Fantasy Island

Ok, look.

I sat down the last few Sundays and tried to write some blog worthy scribble.

It just wasn't coming to me, so instead of forcing it, I just hit delete and went to sleep.

I have not been struck by inspiration this week, however, instead of trying to harness my wit, I figured I'd just write a true story.

This is what I'd describe as the worst 'date' I've ever been on. That makes it pretty extreme considering I've been on at least 5 dates in my life.

Oh and this was not really a "date" but more of a "hang out session," followed by a "lets stop by her work and make sure there is no chance that I misread her the first time."

You will probably think that some of this is fiction, or at the very least exaggerated.

My ego wishes that you were right, but you are not.

Let's see,

For the sake of this girl's anonymity, her name has been changed. I'll be referring to her as "Satan's sister."

Everything started off peachy.

I had just joined a band, that practiced way out in the suburbs. Somewhere near Barrington, it took me about an hour to drive there for practice.

After our second rehearsal, a friend of the band told us we had to come to this local bar to see "this crazy band with these hot chicks in it."

We went and the bar was more like a big log cabin with 20 ft ceilings. The kind of place that is in Aspen, Colorado.

He was right. There were two hot chicks in the band, and three old dudes in the band. Satan's sister was on drums.

The dudes in the band that I had joined were professional drinkers. I sat at the bar and had shots and beers being demanded of me.

At around 1:30am the band ended, and they mingled with the few people left in the bar.

I tried my best to lay my knick-knack-patty-whacks on Satan's sister.

She said she liked my hair. I said "thanks." Pretty smooth.

Then she left and packed up. Then she came back and asked what my name was.

"It's on!" I thought.

Before leaving, I came up with this little routine about how there's an all-you-can-eat sushi place in Chicago, but you have to have at least two people to be able to order it. She went for it and gave me her number.

I called it the next day. Gotta strike while the iron's hot. (I don't know what that expression means) I prefer, "Gotta iron your shirt while the iron's hot."

Get this, she said she was tired, and was housesitting for her sister, and asked if I wanted to go with her while she walks the dog.

"Walk the dog?" I can decipher your morse code, woman. I went.

Did I mention that my intense hangover took up residency in my ass?

I think the medical term is, Beer Shits.

I told myself not to worry.

We went for a glorious walk. Must've lasted an hour. I had her laughing. She even made eye contact a couple times.

Then we got back to her sister's apartment, and I asked her if I could use the bathroom.

While doing a number one, I sensed a number two. No time for that now, plus this is a tiny apartment, and the noise would be un-hide-able.

I sit on a little couch in the living room, and she comes back from the kitchen and sits on the little couch. This is right around the time I start getting stabbed by number two.

It's like O.J. Simpson is in my bowels.

Finally it's just GO time.

Instead of kissing her, I make a break for the bathroom.

I sit there, aware that the bathroom is about 6 feet from that little couch I was just on.

What wanted to crash like belly flop, I had to try to drop with the silence of an olympic diver.

"Off to a good start, we'll just..."

"Ok, that was a bit loud..."

"Not bad, this is working..."

"Wow, there's no denying that one. That was loud."

About 5 minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom.

Satan's sister seems ready for bed. Not the kind with me in it.

We hug and say good night.

I figure, "well, that wasn't my smoothest operation, but I can recover this, we'll just hang out one more time."

A week goes by and she never returns my call.

She must've lost her phone or been in the hospital.

Just my luck, after band practice in Barrington, the band wants to go get drunk at the bar she plays at. I figure this is my chance to patch things up and I she can get a chance to run up and hug me and tell me how she lost her phone.

Now I'm just gonna cram all the rest of the events into a quick paragraph;

Satan's sister whispers into her bandmate's ear and they look at me the way two secret service agents look at a potential presidential assassin in a crowd. She avoids me at all costs. I finally go up to her when it appears she is wrapping up a conversation with a stranger. Turns out that when I get there, she becomes enthralled by the conversation and I am forced to stand and wait for them to finish while she occasionally glances over. She finally turns to me and lets out a big, fake, "Hey!" Then we have a wickedly awkward 60 second chat, and I squeeze in an apology for our last encounter. She barely remembers it and had probably spent the whole week making passionate love to the guitar player in her band.

