"is very proud of the Angels celebrating with Adenhart's picture in Centerfield and pouring champaigne on his jersey. Now that's a classy team........Sorry Dodger fans, but you cannot honestly tell me the Dodgers have that much class!!!!"
This was posted by a friend of mine on Facebook. I left his name out because I don't feel it's important, but I wanted to address the bigger issue here. I think this represents the biggest problem with sports and to a larger extent sports fans. I'll go through a few points here to voice my displeasure.
1.) Does it really make anybody feel any better about the fact that Nick Adenhart died (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=4055343) because the Angels poured champagne on his jersey (which by the way could be read as rather tasteless considering he was killed by a drunk driver, but that's not really important either) when the Dodgers didn't celebrate the same exact way with their hypothetical dead teammate?
2.) Do we really believe that the Dodgers wouldn't have honored their fallen teammate in some way had their season unfolded as the Angels' had?
3.) Let's pretend for a moment that the Dodgers don't "have that much class." Does the Angels organization inherently have more class then the Dodgers? For instance, if we were to put Matt Kemp in an Angels uniform, would he suddenly gain class? Or is that the Angels just magically found the 25 classiest people in baseball and somehow signed them all to their team? When Bobby Abreu takes off his Angels uniform does he magically become the same guy that Phillies fans complained about not hustling just a few years ago?
4.) It's important to remember that this day in age that team loyalty only actually exists with the fans (If you want to attack the Dodgers fan base then that's another story, though still extremely flawed. I'll be the first to admit the atmosphere at Dodger Stadium is not what it used to be, but a few thousand rowdy fans hardly condemn an entire fan base). Players don't have loyalty anymore, not because they're bad people or have less class then players from earlier days, but because they have more options and choose to exercise their rights to pursue what they're worth.
5.) I need to reiterate this because it often gets lost. There is no Dodgers-Angels rivalry! I'm not saying this to shit on the Angels organization or to deem them unworthy of a rivalry with the Dodgers, they run a very good organization and deserve every win they get because of it. The reason I say this is that rivalries don't exist when two teams play in different leagues and have no history of playing important post-season games against each other. If and when the Angels and Dodgers play each other in the World Series (though really it would take a few times within a relatively short amount of time) then we can start talking rivalry.
I'm done ranting for now. I hope this makes some sense. My goal is just to show that it's okay to be passionate about your team, but when your sole purpose as a fan is to hate another team rather then love your team, then I think you're missing the point. It's a fucking kids game guys. Let's try not to lose sight of that.
Now, if the Dodgers won't get their heads out of their asses and clinch this goddamn division, I'm gonna go take a shit on Angels jersey.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
New project
Alright, so I'm over writing about drugs. Well not really, but I'm over writing about only drugs. I've decided that it's time for me to start working on that ever-elusive novel I've been talking about for a very long time. So, my new project is that I will start posting the chapters of the novel as I write them. I'll update as often as I possibly can. This first one is kind of a prologue. It sort of sets up the idea (kind of) and buys me some time to do some real writing. Anyway, without further ado, here goes.
The Legendary Inferno
Chapter 1
The first incarnation of the band, at least as far as I’m concerned, started with Mike and me. Oh, you could probably trace the roots back to the days of our punk band Disliked, or Dave, Casey and Erik’s untitled band they put together in Mammoth, but that’s probably just overkill. The name, and even to an extent the brand, was created by the two of us. So there was me playing guitar and there was Mike playing the drums. We were infinitely more interested in both the drinking and the mere creation of music than the artistry of writing songs. What we lacked in musicianship we made up for in ideas. W had endless ideas and were armed with the fact that we were completely convinced of our greatness.
Still, the story doesn’t start there. In fact, it doesn’t even start with Mike and me. It starts with me, a barely-graduated-from high school-burnout, slowly getting accustomed to the notion of failing out of community college. As always, there was a girl. A girl who saw me as the very face of Rock n’ Roll. To her I was the personification of the drunken rebellion, life above responsibility image that I had always desperately wanted to be but could never quite pull off.
So that’s where it begins, at a small community college in Moorpark, California, years before the Legendary Inferno would be formed. The only thing I wanted to do at the time was to get drunk and get laid. Come to think of it, not much has changed.
