Award Tour Vol. 23: The Greatest Show on Earth

So it's a Saturday night in Atlanta... and nothing's really jumping at the clubs that we normally go to; no parties that anyone heard about... not a whole lot to do. So what do we do for entertainment?

The Strip Club, a.k.a. The Dollar Store, a.k.a The Shoe Store

No big deal, we're still college students, and it is Atlanta. These things all seem to go hand and hand - students, strip clubs, and Atlanta (and if they don't - just go with it for right now - afterall I'm the one telling this story). We picked the right day and time to do it.

Not because of the women there, afterall, most of the women in Atlanta are fine period... not just at this club. But because of who was in attendance. We'll call him Dave Carson (that's not his real name, but that's what we'll call him given my long standing policy of maintaining the anonymity of all guilty - I mean - all involved parties). He played professional sports (don't bother asking which one - anonymity) a fact which the strippers picked up on, very quickly - but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once again, it's me, Jalen, and Solomon (the usual suspects). We stop to get drinks first (and to break the bigger bills into $1's - a time honored tradition) I liquidate my Twenty into all $1's - I should be able to tip off of this for awhile. I am also armed with a few $10's so I can get a couple of table dances if I'm in the zone and I'm feeling the club. When we arrive, we come through the entrance, and see a flurry of activity towards the back (so naturally we head back there and find seats).

What is the cause of all the commotion, it's Dave "Dammit Man I'm Ballin" Carson. And dammit man, he is balling - on a level which I had never seen before or since (and neither have you). And I'm not referring to the scattered landscape of empty $100 bottles of Moet he had on the tables around him (this is par for the course for aspiring ballers - it's in the handbook) but that was merely window dressing compared to what he was doing this night. He literally turned the Strip Club experience into an Interactive Sport (something I do not recommend any Average Joe should try - mainly because you couldn't do it).

When I sat down next to him he had one girl dancing for him. (You should note, sitting down next to Dave "Dammit Man" would represent the one and only similarity between our strip club experience. In terms of proximity we sat in the same area. From there on out our experiences diverged). The divergence was most clear when I began to pull out my crumpled roll of $1's to get ready to tip. Dave "Dammit Man I'm Ballin" Carson, calls his money holder over and grabs a roll of money from him.

This is significant for 2 reasons, both of which I will now point out. First off, is this man really in need of a personal assistant in the Strip Club; a man here, whose sole purpose for being there was to hand Dave money as he required to tip the dancers? (And while we're on the subject, where do you go to get a job like this.... is there an application process or do you just fall up on something like this - do you have to black mail someone or what? Drop me a line and let me know cause I just don't get it)? Secondly, the only thing more ridiculous than having a Strip Club accountant, is the fact that the roll of money I saw him unfold, didn't have a denomination lower than $20.

...and that's what he tipped one of the dancers with - a $20, followed by another, and another, and another. I paused for a moment and reflected on that.

I looked at him tipping $20's, and then I looked at the 20 wrinkled $1's in my hand

Tipping $20's... 20 wrinkled $1's
Tipping $20's... 20 wrinkled $1's
Tipping $20's... 20 wrinkled $1's

I went back and forth repeatedly, until the cash in my hand began to look like monopoly money. By the time I finished thinking about it, I wasn't even sure if I would accept my own money on this night - let alone the ladies. I fold the $1's up and quietly put them back in my pocket... my money is obviously no good here tonight. When the man next to you is balling like he is, a $1 bill can only insult the dancers, and ruin the ambience. Why fight the phenomena?

It was not long before Dave ran out of $20's and $50's and started tipping in $100's... (remember... these stories are all true). Astonished, Jalen leaned over and said, "aye yo man... do you see this cat... son is tipping in $100's... yo he keep doing that... and I'm start dancin' for him".

Dave "Dammit Man I'm Ballin'" Carson continues to wil' out, now trying to stand up in his chair while the girls (that's girls plural) dance for him - and in his drunkeness, he spills a Heineken all over the back of one of the dancers. Clearly annoyed, but not foolish, the dancer feigns a smile as beer ran down her back and dripped... well... you can imagine where it spilled - let's just leave it there ... but she doesn't complain, she grabs a few nearby napkins and wipes off and dances even harder (and that's the sort of committment to customer service that you like to see in a business - why can't Sprint's customer service be like this? That my friends, is a winning business model).