I finally get the hint, and tell my buddy that I'll drive him home. I can't find the car keys. For the first time in my life, I locked the keys in the car. My buddy calls his friend to pick him up. It's pouring the rain. I call AAA. They say they'll be there in an hour. It's 1:30am. I am forced to sit in the empty bar waiting for an hour while Satan's sister's band packs up. Many, many awkward glances. Finally I decide that AAA is never coming. I'm in Barrington, IL. An hour drive from my parent's house. I ask the band members if any of them are driving to Chicago. The funny part is that even at that point I pictured Satan's sister offering me a ride and then we end up spending the night together. She gleefully exclaims, "Nope."

By a miracle, the guitar player in her band says, "Yes."

I call everyone I know to ask if I can crash at their apartment. No one answers. it's 3am. By another miracle, Joe calls me back and says he'll leave his door open.

I got dropped off at the Addison exit of the Highway. I assume I'll catch a taxi. It's still pouring the rain.

I start walking. No taxis. Ever.

I ended up walking 3 miles to his house. I'm soaked. I actually spent most of the walk laughing. I felt like I was in a Charlie Chaplin movie.

When I got to Joe's house, his roommate was awake in the basement and he gave me dry clothes and I tossed my wet ones in the dryer.

I had put on my favorite suit coat that night to look my best for Satan's sister.

When I took it out of the dryer the next day, it had shrunk down to the perfect size for Tattoo from 'Fantasy Island'.


'til next time

Hi, I'm Josh and I'll be Your Server This Evening

During one of my nightly sleeping sessions this week, I had a nightmare.

I've had this nightmare many times, and I call it the "waiter nightmare."

I've been a waiter at two restaurants, about 6 months at each place.

During both times, I'd have this reoccurring dream at night that I was waiting tables and something would happen like I'd have to cover the whole restaurant, and none of the food was being cooked right, and people are yelling at me, and then I'd go into the kitchen to see what was wrong, and the cooks would turn out to be scary circus clowns laughing at me, and then I'd look for the manager, who would be played by some obsure actor that my subconcious held onto, and he would laugh at me, and then I'd end up sprinting out of the restaurant with people chasing me.

I'm sure a Freudian analysis of that reoccurring dream would reveal that the restaurant is symbolic of my mother, and the angry customers represent a fear of intimacy, the circus clowns have something to do with penises, and the laughing manager is really my father. The running away part at the end represents that I understand the importance of exercise.

I think the reason that I randomly had this old dream, even years after I quit being a waiter, is because I had been tossing around the idea of waiting tables once or twice a week, just as a way of changing up my work schedule.

This dream was a little reminder of what it used to be like.

I teach a lot of people to play the guitar nowadays.

I honestly had a "guitar lesson nightmare" once. It was along the same lines as the waiter nightmare, except that instead of having all the hungry customers yelling at me, with scary clowns in the kitchen, I had a bunch of students show up at the same time for guitar lessons, and I kindly apologized and explained that I made a mistake in my booking, and then they all understood and rescheduled.

I'm not sure if that was a nightmare.

Now I'm recollecting on why I should not be a waiter.

These are real things that I did as a waiter. I'm still friends with some of the people I used to work with, and they will verify the facts.

I never ever got comfortable with carrying drinks on a tray.

50 pounds of food was fine, but balancing those cups up there was impossible for me.

When I started, I had two people order two bottled beers and they asked for two glasses with them.

I didn't want to use the drink tray, so I carried the bottles of beer to the table in my hands and then they said, "Oh, and the glasses," to which I gave a sly smile and pulled two chilled glasses out of the pocket of my apron.

The customers had a look on their faces as if to say, "Um, there is lint on these glasses."

There indeed was a respectable amount of lint on those glasses.

I patted myself on the back after yet again cleverly avoiding the drink tray.

I also should not have been allowed to answer the phone at the restaurant.

I happened to be standing by the phone while the hostess was away, and I answered a call for a reservation.

The woman on the other end asked if she could make a reservation for about 6:00pm that Friday night, and I convinced her that there would be plenty of seating available and that it would be unnecessary to make a reservation.

