So, do you come here often? July 3, 2006
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Although over the past few years my handicap has risen like Ron Jeremy on a Cialis binge, I still enjoy playing and watching golf. Over the weekend the PGA tour came to
Connecticut and I attended the Buick Championship.
It turned out to be a beautiful day – sunny with a breeze. Before I left the house I looked at the pairings and tee times and planned my day. It would work out perfectly – I’d follow Brad Faxon in the morning and Corey Pavin in the afternoon. Why these guys? A few reasons: John Daly and Tiger Woods weren’t there / Pavin is a player that I’ve enjoyed for quite a few years / Faxon is a local guy (well,
Rhode Island. Close enough) and the tournament’s defending champion.
If you haven’t had the chance to go to a PGA tournament, they are one of the few sporting events where you can actually get close to the action, so close that you are within a few feet of a player as they tee off, and are able to hear the conversations they are having with their caddies and with the other players.
Another group of people that you get close to are women. Lots of them. Some of them very pretty. A few weeks ago I posted that women with nice calves and wearing board shorts could become an obsession. Well, in the morning at the Buick Championship there was a woman with the requisite beautiful legs and long shorts who was following the same threesome as I.
Caution: if you approach a pretty woman at a golf tournament who happens to be following the same group of golfers as you, and you are intent on laying down a few suave lines, you may want to make sure that the woman in your sights is not the wife of one of the players.
That being said, my apologies to Mrs. Faxon…
Oops.
My day at the beach June 19, 2006
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Suddenly the clean and aromatic salt air of the
Jersey
Shore was perforated, like a spray of napalm in
Southeast Asia, with the pungent smell of carcinogen-laced menthol. At the same time that I sat up in my beach chair I slowly opened one eye to see from where the smoke was coming. It was then that I became aware of them. The love birds.
At first I couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, due to the full body clench and the age-inappropriate exchange of saliva. She gently took off his camouflage style “Git ‘er Done” cap and began stroking his head. Quickly she grew tired of the closely cropped hair on the top of his head and began running her extravagantly painted fingernails through the shoulder-blade length mane that ran down his back. There was no distracting them – not their kids, not the girls selling beach tags, and certainly not the gulls that swooped down to pick up the Doritos crumbs that were strewn around the house painting drop cloth that they used as a beach blanket – their lip lock was only interrupted to take slow and sensual drags from their cigarettes.
His red T-shirt, obviously among the best available with Marlboro points, had been altered to remove the sleeves. The stark contrast between the ivory of his shoulders and the crimson on his arms suggested D.O.T. road crew, but his “F*ck you IF You’re Not Union” tattoo implied Teamster. The tattoo on his other arm, a big heart with two crossed daggers and what must have been someone’s name blocked out and the name “Tiffinee” written in underneath, suggested that this was not his first attempt at matrimonial success.
She was wearing a white T-shirt with green and gold accoutrements, apparently from the KOOL collection, and a stylish fringe pattern cut along her waistline. Some would call her hair over processed, but I think we’d all agree that any middle-aged woman that is so very interested in her appearance should be applauded. The hair, an array of colors as if from a pale yellow to rich brown monochromatic rainbow, didn’t so much blow in the breeze as it did flap in the wind – like a flag that had been treated with layer upon layer upon layer of spray starch. Seeing that half of her fingers were adorned with engagement rings from days gone by showed me that, like him, this was not her first walk to the altar. The fact that 4 of her 5 boys answered to the name “Junior” (Billy Jr., Raymond Jr, etc.) seemed to confirm my suspicion.
He spoke like a man of authority, he would say things like “Junior, Jr, if you knock over my wudder ah swear ah’ll beat yur ass, ah kin guruntee ya dat” or “Tiffinee, we gotta find an Ode Navy store cuz ah need a new bading suit, this one itches ma balls.” When she spoke she sounded like an Appalachian princess, someone who could make Britney Spears sound Shakespearian, “Sh*t Honey, yer laying on my f*cking smokes!”
Their children seemed to enjoy the beach, and spent most of the time throwing a football (“no ball playing” sign be damned!) and digging a 6 foot hole into which they were hoping smaller children would fall – oh, to be young again! The hairstyle of the younger boys – twins? – harkened back to a simpler time. Their braided rat-tails brought me back to days when the Thompson Twins ruled the airways and the “Thriller” video ran every hour on the hour. What culture sense to be that retro at such a young age.
This lovely day ended rather abruptly, when his devil-may-care attitude seemed to upset the proud members of the OCBP. Although
Ocean
City is a dry town, our hero garishly flaunted his Pabst Blue Ribbons throughout the afternoon and after repeated requests by the Beach Patrol to cease this practice he was, alas, asked to leave. This was a request that he, nor she, took lightly. With great haste they gathered up their belongings, and after dramatically placing his red and black Wayfarer-style sunglasses (also from the Cowboy Killer collection), he bid
Ocean
City’s finest a profanity-laced adieu.