I'm absolutely amazed at all this. What Michael Jackson's "Thriller" Album was to the music industry, Dave's performance on this night (and I do mean performance) is to the Strip Club establishment... it is just unbelievable.

As the two dancers compete for Dave's attention he begins smacking them (yes smacking them) on the a$$ with $100 bills. And Dave wasn't being subtle about anything, he was smacking them on the a$$ with $100 so hard, you could hear it over the music; he was lifting them off the ground, forcing them to put their hands behind them to soften the blow... all the while just giggling and laughing, "ah Dave... you so crazy".

Jalen leans in again... laughing with a look of confused disbelief on his face and said, "yo... man... I don't understand. I mean the sign over the D.J.'s booth says You Touch You Go' ". Jalen was referring to the well known rule of strip clubs that, you are not allowed to touch the dancers... at all. And in truth, it's not out of some benevolent need to protect their dancers persay (they could probably care less) it's in an attempt to stay out of trouble with the law.

It doesn't take much to get a strip club shut down. Just one reasonable rumor, just a hint that there is more going on than "show and tell"... and people will start showing up in droves - and half of them will be the "authorities". The next sound you hear after that will be the simultaneous implosion of your political career, and the Strip Club itself (I'll let you decide which one is worse - depending on the Club - they could actually be running neck and neck... I'm just saying)

I explain to Jalen... that he is wrong. "But I'm saying, the sign says, 'You Touch You Go'", Jalen said again laughing.

I in response say, "naw, naw, son you're reading it wrong. The sign says YOU touch, YOU go. You go Jalen... not Dave. Dave Carson goes nowhere. He stays right there as long as he is tipping in $100's"

As if to prove my point, the D.J. played a song, of which Dave was fond of, and he lept up (from a sitting position) onto a 4 foot high stage while wearing a custom made all white suit and slick dress shoes, and began dancing.

I need for you to reflect on the athleticism required to accomplish the first part of that.

I said:
He jumped, from a seated position in a chair, onto a stage, 4 feet high, with dress shoes on and a suit!!! Calculate the vertical leap required to do that. If you aren't impressed... you ought to be. I know some track and field stand outs who can't do this now.

And as Dave began freak dancing with the stripper, I looked at Jalen, looked back up at the sign, and said, "see... YOU touch, YOU go...." The bouncers didn't even flinch when he jumped on stage. If anything, they looked like they were watching the other patrons, to make sure that they didn't interrupt Dave.

After he climbs off the stage, he tips the D.J. a $100 and he immediately lost his mind on the "wheels of steel". From that point on, for the rest of the night, whatever Dave called out, that's what the D.J. played next. If Dave called out a new song while one was still in the middle of playing, the D.J. ripped the record off the turntable, and replaced it with whatever Dave requested - all semblances of mixing flew out the window. It was madness I tell you, madness.

By now, word has gotten out that there is a baller in the crowd, and now the women are literally climbing over patrons to get to him. At one point Dave had 3 dancers, doing a routine in unison while others danced around him. It is quite possibly the most prolific display of unbridled balling in the Strip Club, the world has ever seen. But it was not to last...

No I suppose you can only mix liquor with beer for so long. You can only do so many freakishly athletic standing-broad-jumps landing you on stage before the novelty wears off. Hadn't he paid enough car notes and rents for that night? Yes - yes I believe he has, it was time to go home (...what more could he do that he hadn't already done... go behind the bar, and serve drinks?). Still I was sad to see him go, because he had whipped the dancers into a frenzy, and turned the World of Exotic Dancing on it's head in a way that the crinkled up one-dollar bills in my pocket could never have done. When he left, the electricity left the room. The dancers came down off their sugar high, the D.J. went back to his playlist, and I'm not sure, but I think the lights in the room went a little dim (that could be me exaggerating - I don't know).

All I know was that on that night, Dave was The Greatest Show on Earth.

Award Tour Vol. 22: Self-Inflicted

All day we had been outside participating in a Mini-Baja competition, near Orlando, Fl. and it was hot. We spent the better part of that day, underneath that sun taking a beating from it's rays like, Kane delivered to his baby momma's cousin in Menace II Society (if you don't know what I'm talking about, rent the video, find the fight scene were it's one person fighting, and the other person being beaten unconscious - now imagine that as a sun ray - feel the burn). It made for a really long day.

