Award Tour Vol. 20: Stranger Things Have Happened

Saturday Night

It's been a long day... earlier I helped move a 1 ton cargo shipment from a basement to a landfill (this is not an exaggeration... it was actually 1 ton). Immediately afterwards I went to participate in a church function for nearly 3 hours, followed by a another meeting. I’ve done more, by the time you’re reading this, than you’ve done all day.

And honestly, I'm tired. But dammit, it's Saturday night, and I have earned some leisurely diversion. I recall there’s a party for a friend of mine in D.C. so I head down to the club in the area of Georgetown (which means no matter what, there won't be any parking). After inching my way through the gridlock, I zig-zagged the surrounding neighborhoods looking for a place to park - and predictably found nothing. Everything within a few blocks radius of Georgetown is filled - there isn't enough space on the streets to park a pair of roller skates side by side. Obviously I'm going to need to go a little further out (and by a little further out I mean a few light years)

After a sustained drive away from bright lights of the crowded streets of Georgetown I found a crevice of a parking space… not large, but big enough to squeeze my car into. I hit that parallel park, and gather myself - this isn't going to be an easy walk as tired as I am. I'm so far away from where I intend to go - I'm honestly not sure if I can make it back on foot. I decide 3 things: 1. Pain is all in the mind and 2. I came to party come hell or high water 3. This is probably a bad idea. (It actually went in the order too by the way).

After a 20 minute walk back to the main thoroughfare, I conclude to myself (just for future reference), that lying to myself has very little upside. Pain is not all in the mind... it’s in the legs right now and it’s working its way into the lower back; it seems safe to say that pain is branching out and setting up franchises wherever the market is ripe. It seemed heroic to say it was “all in the mind”, but yeah… not true… not true at all. Purge it from your vocabulary and have the cheerleaders scratch it off the poster bards at the pep rally. It is not true…moving on…

I find the club and make my way through the line and inside and you know what? Even though my feet are on fire, even though my back is tighter than an elevator cable… for a moment, it actually seems like it was all worth it. This spot is kinda' nice... an undeniable diverse mixture of people, pretty good music, as long as they make a good Long Island Iced Tea, I'll be willing to give it my STAMP of approval.

I think I left out the part, that this was actually a going away party for one of my folks... let's call him Creamtastic. (Don't ask why... let's just call him that). Creamtastic is moving onward and upward to a new job position. We want to send him off in style, so we come out to party with him... well with him and the many women he almost always has in tow (rest assured this is part of the reason why we'll refer to him as Creamtastic in this story).

Anyway, as par for the course, I get into the club and get LIT (Long-Island Iced Tea) and I keep it moving straight over to the ladies, some of whom are flocked around Creamtastic like...

...well like women when they flock around Creamtastic. It's kind of a hard phenomena to describe. It was like a slow motion feeding frenzy composed of “mating dance” and “hate”. Where each woman was in competition with every other woman for Creamtastic … I’ve actually seen this happen before. Actually it was worse the last time… it was like a hurricane of booty being thrown at Creamtastic … I honestly feel like some innocent bystanders could’ve been hurt. It’s probably going to happen here too, but we’re not at that point yet… this is more like the calm before the butt-naked storm if you will.

I could usually tell who the Cream Candidates were by the way they hugged him. If they didn't leave at least a 2 inch air gap inbetween them during the hug (i.e. the Church hug) ... then she was a candidate. And 1 by 1, they embraced him, pushed up close and tight… like they were literally trying to merge with him on some metaphysical level. All that’s left to be said is:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

WELCOME TO THE 1st Annual, 2005 Creamtastic Invitational.

I’m no Denzel (hell nowadays even Denzel isn’t Denzel) but I usually do alright at the club,
but not this night...
not at this club...
not with this clientele.