After wiping away the sand that was flung my way by the shaking of the dropcloth – as I was downwind – and telling Boona and The Bear not to stare, I grinned, resettled myself in my chair, and resumed my nap.
And that, gentle readers, was a snippet of my Father’s Day weekend.
Makeover needed in baggage claim – stat! May 26, 2006
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Last weekend I took a trip to North Carolina to see my youngest brother’s kids get baptized (or as everyone else was saying, “christened”, but to me you baptize a baby and you christen a boat, and since a champagne bottle was not being applied briskly to the forehead of either child, we’ll stay with baptized if you don’t mind…)
In order to get there I had to fly, which meant that I had to spend some time in a couple of airports. I started killing time by sitting in a Southwest Airlines wheelchair (not because I need a wheelchair, but rather because it’s more comfortable than sitting on airport benches that resemble the apparatus that Mel Gibson was strapped to at the end of “Braveheart”) reading one of Sarah Vowell’s books, but soon switched to watching some of the other airport patrons, and came up with a few observations:
-Not a lot of airport personnel have attractive hairstyles, unless we’ve set our clocks back to 1977 without my knowing it. Either that or SuperCuts does more business than I originally thought.
-Watching the elderly try to use technology can be either sad or funny, depending on your frame of reference. I’m talking anything from a cell phone to the motion sensitive soap and paper towel dispensers (while watching them try to get soap I was convinced that Ashton Kutcher or Alan Funt were going to jump out of a stall and surprise the old guy).
-I really don’t get the whole guys wearing jeans and flip flops thing. Two words come to mind: Nancy boy.
-A new revelation: very little beats a woman with nice calves wearing board shorts. This could become a fetish…
-Apparently sitting in an airport crapper gives you the license to release the most hellacious oral and anal sounds imaginable.
-Simply said, denim shorts are not a good look for any male over the age of 8.
-Many old people still dress up for air travel. They might be wearing their Exersole mall walkers, but from the ankles up they are dressed to kill.
-Finally, a guy going up the escalator was wearing the following: all white sneaks, tube socks with three red stripes, camo shorts, a Buffalo Sabres jersey (circa 1980) with the number 27, faux Oakley sunglasses, and a Kangol hat. I’m pretty sure that dude was trying too hard.
Hangin’ at the Sev’ May 10, 2006
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Living in Connecticut and being a coffee fiend you’d think that I’d be regionally obligated to drink the large-caramel-with-skim-milk-and-two-Equals from Dunkin Donuts every day, but I do not (and I hope that this does not cause me to lose my New England citizenship – although I’d be happy to be deported back to Baltimore or Phladelphia…). I try to spread it around: Dunkin most of the time, Starbucks once in a while,
Green
Mountain when I’m at the gas station, and occasionally I slum it and hit the 7-11.
On the days that I go to 7-11 I always seem to run into the same group of ‘interesting’ people:
First, there is the lady with the black velour sweat jacket who, if you get the chance to stand behind her in line while she’s getting her small coffee (aka: two sips – why bother?) and pack of Newports, appears to have about a dozen cats. She may want to invest in one of those two sided tape roll on a handle thingies and use it prior to leaving the house. Or at least a nice cheap roll of masking tape if she needs to conserve money for smokes.
Next, there is the beyond-middle age guy who thinks he’s wicked (there’s a nice
New England colloquialism for you!) cool by wearing low rise jeans and quasi-hip T-shirts topped off with an oversized baseball cap with the board-flat brim to the side. On his way in to the store this morning decided to spit (and look cool in doing so) and ended up with a loogie down the front of his shirt. He then stood in the parking lot, holding up traffic, while he scraped the expectorate off with his car keys. As far as I can tell, he likes a nice Slurpee in the morning.
Finally, there is the older lady in grandma jeans, night vision goggle sunglasses that are covering her spectacles, and the ubiquitous Marlboro (the red cowboy killers, not Lights) dangling from her lips. She has worn a path between the lottery ticket counter and the outdoor garbage can and always follows the same pattern: buy a $5 scratch-off ticket, walk out the door, use the flat top of the trash can and use her fingernail to scratch the ticket, walk back in to collect winnings and/or buy another ticket. Repeat. The only deviation is if it’s raining and then she substitutes her steering wheel for the garbage can. She is doing this regardless of whether I am there at 8:00am, 10:00am, or 4:00pm. Apparently she makes a good living at this.