Anyway, afterwards, me and a few other team members decided to go out on the town to party - afterall we're in Orlando during the Shaquille O'Neal era... who knows what we might run into. Jalen (yes the same Jalen of the infamous Award Tour Series. Vol 12), myself, Solomon, Lynchburg, and his friend Mario (a man who lived in the area and was the de facto tour guide) all set out for parts unknown.

After a few warm up drinks, we decide to go to a club called Hero's - supposed to be the spot of champions. I first notice signs of trouble when we arrive. Women with beautiful short cut dresses, hair done up (and this is no small deal, remember, we're talking about humidity stricken Orlando, Fl) high heels, dudes with fine linen pants and slacks, silk shirts, Rolly's, Movados, classy dress all around...

...and then there was us.

I had on dark color pants, boots that might be mistaken for dress shoes if one was high on crystal meth and partially blinded by the lighting. The crown jewel of my attire, was a shirt from Structure. I would be lucky if I got a flyer, let alone into the club... and I was the best dressed of the crew. Everyone else had on Jeans, and Jalen (God bless him) had on a black t-shirt with the words "You're Wasted" written in fuzzy white letters. He was doomed before he even left the hotel. Solomon, seeing the same potential problem brewing, began to politic with the Door-man immediately. Somehow we collectively convinced him to let us in...

... things go down hill from there.

But allow me to back track. During Spring Break in Daytona, FL earlier in the year, I came down with another group of friends, partied like it was 1999 and drank more in those 4 days, than I had in had in the entire 2 years I was of legal age to drink. This proved to be a mistake on my part, and I subsequently gave up alcohol altogether for the next 2 years (you can appreciate the symmetry in that can't you?). When I can remember the details of what actually happened inbetween throwing up and being drunk, I'll write a blog about Daytona. Right now, all I remember is the vomit, the spin cycle head ache that nauseated me the entire trip home prompting my prayer for death or unconsciousness (whichever would come first) and my vow that I would not drink anymore (well for 2 years anyway).

With that vow still in place, I walk into Club Heros, where this is little more to do than drink. Jalen, Solomon, and Lynchburg make a B-line straight to the bar, while Mario talked to any woman that walked past. Perhaps because I was the only one that was sober, I realized that merely getting into the club, dressed as we were, was a phenomal fete and probably represented the pinnacle of what we would achieve that night; hoping for or expecting anything beyond that was just foolishness, greed, or both.

We weren't just up against celebrities who were in attedance (Penny Hardaway, Dennis Scott, Karl Kani to name a few) who I happened to see walking conspicuously to and fro, back and forth through throngs of scantily (but nonetheless) well dressed women - we were pitted against the oridinary club patrons who were dressed to impress. I mean you put my Structure shirt up against, Eygptian Cotton, my Levi's 501 jeans up against Ralph Lauren Polo Slacks, or the all out suits from Bernini... and what is there to discuss? "Rock beats scissors" - I sat down. I got in to the club and that probably shouldn't have happened... I think this will serve as a moral victory for me.

Let's begin with Jalen. His debacle begin with 1 and 1/2 drinks at the bar. Halfway through his second drink, he felt sufficiently imbibed to take a stab at the dance floor. He seemed to forget that he was wearing a black t-shirt with the words, "You're Wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. He handed me the rest of the drink and said, "Yo, you can kill the rest of this, I'm about to go grab one of these chicks and go to the dance floor".

I looked at him, smirked, and noted the time on my watch; approx 11:00 p.m.

*

Okay, let's see what are my initial conditions for this problem? He'll probably start on the left hand side of the club and take a horseshoe path (clockwise) around the perimeter of the club asking women if they wanted to dance. The first two women turned him down in less than 4 seconds. At that pace, and factoring in celebrities in attendance, the dress of other patrons, our lack of attire, fame, fortune, and acclaim, I estimated it would take maybe 7 minutes before he made his way back to the bar in disgust looking for a drink*

- and his half of a drink would be waiting for him.

As Jalen started down the first leg of the horseshoe, I glanced over at Solomon who had somehow found a way to strike up a conversation with one of the clubs proprieters, a man known as BJ. They talked, they drank, they laughed and drank some more. BJ had access to the VIP area, and somehow Solomon had convinced him to take us up. Perhaps I had shot too low in my expectations afterall. Maybe there was an even higher water mark to yet establish. If Solomon could keep this up, we were in good shape (but of course now, if you have read any of my previous blogs, you know how these things go - two words - not well). Solomon's debacle was merely beginning to take shape.