This was like American Idol for "Whores". For anyone who is not named Creamtastic, the word for the night is “plutonic”. This is bigger than one or two men’s egos. The rest of us could watch statistics in action; it's almost like watching a mass migration of Red Crabs on Christmas island during mating season. There's alot of them out there because statistically, alot of them just aren't going to make it. Many of them will set out on that journey to reach the Creamtastic Ocean... and most of them will be flattened under the Wheels of Rejection spinning on the Cars of Hard Knocks. Life is hard that way sometimes.

As the competition wore on, I found I could tell who the front runners were based on their distance from the Creamy nuclei (bear with me). I’m not talking about the soft caramel nougat of a candy bar (though I kinda wish I could work that into the story... just seems like it would be epic use of metaphor if I could), I’m talking about the center mass of interaction. Those higher in the standing were a relatively short distance away from the center mass, while those lowest in the standing orbited from a much further distance (perhaps they had already been mathematically eliminated). But the circle closest to the center; now there was some competition for you.

If he took pictures with one, the next candidate would have to take a picture with him and share a toast. For the next candidate to top that, she would have to take pictures with him, share a toast, and dance the Lambada with him. The one-up-manship went on subtly all night. And all I could do was watch and laugh (literally). Towards the end of the night, the true championship contenders started to separate themselves from the pack, cutting in on dances, interrupting conversations; it was March Madness in April. When I finally decided that "Electric Relaxation" by A Tribe Called Quest, was as good a song as any to make an exit, the battle for Ultimate Creamy was still going on. I'm not sure how it turned out. I can't say for certain that one of those candidates didn't actually try to dry-hump Creamtastic right there on the dance floor (actually when I left, it looked like a pretty good possibility - I mean afterall, "Electric Relaxation" was playing - if not to this song – then when?). All I know is that, the athlete that is willing to go that extra mile, usually comes out on top (there’s a joke in there that writes itself). So to that most committed woman of that night, whoever you were, whatever you had to do, congratulations on being crowned Ms. Creamy Invitational 2005. Without a doubt, you had to have gone above and beyond the call of duty to have won such an award. Hopefully you can still hold your head up with dignity after this evening (I'm betting against it, but stranger things have happened.)

Award Tour Vol. 19: Once It's On the Ground

PART I: THE HOUSE

It’s Saturday and we’re on our way to a friend’s house to help move some old items (furniture, boxes, etc) from a house to a landfill. Sound straight forward and easy? Yes. Would I be writing about it if it were either? No.

The small, light items upstairs move quickly and easily... because they’re small and light. But in the basement, there’s a whole different gravitational pull. In the basement we’re asked to move this colossal, floor-carving, block that they call a “refrigerator” up a flight of stairs and out the house. I sense “struggle” in the near future.

Can we actually move this thing? No seriously… will Physics allow it? We heaved the metal box up on a dolly and I swear that the wheels started singing “Old Negro Spirituals” about oppression. They barely even turned under all that weight; and it almost felt like it was a conscious decision on their part to protest. When we finally got it to the stairway it was like the Iron Giant the Refrigerator gained 20 lbs with each step up. Struggle realized.

Once we finally reached the top, we had to lean the refrigerator (yes, while it was at the top of the stairs) to get the dolly from one side to the other. Guess who got the job of holding the fridge up while it was tilting? Yeah…

Anyway, I held it.

And held it.

And held it.



And as you might expect, after awhile Physics once again makes an appearance in the story line... particularly the branch of physics that deals with "friction". There is a massive Normal Force (don’t ask me to explain, just google it, N-O-R-M-A-L-F-O-R-C-E) being produced by the Death Star this refrigerator but at the angle it’s tilted, all the force was being applied to my shoulder…

… I shouldn’t have to explain why this is a problem.


Clank, clank….click

“Hurry up y’all”

See the size of the font here? That how’s you know I mean what I’m saying and I said it loud. I hear more activity on the other side of this Metallic Stonehenge Slab the refrigerator… but not more results. The gravity of the situation is apparently only something I can grasp (pun intentional)

Clank, clankety, clank…. Clank , clank

“Hey man!!! Hurry up”

Look how big that font is. The desperation is leaping off the screen like it’s in 3D IMAX. I know, that on the other side of this Titanium Rampart refrigerator they’re trying. But trying and doing are two different verbs. Ask any state that’s ever tried to get me to do jury duty.