The Legendary Inferno
Chapter 1
The first incarnation of the band, at least as far as I’m concerned, started with Mike and me. Oh, you could probably trace the roots back to the days of our punk band Disliked, or Dave, Casey and Erik’s untitled band they put together in Mammoth, but that’s probably just overkill. The name, and even to an extent the brand, was created by the two of us. So there was me playing guitar and there was Mike playing the drums. We were infinitely more interested in both the drinking and the mere creation of music than the artistry of writing songs. What we lacked in musicianship we made up for in ideas. W had endless ideas and were armed with the fact that we were completely convinced of our greatness.
Still, the story doesn’t start there. In fact, it doesn’t even start with Mike and me. It starts with me, a barely-graduated-from high school-burnout, slowly getting accustomed to the notion of failing out of community college. As always, there was a girl. A girl who saw me as the very face of Rock n’ Roll. To her I was the personification of the drunken rebellion, life above responsibility image that I had always desperately wanted to be but could never quite pull off.
So that’s where it begins, at a small community college in Moorpark, California, years before the Legendary Inferno would be formed. The only thing I wanted to do at the time was to get drunk and get laid. Come to think of it, not much has changed.
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Trip to the Moon
It was Hallween of our junior year in high school and Casey, Mike, John and I decided that we would partake in some acid. Mike and John had already experienced it but Casey and I still had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. Still, we figured what better day to drop acid for the first time then Halloween? We all got the night off from our respective jobs (I actually quit mine as they wouldn’t give me the time off) and secured the drug from a stand-up gent at school. We got two hits a piece and headed over to Erik’s house to start the evening. His parents were going to a party or something that night, so we figured we had time to hang out, smoke some pot and let the acid kick in before we had to go somewhere else. It should be noted that for Halloween that year I had shaved a small mohawk into my hair and worn an old army jacket in an effort to look like Deniro from Taxi Driver. Meanwhile, Casey decided to dress like a 1970’s disco king. I don’t believe Mike or John dressed up at all.
So the four of us plus Erik and Charles (a very large and intimidating man, but sort of a gentle giant) sat in Erik’s room, smoking pot and waiting for the drugs to kick in and generally having a good time. I soon started noticing that something was different and decided to go downstairs to pee and collect my thoughts. After peeing I immediately noticed I was feeling great and felt the night was going to go perfectly. I exited the bathroom where a giant man-child jumped out of the shadows screaming at me and waving his arms in a threatening fashion. I grabbed the left side of my chest and fell to the floor silently. In a daze I hear Charles’ voice.
“Uh-oh.”
“What did you do, man?” Erik was now chastizing Charles. I slowly got up to let them know I’m alright and Erik helped me on my feet. “You shouldn’t fuck with them, dude. That’s just mean.”
Charles seemed to feel bad and all was forgiven. After that we decided it might be a good idea to go somewhere else. We got in John’s truck (I know he really shouldn’t have been driving at this point, but we were kids so lay off) and prepared to leave. At this point, Charles decided to jump in front of the small truck and start shaking it back and forth. The four of us crammed in the cab of his truck just stared in silent horror. We all collectively became convinced we were dealing with the Incredible Hulk and his rage had completely taken over. Once again Erik came to our rescue and escorted him away from the truck while apologizing to us.
The rest of the night is mostly fragmented memories for me. I remember sitting at the Del Taco for a while convincing Casey that we were going to find a party and have fun. He didn’t believe us and walked home. He later said that he spent the entire evening fucked out of his mind while watching old horror movies in utter terror. Then I remember sitting at the Taco Bell talking to my mom on the phone telling her I wouldn’t be home that night.
“I’m spending the night at Mike’s”
“Mike’s?”
“No, Casey’s.”
“So you’re spending the night at Casey’s then.”
“No, Mike’s.” This could have gone on all night but god bless my mother she just decided I would be alright and didn’t ask any more questions.
Next thing I remember Gina and Rosie had picked Mike and I up and drove us to Denny’s. Where John was at this point I really have no idea. I ate scrambled eggs and marveled at the fact that I couldn’t feel them going into my mouth and into my stomach. I ate about four plates of scrambled eggs. Then I remember being at a party with Mike. For some reason we were all alone in the backyard where there was a keg. We spent roughly a half hour trying to pour ourselves a cup of beer before we realized it was empty. However, there was a moon bounce there. Mike and I sat in that moon bounce, and jumped and had probably the best time of our lives. Somewhere there are pictures of us sitting in the middle of the bounce and looking like the crazies, happiest people in the world.
