Shaving the Shnike's

I was working at the National Retailer Who Shall Remain Nameless(butshallbediscussedatlength) the other night, when I found myself in an aisle next to Lord Dorkass (LD) again. As usual, he was surrounded by his minions, Prince Chubby Bottom (PCB) was there, as were SlowLee, Elder Statesman of Skinnyjeans,(SLESS) and Stretch McBaggypants, (SMcBP)

Clustered at the end of two aisles, but hidden from view should anyone look down the hallway, the foursome is attempting to do as little work as possible. As I am slamming shit onto the shelves (gotta make goal and beat rate) I overhear snippets of conversation. I move closer when I hear Lord Dorkass mention his Elf GF.

LD: "Yeah the Elf girl, she umm asked me to send her a picture of me with no shirt"

*in my head* UHOH, Sexting alert

SMcBP :"Hot man, did you?"

*in my head* Closet Case

LD: "Yeah I did, she asked me to send some more, but she wanted me to shave my chest"

*in my head* OK perhaps there IS some credence to my Pedophile in Iowa theory

PCB: "Did you do it?"

*in my head* Of COURSE he did

LDA: "Yeah but I didn't know where to stop. So, umm, I just kept going"

*in my head* WHY does this not surprise me? Just draw a line in the, ahem, sand and STOP

PCB: "I did that once, did you shave everything?"

*in my head* OH GOD, I did NOT need that picture to slam into my head

SMcBP: "I shave everything, the ladies LIKE that"

*in my head* Closet Case

LDA: "Yeah I did, I umm, like trimmed and stuff before, but I'm like bald now. Why do you think she wanted me to do that?"

*in my head* Ummmm see my Iowa Pedophile theory, please

SLESS: "I put Nair on my balls once"

*in my head* Did it burn?

SMcBP: "How was that?"

*in my head* Closet Case

SLESS: "It burned"

*in my head* No Shit. Your pants slid down the other day when you bent over, and your ass and back are so hairy you could braid it. It would take Napalm to burn the hair off your balls

SMcBP: "I like being hairless, It's hot, no pain no gain man"

*in my head* Closet Case

PCB: "I trim. I have clippers, but only down there. The stubble sucks when it grows in"

*in my head* Does it rub on your clitoris?

SMcBP: "My boys are bald"

*in my head* Just unzip your pants and show everyone, you KNOW you want to

LD: "Yeah me too, I look like I'm, like 10, but like, umm I am bigger there now than when I was ten, which is cool, How often do I have to umm, you know, do this?"

*in my head* LALALALALALA I can't hear YOU.....

SMcBP: " I do it all the time, it's a lot of work to be this hot. The ladies love it"

*in my head* Closet Case

PCB: "Stubble sucks man. You going to let it grow out?"

*in my head* Grow out? He doesn't even shave his face yet, how often do you think he needs to shave his balls?

On that final note is time for me to move to a different aisle, and away from this gripping intellectual conversation. As I can feel my IQ desperately clinging to its current rung on the ladder, I walk away laughing on the inside. And people think I talk too much....

Summertime, and the living AIN'T easy

After scraping off the snow, and galloping over the hump from the snow plow that came through the parking lot at work. I set out on my 20 minute journey home last evening around 3AM, and in the hour and forty-five minutes it took me to travel home on the slush and ice covered country roads, I did some thinking. It was all about the beach. So in keeping with the last two posts, I have opted to tell a tale which involves both drinking AND real estate.

I have a client, Mc Luscious, who has become one of my closest friends and allies. Like me, she is a bossy redhead with a wicked sense of humor. I met her through a friend, and we had a whirlwind courtship. I showed her 38 houses on one Saturday in March, including a WTF house, which she actually bought. It could not be farther from what she wanted, it is in the extreme North end of Avalon, needed a full renovation, and buying it was one of the smartest things she ever did.

Because of kids, work, family, etc, it is rare when she and I get to enjoy a night out on the town, so one Saturday night in July, Mc Luscious got a babysitter (a Herculean task in Avalon NJ mid summer) and we decided to hit the town. OK, really we just went to the Princeton.

Sliding into the booth we start off with cocktails and a dozen raw oysters. We discuss the psychology of why men cheat, debate whether the busboy is high or just has an IQ under 100, and begin complaining about the Invasion Of the Range Rover Driving Size Zeros.