She asked how I knew there would be plenty of seating available and I said, "because it's 5:30 and there's nobody in here." Seemed like the right answer at the time.

But she then got mad at me for some reason and asked to speak to the manager, to which I said, "sure," and then proceeded to put her on hold until she disappeared.

I patted myself on the back after yet again cleverly resolving an upset customer.

Sometimes the best stategy is to offend the customer to the point where they are no longer a customer. Like shooting a wounded horse. She just can't run on three legs.

I also used to eat some of the left over food.

Why?

I don't know. I was hungry I guess.

You see, I'd do a little role playing in my head.

Say a guy would finish half his burger and fries. I'd carry that plate into the dish room, and then a little movie would play in my head.

I'd picture myself as just a dude who happened to meet this guy, and the guy would go, "Hey man, you're welcome to sit here while I eat," and I'd go, "Well, alright, I guess." And then we'd have a conversation, and then then that guy would go,
"Damn, I'm full"
"Do you want the other half of this burger and the rest of these fries?"

And I'd go, "Really?" "Well I guess if you're really not gonna finish it."

Was that story really much different from the reality of me being his waiter and eating the rest of burger and fries in the privacy of the dishroom without him knowing?

Did he not say, "Dude, do you want the rest of this burger and fries?" with his eyes?

I think he did.

It's just kind of implied that when your waiter says, "Are you finished with that?", they are also saying, "Do you mind if I finish that?"

How could you mind?

Would you like me to throw it away or would you like me to enjoy the rest of it?

It's not like you're buying me lunch. You were gonna throw it away.

Ok, it's kind of like you buying me lunch.

But what if at the end of the meal, I came up and said, "Are you finished with that?"

"Yes?"

"Well, would you mind if WE finished that?"

And then out from behind me comes the cutest little homeless boy!



Now how do you feel?

Just let us eat your burger and fries.

I promise I'll let little Lee Roy eat most of it.

'til next time.

Trumbull's Mumbles

Ok, blog delay. Not my fault.

Comcast screwed up my apartment's connection and we haven't had the internet until now.

I really do not like Comcast.

During the month of April, we did not have internet access for 6 days.

Where's my discount?

If I set up a system with Dominoes Pizza, where I pay a monthly fee to have a pizza delivered everyday, and then they skip 6 days of pizza, I assure you the people at Dominoes would understand my anger, and refund those pizzas.

Probably throw in some crazy bread too.

You hear me, Comcast?

When I make metaphors, I tend to use pizza metaphors. Everyone can relate to them. They're delicious.

I spent yesterday at mom's house, helping her clean out the basement for remodeling.

I found lots of cool stuff.

Notably a folder titled, "Josh's School Papers."

The first page was my evaluation from Kindergarden.

This quote jumped out:

"Josh's gross motor skills seem to be slightly below average for a kindergarden age child. He is not yet skipping or coordinating himself confidently when using a ball."

That is a real quote. No joke, I will show you the paper if necessary.

What was Mrs. Trumbull talking about?

If you wanna know the real motivation behind her slander, it was, you guessed it, jealousy.

In reality, I was light years ahead of my peers when it came to athletic development.

Here is a photo of me at age 5 on the kindergarden playground.

During the mid 1980's in Wilmette, my elementary school looked kind of like Hong Kong.

I don't know why. Ask the PTA.

Look at the other kids admiring my lean muscle mass.

You might be asking yourself, why I looked somewhat Asian as a child?

Simple.

Part of Pro bodybuilding is maintaining a dark tan. It helps the muscle definition stand out.

I also used to squint my eyes when being photographed. Makes me look tougher. Think Clint Eastwood.

You might also be asking youself, what is that hanging from my neck in the photo?

A whistle.

Aside from training dolphins with that whistle, I appointed myself as Drill Sergent of my kindergarden class.

At any given time, I would blow that whistle and demand 30 push-ups, and I'm not talkin' about ice cream push-ups. Although the orange ones were delightful.


Regardless, if there is one common trend I see among small children, it is laziness.

Constant napping. Crying, whining, and asking you to carry them.

The only kind of kids I carry are injured ones.