Finally, I remember sitting in Gina’s backyard around 5 in the morning, enjoying a blowpop, trying desperately to be quiet. Rosie was sitting next to me and I realized that Gina was trying to set me up with her, a very cruel thing to do to a kid with a head full of acid. We were sharing a blanket and she tried to cuddle with me. Lacking proper communication skills, I merely ripped the blanket away from her and went and sat about ten feet away (ironic because about 6 years later I would have sex with Rosie ). Then a dog came over and I shared my blowpop with the canine. I felt I was bonding with the dog.
I don’t really remember anything else. Though I know I slept for about 16 hours the next day.
So the four of us plus Erik and Charles (a very large and intimidating man, but sort of a gentle giant) sat in Erik’s room, smoking pot and waiting for the drugs to kick in and generally having a good time. I soon started noticing that something was different and decided to go downstairs to pee and collect my thoughts. After peeing I immediately noticed I was feeling great and felt the night was going to go perfectly. I exited the bathroom where a giant man-child jumped out of the shadows screaming at me and waving his arms in a threatening fashion. I grabbed the left side of my chest and fell to the floor silently. In a daze I hear Charles’ voice.
“Uh-oh.”
“What did you do, man?” Erik was now chastizing Charles. I slowly got up to let them know I’m alright and Erik helped me on my feet. “You shouldn’t fuck with them, dude. That’s just mean.”
Charles seemed to feel bad and all was forgiven. After that we decided it might be a good idea to go somewhere else. We got in John’s truck (I know he really shouldn’t have been driving at this point, but we were kids so lay off) and prepared to leave. At this point, Charles decided to jump in front of the small truck and start shaking it back and forth. The four of us crammed in the cab of his truck just stared in silent horror. We all collectively became convinced we were dealing with the Incredible Hulk and his rage had completely taken over. Once again Erik came to our rescue and escorted him away from the truck while apologizing to us.
The rest of the night is mostly fragmented memories for me. I remember sitting at the Del Taco for a while convincing Casey that we were going to find a party and have fun. He didn’t believe us and walked home. He later said that he spent the entire evening fucked out of his mind while watching old horror movies in utter terror. Then I remember sitting at the Taco Bell talking to my mom on the phone telling her I wouldn’t be home that night.
“I’m spending the night at Mike’s”
“Mike’s?”
“No, Casey’s.”
“So you’re spending the night at Casey’s then.”
“No, Mike’s.” This could have gone on all night but god bless my mother she just decided I would be alright and didn’t ask any more questions.
Next thing I remember Gina and Rosie had picked Mike and I up and drove us to Denny’s. Where John was at this point I really have no idea. I ate scrambled eggs and marveled at the fact that I couldn’t feel them going into my mouth and into my stomach. I ate about four plates of scrambled eggs. Then I remember being at a party with Mike. For some reason we were all alone in the backyard where there was a keg. We spent roughly a half hour trying to pour ourselves a cup of beer before we realized it was empty. However, there was a moon bounce there. Mike and I sat in that moon bounce, and jumped and had probably the best time of our lives. Somewhere there are pictures of us sitting in the middle of the bounce and looking like the crazies, happiest people in the world.
Finally, I remember sitting in Gina’s backyard around 5 in the morning, enjoying a blowpop, trying desperately to be quiet. Rosie was sitting next to me and I realized that Gina was trying to set me up with her, a very cruel thing to do to a kid with a head full of acid. We were sharing a blanket and she tried to cuddle with me. Lacking proper communication skills, I merely ripped the blanket away from her and went and sat about ten feet away (ironic because about 6 years later I would have sex with Rosie ). Then a dog came over and I shared my blowpop with the canine. I felt I was bonding with the dog.
I don’t really remember anything else. Though I know I slept for about 16 hours the next day.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
How May Pots Have You Smoked?