Now. For those who don't know, Avalon NJ is one of THOSE towns. You know the ones, where you can't live there. Ever. You hear of it in passing, and catch snippets in conversation overheard in a bar. It is a mythical town, full of fabulous beautiful people, doing amazingly wonderful things, wearing designer clothing purchased with an AMEX Black Card, while drinking Veuve from crystal flutes on a yacht, with... Well you get the picture. Well here is the reality, Its a bunch of Skinny Bitches, their bratty kids, arrogant self important husbands and an ASS-ton of debt.

This evening was one of those exceedingly rare occasions where one of these women is found in her native habitat / hunting grounds, in her pre marriage plumage. Her native habitat has men with enough open credit to finance a revolution in a small third world country, and enough skinny women with boob jobs to keep everyone entertained. The Princeton in Avalon fits that bill to a T on a Saturday evening. I have always said, Everyone in Avalon has money, whether it is real, imaginary or someone else's, Everyone has money.

Mc Luscious and I have started ordering food, I am on my second Martini, we are eating, carrying on, and having a blast. Gazing around Mc Luscious turns to me and says to me in a slightly boozy voice, "Whats wrong with that woman's face?"

Looking to my right, I see a gorgeous blond sitting at the bar. She looks like Holly Madison, the playboy bunny, only skinnier and with bigger fake boobs sitting with what looks like 2 guys from the Flyers. Her face is smooth and perfect, she weighs maybe 110 pounds, her boobs are spilling out of a tight white tank top, and she just doesn't look happy. Watching her for a moment, I reply " She's hungry"

Mc Luscious "WHAT?"

Me "She's hungry, look at her, watch her eyes"

Now this chick is sitting at the bar with a HUGE honking glass of white wine in front of her, taking the most minute sips imaginable. Her BF is completely ignoring her, instead he is talking to the second guy. While she is taking tiny sips, she is taking a LOT of them so that wine glass is getting empty pretty quickly, and rapidly gets replaced with a new one by the bartender.

One the bar top are jars of horseradish and kettle shaped pots of Oyster Crackers (the round kind). You can see her eyes dart to the left, then down, then back to the left again. Mc Luscious says "What is she doing?"

I respond "She sees the oyster crackers, Five to one, she will pick one up, break it into smaller pieces and nibble it like a Chipmunk"

Mc Luscious, chortling "You're mean." A minute later she says, "Wait, OMG, you're right look at her!" She is breaking an oyster cracker into pieces, and has nibbled a small chunk like a squirrel on the alert for danger. She takes another, larger piece and places it in her mouth and actually chews. Her face begins to glow, and her eyelids close slightly. She looks aroused. We are witnessing the beginning of a food based one night stand. Like all one night stands, we all know what that means. And they NEVER end well.

Suddenly her hand darts out again, grabbing another cracker. As we watch she splits this one in half, with eyes darting furtively about she pops half in her mouth, and palms the other half for later. She does not chew, simply letting the cracker begin to dissolve in her mouth. She rapidly places the hidden half of the cracker in her mouth, covers her face with her hand and chews, swallows, and take a slug of her wine.

"Two more and she pukes in the bathroom" I state matter-of-factly. "You think?" replies Mc Luscious. "OH yeah" is my response. With her BF still ignoring her, and the bartender is refilling her wine, we watch as the carbohydrate orgy begins. Another cracker gets shredded and consumed chipmunk style, then a second, then a third! This chick is on a rampage! Suddenly she stands and totters to the bathroom on her 6 inch heels, her hot pants covering an ass she borrowed from a nine year old boy. Twenty minutes later she returns.

It really is amazing to watch this woman eat. The furtive glances as she grabs a cracker, the minuscule bites, the delicate chewing, the huge gulps of white wine to wash it down. The total time to eat one cracker was stretched out over ten to fifteen minutes. She was not only held rapt by the carbohydrates of the flavorless lumps of flour and baking powder, she was visibly afraid of them. I would not be surprised if she left, went straight to the gym and did 3 hours on the treadmill.

Finishing the last of our wine, savoring the fullness of a meal enjoyed, we glance over at her one last time. As we both look, our eyes meet hers as she is in mid motion to eat another piece. She blushes, looks away, and lowers her arm sliding the cracker chunk under her hand on the bar.

"Avalon Freeze for ice cream?" I query Mc Luscious. "What the hell!" she replies. As we exit the bar into the early twilight, laughing, fat and happy, I think, Summertime, and maybe living IS easy.