Lynchburg and Mario were now at the bar watching women walk in. There was one particular woman that stood out - the blonde who came strolling in to be precise. You certainly couldn't mistake her for a sister... I question if you could even mistake her for a lady... but again

... I wasn't drunk.

Because she was blond, she stood out automatically, but her chest just drew more attention. It was huge... it looked like two hot air balloons attacking one another from behind a tarp. That's a whole lotta salt water there. Anyhow, she walks by several times, receiving little attention, unlike most of the other women who were there who were immediately accosted by men with offers to buy them drinks. Curious. I mean don't big breasts warrant a drink too? Are we protesting those now too? (Just for the record... I WILL be crossing that picket line - count on it)

As she continues her fruitless walk-bys, I noticed her unsteadiness in her walk - and became concerned. Sure, going from a B-Cup to a HHH-Cup will tend to shift your center of gravity a little bit (and I'm all for that), but not so much that you forget how to walk in women's shoes altogether. I mean I realize the shoes don't come with training wheels on them, but if you've had any experience at all, a stroll past the bar shouldn't look like a walk on a tight rope - should it? Looking at her closely, I noticed a rather muscely calf and thigh region. It made me feel a dizzying sense of an unease - like I was running for my life after stepping off of a merry-go-round turning at 300 RPM. Was it possible that she was a former athelete or cheer leader... perhaps. But... those muscles, the density, the definition, it was all just too much. And then... oh yes, then I saw the prominent Adam's apple. And there it was, bouncing up in down in her neck like as she drank like; looking like she was actually swallowing ice cubes. She's a man ba-by - yeaaahhhhhh.

Perhaps this was only obvious to me (again - I wasn't drunk). Mario, almost immediately bought the "it" a drink; his debacle was now officially underway. Sensing a disturbance in the force, Solomon turns away from his conversation with BJ briefly to observe this impending train wreck. Sure alcohol had skewed Solomon's vision, his depth perception, even his decision making process, but even in his stupor... he knew something wasn't right about this... he looked briefly at Mario in tempered disbelief, then at me as I laughed out loud.

I understood his confusion... he wanted me to help make sense of what he was seeing... but I couldn't do it. He WAS seeing what he thought he was seeing; but inebriated as he was - he decided he just didn't care. He hunched his shoulders and got back on with the important business of getting us into VIP. Afterall we had just met Mario... no one really knew him except Lynchburg, maybe he had some sort of Eddie Murphy thing for Transvestites. You know, to talk to them about the dangers of "street life".

It's 5 minutes later, and Jalen has returned (without dancing) looking for his drink (as I told you he would). His disgust is evident. "Yo man, the women in here are tripping man, they're on some ole, other level $h!t you know what I mean, I'm talking about some inter-galactic empire $h!t".

Trying futily not to laugh, cause there's no telling where he's going with this, I ask him to explain what he means, he responds with, "I'm saying, who do I need to be, or who do I need to know to get a dance up in here... do I need to have connections with Bill Gates? How come these chicks ain't dancin'?" I look around briefly snickering and reply, "there's plenty of people dancin'". "Not with me!" he replied.

I remind Jalen, that in fact, he IS wearing a black t-shirt with the words "You're wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. "Right, right, true, true", he says acknowledging the poor selection in wardrobe.

"But I'm sayin' though, they're tripping, I'm not talking about the women hitting you with that, my feet are hurting excuse, at least they're sitting down. The women I was asking were lined up against the wall dancing. How can you tell me you don't want to dance? You already are... I'm just asking you to move 5 feet off the wall while you're doing it... you know what I'm sayin?"

I'm laughing out loud at this point... Jalen's debacle has now run it's course - he finishes his drink (and disillusioned with the prospect of dancing with anyone) looks to catch up with Solomon... meanwhile Mario's debacle is now dare I say it; in full blossom? He is still buying drinks for the "it" still apparently unaware that it was an "it". Finally, mercifully, Lynchburg steps in and pulls him to the side - to give him the memo.

***You know there's something sadistic yet wildly amusing about watching some one coming to a shocking realization. There's the smile of confidence and comfort that fades into an expressionless stare, the neutral look of disbelief, and then the abject look of disgust, horror that just screams out "say it ain't so". You could almost see Mario talking himself through the realization, "so that's why nobody else wanted her?"***

Solomon and Jalen had taken up a spot on the couches working out the particulars of what needed to happen to get us into VIP. Horribly scarred, Mario, went to another end of the bar, away from the "it" to try to regroup (I'm forseeing the need for some sort of 12 step program in the near future) and Lynchburg sat down on another corner couch... next to uh - let's call her Ms. Thing.

