details of how truly wretched our bathroom trailers can become. I am a total bitch when it comes to my bathroom time. And although some of my friends have sent me things to make my showers the best they can be under the circumstances (and not in that way, you sickass), it is still unsettling to think what would happen if I dropped my towel or, God forbid, my shorts on the bathroom trailer floor.

I can’t wait to not know what I want for supper. Over the past 245 days and counting, I have gotten every single one of my meals from the same people. I thrive on variety. (Ask any of my exes.) And if I had Emeril Lagasse chained to my oven, I would still skip out for Taco Bell from time to time. I look forward to driving around town in the evening looking up to the sky for some kind of sign to lead me to food. Neon will know the answer.

I can’t wait to run on a trail. I have become quite the amateur runner over the past few months. Sadly, I live on a base that is surrounded by an asphalt road that is less than a mile (1.6 kilometers for my metric friends) in circumference (”around” for my short bus friends). Part of the beauty of running is the assault on your senses when you are able to forget about your run. The smell of freshly cut grass while jogging through the neighborhood, the sound of a nearby waterfall while trekking up the paths of Gold Camp, and the sight of Colorado Springs sprawling below you at the top of the Manitou Incline are as much a part of the run as your mileage, heart rate, and calorie burn. After going over 200 miles along the same 1 mile road, all I have experienced are concrete barriers, clouds of generator exhaust, and the airborne nausea of the portable toilets. I can’t wait to escape.

I can’t wait to make a trivial decision. Taco Bell or Fazzoli’s? Fat Tire or Modelo? Charmin or Quilted Northern? Outside of the aforementioned dining facility, the only decisions I have made have been online. I look at a small photo of Apartment A and Apartment B and decide where I will next live. I read a review of Shoe 1 and believe it will be better than Shoe 2 without ever having seen either. I long for the choices that make our lives so great, the ability to hold two similar items in your hands and choose one over the other because of a jingle you remember or a recommendation of a friend or because one feels heavier - “Weight is good. Weight is a sign of reliability. If it doesn’t work, you can always hit him with it.”

Obviously, I just can’t wait to get back to my own life. I can’t wait to call my friends. I can’t wait to drink chilled Petron. I can’t wait to hold my nephew. I can’t wait to walk my dog. I can’t wait to fill up my truck. I can’t wait to get Starbucks on the way to work. I only have three and a half weeks left, and I can’t wait.

Some Thoughts on January 3

I left home on December 1, 2007. By the time I get back to the United States, Mom and Baby Jesus will have had two birthdays. I will have watched two Super Bowls and two BCS Championships here. I have gained a brother-in-law, a nephew, and too many cousins to count. Fifteen months is just too long…

When a memory makes you first smile, then quiver because you have no one around to share it with, then you will know loneliness. (Discovering the meaning of goon.) Trying to think back on some fond memories right now is the mental equivalent of cutting myself. (That naked pregnant lady.) And in the same way self abusers just want to feel the pain compared to nothing, I, too, torture myself with my memories. (Puking onto a toothbrush.) The majority of my human contact, if you call it that, is virtual. (Crying in a living room.) It is all but impossible to capture the joy of sharing a moment of reflection with someone when your words and reactions must be broken down into bits – the new atoms – and transmitted thousands of miles over land, sea, and air before being recognized by anyone…

Underneath all of this, there is a hope, a faith, hiding that this will all be over soon. This now will become the memory. “Remember that time when I sat all by myself in a 20 x 12 box and…” “Yeah, that was pretty cool…”

A triggered memory made me smile. This memory made me realize my current state of fuck all. The fuck all pisses me off. There is nothing I can use/do/find to make myself feel better so I think back to a time when I was happier. This triggered memory makes me smile. I am now back at fuck all. I cannot get away from fuck all. Fuck all is a sonofabitch…

There’s no water. I punch the wall. The dull razor eats my face. I use a dull razor because our shop was closed. The shop was closed because there was no electricity. I punch the wall again. I cuss. I yell. I yell. I cuss. No one responds. No one hears. I am forced, instead, to write. People will read. I need people to know the absolute fury and rage in my heart right now. I need people to know the hate and contempt I have for this war, this army, this country (Not that country!) right now…

