Don't call me Daddy

My younger sister has two kids. Booger Boy, and Sticky Girl. I have no kids. I like the idea, and people think I would be a good dad, but I am NOT so sure. What follows are some of the reasons why.

At this current juncture, it is has been five years since I have had to change a diaper. Accidentally dropping my niece in a pool at 10 months old doesn't count. That diaper contained no bodily secretions, just the 14 cubic feet of water it managed to absorb in a matter of seconds, (and my SWEAT, since I DID just drop a ten month old baby in a pool for god's sake)

When Booger Boy was about 5-6 months old, I was the last ditch resort for a babysitting shift that lasted for about half a day. In addition to the kid I have the extra added responsibility of the 100 pound German Shepherd my mother had adopted from the local animal shelter.

The actual events unfold like this, My sister walks in door lugging 1,872 pounds of crap, most of which has either a bunny or a ducky on it. Here are his blankets, and he will nap on a pillow on the sofa. There is a bag which seems to be filled with organic baby chewing bricks, and umm "Milk". A high chair thing which I am supposed to hang from from my granite counter tops (Yeah RIGHT, this little critter ain't breaking MY counter he can eat on the floor with the dog) I am given explicit directions on the fact that Gus the Duck is his favorite toy, and out the door they go.

Did you hear anything in that statement about poop? How often, how to handle it, what to do, where the diapers are, and most important... HOW DO I KNOW WHEN IT HAS OCCURRED?

Now this is the kid, who at the funeral of the chief justice of the Philadelphia Court of Appeals, managed to fill the pocket of my brand new Roberto Cavalli sport coat with milky vomit. This was quite a feat, considering his head was at shoulder height, he was facing to my left, and he filled the right hand pocket. I know that things fly out of babies. I was also there the day he somehow managed to poop out the leg of the diaper. Seriously. Not some little dribble. I was not aware a 4 month old could shoot poop like a super soaker. These two memories scare me.

Looking at the pile of crap my sister has dumped on me, and then looking at the kid, who, BTW started screaming the second my sister was out of earshot, I don't even know where to start. I set him on the floor in the hope that he will find some thing of interest. He immediately starts giving the dog the stynk eye. Thankfully the German Shepherd is awesome with kids, and Booger Boy quickly starts shoving fingers into the dogs fur, and stops crying long enough for me to look for the vodka. He starts to cry again, and even the dog looks afraid. This kid can scream. I decide that this is not going to work, so I pluck him from the floor and carry him downstairs to the stroller for a walk. He stops crying, and seems pretty content. I guess Gus the Duck said something he didn't like, because Gus has gone flying from the stroller every few feet and lands in the curb. This kid has a temper.

I realise that he can't quite see the things around him, so being the good uncle I am, I raise the seat forward a bit so he can actually see the cars, seagulls, and flowers that are part of our walk around Avalon. We walk and walk, and I kind of forget about him, especially since there isn't a peep out of the stroller and Duck hasn't been kicked to the curb in three blocks. I could have been pushing a shopping cart at the ACME.

Stopping at the bank, I look in the front of the stroller and realise he is asleep, with his head and face mashed into the tray that usually holds cheerios. I realise that he has been quiet for about two blocks, and that most likely his face has been bouncing off the feeding tray in the stroller with every crack in the sidewalk I hit. Kids LIKE the bouncy stroller right? I suspect they like it better when they are awake, and not getting brain damage.

As I attempt to get the stroller back to lay flat, I feel it go click, and move forward. SHIT. Pull, push, shove, click, SHIT, forward again. Pinch, twist,pull, jerk, click, REALLY? The seat is now pitched FORWARD at an angle. Why a stroller seat should be able to do this is beyond me, but the kid is now trapped between the seat back and the tray. His arms are protruding straight out of the stroller, and his face is now smashed all the way to the edge of the tray. Ever watch the commercial with crash test dummies flying forward? Yeah, Uncle Jimbo is reenacting it with his nephew's prone form. If this lil SOB looks like a boxer with a busted nose it will be 100% my fault.

Initially, I walk with him bouncing along with a blanket under his face. Realizing that he will not only have a broken nose and major brain damage, but there is a chance he will smother himself, I decide that this is not a good idea, and my sister would probably be angry. So I try and turn his head, but then all I can think is, OK when he starts setting fires at 14, they will blame me for damaging his frontal lobes by letting him bounce around on the tray with his head.

I begin stopping random people to help me try and get the back of the stroller down. Some of these people are really smart. None of us can do it. One man said his wife won't let him touch the stroller unless he is lifting it into the back of the car because he broke it twice. (I know his wife, she once told me that she makes him sleep in the bathroom when he has been drinking since he wets the bed. She is a wise woman, and all I could think was I hope you washed your hands before you touched the stroller) At this point I am stuck. Sitting on a park bench watching my nephew sleep with his face mashed into the stroller tray, I hit upon an idea.

Pivot Points. A stroller is basically a lever. Push the handle down and the front wheels go up. "I can do this," I think to myself. I push down, look inside, and he has flopped in a different direction. OK cool, but it is not far enough, I push a bit farther, and he is now flat. Unfortunately, the back of the stroller is only about 18 inches from the ground, I am hunched over pushing it down the street. And I am 8 blocks from home.

Off I set on this back breaking journey. I periodically run into people that I know, explain the situation, and keep moving. As if a 200 pound, loud mouthed, red headed, homosexual alcoholic wasn't ENOUGH of an oddity on an island of 500 people, he now publicly acknowledges he doesn't know how to handle a baby stroller. (Place kid in seat, snap seat belt in place, and PUSH, ummm yeah, little help here?)

Thankfully Gus the Duck went flying out the stroller around 22nd and Dune, and I could finally stop walking hunched over. My poor nephew is wedged quite firmly against the tray, but he doesn't seem to care. All I can think is that I survived this one. I wonder why he is smiling? Why is he making that face? Oh God, please tell me that face is what babies look like when they smile.... Oh no, no, no..... please, no? Yup. Damn I need to find that Vodka...

Put that Away, Wait.... Put that Down

I have multiple jobs, and my night gig takes place in a high security Gulag of approximately one million square feet. Within this building you can find anything. I honestly mean ANYTHING. We have running contests with each other to see who can get the oddest combination of items in a plastic box, or just get the flat out weirdest item. You will hear shouts of "I have Porn and baby clothes!", "Dildos and Cat food!" , or sometimes a good one like,"3 bibles, a Barney DVD, a 'How to skin and dress a Deer' book, the Satanists bible, Hardcore Japanese S&M porn, and a stuffed bunny!"

I was winning with the five pound clear plastic bag of dill pickle slices and Squirrel Underpants, but since they didn't come in the same box, I was kind of disqualified. But I am a winner in my head!

Here is how our facility works, you google something. A truck magically rolls up behind the building with your Three Headed Purple Bunny DVD Player in the trailer. A forklift takes lots and lots of boxes off. The boxes get cut open, and all the miscellaneous crap inside gets scanned into the computer. The stuff then gets dumped into a plastic box and put on a conveyor belt. The conveyor belt carries it to one of the multiple floors in the building where it gets kicked off the belt and put on a cart. I grab that cart, zap it with a handheld scanner, scan the item again and put it on a shelf.