Anyway, in a few more seconds the refrigerator will list back at an angle where only someone with a cape and some emblem on their chest will be able to hold it. And for the record, I’m not one of those people… my underoos from 1^st grade are long gone. If it slides back any further… there will be no escape. People will die.

Clank Clank… “okay we got it”.

I can’t remember if I said “Thank You Jesus” out loud or just in my head… I was beginning to black out and was getting ready for the opening credits of my "life flashing before me". The one thing I do remember? The sweet sensation of the tilting weight being lifted off of me and a sense that I had been given a second lease on life.

I look back and reflect on that promise I made to myself that day; just as the refrigerator was about to crush me. I promised myself that if I ever had a house with a refrigerator downstairs, it would also have a door through which it could be walked out. If such a door or passageway is not possible… it will be created... if that is not possible... it will still be created. I will ignore reality until it bends to my will. If it turns out that this approach still isn’t feasible … if no passage way can truly be created with “the power of my mind”, then that refrigerator will simply stay in that room downstairs…

…FOREVER.

PART II: THE LANDFILL

Items big and small, from the house are now loaded onto the U-Haul truck. We're halfway there. Just gotta dump them now. We get to the garbage dump mid day, and the line would have you thinking we were waiting to get into instead of a landfill. This is nonsense. The only thing worse than sitting in a U-Haul, on a hot day, in a long line… is sitting in a U-Haul, on a hot day, in a long line down wind of a land fill. Forty Five minutes waiting in line and we are only just now reaching the front entrance - at which point they weren't trying to let us in. Why?

Because we had a U-Haul trailer, instead of an open bed truck. Apparently they have some policy against U-Haul trailers (the reason escapes me, but they have it, and so it’s a problem).We badger and negotiate with the dude at the front gate, and just when it looks like he's about to relent he asks what's in the trailer. And well… you've been reading the story... A refrigerator is in there, so we tell him...


"clothes..."


The irony of course is that you were actually allowed to dump a Refrigerator at this site but there was one thing you weren’t allowed to dump… guess what it was? Yeah… clothes. If this was an after-school special this would be the part where some B-level celebrity comes out and says “Honesty is the Best Policy” – and then you nod your head in agreement… even though deep down inside you don’t really believe it, anyway…

We had to badger and negotiate in overdrive now… and our argument was a simple one, “we recant everything we just told you, and now assure you that we are carrying everything and only those things you just told us is permissible. Yeah It sounded like we said we had clothes. We may have even said the words... but really we don't... it was just a hypothetical. Can we go in now?”

I honestly think he relented and sent us through, despite insulting their intelligence because, ultimately the dude at the front gate figured he just wasn’t being paid enough an hour to actually be good at his job… score one for cynicism.

Now that we are past the gatekeepers (aka first layer of security), we have to deal with the second layer of security, whom I called Garbage Dump Sentinels. These are the same dudes who first cut their teeth in the profession of, “irrelevant security”, as hall monitors in your local high school or middle school. And after years of training, they have elevated their game… and are ready to join the proud tradition that is Garbage Dump Sentinel Corp. And really, has there ever been a better way to fight for truth, justice, and the American way than checking for contraband at the garbage dump? No, there hasn’t. The only way to top it would be to give you a side arm while you do it. And that’s just too awesome to imagine.

Anticipating resistance from the Garbage Dump Sentinel if he sees us pulling out a bunch of contraband, I formulate a strategy for emptying our truck based on bad sex… get it off, and get it off quick.


Most of what we're hauling is heavy stuff. Once it’s out the truck and on the ground… it’s staying there. Not because I won’t lift it back on the truck, but because I won't AND I can’t. It’s just physics. The more we get into that dumpster the less we have to take back with us. So we begin tossing our wares in a dumpster; a dumpster that was clearly marked for wood.