Ms. Thing, in her infinite wisdom, thought it made sense to sit her Martini glass on the soft and oh-so uneven surface of the leather couch as opposed to the table, which oddly was sitting near by. It's almost as if the club owners wanted you to use the table as a place to set your drinks. I realize this flies in the face of Conventional Wisdom.

After watching events unfold, I can only conclude that Ms. Thing was somewhat unfamiliar with the nuances of Rigid Body Dynamics. She actually seemed surprised that her drink would spill on the couch and her dress, when Lynchburg sat down - (I could forsee no other possible outcome - but again - I wasn't drunk). Lynchburg apologized for knocking over the drink and offered to buy her another drink... and thus began his debacle.

Infuriated that her drink was spilled (oh the injustice of it all) Ms. Thing begins yelling at Lynchburg for his acts, creating as much of a scene and attracting as much attention as possible, and then she began to demand several times that he buy her another drink - in spite of the fact that he had already offered to. In a strange turn of events, Lynchburg becomes annoyed with the antics. He subsequently decided that he had been far too generous in his offer to buy her another drink, and ammended his offer to instead, get her nothing. (You see how this is escalating right?)

Ms. Thing walks off irrate, yelling, screaming, and drawing attention all the way. Lynchburg's response to the fracas, to buy himself another drink - a rum and coke.

And that's where fun and games begin, you see, Ms. Thing had only led us to believe that she had left the vicinity. She had secretly doubled back around behind the bar and laid in wait like a covert commando. The moment that Lynchburg sat the drink down, she swooped in from the left, cocking back with all her might and swatting the drink across the room with a slap that would make a pimp proud. Ms. Thing was apparently pleased with the distance the cup flew on her first attempt, and decided to walk away - still talking. Lynchburg to his credit, just chalked up that drink, and decided to call it even.

Of course this is not the end of it - Oh no - that would be far too easy. Ms. Thing decided that in addition to slapping his drink, she should have her boyfriend come over and make Lynchburg buy another drink (yes... I am serious... this actually happened). I can see her in the distance talking to some dude, who proceeds to walk over, and ladies and gentleman, this is where it gets interesting.

As he was talking to Ms. Thing, he was standing to the side, all I could see was a profile, he looked like a normal human being, however as he turned to walk over in our direction, all I could see was the silhouette of Terrible Terry Tate, the Office Linebacker. The pain train is coming - Woo Wooooooooooooo!!! For reasons that should be obvious, I didn't care much for Ms. Thing, but starting a fisticuffs with this mammoth, on Lynchburgs behalf was not an option.

My individual plan was to get a running start, and to crack a chair over his back, and continue sprinting to the door and the car in the parking lot (notice how there is no pause inbetween the chair over the back and my desperate scramble for the door. It is all one seemless event). Solomon and Jalen were contemplating a group effort in throwing a table at him. They may or may not have opted to run away afterwards (my gut instincts tell me they would).

Fortunately, there is some truth to the addage that opposites attract. While Ms. Thing was as nasty as a pitbull in a dress, the boyfriend was calm, cool, and in no rush to have conflict. A big as he was, he could have turned Lynchburg into black mashed potatoes if they had actually fought, but instead he came over and gestured with his hands and said, "Aye, look, I know how my girl is... I know you probably didn't do anything... and it's all cool... so tell you what, take this money" he handed Lynchburg some folded up ones, "and act like you're giving it to me. She'll think I talked to you, that you gave me money for another drink and that'll shut her up... I mean I know how she is... so I'm not even beefing with you at all... you out here trying to have a good time, and so am I. I just want to shut her up". Lynchburg obliged (as if he really had a choice) and handed the man back his money - and the boyfriend left (We learned later that, the boyfriend was actually another proprieter of the club... so it was probably a good thing that I didn't put a chair across his back - I can't see that one working out on the plus side for me)

With disaster avoided, everyone returns back to their activities; for Lynchburg, it's ordering another drink (and this time holding on to it). Much to his chagrin, attention has returned to Mario, who has had his confidence shaken badly after his brief courtship with the "it". So unsure of himself at this point, so paranoid of being swindled by another "he-she" he is now spurning the advances of legitimate women... dime pieces in fact. I will grant you that one of the chicks was somewhat athletic... but in a Serena Williams kind of way, not a "RuPaul" way. Mario would have none of it. Suddenly, every woman in the room now was a transvestite; no exceptions.