Someone ELSE grabs that item from the shelf, scans it, throws it in a plastic box, puts it back on the conveyor, it gets scanned again, put in a box, loaded in a truck and shipped out to you. And... Voila, you have your Three Headed Purple Bunny DVD Player in a matter of minutes at your door.

Since we are so used to getting the damnedest things on a cart, we all have a tendency to take things as they come. Whatever is in a box, and on a cart gets put on a shelf. Because of the higher volume of items being shipped in, the company has brought in a number of new hires that are just finished the training stage, and are now being thrown to the wolves.

They have instituted a new way of directing the flow of goods onto the floor, and it involves traffic cones. Initially done as an attempt to make sure the first in first out rules were put in place, it has now become a relatively effective tool for controlling the flow of work onto the floors. They had placed the bright green traffic cones onto the next cart you were supposed to take, and the idea was to take the cart, and place the cone on top of the cart behind the one you took. Simple right?

An adorable young Spanish girl was extremely agitated one day. She was grumbling about all of the issues she had with her cart. Unscannable barcodes, missing items, entire boxes of items that were actually filled with customer shipments, and she kept mentioning how it was the third time in a row where she had the same item that she just couldn't put on a shelf. This is a daily occurrence, and we all just kind of roll with the punches.

She said she just kept dropping the boxes that had the item, but she was convinced that someone was messing with her, and how aggravated she was becoming. "Every time I grab a cart, it is right there, and I keep scanning it, but I can't put it on a shelf. How many green traffic cones can we possibly sell?" she complains. "And why are we getting The Elf on a Shelf? Christmas is OVER!"

The poor girl had obviously not paid any attention at our meetings, and kept walking away with the traffic cone. Dutifully she scanned the cone and tried to put it away, time after time. Not a single person said anything to her. We watched as she walked away grabbed a new cart, Picked up the traffic cone, looked at it, shook her head and headed into the shelves to put it away. The look on her face was priceless.

Needless to say the traffic cones are now on the floor in FRONT of the carts, stopping you from taking that row. I haven't had anything remarkably strange in my carts of late, but one man quit because he had to put away porn, some poor woman was completely confused by the fact that she had four different glass dildos she had to put away, none of us understand why ANYONE would buy 4 two pound boxes of Cheerios that are duct taped together online, and I had a HAZMAT issue last night. It was a lemon oil based cleaner that had leaked all over yoga ropes. What exactly a yoga rope is, I do not know, but now it is clean.

Since we have 40 new people starting this week, I wonder what fun today will bring.

WTF did you EAT?

I openly admit to having a ribald, and sophomoric sense of humor. Sex and bodily functions get my mind cranking into windows of jokester opportunity like a horny 14 year old who just saw his first BOOBIE. Since genetics have already made me sweat like a lawn sprinkler, why should I not be blessed with an intestinal system that also produces more methane than a herd of dairy cows?

I think farts are hysterical. In this respect I am basically an overgrown 10 year old. My aging grandmother, The Dowager Empress, was one of the most impressive farters I ever met. Up until she was over 90, all you ever heard was either a bird like chirp or tweet, a ladylike titter, accompanied by an Urkellesque "Did I DO that?" face (only because you just can't blame the silent-but-deadlies on the German Shepherd, because the dog is dead).

Once she was over 90 it was a no holds barred wrestling match between the buttcheeks. I guess that the senility, coupled with the deafness and the aging body, allowed her to just say "Fuck it, I got gas" and when nature calls, she would honk that horn like a NYC cabdriver. As she would walk, with each step a loud fart would emanate, almost as if the breaking of the wind would help to propel her faster in whatever direction she was pointing. Since she was of the theory, anything I can't hear, neither can you, it made for some very funny interludes, no area was too sacred. Church. During eye exams. Mc Donalds. Weddings. Funerals. Borough Council Meetings. Dinner. Sometimes if she knew she had been caught, it was followed by a lady like "oooh, Excuse me", and the minute the victim turned her back, a soft giggle. I half expected her to point herself in the general direction of her mortal frenemy, Mary Louise O'Harra Donaldson Van Burton Pugh at a cocktail party, and ask Sister Alphonse Marie to pull her finger. Ahhh I miss ya, Gramma, I miss ya.

Now my father, the "I pull plow up hill" aging Hungarian man is the water poisoner. I know what that SOB eats. I know how much that SOB used to drink. My father is a motherf@#$ing weapon of ass destruction.

He once farted in his bedroom on the second floor of our house. My mother was in the kitchen at the back of the house on the first floor. She started screaming, "Godammit kids, check your shoes! I smell dog shit in the house." We check our shoes, and inform her that we are clean. Muttering to herself, and not believing her kids that lie about brushing their teeth, she does her own check of our shoes, "Goddamn dog, if he shit on my Persian carpets again". Suddenly she bellows up the old servant staircase from the kitchen to the second floor "FRANK! Either check your shoes, or if you come down stairs, be careful I think the damn dog shit in the house"

"The dog is in the back yard" my father responded, after walking down the back stairs. "What? Don't you smell that?" my mother replied. With a half smile, and a glint in his eye, my father can barely contain his mirth. My mother looked at my father and said "Jesus Christ thats disgusting" turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen. You have to love having the ability where you can fart in one room, and have an entire three and a half story townhouse fumigated to the point where your wife thinks the dog has diarrhea and has shit in all 14 rooms in the house.

There are several terms I use which have their origins in my restaurant past, Dropping Heat, splode, assplauding and Cropdusting. I do them all quite well, and use the terminology in very polite conversation (which for me, means that I didn't drop the F-bomb, but may very well have called someone an asshat)

Cropdusting a historic waiter skill, which allows us to silently release gas through the dining room as we walk. It is entertaining to the waiter because, A) it is a LOVELY way to say thanks for the 12% tip, now get the FUCK out B) I think it is hysterical to hear "GEORGE, Goddamit, we are in public! You couldn't hold it in?" and C) Much like my grandmother, Fuck it, I got gas.

I have poisoned many, many an aisle at the National Retailer Who Shall Remain Nameless (butwillbediscussedatlength) in this manner, including a particularly dramatic one, where during a bout of food poisoning, I unleashed a particularly heinous brown cloud of death in a stairwell. An entire department was on its way to lunch and proceeded to walk down the stairs and through the cloud. Needless to say the choruses of "WTF? Dear Lord, and O M G" still ring in my head and make me giggle.

Dropping Heat is, well dropping some heat. This is generally used in relation to that individual that can't take a poop at home, and instead has to do it in your nice clean bathroom. This is also know as "blowing up", and upon them exiting the bathroom results in you saying "Motherfucker, REALLY?"

Sploding should be self explanatory, the EX has been removed, think college, and the morning after drinking either The Beast or Olde Splatterass on draft.

And finally, Assplauding. This is a mythical beast which can be achieved only with the correct amount of sweat, the right PSI, and a scientific tensing of the sphincter. It is the magical fart that last about 5-8 seconds and sounds like clapping hands. If done correctly, it is a sign of the true ass master. I mastered this skill in the eighth grade at swim practice, and have never looked back.