I suppose the loud crashing and tinkling of breaking glass must have alerted the garbage monitor that something wasn't quite right – you could almost read the thought process on his face, “hey, wait a minute, I took earth science in 6^th grade, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that wood doesn’t shatter like that – what’s going on here?” He comes over, looking at each piece that we throw in, seeing that each is clearly NOT wood, and waits patiently for us to realize on our own that we’re violating the rules... a realization that was not to happen.

Neither his patience nor his disapproving gaze affects me in the least; I continue purging the truck at a frenetic pace. Glass – wood, they’re basically the same right? No? Well they are today. Finally when the monitor could take no more, when we send glass, electronics, and clothes tumbling in the bin with abject wanton disregard for the rules, when our flagrant violation of the rules continues on without even a hint of remorse or reversal, he finally exerts his hall monitor power and sends us away. I completely understood too. I mean I would have done the same thing…

…but um… yeah, please believe that everything that I managed to get out of the truck and on the ground, stayed on the ground.

Award Tour Vol. 18: Nerves of Steel

Friday Night

So it’s Friday, and I’m tired, but dammit I’m determined to have me some fun. I know need to go ahead and cut my hair (so as to look presentable for the entire weekend) so I pull out the trusty clippers and go to work.

Bzzzzzzz… Bzzzzzzz… BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ


Oh boy.

Ohhhh boy. I know that sound – that's the sound of a man, working on having a really bad hair day.

(Break)
Those of you who have cut hair before may know, that you can tell how much hair you’re cutting by the sound the clippers make. The short and even sounds? That's what you want to hear. This is reflective of the fact that you are cutting the hair evenly. The loud and abrupt buzz? You don't want any part of this one. This is indicative of the fact that you have cut deep (and probably wide) when you didn't mean to cut deep or wide.
(Unbreak)

With my eyes closed, I strike a pose similar to the “thinking man”. I spent a brief moment trying to convince myself of the impossible – that the clippers hadn’t actually cut that deep – but who was I kidding. I heard that buzz. I felt that tumbleweed of hair fall down my forehead into the sink. I know what it meant. Closing my eyes would not going to erase that patch I just cut.

I sit the clippers down and take a look in the mirror… can this be fixed? Can I even it out?BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ no I cannot. But I can do the next worst thing. I can give the deep and wide patch I cut on the left side of my head, an evil twin on the right side of my head. I can do that fairly easily it turns out. And so I put the clippers down. Clearly my work is finished here (unless I'm actually trying to cut a checker board in my head... in that case I have like... 3 more patches to cut.) I'm tall. Maybe people won't notice. It's not really what I wanted, but it's not going to grow back out while I'm standing here, and dammit it's Friday and I'm gonna have me some fun.

I take a shower and now I am ready to go somewhere, and do something, with somebody. My first stop was at Jillian’s (a family fun spot that has since been taken over by Dave and Busters) where you can go bowling, dancing, drinking, video game playing, pool shooting, comedy clubbing, all in one fine establishment. On occasion there are many beautiful women who will be out doing the same. This was not one of those occasions.

I don’t know if it was an off Friday, if there was some sort of "Attractive People" Strike going on or what but, the clientele just wasn’t there. In fact the longer I stayed, the more I drank, the worse it looked (it usually happens the other way around). Every now and then I would do a lap around the establishment, and with each lap, things just got progressively worse to the point where I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t just turn around and do the laps counterclockwise… maybe that would have the reverse effect (this is what happens when you're drunk and have recently watched Superman... don't front... )

I eventually left to catch up with friends of mine in Alexandria at an establishment commonly called “Fridays”. As college friends often do, we reminisced for like 10 or 15 minutes off in the corner. Then suddenly, on the second tier around the bar, people start standing up and getting off of their chairs. As though… as though… someone was about to fight. But surely this couldn’t be… I said we were at TGI Fridays – a reputable establishment one would think (I should have known something was off when I saw the 2 squad cars parked outside). Anyway, I walk over, cause dammit it’s Friday and I’m determined to have me some fun. If someone is going to fight in a “Fridays” on Friday, I’m not going to miss this.