"Naw man, look at her shoulders, they're too muscular"
"Her voice is too deep, that's a man"
"Something ain't right about how she's walking, I think she is a he"
"Oh now, see... she's drinking a Heineken... only dudes like Heinekens"

I mean it went from borderline to hard core ridiculous (you see what one bad decision can do to you kids?)

I later bumped into Solomon (literally - because he has had so much to drink he can barely stand up straight). He looked at me, straining to focus, and recognizing me he said, "two sips too many..."

I look at him confused... "What?"

"Two sips too many... those two sips were the ones" he said, stumbling towards the corner sofa (the sofa where the Drink Javelin event had been held previously - with Ms. Thing capturing gold). He just kept repeating it "two sips, two sips" and holding up two fingers. I realize at this point, that there will be no VIP action. I figured within the next 30 minutes Solomon would pass out, and in the 30 minutes that followed he would be "giving it back to the earth" - except in this case it would be all over the carpet of the club. The clock had started.

Mario and Lynchburg are still at the bar strong. I mysef having been under the hot sun all day, am just beat. Knowing that Solomon is going to pass out soon, I take a spot nearby him so he doesn't get robbed - but soon I fall asleep too. I awake when one of the bouncers shook me by my arm laughing as he asked, "Is this your boy?"
Disorientated, I ask "who".

"This guy right here", he said laughing; the other bounces with him were laughing too.

"Yeah, I got him". "Is your boy alive?", he said still laughing. I looked at Solomon, and looked back at the bouncer and said, "ummmm... I don't know... let me see". They bust out laughing. I shake Solomon a few times and he opens up his eyes disorientated - and they laugh some more and walk away. I'm feeling like it's time to go... Solomon is passed out, and Jalen is ready to go to (no, he never danced with anyone that night).

The rule of thumb in drinking (at least one of them) is if the alcohol puts you out, it will also wake you up. And 15 minutes after the bouncers came over, the alcohol summoned Solomon, who woke up and heaved a mighty river on the floor. Clearly it is time to go. Lynchburg and Mario didn't think so... afterall it was only 3:30 a.m. and the club didn't close till 4:00 a.m. My inability to stay awake, Solomon's cookie tossing extravaganza, and Jalen's desire to leave apparently was not a compelling argument for us to leave.

They remained firmly anchored to their seats in the club saying, "just give us 15 more minutes". Huh??? 15 more minutes? Solomon won't be throwing up 15 minutes from now, he is throwing up as we speak. We NEED to GO... NOW.

They didn't budge, "okay let us just get two more drinks..." I look around to find Jalen to take Solomon out to the car - and away from the scene of the crime. 15 minutes actually pass and Lynchburg and Mario still aren't ready to go.

"Yo we gotta roll man," I say. Solomon now has begun to gather his wits and he echos my concerns, "aye yo, man it's time to go". "Alright, hold on we're coming, we're getting one more drink". I respond (with what I can only describe as a growing sense of unhappiness), "dude... no more drinks... let's go... "

"What's your rush man, there' s people still milling around in here"

"Yeah... but they're the cleaning staff. They're waiting for you to leave too. I mean, the lights are up and the music is off... the only thing left to do out here is start pushing a broom... everyone else is in the parking lot looking for their car... It's time to go, let's roll."

Lynchburg and Mario look at each other, and relunctantly extract themselves from the bar - faces wearing a strange look of disappointment... like they were leaving just before the strippers burst through the ceiling, landed on the bar counter, and started getting naked... (and wouldn't Mario have claimed that they were all Transvestites anyway)? What more were they hoping to see? Did they want to watch the drinking glasses as they dried to determine once and for all if Cascade really cleaned your dishes without leaving spots? I mean come on.