Water, Water everywhere, and not a drop to flush

I am veering in a different direction today, and I am making a real estate posting. I have been active in real estate for about 8 years now, and like all agents I have had my fair share of WTF?! moments. I have been attacked and bitten by dogs, chased by bees, had buyers reject their own mortgages at the settlement table, and walked in a house to discover burst pipes among other sundry snippets of crazy. (Ummm excuse me Mr. Homenudist, I am here to show your house, would you mind putting some pants on?) Little did I know, my first client would ensure that I have a trial by fire.

Client X was a buddy from the gym and the bar. We ran in the same circle of 20-30 something year round residents of Seven Mile Beach. He lived with a few of my drinking buddies, and we knew all the same people, so when I got my RE license, he asked me for help in finding a new year round rental. When I had almost no luck finding him anywhere to live, we started looking at houses to buy. Everything was going fine when it was he and I cruising around checking out properties, but the weekend when his parents got involved things began to get interesting.

His father was a know it all kind of man. As a successful developer and real estate investor, he decided to have a hand in molding his sons first foray into property ownership. I knew this was going to add a level of difficulty to my job, but I certainly couldn't say NO, your Mom and Dad can't come.

Our focus this weekend was Wildwood, NJ. Much like Atlantic City, Wildwood NJ had undergone a major decline in the early 1980's, and was beginning to boom a bit, with new construction occurring for the first time in years. Based on the fact that property could be picked up for a song. (a 50X100 foot empty lot, 2 blocks from the beach in Avalon was $900K, and in North Wildwood it was $99K), Client X decided that he wanted to get in on the ground floor. We had picked a grouping of about 25 houses, I scheduled the appointments and off we went. Since it was the off season, most of the houses were unoccupied and shuttered since the summer season had not yet begun.

We set out, me in my own car, and Client X and his parents in a second car following me around. The first few houses show fine, but I am noticing that his mother really doesn't speak much, and has a glazed look in her eyes along with a perma smile. His father is a bore, a bit of a bully, is interfering with me doing my job, and constantly berates his wife and son. I am wondering if Mama X is heavily medicated.

The next house we are showing is on West Wildwood Avenue. As we pull up my heart sinks. The occupants are home, and it ain't pretty. There is a toothless old woman on the concrete slab porch lounging in a plaid recliner (yes, the indoor kind) watching TV, a diaper clad toddler, 2 small dogs and a blond woman in a sports bra swatting the toddler on the diaper with a fly swatter.

Before I could catch them, the X's are out of their truck and chugging down the street towards the house. I quickly approach the house and inform the people outside that I have an appointment to show the house, to which they reply "Oh yeah, that's cool. Just go on in, we have been expecting you." I am a bit panicked, as Mama X is introducing herself to everyone on the porch, and Mr X is telling her to be quiet, but I open the screen door and in we go. We are greeted by two more dogs, and a television the size of the wall, three tattoo'd shirtless men in boxer shorts sitting on a broken down sofa with either no springs, or the sleeper removed playing some kind of video game. There are no walls between the living room and kitchen, just naked studs, an exposed hot water heater, and dirty dishes piled on a plywood countertop. The entire area is half finished, no carpet, some linoleum in the kitchen, and the refrigerator just sitting in the middle of the room and a cooler packed with beer and ice.

From the kitchen, three doors lead to the unexplored areas of the house. the door to the right leads to a bedroom, OK safe enough, but it is wall to wall beds pushed together. The middle door leads to a bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom has 2 toilets, only one of which is actually affixed to the floor, the second is in the shower. As we enter the darkened bedroom we realise we are not alone, there is yet another big dog napping on the bed. We then try door number three. This is another bedroom. I am a bit confused as this is supposed to be a five bedroom, three bathroom house, and I can only find three and one.

I seek out the denizens of the living room for assistance, all three of the big dogs have cocked their heads at me as I enter, and I hope they are not the smartest animals in the room. I politely ask where the other bedrooms are, I am informed that I have to go back into bedroom #3, go into the closet and feel for the knob in the back. With the X's following me like a row of baby ducks, in we plunge.

We go through the door into the second bathroom, and exit the bathroom into, the third bathroom, which is only a toilet and a sink. In we go to the fourth bedroom., where we find the missing shower from bathroom #3. Thankfully it is unoccupied, unfortunately, bedroom #5, is not. Sprawled across a massive bed is a naked blond woman, 2 dogs and a jumbo bag of french onion potato chips.