As most fights do, this one started off with some "fu*k you's", followed by the customary "n!gga fu*k you". I can't see any of it, but I can certainly hear it all, and I know what comes next - cause there's nothing more to say at this point. If they really want to fight, the next sound I hear will be the crashing and breaking of glass the tumbling of furniture, and the cheers/screams of on-lookers.

Instead we were greeted with a second round of "fu*k you's" with an additional "we can do this" and "I'll whoop your a$$" and at this point I'm willing to bet money that I don't even have that we will see no fight tonight - at least not here with these two folks. This is the sort of pre-fight dialogue that leads to more dialogue and no fight. I see one of the would-be combatants being pushed back, down the stairs, out the door, and out of the establishment…

…by his girlfriend… with one hand. Yeah I know... dude wanted to fight so bad it took 1 whole woman pushing him back with 1 whole arm to restrain him. Without that juggernaut of a Security Force keeping him in check... there’s no telling what he might have done. Once outside his theatrics became almost larger than life. Wild eyed gesturing, pointing, screaming and frothing. By the time, some of his male friends came outside to quote-unquote “hold him back” he was pushing, shoving, and pulling away from people, clamoring for a fight that it was pretty obvious he didn’t really want; clearly the front runner for the Oscar at this point.

Not to be outdone, 5 minutes later the other would-be combatant came outside making an even more grand display. This man's histrionics reached brand new Olympic heights and was punctuated with a patented Hulk Holgan shirt tear and a plethora of "n!gga what's". It was brilliant, effortless, almost like he had choreographed it and practiced it 1,000 times in the mirror before actually doing it this night. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had. You win the Oscar hands down.

We'll overlook the fact that the shirt that he tore was so thin, it might as well have come out of a Kleenex box - it was the thought that counts. Besides, dude was so skinny, if it had actually been a "Hanes" or "Fruit of the Loom" T-Shirt he'd still be trying to rip his way out of it now as you're reading this. On the surface, the "Shirt Shearing" told us two things:

1. That he had obviously put more work into his craft as an actor, and
2. If he had gotten into a fight, he would've been the one to get his a$$ whooped

Perhaps he realized it. Perhaps it’s the reason that he issued his most venomous (and clearly unlawful) threats to his opponent, (who was already in his car and leaving out) in the presence of nearby police (who had done nothing to control the situation for over 10 minutes) - he had to know he’d be arrested… (which he promptly was) and that police custody was the safest place for him to be (and it was). He obviously didn’t want to fight either.

In the ensuing chaos, there was a lot of entertainment to be had. For example, there were the scores of people who attempted to skip out without paying their bill, who were literally run down by TGIFriday cornerbacks waiters out in the parking lot. There were the girls who were standing on table and chairs, in order to better see the “fight that never was” that gave us all a show of their own (even though I'm sure they probably didn't mean to). There was the old Middle Eastern man, who walked out of the building with both hands outstretched as he looked back into the building as if to say, “I’ve done it again. What? Are you not entertained? Is this not what you are here for?” I’m in the corner thinking to myself, what is all this about? What? Did he sanction this fight or something? Was this like a Pay-Per-View package he put together?

Finally it came time for us to leave, and now the police, who hadn’t done anything about the ensuing melee outside moments ago, now were brimming with swagger telling us we had to leave the property – as we were walking towards our cars, to leave the property. (Perhaps if we had acted as though we were going to fight each other we could have stayed longer). What a display of crowd control. You make no attempt to squelch the potential hockey brawl, but you somehow find the courage to ask people who are already leaving the premises, to leave the premises...

...I'm impressed. That must have taken nerves of steel.