Everybody’s got that one friend who discovered drugs before his peers, and therefore became the authority on the subject. It was seventh grade and my friend Greg and I decided we wanted to get stoned for the first time and (we had both discovered alcohol months ago) and so we went to Brian. Brian was the guy that lived in a house that may or may not have contained his parents, I’m still not really sure to this day, and openly smoked pot at a very young age. I told Brian that I wanted a dime bag (yes, kids, there was such a thing in those days), and he said “Ok.” The three of us planned to meet in the wash, where interestingly enough I had been arrested a few years back for starting fires, and get high.
Brian delivered on his promise and got us the dime bag. However, he didn’t bring a pipe with him. We were forced to crush, bend and manipulate a soda can into a pipe. For those of you who don’t know of the can-pipe, this is like three steps down from the apple-pipe. For those of you who don’t know of the apple-pipe, well maybe you should stick to your church groups.
Not really knowing how to smoke from a pipe, especially one fashioned from an aluminum can, I struggled to get a quality hit in. After two or three bowls, I managed to get two or three decent hits in and felt a little light-headed. I believe Greg initially got the hang of it much better than me as there was one instance where he blew a respectable sized cloud of smoke into my face. To be honest, I don’t remember much about the rest of this day, except running across the street to the Rite-Aid in full traffic in a quest to obtain some much needed ice cream.
Here’s what I do remember: a couple weeks later Brian decided to give it another go. This time Greg sadly was not with us, but Brian did remember to bring a pipe and a fishing pole. It was raining that day and we went back into the wash (this was the haven of the drunken, stoned morons once upon a time) and smoke three or four bowls. We walked along the wash for an hour or two until we arrived at the Rancho Simi Park, the one with the fishing pond, and proceeded to cast out our line. We fished for about 45 minutes and, since it was raining so hard and the fish weren’t biting, decided to call it a day. We went back into the wash to start our trek home.
At this point, I was incredibly stoned. I was like the kid in the ABC Family movie that gets stoned for the first time and has absolutely no control over his actions and is destined to do something completely moronic. Perhaps I should explain the wash for the readers who are confused. It consists of two rocky sidewalks running parallel with each other, with diagonal walls running into a flat surface in the middle where a small stream carries water and waste to the dump. When it rains, this small stream turns into a very large, fast moving stream.
So, as we were walking I decided I would do a high wire act by the edge of one of the rocky sidewalks. Brian didn’t think this was a good idea.
“Stay away form the edges, man. You’re stoned and it could be dangerous.”
“Fuck that, man. I’ve got complete control.” Not 15 seconds passed from the time I said this statement until I slipped and was tumbling down one of the walls. I was slipping and trying in vain to grab ahold of anything on the slick walls. Brian dived to the edge and reached out his arm.
“Take my hand!” he shouted and I complied. Though my hand fell a little short and he grabbed the sleeve of my green, old-man sweater that I had found in my fathers’ closet and liked because it resembled the sweater Kurt Cobain wore in the unplugged video. After a few seconds of frantic scrambling he managed to grab my hand.
“I’m not gonna let you die, man!” He shouted at me again, and I responded by laughing. The whole situation was rapidly becoming very funny to me. My foot found a slight crevice and I was able to gain my footing and, with Brian’s help, I was able to pull myself back up. We lay down on the gravel and laughed like idiots for what seemed like hours. Finally, we got up and walked home. We went first to the 7-11 and got some sodas to appease our extreme cotton-mouths, and then decided to call it a day. I went home and contemplated a new life of getting high and doing stupid shit.
I don’t really talk to Brian anymore, though when I do inevitably one of us will bring up the day he saved my life. Last I heard he was a tweeker and he had a kid, but I still owe the guy my life. So, basically if the guy needs me for anything I’m there for him.
Brian delivered on his promise and got us the dime bag. However, he didn’t bring a pipe with him. We were forced to crush, bend and manipulate a soda can into a pipe. For those of you who don’t know of the can-pipe, this is like three steps down from the apple-pipe. For those of you who don’t know of the apple-pipe, well maybe you should stick to your church groups.
Not really knowing how to smoke from a pipe, especially one fashioned from an aluminum can, I struggled to get a quality hit in. After two or three bowls, I managed to get two or three decent hits in and felt a little light-headed. I believe Greg initially got the hang of it much better than me as there was one instance where he blew a respectable sized cloud of smoke into my face. To be honest, I don’t remember much about the rest of this day, except running across the street to the Rite-Aid in full traffic in a quest to obtain some much needed ice cream.