At this point I say, are we ready to go? Marching everyone through the bathrooms, out the closet, past the video gaming bikers, we wave goodbye to Grandma. Peeling off, we drive the few blocks to an older one story duplex. It takes up most of the lot, is in decent condition, and is thankfully, empty.

Mama X says in a breathy, woozy voice "They were very nice." Trying hard NOT to give her the Stynk Eye, I begin to question her sanity. I can't SMELL any booze on her, adding to my theory that she is eating Valium with her tic tacs. In we go to the duplex, again with a connecting door, but this door only goes from hallway to hallway, allowing for the property to be used as either a duplex or a 4 bedroom, 2 bathroom single family home with two separate living and kitchen areas. We are outside discussing the houses we have looked at so far that day, when I realise that Mama X is missing I figure that she has wandered off to stare at the sun. Suddenly she appears, with no explanation given. Everyone is pretty much tired of looking at houses, so they beg off the remainder of homes, with Mama X claiming a headache.

I tell Client X to call me later, and I head back to the duplex to re-lock all the doors. As I enter the back unit to check that the slider to the backyard is locked, I notice an odd smell emanating from the bedroom area. I think, hmm thats weird I wonder what that is. I check the bedrooms, nothing, I notice that the bathroom door is closed and think NO, saints preserve us, NO, SHE DIDN'T. I open the door, and realise that yes, she did. Mama X had dropped a deuce. And a good one at that, in a house with the water shut off. One trip to the ACME and 4 gallons of water later, I have emptied the toilet of Mama X's gift.

I return to my office and recant the tale of the pooping Valium queen to my co workers. One of the jaded wise old broads in my office shakes my hand, blows a stream of smoke in my face and says "Welcome to real estate. You are gonna be fine." With training like that, I think I will, I think I will.

Dance, DANCE I tell you

As I have previously stated, I delayed the inevitable as long as I could, but I moved to rural Pennsylvania eleven months, 16 days ago. I am a bit hermetical to begin with, even when I am surrounded by people, I am still very deeply in my private shell. I was once described as an elusive extrovert, and this description fits me to a T. I am very out going, I will talk to damn near anyone, but at the same time there is a WASPy, Main Line, please stay on your side of the fence, reservation to my personality.

My current rurality is not how I am used to living. After spending ten years living on a seven mile long island, and in Center City Philadelphia, this is a dramatic change for me. I live on top of a mountain ridge. The view is spectacular, the animal life is diverse and plentiful (we have wild mink, red fox, hawks, owls, bats and bears on the property) and you must pass over three one lane bridges to get here. We are relatively isolated, and as I tend to be deeply contemplative the privacy is very nice, but the fact that I live in the guest wing of my parents home, SUCKS. I have begun venturing out on my own, and I am quite enjoying it right now. It is kind of fun to be "new meat", so to speak.

Over the weekend, I opted to hit a bar. I had asked a few friends to go to a nightclub in the nearest big city with me. I was antsy in the house by myself, so I just felt like going out. I didn't hear back from a bud a work, and my buddy Mike said he would meet me there, so I headed to the gay bar in our closest booming metropolis, 20 some miles away. I was dressed city casual in a dark sweater, skinny jeans, and a gorgeous suede car coat that I never wear. I locate the bar, park in a well lit area, and venture inside. The first floor is a dance floor nightclub setup, and the second floor is a huge loft like bar.

Like all gay bars, there are the usual suspects in place doing what they always do regardless of what city you visit. The 30 something couples all in a knot who refuse to speak to anyone else, the "I am so manly" pool players, the shirtless, slightly chubby shooter boy in his underwear, the gorgeous group that you never see online, in public, or anywhere else that you swear the bar imports from from out of state. There are the elderly men who are praying that the Viagra doesn't wear off before they finish negotiating with the latino hustlers, the twenty two year olds with their BFF girlfriends, the married guy whose wife has left town with the kids, you get the gist. It is comforting to know that some things in the world will never change.

I pay my cover and can feel the room stop as I enter, fresh meat walking. There are 15 people around the darkened bar on the first floor, eyeballing me the way a Doberman eyeballs a medium rare steak left unattended on the table, so I opt to do the old, "OH shit they saw me, quick, pretend you are looking for someone very specific" routine. I casually wander to the dancefloor, peering around as if I am expecting to see someone and I quickly turn to visit to the second floor area. I saddle up to the bar, order a beer, and look around trying not to be obvious. I see a few faces from online, all of whom ignore me. No biggy, they ignore me online as well. I watch the TV, watch the crowd, scope out the competition, and notice something strange. Eleven of the 30 people in the rooms are wearing almost exactly the same plaid shirt, Should I be prepared for a Group Hug or is lumberjack the new gay?