Courtesy of my parents mixed marriage, I possess the ability to unleash a brown cloud of destruction with a ladylike chirp. So, if I ever challenge you to pull my finger, be prepared, be very, very prepared.

Follow the bouncing...... Ball?

I have alluded to my friend DC in a previous post, and she is an insanely important person in my life. Over the years I have acquired an amazing collection of gorgeous, amazing women. Some have fallen by the wayside courtesy of jobs, marriage and children, but the memories of our misadventures will always live on in my mind. DC started off as a friend of Boubelah's, but I have co-opted her as mine. She is a tall, gorgeous, witty, intelligent, blond ex model, who is my own MTV party to go.

It was July 4th weekend 2007, and I had opted to stay in the city instead of heading to the beach. I didn't feel like fighting the traffic, dealing with the nonsense (no matter how entertaining it may be) of weekend warriors in Avalon, and it was the first 4th of July without my grandmother. Her birthday is the end of the month, and every year I lived in Avalon, even after she went in the nursing home we would watch the fireworks together, so I stayed in Philly.

It was one of those amazing July nights. Warm without being swampy, perfect for walking around the city and enjoying a relaxing night. My calender was wide open, and I had no set plans on the agenda. Leaving my loft, I walked south on 12th Street towards Market Street. Debating my options I decide to go to Knock at 12th and Locust. Figuring that all of Philly's Gay-list would be at their summer shares, I was hoping I wouldn't be assaulted by their attitude and I could simply relax have a few drinks, dinner and some normal conversation. Entering the bar, I grab a seat, and I am pleasantly surprised to see people I know (and actually like) that are having drinks.

Ordering my dirty Bombay martini with one olive ( I HATE bar Olives, so I insist that the bartender re-use the same olive until I am done with my last drink, after the third martini I will then eat the olive, hoping that the flavor of the gin has killed the flavor of the olive). I chat with the bartender and people at the bar, and order a second drink. I definitely feel more limber, and my friend Anthony comes in with his BF.

We laugh and carry on, I order a third martini, and begin to question dinner. The guys are going to Pesce on Walnut Street to visit a different friend who is working the bar that night. Pesce was an amazing space, with good food, ridiculously good looking servers, and never any customers. Since I am hungry, I tag along, sit at the bar order some great red wine and enjoy my dinner. I send a text to DC asking her what she is up to. She responds with "At TLA Black Crows tonight" I respond with "LOVE them, have an extra ticket?" I then get a text saying, "No, but we just put your name on the VIP list, just show up and meet us in the VIP area the doorman will show you where".

I pay my bill, grab a taxi, and get my ass down to South Street. I am on the list, and in the door I go. It is me, DC, Entourage, Mr Entertainment, and Mr Entertainment's friend Hippy Chick. The drinks are free, the music is amazing and we are laughing and having a blast. Leaning on the bar we watch Hippy Chick dance. Wearing a long peasant skirt, a belt of bells, and some kind of high heeled solid sandal, we watch as she climbs up on a ledge to get a better view of the band and dance. Dancing like a typical Hippy Chick, her heel suddenly gets hung up on her own skirt. Diving through the air she slams face first into the carpet in a heap. As we pick her up from the floor, she asks if her arm is OK, telling her that yeah it looks OK, but her blouse is torn, she continues drinking and dancing.

After about 20 minutes I think,"Isn't anyone going to tell her about the rugburn on her face?" Since no one does, I query DC and Mr Entertainment about it, and his response is "NO!, then she will freak out, want to go home and the night is young, I have my babysitter until 3AM."

With that decision made, we grab a drink for the road, call for Entourage's car and driver, and roll out of TLA. E's car can't get close, so we walk down South Street, and climb into his chauffeur driven S550 which is double parked on the corner. While everyone on the corner gawks and attempts to figure out if we are Anyone, the chauffeur cranks the music, Entourage climbs out the sunroof and blows kisses to the crowd as we roar away.

Tearing through Philly we pull up at G lounge, completely skip the line that snakes down the block and summarily get kicked out because E and I are wearing flip flops. So off we head to Pearl. Again rolling VIP (DC is a PR and social Goddess, and her magic rubs off on everyone in her circle), we skip line, fist bump the bouncer, kiss the hostess and in we go. Inside we encounter the stock broker, VP of finance crowd, and the assorted hot model / PR assistant / Receptionists who are gunning to be wife #2.

The bar is jumping, tons of pretty people, drinks are flying, Entourage is being vetted and googled by the models, I am chatting up one of the male models, and hanging with Hippy Chick, when it becomes apparent that it is time for her to go. Since the drinks ain't cheap, and the crowd is vacuous, we walk Mr. Entertainment and Hippy Chick downstairs to the street, dump them in a cab, and debate where to go next. Since Entourage has only just moved into the city after living in the burbs, I decide to take them to one of my favorite bars that completely define Philly.

Hidden in a basement of an old rowhouse on Sansom Street is a bar called Oscar's. I decide to take DC and E there for a nightcap. This is one of those places where if you sit long enough you will see everyone and everything. Saddling up to the bar we order drinks, and are just enjoying the vibe, when the Audio Visual club from High School walks in the door. Wearing matching T-shirts overprinted with a tuxedo shirts, they take a seat next to me at the bar. I turn to the man to my right and say "So which one of you poor SOB's is getting married?" Which elicits a chorus of How did you know's etc from the guys. I tell the bartender to get the guys a shot of whatever they want.

I put some money on the bar and turn back to DC and E, chit chat for a moment when the guys do their shots, and start saying thank you. I turn to say no problem when suddenly a bowling ball thunks onto the bartop. ""DUDE! Is that a real bowling ball?" I bellow to the guy to my right. "Yeah"he responds, "It's....." Before he can finish I grab the bowling ball, heft it into the air, spin to my left shouting, "YO Entourage, check it out man its a real bowling b..." when the chain stretching from the ball to the ankle of the groom snaps taut, rips him off the barstool, slams him into the man to my right, knocking him and his chair to the floor of the bar.

Standing there, I stare at the tangle of limbs and furniture on the floor, amazed at the level of destruction I have wrought. Still holding the bowling ball, I think OH shit. Handing the bowling ball to one of the men, I help the two guys up, throw a twenty on the bar, slam back my drink, get a stynk eye from the bartender, and high tail it out the door.

Laughing as I head out on my own to an after hours bar, I think to myself, well, another night for the record books. Chicks with rugburn, bowling balls, models, a great concert, good food, and DC, GOD I love my life.

That Thud of the Base

Invariably, I make an ass out of myself. I am actually quite good at it, and have successfully managed to offend or appall everyone around at least once in my life. Sometimes it is intentional, others times it is that serendipitous OH shit moment. I live for those moments.