The laziness is even worse if you look at really young children.

Babies practically do nothing all day.

"Check out my baby. Isn't he great?"

"Yeah, awesome. Look at him just lay there all day, drinkin' milk, and getting awarded for being fat."


(I'd be smilin' too if I were allowed to be 60% bodyfat, yet still get constant offers of boobs.)

Whatever.

I'm not jealous.

I'll leave that up to Mrs. Trumbull.

Not "coordinating myself confidently when using a ball"?


Read 'em and weep, Mrs. T.

'til next time.

Apes of Wrath

To all you loyal readers, I apologize for the one day delay in posting a new blog.

I'll try not to let it happen again.

This week I'd like to talk about:

Evolution

I think it's high time us humans celebrated just how far we've evolved away from those lazy, chain-smoking, gun-toting apes, that "we" once were.




Just how far have we evolved?

Let's just say we're at the point where we now have Ape mocking ceremonies.
Man has become so sophisticated that he can now rub his evolution in the ape's face, by dressing up as an ape and then jumping through a ring of fire to slam dunk a basketball.
"Can you do that little monkey?" "Didn't think so."


Some of you are probably wondering where the word, Evolution, comes from.

Here's the break down:

Evol-u-tion

"Evol" is an alternate spelling of "evil."

The letter "U" in the word, Evolution, is pronounced, "Eeww." "Eeww" means "gross."

"Tion" is pronounced, "Shun." "Shun" means "not allowed."

So to tie it all together, the word, Evolution, means, "Evil grossness is not allowed."

Question: What is "Evil grossness"?

Answer: Being a monkey.

Here's an example of the evility of apes;

What do apes eat?

Bananas

What did Eve convince Adam to take a bite of that resulted in banishment from Eden?

An apple.

Would she not have offered Adam a harmless banana, had not the monkeys eaten them all?

Only God knows.

It's understandable why Creationists throw out the idea that we evolved from apes.

Creationists believe that God created man in his own image, and then created the ape in the image of God's ape. Simple as that.

Sort of like Michael Jackson and Bubbles.

Do these two look like they have anything in common, aside from matching outfits, hairstyles, and repressed terror?


Speaking of repressed terror, do you realize that some day humans will be left behind in the trail of evolution?

We will someday be Bubbles the chimp, or should I say, Bubbles the human. Clinging to the Michael Jackson of the new species.

These future super-humans will deny that they had anything to do with us.

Wait, back to an earlier point;

What if both the Evolutionists AND the Creationists are right?

What if God has been evolving?

Way back when, God created man in his own image, but at that time, God looked like an ugly monkey.

Then over a long while, he has shaped up into the fine looking lad that he is today.



Call me crazy, but I think I just came up with a new theory.

Who's with me?

'Til next time

Drip, drip, drop, little April Showers.

So it turns out that last week's blog topic kinda freaked out a few people.

I figured that this week I should pick a topic that's more "mature" and "reader friendly."

Pee.

It's 3:30am on Monday morning right now, and I am slightly delusional, so I'm kind of doing a word association thing.

What does the word "pee" trigger in my brain?

The worst I've ever had to hold it in comes to mind.

I know the year was 2002, because I had just dropped out of college and moved back home about 6 months earlier, and getting drunk was my general goal. And I sincerely felt a sense of accomplishment when achieving that goal.

Joe Wintor (Real last name is, Winter, but changed for anonymity) and I had the day off, and were planning on taking the train down to the loop for Bluesfest.

It was an insanely hot day, and we sat on the couch in my parent's garage and played a long game of quarters.
(bounce quarters into a cup of beer, and when you make it and the other person misses, they drink the delicious, metallic flavored beer)
(most readers of this blog are ambitious drinkers and did not need an explanation of what "quarters" meant)

I drank at least 6 beers, and probably took a precautionary pee before leaving for the train, but it didn't matter, there was at least 60 oz. of fluid headed for my bladder. By the way, I just looked up how much an average bladder can hold and it's around 600ml. I'll be damned if I'm gonna convert millileters to ounces at this hour.

We got on the train, and it was packed. I vividly remember sitting next to a father and his 4 year old son. (age estimation)

I was also really drunk. I drank those 6 beers in under an hour.