Now, since I see them all of the time they must see me. Wonder what they’re blogging about…?
What the…? May 3, 2006
Posted by hallelujahhatrack in Family, Funny, Kids, Uncategorized.1 comment so far
Although these two knuckleheads belong to me, I must admit that I have no idea whatsoever what this is all about…
There are many times that their actions and words leave me speechless, and this is just one of them.
Animated Emotion April 27, 2006
Posted by hallelujahhatrack in Family, Funny, Kids, Uncategorized.1 comment so far
After a rousing game of “Lego Star Wars” on Playstation, Boona came up to me and seemed a bit sad. This is odd, since he’s usually pretty fired up after he plays that game. You know, with the advancing to another level and getting to be different characters and all… In the game, as you progress and earn points and advance through the game you are mirroring the story from “Star Wars: Episode III”.
Me: Boona, are you OK?
Boona: Yeah.
Me: You don’t look OK. What’s wrong?
Boona: In my game, Princess Amidala got x’s in her eyes.
Me: She got what?
Boona: X’s
Then I figured out what he was talking about. Do you remember in cartoons when a person was unconscious – or dead – their eyes were x-ed out? Apparently in video games, the same technique is used. And in case you haven’t seen Episode III, and I hope I’m not giving anything away for those who never saw the original episode either (Hey, wasn’t that you sitting next to me at the Bel Air Mall Cinemas in 1977?) Princess Amidala dies while giving birth to Luke and Leia, and thus, the “x-eyes”.
This took me back about 25 years to when my youngest brother – another avid cartoon watcher – asked me if, during a date with my girlfriend, “hearts ever came out of my mouth?” Just like with Boona and the x’s, this one took me a minute to figure out, and then it all made sense.
What’s on your ride? April 18, 2006
Posted by hallelujahhatrack in Funny, Uncategorized.2 comments
Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of weird stuff relating to cars and what people do to them. There are cars that have been painted horrid colors. There are the ubiquitous bumper stickers proclaiming the drivers’ Middle School aged kids’ apparent consistent ability to make the honor roll, peoples’ (usually strong) feelings – both pro and con – towards the present administration, or even stronger feelings in their affiliation with either Red Sox Nation or the ‘Evil Empire’.
For example, yesterday I saw all of the following:
-Driving near my home I was behind a car that had a license plate frame that read, “I’d rather be at a Clay Aiken concert!” and the plate actually said CLAYM-8, which I’m assuming reads “Claymate”. Now, I was rooting for Clay over Reuben, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not willing to take it beyond calling in a few votes to 866-IDOLS-02 on a Tuesday evening – especially not this far…
-On the way to work yesterday I saw a Fiesta that had three big ladders strapped to the top. On the highway. Going about 35. Call me crazy, but when the engineering gang at Ford designed this car I don’t think that they envisioned it doing the same work as a light duty pick up truck.
-In someone’s front yard I saw a Reliant K car (remember those?) that was for sale. Aside from being a Reliant K car and probably predating my college degree – class of ’85 – I am unsure that anyone would want to purchase a car that is the same color as the teeth of the bus driver on
South
Park.
-Lastly, for a few miles I followed a purple Corolla that had a HUGE spoiler on the back. Not the normal sized, yet unnecessary ones that are factory installed, or even one you might see on Dale Jr’s #8 on a Sunday afternoon, but one like you’d see on and Indy car at the Brickyard during Memorial Day weekend. Does the driver really think that the old Corolla is going to get up to speeds so great that he’s going to need a spoiler to maintain tire-to-road contact. I, for one, think not. Oh, kickin’ rims on that car, too – but you could have probably figured that out by using context clues alone…
All I’m saying is, when it comes to you ride, keep it real.
And in case you’re wondering: it’s a graphite grey
Durango with a small sticker with the seal of the Cherokee Nation and a Philadelphia Eagles license plate frame.
Boycotting Madonna Monday April 10, 2006
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The office that I work in is very nice and is in a great location, but the one downside is that we can only get one radio station – and it’s not a good one (at least not for me…) unless you like to hear the same pop crap over and over and over. All. Day. Long.
Anyway, in homage to washed up, over the hill, pain in the ass ‘artists’ they have deemed today to be “Madonna Monday”. Whose stupid idea was this? I’d rather listen to the Oak Ridge Boy’s sing “Elvira” on a loop while you stick hot sharp stuff into my eyes than endure another round of “La Isla Bonita”.
Luckily I have my own personal CD stash so I could listen to Little Feat in a drastic attempt to cleanse my auditory palate.
I’m afraid to see what tomorrow brings – maybe the radio station will infest the airwaves with “Til Tuesday Tuesday”.
Or I could call in sick…