Being as genetically blessed as I am, I have previously stated that I sweat like a whore on dollar day. In my twenties and thirties, I also loved to dance. In the late eighties / early nineties there was a roving nightclub called Vagabond. It was a blast a different bar every week, usually it was a last minute announcement, and a horde of Philly's finest would show up. By the middle 90's it was gone, but it was replaced by SHAFT Fridays at Shampoo. Shampoo still exists, and when it opened it was the BOMB. Situated in a huge old warehouse, it had everything you could want.

In the White Room, my friend Eddie Sittler would DJ. The room itself was a long rectangle, with the DJ booth at the end like a stage., and he pretty much spun remixes of older dance / disco tracks. In the basement was a deep house room, and the main dance floor was standard dance music.

I had agreed to meet my friend Beth there one Friday night after she had an art opening. There was the usual cast of characters in place, drag queens, gogo boys and girls, and all of the Philly Gay-list. Beth is carrying on in a floor length chiffon Muu-Muu, holding court as she should, since tonight is all about her. Gradually the place packs up. Since I had worked earlier in the day, and had already lubed up on the never ending shift drink, I was raring to go.

Beth drags a bunch of us up onto a speaker box to dance. I climb that box like monkey on a leash and start swinging my shit. Thumping bass, hot mama's, swirling chiffon, and me, the shirtless lawn sprinkler, have managed to capture the attention of the dancing HoMo's below us. Beth has discovered the steel girder holding up the ceiling which is in the center to the boxes we have climbed on, and is using it as a stripper pole. We are just having a blast, dancing like the world is going to end.

As I have previously stated in other posts, that there comes a point in time when my inebriation inevitably supersedes my coordination. Stumbling over my size twelve feet, and looking like I am attempting to direct a fighter pilot onto the moving deck of an aircraft carrier, I lose all control of my body, slam into the girder and go flying off the speaker box. Shirtless, and covered in sweat I sail through the air, slam into the dancefloor and skid a good four feet before my perspiration lubricated torso comes to a stop on the gritty filthy floor.

Jumping to my feet I scream "I am OK!!" and go off to grab another cocktail (priorities people, PRIORITIES, I did just fall off a speaker.) My chest is now as black as a chimney sweep's face, so I go to the restroom to clean up and put my shirt back on. On my way back to the dance floor, I decide that it may be time for me to stop dancing, and Beth and the girls are lounging at the end of the bar. "Hey Jim, stand HERE" Beth orders. As I assume my position at the bar it becomes apparent why she wants me to stand in this spot.

When I fell, I slid directly across one of the main paths from the first floor to the main dance floor, and we watch in hysterics as the perfect pretty boys hit my grease spot on the floor and skid like they are on ice skates. Watching as one Princess after another makes his grand entrance, hits the mark, skids and spills a cocktail becomes an ongoing source of amusement for us, as we LOVE watching Philly's Phinest Phaggots lose their shit.

As we go to leave and climb into our various cabs, Beth says in a boozy slur, "We should do this again!" Waving goodbye from my taxi, I think.... Tomorrow?

Wanna go for a Ride?

Be aware this is a post about my sex life. Danger Will Robinson, DANGER. Somehow facebook wants me to be friends with a blast from the past. What to do when a one night stand from fifteen years ago has 8 mutual friends, included one that makes you go hmmmm, thats an interesting connection. What to do when that one night stand is also one of your most talked about sexual escapade at cocktail parties?

I LOVE sex. I think sex is wonderful. In all of it variants and non-traditional forms. I don't place a lot of limits on my sex life, and to be quite honest with you, I am glad to be able to say , been there, done that. I think it is one giant adventure that is supposed to last a lifetime, and courtesy of viagra, it looks like it may last even beyond death. I recently watched an exceptionally elderly man with a walker walk his way into a dirty book store and thought, "You go get em, you horny old perverted coot"

On what was originally just a regular night out on the town, I ran into my buddy Boubelah. Boubelah is a funny drunken friend who is alway a part of my life, but one who was an infrequent visitor to my evenings out. He, much like the Ducat Demon never seems to come out with his own cigarettes or money to buy his own cocktails, but usually makes the night so entertaining that it makes the extra 30 bucks you spend paying his way worthwhile.

I was entertaining myself at the local leather bar in Philadelphia when in walks the Boubelah. Already shitcanned, he is ready to Party. So as usual, I buy him a vodka and club (which BTW they serve in frozen beer mugs, it makes the overall Odour du Funkybutt of the place palatable) We make casual chit chat, observe the wildlife (Bears and Otters! Foxes too, oh and one naked Mole Rat) and decide that it is getting late so we go to the old 2-4 club. I love after hours bars. You get everyone from debutantes on a cocaine bender to politicians to old fall down drunks in these joints.

Of course I roll VIP, skip the line, have all the sundry characters we have accumulated for the night in tow, pay the cover and slide onto the dancefloor. Boubelah is at the point of intoxication where he could be surrounded by a naked team of lacrosse players and he wouldn't come out of his drunken dance cloud. I start to dance with the cute nebbishy lawyer we picked up somewhere on the street. He is adorable in his dorkiness. Dark hair, blue eyes hidden behind horn rimmed glasses, button down Brooks Brothers shirt tucked into jeans with a belt, and penny loafers. He is the kind of man that makes Jewish grandmothers serve the GOOD lox on Sunday morning. He also has an ass to shoulder ratio that makes makes a giant arrow pointing to the round soccer player butt he possesses. It is enough to make any woman or gay man turn and walk into a telephone pole as they watch him walk away.

Dancing leads to grinding, grinding leads to staring into each others eyes, staring leads to that first kiss, that kiss leads to the second deeper kiss, then to a full on make out, gropefest that results in us slamming into a wall as we attempt to push, pull and thump ourselves into a tangle of limbs. Whispering in my ear he says "I want you to ride me, I want you to ride me all night" (Yes dear reader, man on man sex really is this easy)

Never one to turn down a piece of free ass, I leave Boubelah to the wolves, grab Studly Mc Dorkensteinburger by the hand and throw him into a cab. We go back to his place, where he says, make yourself at home. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I sit on the sofa, and undo the top button on my pants in preparation of what is to come. Now man sex involves some prep time, so I am not particularly distressed by the length of time he is in his bedroom, but I am starting to realise I am pretty drunk. As I gaze around his apartment, I hear a door open and close behind me. Turning my head I don't see him anywhere, and think, OK thats a bit weird, but hey maybe he was just making sure I was still here.

Around the side of the sofa he comes crawling on all fours, riding crop between his teeth (KINK-eeeh I think), with a saddle strapped to his back. A REAL saddle. Dropping the riding crop at my feet, he says"RIDE me", and he meant it. He seriously wanted me to ride him around the room. Like a cowboy.

SOooooo, I figure WTF, This SOB was brave enough to come out of his bedroom on all fours with a fucking saddle strapped to his back, this is one for history. Up I climb onto his back. There I sit, swatting his ass with the riding crop the whole time he lumbers around his living room playing cowboy. I landed a particularly hard one and he actually tried to buck me off his back (I guess he really got into it, if he drops a horse apple I am leaving though)

It turned into an exceptionally entertaining evening, and we never saw each other again. Ahhh my old lickem N stickum days, it's funny how they come back to haunt you isn't it? I don't think I ever even knew his last name, and now here he sits in the #12 position on friendfinder on facebook. What to do, what to do, I wonder if I have any oats in the kitchen?