Here’s what I do remember: a couple weeks later Brian decided to give it another go. This time Greg sadly was not with us, but Brian did remember to bring a pipe and a fishing pole. It was raining that day and we went back into the wash (this was the haven of the drunken, stoned morons once upon a time) and smoke three or four bowls. We walked along the wash for an hour or two until we arrived at the Rancho Simi Park, the one with the fishing pond, and proceeded to cast out our line. We fished for about 45 minutes and, since it was raining so hard and the fish weren’t biting, decided to call it a day. We went back into the wash to start our trek home.
At this point, I was incredibly stoned. I was like the kid in the ABC Family movie that gets stoned for the first time and has absolutely no control over his actions and is destined to do something completely moronic. Perhaps I should explain the wash for the readers who are confused. It consists of two rocky sidewalks running parallel with each other, with diagonal walls running into a flat surface in the middle where a small stream carries water and waste to the dump. When it rains, this small stream turns into a very large, fast moving stream.
So, as we were walking I decided I would do a high wire act by the edge of one of the rocky sidewalks. Brian didn’t think this was a good idea.
“Stay away form the edges, man. You’re stoned and it could be dangerous.”
“Fuck that, man. I’ve got complete control.” Not 15 seconds passed from the time I said this statement until I slipped and was tumbling down one of the walls. I was slipping and trying in vain to grab ahold of anything on the slick walls. Brian dived to the edge and reached out his arm.
“Take my hand!” he shouted and I complied. Though my hand fell a little short and he grabbed the sleeve of my green, old-man sweater that I had found in my fathers’ closet and liked because it resembled the sweater Kurt Cobain wore in the unplugged video. After a few seconds of frantic scrambling he managed to grab my hand.
“I’m not gonna let you die, man!” He shouted at me again, and I responded by laughing. The whole situation was rapidly becoming very funny to me. My foot found a slight crevice and I was able to gain my footing and, with Brian’s help, I was able to pull myself back up. We lay down on the gravel and laughed like idiots for what seemed like hours. Finally, we got up and walked home. We went first to the 7-11 and got some sodas to appease our extreme cotton-mouths, and then decided to call it a day. I went home and contemplated a new life of getting high and doing stupid shit.
I don’t really talk to Brian anymore, though when I do inevitably one of us will bring up the day he saved my life. Last I heard he was a tweeker and he had a kid, but I still owe the guy my life. So, basically if the guy needs me for anything I’m there for him.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Journey Begins
Part 1
When I was in sixth grade I had already embraced the idea of drug use. The D.A.R.E. program in fact had a reverse effect on me. It made me want to get high. Even the horrible tales of drug use excited me as I had learned by then that the best stories that humans tell are ones based on the horrible things we do or are done to us. You could say that from the beginning I was into the drugs for the stories.
The thing is, though, I didn’t now what drugs were. I didn’t know what they looked like, tasted like, or how to ingest them. I also, obviously, had no idea where to get them. My confusion was so complete that when one kid brought a pot leaf to school and showed it to the fellas, I didn’t understand how that was supposed to get you high. That night I couldn’t sleep as I tried to wrap my brain around the thing (In hindsight, the kid with the pot leaf didn’t really know either as he and a friend ended up simply rolling it up and trying to smoke it.)
My friend Chris was very likeminded. We used to discuss getting high all th etime and even tried smoking a cinnamon stick once (yes you read that right) to achieve our goal. One day, before school I filled a small ziploc bag with several Actifed pills from my mothers’ medicine cabinet. When I got to school, I showed them to Chris and we thought we were finally going to accomplish this great task. We each popped three or four of those bad little fuckers. Of course, within an hour we weren’t at all high, just extremely drowsy as the warning label suggests might happen. We were falling asleep at our desks in class and Chris became convinced he was going to die (first drug freak out, man) and told a couple girls what we had done.
By lunch time Chris and I were in the principals office desperately trying to talk our way out this predicament to the principal, a couple cops, and our parents. Chris told a story about his cousin and her drug use and started crying. When asked my side I simply replied:
“I had a cold.”
“Why did you give some to Chris then?”
“He had a cold too.”
Naturally, they didn’t believe me at all, but I learned an extremely important lesson that day. When you’re lying to get out of trouble, even if you’re caught dead in the water, stick to that lie. Clint to it for dear life because even if the cops and the principals and the teachers and the parents of the world don’t want to admit it, they’ll respect you for it. Shit, I only got grounded for like two days.