At first I was all good, and had a big drunken grin on my face, just lookin out the window.

Then, "Damn, I wish I could take a piss right now."

Then, "Aw shit, I really wish I could take a piss right now."

Then a few minutes later, "Godfuckingdamnit, I need to take a piss right now."

Then a few stops later, "Oh my god, this is unreal."

Then, "Holy Jesus, this is unreal, dear God, No this can't be real."

Then it's just getting beyond words. Like death is approaching. And yes, holding in pee can kill you.

The reason i know that this was the worst I've ever had to pee is because I tried to pee.

Sitting right there, next to that father and son straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, I was trying to pee my pants.

You do not think clearly when you're drunk and your bladder is about to explode. I remember thinking that my shirt was pretty baggy, so that would hang over my shorts, and I wasn't going to let all the pee out, but just enough so that I wouldn't die.

I cannot describe to you the true agony of finally telling yourself, "Ok, I'm giving myself permission to do this. I am going to let myself pee my pants on this crowded train" and then sitting there legitimately trying to get the stream started, but just straight up not being able to get it going.

After that plan failed, I waited until the next train stop, and then made the mistake of trying to quickly stand up to run to the nearest urinal. When I stood up, it felt like my legs were just long extentions of my bladder. I wish there had been a video of that walk from the train to the urinal. The train stop was just at a platform, so there were no bathrooms. I had to walk down the street to a Mexican restaurant.

I also wish I had an audio recording of that urination. I swear to God it was 60 seconds long. There were many reprises too.

Drip, drip, drop, little April showers.

After that, the rest of the day felt like I had just returned home from war and my wife and kids were at the airport to greet me.

I cried when I saw how beautiful they were, having seen the pain this world has within it.

(This soldier giving his son a loving handshake proves that men do have a sensitive side)

Another thought on pee is that I truly feel sorry for women for not being able to experience the joy of writing their name in the snow in cursive. Unless of course they are extremely meticulous and are able to walk and pee at the same time.

I also remember as a kid, hanging out with other kids and one of us would go, "Hey, I have to pee" and the other would go, "You know, I guess I do too." Then we'd go pee at the same time in the same toilet. Weird. I also could go hands-free back then. My little guy would just aim right at the toilet. Bullseye.

I think that's just something kids do. I hope I'm not the only one that did that, or else that could be pretty embarrassing. Luckily this is only posted on the world wide internet, and not where a lot of people could see it. It's not like an airplane wrote it out in the sky with it's exhaust fumes.


(Question to myself)

'til next time.

Go With the Flow

"The truth will set you free."

The topics for these blogs shall have no second guessing. No shame.

If it pops in my head, I pops it on the blog. Simple as that.

I am currently sitting at the computer, occasionally gazing out my window on this fine Sunday evening, sipping on a nice, cool glass of water and Metamucil.

A light breeze is coming through the window.

Spring is here.


'Come again?'

'What was that?'

Spring is here.

"No the part about the..?"

Yeah, you heard me.

Metamucil.

Grandpa has been, "running into a traffic jam" while "gettin down to Brown Town," as the kids might say. You can quote me on that. I've already taken the liberty of putting it into quotes for you.

Not to worry though. I've been adding this powdered fiber to my diet for the last two weeks, and this stuff is awesome.

I've had a lot of 'old man thoughts' while drinking it such as, "This stuff is awesome," and "God, this stuff is really awesome."

The new improved orange flavor rocks too. Tang meets Sunny D.

That's the beauty of it. When my roommates ask, "Uh, what is that orange stuff you're drinking all the time?"

I say, "Sunny D," or sometimes, "Tang," and it totally disarms them. It also makes me seem younger because I'm tapped in to what the kids are drinkin' these days. Or at least what they were drinking when I last owned a television. I think it's safe to assume that Sunny D is still going strong. Sunny D snatched up the market of people who love orange flavored drinks, but hate orange juice. Pretty big market.

Ok, back to the original topic.

My morning deposits (poop) at the porcelain bank (toilet) have become as easy as taking batteries (poop) out of a flashlight. (my ass)
(They actually resemble Duracell batteries too)

(Not the square ones)


Q: How do I know what they look like?