Facebook.porn

Recently I posted a query on facebook attempting to figure out why facebook wants me to be friends with porn stars. I get a kick out of the friend finder function, and use it daily just to see how small a world it really is out there. I have some REALLY oddball connections, several of which have led me to question How the, What the, HUH?

Three days ago, I had three different friend suggestions, all of whom are porn stars. Now I have friends on facebook, that range from real rock stars, authors, celebrities etc, some of whom I have known for over 30 years. I do have a few friends that DO make porn, and pretty much lead two very separate lives. I personally don't care, I like people that have secrets and dirty sides. there is a certain amount of dichotomy within everyone. I find the suit and tie, nine to five business man that is covered from neck to ankles in tattoos and works as a nude model to fulfill his exhibitionistic tendencies, and the stay at home suburban mom of three by day who gets on cam4 at night and shoves cucumbers in her vagina to be just fascinating.

This being said, the mutual friends function did NOT come from any of the people I know who actually make porn in their other lives. (Thankfully Jesse Jayne did not include my father as a mutual friend) This led me to wonder, why, are you friends with a porn star on facebook? Are you that oblivious to who is checking out your profile? Can you be friends with both your mother, your boss, and the woman who posts about doing an interracial gangbang as her next release?

I use facebook to see where and what people from all corners of my life are up to. Where they have been, how they turned out, and what they are doing to go further. I do have a few questionable people on my friend list, a few who I am not sure how I know them, but if they entertain me, I am OK with that. I was friends with a fascinating woman who lived in Israel, who it turns out I had never met, and she had friend requested me by mistake. It was amazing to see her experience of living in a kibbutz for a year, and hear her take as a suburban Philadelphia Jewish woman in her 20's learn to live in the Middle east.

I have a client, incredibly successful, who is best friends with Evan Seinfeld the actor. Evan is (or was) married to Tera Patrick the porn star. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall at some of those Christmas parties, especially since his wife a Size Zero Range River Driving housewife from the mainline.

I just wonder about the confidence, or the stupidity inherent in some people that can list that they are VP of Product Development at IamGonnaTakeOvertheWorld INC. and on the same profile state their friendship with a woman (or man) that can brag that they have had sex with a dildo strapped to a washing machine agitator

Excuse me, Your A$$hole is Showing

I have a tendency to call myself Uncle Jimbo Grumpypants and THAT guy. I have always joked that I would be THAT guy, you know the one. That one, the one that stands on his steps in a pair of boxer shorts, a wife beater, a cup of coffee spiked with Scotch screaming at the neighbor kids to get offa his lawn.

My job is one of the biggest shit shows I have ever encountered, not the real estate job, that is just a generic pain in the ass. When you sell some of the most exclusive and expensive property in the world, you are subject to the whims of the ultra rich. These people are as predictable as earthquakes.

The job which currently pays my bills is set in a million square foot warehouse. I lift and tote and shove that barge on a daily basis. My immediate boss is young enough to be my son, and some day I will buy him a hooker so that he can become a man, but since he doesn't shave yet, I think it would be a bit premature at this point. He is very sweet, I think it would be appropriate to buy him a puppy and give him a hug when he skins his knee. His immediate boss is very nice as well, unfortunately I believe I have kidney stones that are older than he is. If I saw him in a bar I would place him into the "This many!!" category. Old enough to know he has a penis, and that it does stuff, but not 100% certain what that stuff is.

Neither of these two has QUITE acclimated themselves to the cranky homosexual with the deep gravelly voice, 18 inch biceps, more management experience than they have (combined) pubic hairs, who possesses a potty mouth that would make a Marine Corps drill sergeant blush. I am a big believer in the creative put down, the insult that leaves you scratching your head, and the witticism that makes you laugh 2 seconds after you hear it spoken.

A few choice selections I have uttered in the past few days;

"Don't make me turn into a 400 pound North Philly Black woman, cause I will. Yes I will. I will channel every inch of SheHora Round and you will not be a happy camper. I will pull out a giant titty and knock your ignorant ass down a flight of stairs"

"I cannot believe how fucked up this place is, it is the most ridiculous place I have ever worked. And I once worked in a restaurant where I caught the hostess doing a line of coke off the owners dick" I uttered this one yesterday on a smoke break, and the entire dock crew looked over at me in shocked silence. My retort was "What? Like you don't know me by now, what the fuck were you expecting to come out of my mouth, Sunshine and Unicorns?"

This one was uttered in regard to one of those dumb ass white chicks that we all know.

"What the fuck is that chick doing? If she swings her ass any harder she is gonna knock a hole in the wall. Which one? How can you miss her? THAT one, that Cracka Ho, the one that is too busy learning Spanish by injection to do her job." This one has led to me wandering through work for 2 weeks going "Crakkkaaaaaaa HOOOOOOOOOO" a few times a day just to make people laugh.

"Gee SUSS Ke-rist, these bitches are so fucking lazy they would have someone else take a shit for them if they could"

"Could you stop sucking on your BF's cock for ten minutes and HELP me!?" I said this one to a heterosexual man who follows his drug dealer around like he drops pellets of weed out his ass every time he takes a step.

In response to both a positive and a negative performance report within 5 minutes of each other from some girl that couldn't find her way out of a wet paper bag if it was on someone else's head. "WTF, they kick you in the testicles so hard your eyeballs grow hair, then they hand you a lollipop"

After having a co worker push a cart into me TWICE in the same aisle I made this comment to a different co worker. "If that cunt faced ass bag hits me with a cart again, you are gonna hear me say ' Awww did you chip a tooth? Thats a shame, maybe you should slow down, I have size twelve feet, and you were going so fastI couldn't move them in time to stop them from tripping you. I hope you feel better!!' "

At least I keep my coworkers entertained, and if you can'y get the joke, Look out! You're next

The coming of the Real House Whores

I have threatened to discuss TV, and it is almost time to begin slamming the crazy bitches on one of my guilty pleasures, the Real Housewives of NYC. There may be one, possibly two of you that want to hear what I have to say about Torchwood, or Doctor Who. But it is much more interesting to discuss the characters of reality TV.

I hate the crazy idiot stereotypes from New Jersey, "Prostitution Whore?" Really Theresa? Your stupidity is showing, oh and flinging your hair around does NOT cover up the fact that you have an eye that shoots off in a strange direction. I can't stand the Honky Tonk BS of the pretentious bitches in Atlanta, A Sip-N-See? Phaedra, Phaedra, Phaedra, are you actually a white woman from West Virginny who hit the lottery? I would love to call you white trash, and since you slammed your husband for being half white, I think I will. You are white trash, girl, and your fancy, phony ass is showing. Speaking of Phony, welcome to Beverly Hills, where Kyle Richards is able to stir the shit harder than a triple anal porn shoot.