When I was in sixth grade I had already embraced the idea of drug use. The D.A.R.E. program in fact had a reverse effect on me. It made me want to get high. Even the horrible tales of drug use excited me as I had learned by then that the best stories that humans tell are ones based on the horrible things we do or are done to us. You could say that from the beginning I was into the drugs for the stories.
The thing is, though, I didn’t now what drugs were. I didn’t know what they looked like, tasted like, or how to ingest them. I also, obviously, had no idea where to get them. My confusion was so complete that when one kid brought a pot leaf to school and showed it to the fellas, I didn’t understand how that was supposed to get you high. That night I couldn’t sleep as I tried to wrap my brain around the thing (In hindsight, the kid with the pot leaf didn’t really know either as he and a friend ended up simply rolling it up and trying to smoke it.)
My friend Chris was very likeminded. We used to discuss getting high all th etime and even tried smoking a cinnamon stick once (yes you read that right) to achieve our goal. One day, before school I filled a small ziploc bag with several Actifed pills from my mothers’ medicine cabinet. When I got to school, I showed them to Chris and we thought we were finally going to accomplish this great task. We each popped three or four of those bad little fuckers. Of course, within an hour we weren’t at all high, just extremely drowsy as the warning label suggests might happen. We were falling asleep at our desks in class and Chris became convinced he was going to die (first drug freak out, man) and told a couple girls what we had done.
By lunch time Chris and I were in the principals office desperately trying to talk our way out this predicament to the principal, a couple cops, and our parents. Chris told a story about his cousin and her drug use and started crying. When asked my side I simply replied:
“I had a cold.”
“Why did you give some to Chris then?”
“He had a cold too.”
Naturally, they didn’t believe me at all, but I learned an extremely important lesson that day. When you’re lying to get out of trouble, even if you’re caught dead in the water, stick to that lie. Clint to it for dear life because even if the cops and the principals and the teachers and the parents of the world don’t want to admit it, they’ll respect you for it. Shit, I only got grounded for like two days.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Onward and Upward
I realize I left my loyal readers hanging with no second part to the last story and for that I am sorry. I've decided to change directions though, for a little while at least. You see, one of the main reasons I've been lagging between posts lately, in addition to the laziness and my overall lack of ambition and maybe a slight drinking problem, is that it has become increasingly hard for me to delve into the failed love stories of my life. For a guy that is as unsuccessful with the ladies and relationships in general, it can be pretty painful to constantly be trying to remember the exact details of how shit went awry.
With that in mind, I am going to be writing nothing more than humorous tales over the next month or so in an effort to lift my spirits a little. The first series will focus on (what else?) drugs. I've been thinking about what drug tales would be most interesting without getting too redundant. The conclusion I've come to is that I'll write about my first and my last experience with each drug I've experimented with at some point in my life. Everything from alcohol to Zoloft, it'll all be here. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and I'm sorry for being a bit of a sad bastard. Tomorrow, you can expect my charming, witty self to emerge once again.
With that in mind, I am going to be writing nothing more than humorous tales over the next month or so in an effort to lift my spirits a little. The first series will focus on (what else?) drugs. I've been thinking about what drug tales would be most interesting without getting too redundant. The conclusion I've come to is that I'll write about my first and my last experience with each drug I've experimented with at some point in my life. Everything from alcohol to Zoloft, it'll all be here. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and I'm sorry for being a bit of a sad bastard. Tomorrow, you can expect my charming, witty self to emerge once again.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
A New Bar, A New Girl
Part 27A
I like bars. To anybody who knows me this probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. It’s also no secret that my favorite bar in Simi Valley was the Treehouse. Soon, though, even before it closed, we decided to find a new bar as the Treehouse was starting to lose its luster. I had to find a new bar. Luckily, there’s a small hole-in-the-wall bar on Los Angeles and Tapo called PC’s. So, one Thursday, after a brief warm-up round at Chuy’s, we stopped by. Inside I felt at home immediately. Old drunks were littered about the place, there was a smoking patio where you can take your drink, and the bartender is a well-dressed older gentleman who freely hands out life advice.