Being here is like being the first dent in a new car, the first stain on a carpet, the single massive bulging zit on the prom queen’s otherwise perfect face. It is the one thing that grasps your attention and will not let go. You can’t stop staring. You cannot recognize the beauty of the entire because of the ugliness of the specific. Oil of Olay, Resolve, touch up paint does not help…

The Top Ten Reasons Iraq Sucks Balls

1. Although I swept yesterday, I cannot walk barefoot in my room because dirt is everywhere.
2. I have to carry my own toilet paper to and from the bathroom.
3. Slow, overpriced, rip off, unreliable, BULLSHIT, wallet-raping internet service provided by SniperHill.com. Fuck them and their fucking mothers!
4. I have forgotten what I look like in a yellow shirt. And a red shirt. And in jeans.
5. There are only two barbers – one sucks and one is never there.
6. Imagine that you hated your boss. You actually wished at least bi-weekly for his sudden death. Now imagine he lived next door to you.
7. Some soldiers are getting two real beers for the Super Bowl. Some leaders honestly believe this is a reward.
8. I never volunteered for this tour.
9. This entire rant started because I watched a DVD of an O.A.R. concert Leanne sent me for Christmas. I love the band. I love the music. The DVD was great. Once it ended, the realization of this place and my situation flooded through and has made me as angry as I have been in a very long time.
10. I cannot think of a tenth reason and irony is not cheering me up.

My New Year’s Resolution - MMIX

New Year’s resolutions are great. There is nothing like people across the world making promises to themselves to improve their lives. Throughout January and most of February, life in the United States improves for almost everyone. Then reality sets in, motivation plummets like Fannie Mae stock, and people forget what they were supposed to be doing. Valentine’s Day comes and every guy who promised to save more money becomes a liar. Or a bachelor. St. Patrick’s Day hits us and the promise to drink less falls off the wagon. Easter rolls around, and Cadbury singlehandedly ruins 62% of the “lose weight” resolutions.

But most resolutions are doomed from the time they are written. People set goals that are too vague, too restrictive, too easy, or too daunting. For one, you just cannot set out to become more or less of something. “I want to be healthier.” “I want to get in better shape.” “I want to be thinner.” These are all relative terms. What are you comparing yourself to? Do you want to be healthier than you are on New Year’s Eve? It’s not difficult. Sober up. You can, in all honesty, exercise everyday for a week and be in better shape than you were before. You can quit smoking for a day and be healthier. And when does this resolution end? “Okay, I can fit into a size 6. Let’s go to Chicken ‘n Waffles to celebrate.”

No, I think resolutions need specific terms - time limits, durations, pounds, and/or deadlines - to match what you are trying to accomplish. My friend does not want to just get stronger. He wants to bench 200 by June and 215 by December. A woman should try to wear a size X dress for Independence Day and Christmas. Resolutions should be concrete, motivating, challenging, and attainable. With that in mind, I have finally decided on mine.

Drum roll, please.

In 2009, I am going to attempt to run 1,500 miles. (That is 2,414 kilometers for Americanly challenged friends around the world.) Yeah, it sounds pretty impressive, but when you break it down, it isn’t all that bad. It comes out to about 29 miles per week. I am already running between 25 and 35 right now so I just need to pick it up a bit. It is just over four miles per day. I can do that in about thirty minutes right now if I really try.

But aside from the fact that I think it would be pretty awesome to be able to say that I ran 1,500 miles back in 2009, this is a goal I can accomplish. I have a defined, challenging, yet accomplishable goal. Once I get there, I’m there. The miles cannot be taken away from me. I can’t lose them (or regain them for that matter). I already keep pretty detailed accounts of my runs and this will just appeal to my nerdy affliction for numbers and statistics. I could really geek out and make an Excel sheet that kept a running tab of how much I had left.

And so there it is. I am putting this out there as additional motivation. Feel free to call me a little bitch if I ever get too far behind or seem to be giving up. Feel free to buy me a beer or an Oriental massage if I accomplish it. Happy New Year, everyone!