I order a second beer and watch as the crowd begins to swell (OK 4 lesbians and 5 guys show up). At this point I am beginning to see the humor in the building. The bears to my left are attempting to get my attention by being loud and outrageous, one of the pretty ones pushes up next to me to order drinks, which necessitates a hand on my bicep. When I stand up to use the bathroom a very handsome man my own age swivels his head so hard even the bartender looks to see what has caught his attention. I guess losing 60 pounds has done wonders for my looks.

When I wander back from the rest room, I sit and really start looking around, and decide to head back downstairs to the dance bar. At this point my evening starts to get interesting. I recognise the bartender, say hello, and sit at the bar. I am not down for two minutes when I feel the heat of six pairs of eyes boring into me from my right. "Have a light?" I hear from a husky female voice, I turn and gaze into the eyes of a seven foot tall man in a dress. I light his cigarette, and she-he asks me to dance. I say thanks, but I don't dance, ( I DO dance, but there ain't NOBODY on the dance floor, and I am NOT leading the charge). The next question is "wanna do a shot?" Again I decline, make polite small talk, crack a joke, and hope that the tranny realises I am not some random straight guy that wandered in the door, and thinks this is still a Moose Lodge (yes, this is a gay bar in a Moose Lodge, go figure)

Some gay men in their 50's make me really uncomfortable, there is a hunger in their eyes that creeps me out. With the intro from the tranny I am now placed firmly in their sites. I have no real interest in rolling with the self important older queens who think that all men in the bar owe them alms, I beat a hasty retreat to a different spot at the bar. It is only 2 seats over, but it matters.

Within gay bars who you are seen with, talk to, and are associated with, influence your level in the hierarchy and can be sealed within minutes, I refuse to be labeled or pigeonholed on my first night out, plus my new seat gives me a better view of the bar and dancefloor.

At this point my facebook posts begin.

Post one : OK, I ventured out, I guess I failed to get the memo that it was plaid shirt night, and what I think was a man in a dress asked me to dance. God help me

Almost immediately my friend DC chimes in with what are you doing? She is a denizen of the Philly scene, and wields POWER. Almost all of my adventures of note in the past 4 years have in some way involved DC.

I respond with :I was going to go out with a Bud from work and he didn't call so I was going to meet my friend Mike at a bar and he didn't show up. so here I sit, avoiding a seven foot tall she-he, with feet bigger than mine, that wants to do shots and dance. what the hell, I am wearing my favorite Gordon Rush shoes, I wonder if they have a stripper pole.....

This generates the twitters and You Go Gurls I expect from my friends. Suddenly the dance floor is packed (OK there are 25 people out there). The bar area is filling up and it is getting interesting. There are shots flying and shirts coming off. One individual is flapping his ass up and down so much that I wonder if he is attempting to shake a squirrel off of it. That leads to the next few posts on facebook.

White Folk dancing don't make no sense. It's like watching 45 women have hot flashes at the same time there is so much arm flapping going on

This statement is self explanatory, arms flapping, feet stomping and a few wiggles thrown in for good measure, Footloose it ain't. The drunken Goliath that has been banging back shots like Altoids, has now taken to the dance floor. This is a dangerous move. If he lights a cigarette, his breath may set fire to the ceiling. This leads to the following blow by blow series of postings.

12:57AM: By all that is holy make it stop, make it stop. Can an overweight white man make his booty bounce if his his Back Fat renders hit butt invisible?

While vaguely in the "sound of one hand clapping" school of philosophical musings, it is par for the discourse on the evening. The poor girl he is dancing with is equally intoxicated, and grinding and sliding in a similar rhythm. There really are no words to describe the syncopated movements of the individuals on the dance floor, you can hear them talking in thier heads as they dance, "Now, stomp, stomp, wiggle, twist, lift my arms over my head and TWIRL!!!! "

Goliath is done making his booty bounce, and has decided that he is a Mini Schnauzer on Viagra. He is humping some bitches leg like he knows what he is doing. I watch in horror, and fascination as the next series of events unfold, leading to this post on facebook