On that first visit, we sat down at a table in the front row. The young, good-looking karaoke host looked over at me and smiled excitedly and ran over to me to give me a welcoming hug.
“Hey, stranger, it’s been a long time!” She said to me. Now here’s a moment of perfect honesty: I didn’t’ actually know for sure who she was at this time. I knew she was either Hillary, a girl whom I shared several mutual friends with in high school but never really got to know, or a girl named Julia, who of course we used to refer to as “Julia Gulia.” Being the drunken moron that I am I have developed quite the skill at dragging along a conversation with someone I can’t remember until they give me sufficient clues as to who they are. So I soon figured out she was indeed Hillary. She was quite impressed, though admittedly factiously, by the fact that I got medical benefits from my place of employment. We had a nice conversation that night and I resolved to continue it at a later date.
PC’s soon became our regular hangout on Thursday and Saturday nights (not surprisingly those were the nights that Hillary worked). Hillary and I would always engage in conversation and, I believe, flirt. One evening, after learning that she had recently returned from college in Berkeley, I learned that she had not experienced the same Simi Valley I had growing up. We made a date (though possibly just a play-date) for me to show her around town. On the day in question, she called me and informed me that she was not feeling well and had to bail on our day together. Later that night in a drunken stupor I bitched to my roommate Victoria that I would in all likelihood never get laid again. She smiled politely as I bored her with the details of my sad depressing life.
Soon, Hillary and I rescheduled our date and, according to her I gave the first hint that this was more than just two friends hanging out. I told her that she “better pretty herself up for me.” Though to be fair, I’ve said the same thing to Jefferson McCool on many occasions.
On our date we went to the batting cage, the driving range, got ourselves some root beer floats at the A&W and had dinner at Palermo. We then shot pool at a local pool hall until it was time for me to pick up Jefferson from work (that’s right, it needed to be said that you interrupted my date) and then the three of us enjoyed a few beers at the Treehouse. Our second date, among other things, we hiked along a golf course where she relieved herself into the hole on the 13th green.
Still, I was having trouble taking it to the next level. Over a few beers I tried to explain the complications to Jefferson.
“So what’s the story on Hillary?” Jefferson asked me.
“Here’s the problem. She’s great, and we get along and have a lot of fun together. But I just can’t close the deal.”
“You’re just pussying out or what?”
“Well, she doesn’t drink.”
“Oh fuck. Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s a tough one.”
Over the next couple weeks I had essentially come to grips with the fact that, once again, I was to become the mayor of friendville. Then, finally I caught a break. One night at the bar she worked at, for some inexplicable reason (at least according to my shitty memory) she was drinking on the job. She didn’t drink often, so after a few girly drinks she became quite suggestible. (Side note: I need to point out here that she was dating another dude, though not anything completely serious). Jefferson and I offered up the idea to keep the party rolling at his apartment and she agreed. On the ride home, Jefferson (like always) rode shotgun and Hillary rode in the backseat. He questioned her as to why she had never made out with me and why she was into this other dude when Danny Cerullo here was the nicest man in the world. He may not be the most subtle man in the world, but I challenge you to find a better wingman. She didn’t seem to have an answer.
Back at the apartment, Hillary and I were frantically making out on the couch, much to the disgust of Jefferson and his lady, who was visiting for the weekend. Soon we moved into Richard’s bedroom, who was never there because he was out with his lady in Hollywood (Another side note: Richard ended up marrying that wonderful lady so I feel we both won in this situation.). We fooled around in his bed for quite some time and by the time the sex commenced it was around 4:30 in the AM. She was on top and it was a lot of fun, though after about 10 minutes or so I noticed the gyration had slowed and then came to a complete stop. I looked up at her face: she was fast asleep. I wasn’t offended in the least and, being the wonderful man I am, allowed her to sleep though it became increasingly uncomfortable for me throughout the night. I didn’t get a second of sleep that night, but I felt it was well worth it. The next day at work I bored Maria with the intricate details of my sexcapades to the point where she asked me to please stop and go home early.
I like bars. To anybody who knows me this probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. It’s also no secret that my favorite bar in Simi Valley was the Treehouse. Soon, though, even before it closed, we decided to find a new bar as the Treehouse was starting to lose its luster. I had to find a new bar. Luckily, there’s a small hole-in-the-wall bar on Los Angeles and Tapo called PC’s. So, one Thursday, after a brief warm-up round at Chuy’s, we stopped by. Inside I felt at home immediately. Old drunks were littered about the place, there was a smoking patio where you can take your drink, and the bartender is a well-dressed older gentleman who freely hands out life advice.