A: I look.

There are some people who claim that they do not look back in the pot to see what just came out. These are the same kind of people who do not check to see if a gun is loaded before using it as a party toy, or bother to look at their children's artwork before they throw it away.





Why do we look back there before flushing?

The same reason we look out at the ocean or up at the stars in the sky.

And what reason is that?

Two reasons actually:

1. To make sure there are no aliens in there.

2. To take a look in nature's mirror, and see who you really are.

Virtues. Character.

Sometimes I'll look back there and think,
"Really?" "That's nothing like I thought you'd look." (Tolerance, Acceptance)

Sometimes it's an old friend.
"You again?!" "I haven't seen you since 8th grade graduation!" (Memories, Reunions)

Other times I'll look down and say,
"Goddamnit! Work with me people!" Often aloud in a discouraged voice. (Leadership, Setting standards)

Sometimes I laugh.
"You mean to tell me that's what all the fuss was about?" (Sense of humor, Laughter)

Sometimes I'll cry.
"Not you. I swear you'll take a part of me if you go now. Don't leave. Not yet." (Compassion, Sensitivity)


Hard lessons, but they shaped me.


Think about it.

Where do you think we got the expression, "Get your shit together"?

John Lennon wrote "Come Together" on the toilet. (Why do you think they call it the 'John'?)


Shit happens. So will you.

Dream big.

Live big.


(Marty King, day-dreamer.)


'til next time

Rapping Paper

Last night I was driving down the highway, and flipped on the radio.

I landed on B96.3

Perfect.

For those of you who are not familiar with B96, this is THE hot station. Sometimes they'll play the hot new single and then 'sear' it off at the end with the sound of lasers. I suspect real lasers.

The DJ will have someone call in a request, and they'll tease them a little bit, maybe even flirt, then they'll have them give a 'shout out', and then BAM!, the lasers shoot off and launch into Beyonce' or Justin Timberlake.

You can usually tell which radio stations are hot by the quality and frequency of these lasers. They are expensive, and can only be afforded by the top stations. These lasers also signify that the station is using the most up-to-date laser discs available, not cassettes.

When I tuned in last night, they were playing 'oldies'.

The DJ dug deep into the vault and pulled out "I'm Not a Player" by Big Pun, from WAY back in 1998!

"Hay-Oh!"

"Oh my god! Did they even have radios back then?!"

It sounded SOO dated.

I was like, "Uh, what drum machine is this? The Roland XS-800?!"

Get this: It was the same drum beat the whole time, with a repeating synthezier part, and Big Pun rappin' bout sex, money, cash, dollars, and guns.

Holy Oldie!

Nobody raps about that stuff anymore.

Everybody's too busy 'keepin it real' nowadays to hit on the real topics.

Rap has gotten a bad rap for being nothing more than a guy boasting about himself. How he's the toughest, has the most guns, gets laid the most, and cares the least about the hoes.

That's what's different about Big Pun. No ego pumping.

This lyric jumped out at me:

"I rip my prick through your hooters/ You couldn't measure my dick with 6 rulers"
"Who wanna ride it? Won't cost a dollar/Whether it's soft or hard, it'll still make you holla"

How many other rappers would be willing to admit that sometimes they cannot maintain a hard erection?

It happens to all of us. Even big time rappers.

I know you're probably thinking, "Wait. Did he just say that his penis measures over 6 feet?"

Yeah, he did. You can't roll with that? Lookacha girl right now. What's she thinkin?

Songwriters: Don't overlook the wordplay. Notice how he refers to his manhood as 'prick' in first half, and then refers to it as 'dick' in the second.

An average writer would have used 'dick' for both since it is not the word being used to rhyme the two lines.

Big Pun was probably a big Dylan/Leonard Cohen fan, and picked up the trick of rhyming middle words to strenghten the flow.

Unfortunately, I just found out that Big Pun died in 2000 of a heart attack caused by years of obesity.

Call me a dreamer, but I have a hunch that Big Pun is up in heaven, sittin' on a pimped out cloud, sparkin' a blunt with Ernie Hemingway and Billy Shakespeare right now.



'til next time

Josh