1:04AM: Some dude dancing with his gf just dropped down, was humping the floor, attempted to break dance, kicked two chicks and knocked them down, This is better than reality TV

Now how this unfolded, Goliath decided "I am gonna do it, I am I really am", and it sounded brave and brilliant in his head, and he would prove that he can DANCE! You could hear the gears grinding in his head, and smell the smoke from the tires spinning. He dropped his hands to the floor like he is about to do a Hindu Pushup, and starts pumping his ass up and down into the floor. He twists, he thrusts, he attempts to go in circles. I just can't believe he actually put his hands on the floor, because we KNOW it hasn't been mopped since 2008. Instead of getting up, he makes the poorly timed decision to remind the world of his break dancing prowess. Spinning onto his back, he swings his legs in a wide circle, and cuts two women off at the ankle. These two broads hit the floor and bounce like bowling pins. Goliath stops spinning and after much hand holding, heart covering, and a sweet boozy one armed hug, he wiggles his way off the dance floor, as the two little lesbian girls stagger away wondering if this is covered under AFLAC.

Given a brief hiatus from Goliath, I look around and watch the bar. I am relaxed a bit now, and I am definitely enjoying both the view, and the entertainment. Goliath has ventured back to the bar, and is making that drunk face where you are rehearsing the words in your head, and reminding yourself NOT to mumble and slur, which from the outside looks like you are having a difficult conversation with yourself that has the potential to end in tears. Amazingly he orders 6 shots. Sliding 3 to his waiting friends, he proceeds to slam back all the remaining shots, seductively raise his hands in the air, smack his lips, shimmy his hips, stiff the bartender and head back to the dance floor.

Figuring this should be entertaining, I shift my attention from the cute Latino guy on my left (who if prompted with the question, "Hey How old are you anyway?" would respond by holding up 2 fingers on his right hand, one on his left, and respond with "I'm THIS many", if he can remember he used his fake ID to get into the bar in the first place) and back to Goliath and Co, who are now shaking their groove thangs like its 1999. Amazingly enough it is reminiscent of a 1980's aerobic instruction tape, if it mated with the iconic Rocky Horror Picture Show Time Warp dance scene. Hip thrusts, bouncing in place, Take a Step to the right, throw in some arm movement that would do a flag twirler on ecstasy proud and you get the picture.

Leading to this post at 1:11AM The current song is I can be a freak show, and to the drunken gentleman reenacting a Richard Simmons workout from 1984, YES, my man, you can

Thankfully it is now last call, and I order one last beer as the crowd begins to thin, This Many has finally reached the proper level of inebriation, and has taken off his shirt and is dancing around the bar, Goliath has left the dance floor, and is mumblestumbling something to the bartender. Amazingly he is consuming yet another drink, since it is last call, the bartender reminds him to pay his tab by waving a printed receipt in the air. Taking a seat at the bar and holding his credit card slip like the white flag of surrender that it is, he shuts one eye, leans in so far that I think he is going to slam his face into the bartop, signs his CC slip, and slides off the barstool and onto the floor.

Perfect ending to a perfect night. As I go to leave he is attempting to read his iPhone upside down while leaning against the wall. Leading to my final facebook posting.

1:34AM: OK, the break dancing Richard Simmons wanna be just signed his credit card tab by shutting one eye, bending over so far I thought he was gonna smack his head on the bar, sliding off the barstool, and is now attempting to read his iPhone upside down. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Welcome to the XXXXXXXXX PA club scene Mr. XXXXX, Welcome!

I do believe I shall return!!

Links, drinks, and ......

OK I have a crazy diverse bunch of friends, and my facebook list sometimes resembles a telephone directory with absolutely NO rhyme nor reason. My friends range from Rock stars, NYC cops and firemen, to an organic farmer in Oregon who lives basically off the grid, grows her own food, and generates her electricity from windmills.

I get some of coolest posts due to a few twitchy twitterers, and this one came from Cosmo Baker the DJ, another Philly boy who kills it.

Cos went to school with my little sister, and I re - met him through King Britt back in the middle 90's when I was part the IT crowd tearing up Philly. Hitting bars like Asylum, the Palmer, XERO's, the 2-4, Woody's, Old City (Back in the pre NE Philly / Jersey invasion of today. Sorry, despite being old now, I do have a reputation to uphold. I wouldn't be caught dead down there at night now. What would people think!?)