On that first visit, we sat down at a table in the front row. The young, good-looking karaoke host looked over at me and smiled excitedly and ran over to me to give me a welcoming hug.
“Hey, stranger, it’s been a long time!” She said to me. Now here’s a moment of perfect honesty: I didn’t’ actually know for sure who she was at this time. I knew she was either Hillary, a girl whom I shared several mutual friends with in high school but never really got to know, or a girl named Julia, who of course we used to refer to as “Julia Gulia.” Being the drunken moron that I am I have developed quite the skill at dragging along a conversation with someone I can’t remember until they give me sufficient clues as to who they are. So I soon figured out she was indeed Hillary. She was quite impressed, though admittedly factiously, by the fact that I got medical benefits from my place of employment. We had a nice conversation that night and I resolved to continue it at a later date.
PC’s soon became our regular hangout on Thursday and Saturday nights (not surprisingly those were the nights that Hillary worked). Hillary and I would always engage in conversation and, I believe, flirt. One evening, after learning that she had recently returned from college in Berkeley, I learned that she had not experienced the same Simi Valley I had growing up. We made a date (though possibly just a play-date) for me to show her around town. On the day in question, she called me and informed me that she was not feeling well and had to bail on our day together. Later that night in a drunken stupor I bitched to my roommate Victoria that I would in all likelihood never get laid again. She smiled politely as I bored her with the details of my sad depressing life.
Soon, Hillary and I rescheduled our date and, according to her I gave the first hint that this was more than just two friends hanging out. I told her that she “better pretty herself up for me.” Though to be fair, I’ve said the same thing to Jefferson McCool on many occasions.
On our date we went to the batting cage, the driving range, got ourselves some root beer floats at the A&W and had dinner at Palermo. We then shot pool at a local pool hall until it was time for me to pick up Jefferson from work (that’s right, it needed to be said that you interrupted my date) and then the three of us enjoyed a few beers at the Treehouse. Our second date, among other things, we hiked along a golf course where she relieved herself into the hole on the 13th green.
Still, I was having trouble taking it to the next level. Over a few beers I tried to explain the complications to Jefferson.
“So what’s the story on Hillary?” Jefferson asked me.
“Here’s the problem. She’s great, and we get along and have a lot of fun together. But I just can’t close the deal.”
“You’re just pussying out or what?”
“Well, she doesn’t drink.”
“Oh fuck. Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s a tough one.”
Over the next couple weeks I had essentially come to grips with the fact that, once again, I was to become the mayor of friendville. Then, finally I caught a break. One night at the bar she worked at, for some inexplicable reason (at least according to my shitty memory) she was drinking on the job. She didn’t drink often, so after a few girly drinks she became quite suggestible. (Side note: I need to point out here that she was dating another dude, though not anything completely serious). Jefferson and I offered up the idea to keep the party rolling at his apartment and she agreed. On the ride home, Jefferson (like always) rode shotgun and Hillary rode in the backseat. He questioned her as to why she had never made out with me and why she was into this other dude when Danny Cerullo here was the nicest man in the world. He may not be the most subtle man in the world, but I challenge you to find a better wingman. She didn’t seem to have an answer.
Back at the apartment, Hillary and I were frantically making out on the couch, much to the disgust of Jefferson and his lady, who was visiting for the weekend. Soon we moved into Richard’s bedroom, who was never there because he was out with his lady in Hollywood (Another side note: Richard ended up marrying that wonderful lady so I feel we both won in this situation.). We fooled around in his bed for quite some time and by the time the sex commenced it was around 4:30 in the AM. She was on top and it was a lot of fun, though after about 10 minutes or so I noticed the gyration had slowed and then came to a complete stop. I looked up at her face: she was fast asleep. I wasn’t offended in the least and, being the wonderful man I am, allowed her to sleep though it became increasingly uncomfortable for me throughout the night. I didn’t get a second of sleep that night, but I felt it was well worth it. The next day at work I bored Maria with the intricate details of my sexcapades to the point where she asked me to please stop and go home early.
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