Nope none of you trashy women have ANYTHING on my NYC girls. I openly admit to being just a bit in love with Bethenny, but DUH as has already been determined, I am a boob man, and she's got a rack of doom. I love her neurotic antics, and since I have a life where I shake my head and go WTF?! about 14 times a day, I can relate to some of the nonsense that happens to her. Unfortunately, the only woman on the show who I feel acts like an actual NYC resident, is no longer on the show. So here is a brief rundown of the chicks on this season, and my opinion of them.

Jill Zarin: Your husband owns a SHOP. A SHOP, You sell fabric. For furniture and curtains. You could possibly be a lovely woman, if you were someone else. Your life is only as fabulous as you tell us it is, and to be quite frank, you are boring and require self created issues to keep yourself entertained and feel valid as a woman. Have an affair. It is MUCH more interesting.

Ramona Singer: A woman I respect a lot once said to me, "When I see crazy I cross the street". Well Cross the street, baby, cross the street, because this crazy woman is about as predictable as a hurricane. You know it's gonna make landfall somewhere, and do an ass ton of damage to a trailer park. It may be a TP plated in 24 karat gold, but it's still a trailer park.

Alex Mc Cord: Brooklyn. Enough said. There are reasons why I almost never go above 14th Street. I REALLY hate the new Brooklyn. Range Rover driving size zeros, and urban hipsters trying too hard. Just buy a small apartment in the Village get real.

Sonja Morgan: This is the new Bethenny, the biggest difference is this bitch has teeth. The only one of the chicks that has the class, taste and sense of humor to be a REAL NYC woman. Tough, rich, hot, sexual and with her set of brass ones, I hope she takes over the world!!

Kelly Bensimon: Ah Kelly, where DOES one begin. I once stated that she was so Batshit crazy I was "Waiting for her to start speaking in tongues, picking at the spiders under her skin while she daubs her face with feces and telling everyone that it is the only way to keep the government from reading her mind and stealing her brilliance" This bitch needs to be medicated, and if she already IS medicated, she needs to stop doubling up on the pills. She couldn't tell the truth if it was on the cue cards she can't decipher anyway.

Luanne de Lesseps: Liar, Liar Pants on Fire. This woman makes me crazy with her piety, prudishness, and has absolutely no idea of proper etiquette and niceties. I want to sic some of my mother's Philadelphia cousins on her and give her a REAL lesson in proper behavior. Especially the snub. No one does the snub like Old Philly Money. TRUST me, it is 100% in our genetics. This phony Countess would last all of 2.4 seconds in Philly. I want her to come for a visit and get a good Old Money beat down. She is a snob to simply be a snob, Oh and bitch, stop singing, 35 years of Marlboro Lights do NOT make you sound like Marlena Dietrich, they make you sound like an out of tune oboe.

Cindy Barshop: Good luck, I have no idea who you are, but you rip and laser the hair on other women's pussies. Do you do anal bleaching as well? Somehow I think you will fit in JUST fine.

I can't wait!

Townhouse Schmounhouse, Gimme a hole in the ground

As I have stated, Mc Luscious is a good friend and a real estate client. When we began her search for a house, we were all over the place, condos, single family homes, on island, and off. Initially our search was confined to Stone Harbor NJ, since this was her original stomping ground. Eventually I convinced her that you get much more bang for your buck in Avalon, so we entered what was an unknown world for her. The price range varied greatly, so we looked at a LOT of properties. I primarily act as a buyers agent, so I LOVE looking at houses. I think it is a throwback to my childhood obsession with LEGOS, as well the fact that I originally studied architecture in college.

Mc Luscious and I dragged her poor children everywhere that we went, and I tried my hardest to keep them interested by making up games. I would say things like, there is something orange in this house, and you need to tell me what it is, or in the case of a townhouse in Avalon that was a REALLY good deal, a hidden room.

This was of course a source of fascination for her son, who I believe was five at the time. What kid doesn't like the idea of secret rooms, staircases etc so I thought OK cool the kids will entertain themselves while we go through the house. Since it was a nasty divorce the house was a bargain (ATTN men over 50, if you are going to bang the girl that makes the photocopies in your office, wear a condom, they can and WILL get pregnant and tell your wife)

After telling the kids about the room, Mc L and I wander around, I show her the secret room and wonder where the kids are, and I can't believe that they hadn't found it yet. The townhouse itself is is built on multiple levels with short sets of stairs taking you to different elevations in the house. It is really a clever use of staggered space. The garage is to the right from the ground floor entry, up a short flight of stairs to the living room / kitchen area with 16 foot ceilings, make a right, up another short flight to what is a bedroom or a den and a hall bath, then make another right and go up a larger staircase to the two master bedroom suites.

There is a bit of wasted space because of the varying elevations between the kitchen and the bedrooms on the 4th level of the house that the current owners have turned into a sleeping loft, complete with a TV for the grandkids. Mc L's daughter has found us, and is unable to find the secret room, so she is a bit pouty. She is a good kid though, and she patiently trails along behind us as we look in closets, at the view, and debate about the costs to renovate the bathrooms. As we wonder where her son has gotten to, suddenly we hear "I found it! I found the secret room!" Laughing we follow his excited voice downstairs and into the den. He isn't there. We look in the loft, and it's empty. His sister goes "COOL!" and immediately moves into the space.

In a TV moment, we look at each other and think "OH shit, where is he" Calling his name, he replies with "I am down here." Going down to the garage level I think he may have found a closet we missed, or possibly a mechanical room. No we are confronted by a mildly filthy five year old, excitedly telling us he found the room. Taking his mothers hand he excitedly pulls her into the garage. I have NO idea what he may have discovered, so I follow just a step behind.

"It's back here!" he excitedly exclaims. Dropping to all fours he suddenly disappears under a small over hang at the back of the garage, behind a stack of bikes and surfboards. WTF? Is he pretending it is a room back there? Is this some kind of fort in the mind of a five year old? NO.

Squatting down, I look under the over hang to see his small butt wiggling through a small square hole in the wall as he disappears under the foundation of the house. GREAT, some houses have cockroaches, some have mice, others have bats in the belfry. Only I manage to bring an infestation of five year old boys into a $750K townhouse with a pool and a boat slip.

Yelling his name, we tell him that while it is cool he found a hidden room, that wasn't the one we were talking about. Dusting him off, and picking spiders from his hair, we usher him upstairs to the secret room in the house, and while he liked the idea of being able to drop things into the kitchen, he was remarkably non plussed by the loft area.

Oh well, can't win them all, thank goodness my clients aren't five year old boys, but next time I find a cave filled with spiders, I will know who to call.

Why is there a naked screaming man in the bathroom?

One of my favorite bars in Philly is owned by my buddy Spanky, in what his wife Leigh has dubbed Port Fishington in Philadelphia PA. Located on the edge of Kensington, Port Richmond and Fishtown is a bar named The Memphis TapRoom. I love this place.

I have a pseudo bud, AKA Meat Man Mike, a brilliant artist in my opinion who took me there for the first time. I met up with him and a few of his foody friends for beer and grub one Saturday afternoon. I took the El to Huntingdon Station ( I LOVE the Philly El, I took it to school everyday from age 11-14) Walked over to Mike's place, checked out his newest art, agreed with him that I hate my Mac as well, and left the building to meet a different friend of his down on the street.