I mean, really. I am an arbiter of good taste and decorum. I once went to a bartenders ball with the lovely Annette Burgess where we convinced the bartender that Tanquery and Crown Royal were indeed part of the open bar, got severely intoxicated and hit the dance floor. Up on the stage dancing away was the roller skating black dude from the old Black Banana. Eventually someone grabbed me and dragged me up on stage as well. Well, I sweat like a whore on dollar day, so off came my red silk paisley smoking / tuxedo jacket. Then the shirt came off. Then the pants, leaving me in a pair of too tight black boxer briefs and a wife beater. I proceeded to dance in my own gin fueled haze half naked for three hours, with periodic breaks to motorboat Annette's SPECTACULAR double D's just for fun, and refuel on booze before the open bar ended.

Well once my sweaty ass started to crash (meaning I had more booze in me than coordination). I grabbed my clothes, toweled off in the men's room and went in search of Annette. Somewhere in that blazing cloud of alcoholism, while carrying my pants, shirt and jacket, (yes I am still in my undies, and why not, I was 25, and HOT) but I digress, anyway, while floating on that cloud of gin, and looking for Boobylicious, I dropped my pants and shirt. Yeah, GONE. Squished into the miasma of sweat, booze, cigarette butts, and spilled fluids on the floor.

Realising that I can't find anyone I had come with, I follow two drag queens out the door to the courtyard / party spot set up in the parking lot. Or so I thought. The damn bitches were leaving. So here I am, in a parking lot on Delaware Avenue in April, wearing black boxer briefs, a wife beater, and a red silk tuxedo jacket. It's 4AM, I am shit canned, locked out of the bar, I have my drivers license and house keys in the jacket, my money is in my pants pocket, and my pants are on the floor IN the bar.

Scoping out the cabs, not a single one was a regular that would float me the fare until the next night. I opt to walk home, figuring someone I knew had to still be out, It was Thursday after all. Now at this point in my drinking career I was pretty fearless, so the idea of walking to the Art Museum from Delaware and Frankford Avenues in my underwear really wasn't that big of a deal, I was more concerned about running out of cigarettes on the walk home.

Amazingly enough there was hardly a car on the road, and a few cab blew by, but i was a solitary figure strutting (OK weaving) his way up the street. I WAS a big hit with all the hookers where 12th, Ridge Ave, and Spring Garden St all come together ( I miss you brown sugar bitches, and thanks for the light!), and I am sure I was a source of amusement for the cops who drove past me three times (I waved once, just to be nice) Eventually I made it home. Just another night for Jimbothered, and a head shaker for everyone else.

Aaaaahhh memories, Of the way I used to be... (LOL who the hell am I kidding) anyway what spawned this bit of reminiscing about my 20's was a Post by Cos with a link to Skinny Friedman's page on soundcloud. This Kat has some awesome remixes, and actually inspired me to completely change todays post due to the fact that I was dancing in my head.

http://soundcloud.com/skinny412/ Check him out, he has some wicked tracks.

Check out soundcloud in general, there are some really cool spaces to get lost on there, and a near continuous supply of music.

Verbal Vitriol

Recently I was lambasted by a friend that I use too many big words. I know that I have a tendency towards the verbose, and I am not intentionally attempting to make anyone feel stupid, but I speak without assuming anyone IS stupid. I refuse to speak down to people, and my verbiage (my meaning being that of the second definition) is simply the fact that I consider you to be my equal.

Definition of VERBIAGE

1

: a profusion of words usually of little or obscurecontentverbiage as a typical party platform — Marcia Davenport>

2

: manner of expressing oneself in words : diction

Fine, I use words like egregious, tertiary, colloquial, and often times use nouns as verbs and vice versa. I grew up in a household where words had power. Books ruled the day, and by night they created a different world to explore. I read the dictionary as a child, studied Philology, and quested to find the beauty in words, and I have succeeded. Many of my paintings, prints and drawings make use of both the written word and an allusion to words and phrases within the title of the work.

There is such beauty in the written and spoken word, yet too few exploit it in a fashion worthy of note. April Katz is a wonderful artist working in the field of printmaking. In an homage to her mother, who was an inveterate note, diary and calendar keeper, she began reproducing her mothers written daily words as intaglio prints. They were both difficult to look at, and excruciatingly beautiful. The intimacy of sharing her mothers daily and weekly rituals, by words made into art, is both a lovely reminder of the woman her mother was, as well as a poignant and everlasting memorial to the woman April IS, courtesy of her mother.