We wander through the streets of Kensington on a beautiful spring afternoon, and I love the beauty in the decrepit condition of the buildings, trees and weeds growing in the empty lots where houses once stood. As we walk, I stop and start picking Mulberries from a tree. Mulberries grow wild all over Philadelphia, and I can remember as a child watching my beloved German Shepherd strip low hanging branches of berries, and walking home with her purple tongue lolling out.

"EWWWW! Don't eat that!" screams the chubby queen who met us on the street. "Why not? It's a mulberry, I have been eating them since I was a kid, here have one." I reply. "You can't eat anything that grows in Kensington" he replies. I silently strip ten or twelve more berries from the tree and walk down the street making yummy yummy sounds next to him. I LOVE making new friends!

We get to the bar, it is a traditional Philly tap room in a corner rowhouse. Classic. I am in love. We get seats at the bar just as the bar soccer team comes in the door. Beer, food and athletic eye candy. Woo HOOO I am home baby, I am home. The rest of the foodies show up, and we start to have fun. The bartender is a big lumbering dude that hangs out at the neighborhood bar where I was working a few days a week and is cool as shit. I am going through the different beers like they are gonna run out, and since these are all craft beers, they just might.

More people have joined us, including one of the owners of the bar who is a loyal follower of my Sunday brunch bartending shift, and devotee of my Bloody Mary's. Here is the crew, me, the cranky loud mouthed redhead who has an opinion about everything, Mike the dry, kind of quiet, sarcastic giant, the bitchy chubby queen who is not much fun and seems prissy, some attorney, who asserts his heterosexuality, but has asked me if I could send him a link to a gay porn site involving docking. How does a straight man even know what docking is? ( And NO, I am not going to tell you, google it yourself) Some broad that is only talking to the attorney, and a few sundry others who mean nothing to me.

The bar itself has about 30-40 people in it, and a great vibe. The mixing of the Dominican, American, Brazilian and Mexican guys from the soccer team with the urban hipsters, a few local Kenso hoods, the foodies, a few Center City Folks slumming it, and some of the people helping to gentrify the neighborhood make it just feel right. The door opens and I look to see who is coming in, it is a local neighborhood kid with some form of autism. As a Philly kid, I know exactly how a neighborhood bar reacts to this, and it is always handled well. It is part of the working class mindset of the city itself that usually allows for the neighborhood oddball to be OK for a little while. He walks in and looks around, and goes up to a waitress, who hands him five bucks. I think, How COOL. I love this place.

Behind me is the door to the bathroom, it is just a bumpout into the bar, and is right before you go up a step into the dining room. I watch the kid pocket the money and go into the bathroom. I pay no attention to anything going on except for my food, the 8th question from the attorney about rimming, and talking to Mike about art, beer and the crazy man on manhunt who posted a picture of himself with a traffic cone shoved up his ass. (Yes, REALLY, I even saved a picture of it since no one ever believes me)

Suddenly I hear a man say "Whoops! Sorry Dude!!" behind me as the screaming begins. The ululating wail emanating from the bathroom is pretty loud, and doesn't seem to want to stop. We all turn to look as the poor man that opened the unlocked bathroom door is confronted by a naked man with mild autism keening in the middle of a bar bathroom. The look on his face is priceless, a frozen rictus smile on his face, a growing fear in his eyes, and you know he doesn't know if he should slam the door and scream himself, or just slowly back away.

The gentleman wailing in the bathroom took care of that dilemma for him, by grabbing the doorknob and slamming the door shut. Continuing to scream the whole time, the bartender simply turned the music up, and we all just talked louder.

What does one do when confronted with a naked screaming autistic man in a bar bathroom at 6:30 in the evening? Well in Philly we just kept on drinking and carrying on, figuring he had to come out eventually. While the waitress banged on the door and attempted to get the man to put his clothes back on and come out (he only locked the door AFTER the poor bastard walked in on him). The bartender tells us this kid does this all the time. This is why he gets five bucks when he walks in, so that he doesn't use the bathroom. He guesses he wants more money, since he tried to get a second five out the day waitress earlier in the day.

He eventually comes out, doesn't get any more money, and is told to go home. As I am leaving my taxi passes a bunch of cop cars down the street. Turns out he went home, but was so pissed off he threw his TV out the plate glass window into the street.

Laughing I think about all the Philly flavor I have experienced over the years. I don't know if it is like this everywhere, but I wouldn't trade it for the world!

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

My parents decided in 2005 that it was time to leave Avalon. My mother's family has owned summer homes down there since the 1890's, and they were living in a house which my grandfather purchased for his parents in 1938. With the real estate market out of control on the island, I listed the house for sale. The asking price was one thousand and 29 times higher than what my grandfather paid for the land.

Once the house went under contract, my mother began looking at houses in earnest, until she found the one she wanted in Rural Pennsylvania. About a year after they had moved, my mother was antsy about the fact that I never came to visit. So I loaded up the Subaru, and trundled across New Jersey, through Philadelphia, up route 309 and the suburbs, west towards Harrisburg, exiting at a smaller State Route heading north. Passing through rolling hills, over one lane bridges and corn as high as the sky, I enter the cool wooded valley that signals I am almost there. Driving up the twisting road I exit the woods, and continue rising higher to the peak of the ridge where the new house is located. The view is spectacular. The house is positioned overlooking a Rockwellesque valley of farms and small hamlets at the base of an ancient glacial deposit stretching across the state.

My mother is thrilled that I have made the trip, and has a whole long weekend of events planned for me. Dinner, drives etc. My father is just happy that I am there, and he wants to show me around as well. He is making friends with the Pennsylvania German folk, and loves the fact that he can speak German whenever he wants, and with everyone he sees.

I awake early the second day to a bleating braying coming from my parents orchard, and a whining yowling yipping coming from the German Shepherd pacing in the yard below my windows. Stumbling to the shower I quickly clean off and wander to the kitchen to see if anyone knows what has the dog so agitated. The dog is now frantically bouncing around in the living room, whining and pacing back and forth, his excitement is quite comical.

I look out the window of my bedroom to see if any of the cars are in the driveway, when I see my parents off in the orchard, so I slip on some shoes and head out into the morning. Walking closer Both of my parents are squatting, legs spread wide making circular motions with thier arms. WTF? I think, this should be interesting. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"SSSSHHHH, don't scare them, 2 of them already fell down the hill into the woods" my mother replies. "What fell down the hill?" I ask. "The goats" she responds, "They're drunk from eating the rotting apples under the trees."

OK , now at this point I think, when did my parents get goats, and where the fuck are they keeping them? Why are the damn goats drunk at 8AM? AND , most importantly, Why is everyone else squatting like a Cambodian woman giving birth in a fields except for me?

As if anticipating the thoughts about to burble from my lips, my mom informs that "They belong to the nice people in the valley. I think they make cheese. You like goat cheese, why don't you go with your father, maybe they will sell you some while I try and get them into the yard. OH shit, there goes another one!" Watching a third drunk, stiff legged goat tumble down the hill and into the scrub, prompts my father into action, and he asks me if I am ready to go down the road.

We jump in his truck and off we go. I have no clue where we are, what direction we are going or how long it is going to take to get there. I know that they "Just live at the bottom of the hill next to the Mennonites that drive, and behind the lady with all the dogs" Thanks Dad, Is that right on the corner of Overthere and Downthestreet?

We pull up at a beautiful old house with multiple barns out back and ring the bell. My dad THINKS this is the house, I am assuming he saw driving Mennonites and said OK we're here! The door gets answered by a handsome man in his mid forties, who says in accented English,"Yes, Can I help you?"

At this point my father says, "Gruß Gott" and launches into a LONG German conversation, which veers from "We just moved here a year ago, to I am amazed at how similar your German is to the German we spoke in Romania where I was born, to I have your drunken goats in my orchard, and my squatting wife is attempting to herd them into the yard"

I finally say, "Dad, my German is terrible anymore, Can we please just speak English?" My father says, "Oh, OK, sure you don't mind do you?" "Oh not at all" replies the Goat Farmer. As we talk we discover that they don't make cheese and the goats are for slaughter only. They sell almost all the meat to Jamaican Jerk Shacks all over the country. My father then starts yammering away in Pennsy Dutch again about what time do you want to pick them up, and there are three in the woods below the house, we may need a tractor.

I say "DAD! Please, it takes me too long to translate Dutchy to German and German to English in my head, can we just speak English?" He defers to the goat farmer one last time, and my father says, "I just figured it would be easier to speak the way you grew up." To which the Goat Farmer replies," Oh you speak French as well? I moved here 25 years ago from Quebec."

Needless to say, feeling incredibly stupid, we beat a hasty exit from the non German speaking, goat slaughtering, non cheese making French Canadian man. He arrived later in the day, retrieved his now marinated and tenderized critters from our property, and pretty much avoided the crazy people at the top of the hill. You know the ones, they live between the peach orchard and the bend in the road, yeah where the Wild Turkeys roost at night.

Chit Chat in the Shit Shack

I, much like every other human being has spent my fair share of time in public bathrooms. Unfortunately it is a necessary evil, and one that can, at times prove to be remarkably entertaining. There is a hierarchy of behavior when you are in one, and there are certain unspoken rules which are NOT to be broken. These rules are completely different from locker room etiquette. In the locker room, touching, talking, nudity etc are all part of the male bonding ritual. In the mens room, you avoid eye contact, speaking, touching, etc. Unfortunately, there are men who either ignore the rules, or just don't care. Learn more about violations, and specific requirements HERE .

The majority of my mens room experiences involves the crapper in a bar (surprise, SURPRISE, SEhr priz). Now bar pissers run the gamut from high falutin, (there is a Mexican man at the Princeton in Avalon who hands you mints, towels and condoms) to the WTF (the bar in Harrisburg PA where the urinal was a mop sink).

99% of bar mens rooms are used for 3 main purposes, to pee (seems simple right? not really), to puke (it is a bar after all), and to do coke. On a busy Saturday night all three of these activities will be occurring around you, often times someone will be performing 2 of the 3 simultaneously.

One of the big mens room rules is the no speaking rule, in bars this one gets thrown out the window. Conversations occur all around you, and often times they are one sided. They will be mumbled by a drunk that believes he is not alone, shouted by the man urinating in the stall whose buddies have all walked away, and there is ALWAYS the cell talker. I was the cell talker.

I got my first cell phone way, way back in the Jurassic. I was actually embarrassed to own one, mainly because no one else had one. Whenever it would ring in the bar I would go tearing off to the bathroom to hide in a stall and have a conversation. I became a bit of a joke, "Where's Jim?", people would ask. "Oh he's in the bathroom, in a stall" (HAHA, my bitchy friends were so funny, this is partially to blame for people thinking I was an escort in my 20's, but I digress)

I made a second visit to the moose lodge /gay bar in the nearest big city. It was not quite as dramatic as the first visit, but just as interesting. This time I went pretty toned down in attire, well for me anyway, I was wearing a nice pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and my favorite cashmere sweater. I always forget that you can still smoke IN bars in Pennsylvania, so in an effort to preserve my sweater, I put it with my jacket in the coat check. This means that I am now in a too tight black t-shirt, and the gun show is open.

I venture upstairs, and suddenly I am surrounded by flash bulbs, 50 people, a man with a scepter, crown, and what I think is a porn star holding his cape. Thankfully the various factions here for the birthday party eventually break into their individual clusters, and the photo ops begin to end. I notice a local ambisexual singer (who facebook thinks should be my friend) from a rock band walk in with a slightly chubby woman, and a gorgeous twinky boy, who may or may not have to take off his shoes to tell you his actual age. Which one is his date is an unknown at this point, but after the twinky starts slamming shots and staring me down, I am guessing he singer is dating the man who can say "I am THIS many!" while holding up a few fingers. Keep staring, I have a finger for ya, Mister Sister.

As the night progresses, I run into a friend, and a few guys say hello that recognize me from online. I am getting the stynk eye from This Many across the bar, and I really have no idea why, but it may be because he has slammed back more shots than his actual age. Breaking away from my friends I venture to the bathroom. Upon entering I see This Many at the urinal, I opt to pee in the stall (see proper etiquette above). His head is tilted to the left, and speaking, so I assume he is multitasking. As I am emptying my bladder, I hear a slurred "HEY, I am talking to you." Which I summarily ignore. "HEY! Whass your fucking problem? I am talking to you."

"ME? I thought you were talking on the phone." I respond. Shake, flush, zip, and I exit the stall.

"Nuh-uh, I wash tulkin to you, You wlive in Uhllantin?" This question is uttered, with one eye shut, face screwed up in classic early twenties drunk face. The one that vaguely reminds you of a two year old encountering asparagus for the first time. The look of shock, confusion, how did I get here and exactly WHAT is this on my plate. Only difference is that a two year old is more stable on their feet than this Kat is.

"What?" (This seems to be my standard response to everyone anymore)

Attempting to enunciate makes him wobble more, his attempt to locate my face requires him to close one eye, then the other, while zooming his head in and out like he is focusing a microscope. "Duh U, Leave, in Ullinton?" One eye shut, oops wait, now its the other eye, sailor on a ship at sea in a storm movements, mouth in a Betty Boop moue, and brows furrowed as if confronted with an algebra equation 10 years after highschool, and you have the beast confronting me on my home location.

"NO" I respond, "I live in the woods about twenty miles away. Why?"

"Oh. U shur?"

"Yeah, why?"

"OK, Bye"

That's it? All of it? Really? No what's your name, how you doin? My name is Stumble Mc Drunklefuck? Nothing? This entire encounter is a dud. I am so disappointed, where is the vomiting super model, the naked downs syndrome kid that never locks the door when peeing, the celebrity doing coke off the floor, or the old perv playing pocket pool while winking lasciviously at me.

Here is the lesson learned. If you are going to make an ass out of yourself in a bar bathroom, do it well. Make it EPIC. Make it a story I can tell my grandchildren.

Kids these days.....