I wish that more people would make the attempt to use words to make sentences of beauty. I am not advocating that people use words of which they have no knowledge of meaning, but that they learn to love words. With a love of words, the mind can grow and spring in directions that the reader or listener may not have intended to travel. This is a simple quote, one that holds a multitude of meanings and interpretations, and the simple turn of phrase is wondrous to me.

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
Walt Whitman

Think about it..... and buy a dictionary with a thesaurus

Lord Dork Ass of the Elf Rebellion

I talk a LOT, that is a truism that no one can deny. However, I do actually listen to what is occurring around me. In the past five years, I have made changes in my life that I never thought would happen. In February of 2010, a move was necessitated that required me to leave behind the last incarnation of my life, and I moved to rural Pennsylvania to start the newest phase of who I am. I was reticent to give up all vestiges of my old life, so I delayed the inevitable as long as I could. I continued to work in NJ throughout the summer, but come September, I needed to find a job, and find one quickly. I had six weeks of unemployment left, so I began hitting the job fair circuit.

Discovering that two fine art degrees, twenty five years of the restaurant business, working in the non profit sector, selling real estate, managing construction and landscaping companies, working in fashion as a buyer, and being a successful fundraiser for a variety of charities made me virtually unemployable, I applied for work through a variety of staffing agencies who supply warehouse workers. I eventually found a job working for the National Retailer Who Shall Remain Nameless (butwillbediscussedatlength).

Now this job involves working with a HUGE variety of people. Most of whom were either just like me, professional people from 35-55 who needed income and discovered that no one is hiring, men and women who have worked in warehouse environments as a career, and horny 18-25 year olds. This leads to some interesting conversations, and is great fodder for my sense of humor.

Lord Dork Ass is a twenty two year old moppet with a Justin Bieber haircut, too tight black jeans encasing his skinny legs, a leather string around his neck from which some type of pseudo surfer pendant hangs, and the pale pasty skin of an avid video gamer. He began working about 3 weeks after I did, and quickly developed two nick names, Mush Mouth (due to his inability to form a decipherable sentence), and The little Cheater. Within this warehouse, we are graded on "rate", meaning we must make a minimum rate of X pieces processed per hour. There is ample opportunity to break the rules, and this cat exploited them all. Hence the second nickname. Needless to say he was quickly promoted, and the position went to his head (in the restaurant business we call this Podium Head, make a waitress the hostess, and she believes she is now in charge)

Well, the powers that be decided that all the computer pushing floor staff needed to go back to the rate based job part time. Since Lord Dork Ass believed he was superior to the rest of the staff, and that he was untouchable, he returned to his slacker cheating ways, making a great rate, then spending hours standing and chatting with his gamer buddies in the aisles. One day while my grumpy old ass was in the next aisle, I over heard a conversation between Lord Dork Ass (LDA), and his buddy, Prince Chubby Bottom Heir Apparent to the Throne of Loser (PCB). It went something like this;

Lord Dork Ass: "Dude. I don't know what to do. I think I am going to break up with my GF"
*in my head* "Wait, you have a GF?! Or is that code for what you call your left hand?"

Prince Chubby Bottom: "Really. Which one?"
* in my head* "WHICH ONE? Which one?! REALLY?"

LDA: "Well she isn't really my GF"
* in my head* "No shit Sherlock, she is some whore that you watch on cam4"

LDA: "She is just some girl I fool around with, but she thinks we are dating"
*in my head* "Calling her and hanging up 14 times a day is not fooling around, and just because she caught you staring at her house at 3AM four different times does NOT mean she thinks you are dating"

PCB: "Well that sucks man, but free ass is free ass"
*in my head* "True...."

LDA: "Yeah well, I met this great Elf chick online, she was really impressed with my level 14 magic skills, and she wants to get together"
*in my head* "Level 14 Magic Skills? WTF does THAT mean?"

PCB: "Level 14 IS pretty advanced, she should be impressed"
*in my head* "Of course you know what this means"

LDA: "Yeah she wants me, because I rock"
*in my head* "Yeah. 'SHE' wants you alright, there is a 500 pound pedophile in Iowa with an bbq chicken wing stuck to his back since Tuesday of last week salivating over your 'magic skills', did you send her a pic of your dick yet?"

Laughing the whole way to the back of the warehouse, I am grateful that I no longer have to worry about impressing anyone by breaking up with my non-girlfriend, and leaving her for an elf girl.