We pile into Mario's car, and immediately I and Solomon question the logic in having Mario drive. Yes it was his car, but didn't he just step away from the bar? He insists that he is fine to drive (and again, you know how these blogs go... he isn't). We aren't on the road much longer than 5 minutes before Mario starts having problems. It was at a left hand turn, with an oddly placed median in the road which made it difficult to judge which side of the road was which; I admit this much. I was sober, and I couldn't tell right away, that he was on the wrong side of the road. It took me about 0.72 seconds. Mario took a little bit longer, (as I recall it was a spirited 7 second conversation)

Me: "Aye yo man what are you doing?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye you son, you going the wrong way" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "Naw this is the right direction" Mario keeps driving
Me: "Yeah but we're on the wrong side" Mario keeps driving
Jalen: "Aye man do you see those headlights in front of you?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Yo man pull over, you're on the wrong side of the road" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "I'm trying man" ...but Mario keeps driving
Me: "Aye yo, there's a car coming" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye yo, the car man, the car" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "What you want me to do?" Mario keeps driving

IN UNISON

All: "Pull the f*ck over!!!"

Mario pulls over (finally) after skipping at least 2 drive through exits and entrances where he could have stopped and narrowly avoiding a head on collision. He slumps over the wheel with embarassed disappointment. "Man I was trying to pull over", Mario offered weakly. Sensing a petition to continue driving was forthcoming from Mario, Solomon ended any potential debate... immediately.

Solomon: "Nope, get out the car son"
Mario: "But I'm okay"
Solomon: "Nope, get out" (remember now - this IS Mario's car)
Mario: "I just missed the turn, I'm fine..."
Solomon: "Oh no buddy, you are done"
Mario: "But it's my car..."
Solomon: "And I'm in it... and you are not going to kill me, so get out ... let him drive" he said pointing to me, "He's sober he won't crash your car"
Mario: "I'm good"
Solomon: "No you're not... it ain't no need in even debating it, let's go"

The motion on the floor is to allow Mario to continue driving. Are you ready for the Question? Question! All those in favor of allowing Mario to continue to drive signify by the sound of "Aye". Aye. Those opposed ... NAY!!!. The Nays have it, the motion does not carry.

As relunctantly as he was pried away from the bar, so to was Mario finally relieved of his command of his car. Adding insult to injury was his request from the back seat that we at least stop at the strip club on our way back to the hotel - a request that I ordinarily would have honored but at 4:30 a.m. I figured even strippers need to sleep. I drove past the well lit Strip Club, without even slowing down (not even for the Red Traffic Light).

The chair does not recognize the drunken gentleman in the back of the car. You do not have the floor, you will come to order.

And before you get to thinking that I'm being kind of callous with your boy, remember: This is the same man that, a few hours ago, was getting up close and personal-like with the "man-she" and just recently was ousted out of the driver's seat of his own car for attempt to play Sub-Urban Bumper Cars - any ego damage on this night was self-inflicted.

Award Tour Vol. 21: Do People Really Not Know?

Before I begin, allow me to go back. I was once on a quest to bench 315... that's bench press and that's 315 lbs (for those of you who are somewhat familiar with a gym... probably not a lot of you... but for those that are... that's 3 plates on each side of the barbell which also weighs 45 lbs - and that's a whole lotta liftin'). But with training (sporadic though it was) I was well on my way to hefting that great mass of metal. I was until one day I moved funny.

Yeah I know that doesn't make any sense... but that's the best description I can give - I moved funny and my shoulder didn't like it. It wasn't any large swinging motion, no quick jerk to a halt, in retrospect, I wasn't even lifting weights when it happened. I just moved wrong, the shoulder said, "no way - I'm outta here" and next thing I know I'm doing shoulder circles trying to get the gristle back in the right place (I'm sorry were you eating... too bad, walk it off). These shoulder circles (executed both in large looping arcs and teeny tiny orbits) were successful only in inflaming my shoulder so that it ballooned with fluid, and reduced my mobility by about a factor of 100 or so. There was also some sort of physiological chain reaction, that allowed my injury to migrate from my shoulder to my back. I spent an entire weekend hunched over with my arms pinned to my sides like some melanin fortified Tyrannasaurus Rex struggling to grasp small items in front of him with those ridiculously immobile chicken scratch arms.

The back got better, the shoulder... the shoulder is still injured. Apparently what it was was an AC injury. The AC standing for Acromial Clavicular. Click here and learn something. Never heard of that joint before? Neither had I. If the reading material is going over your head, let me just summarize by saying... this is an important part of your body... don't mess it up... you need it. It makes reaching for things... possible.

I went to go see an orthopedic surgeon (emphasis on surgeon) and he wanted to operate... he didn't say it... but I could kind of discern it by the way he described the options that were available. I could wait it out and take some Ibuprofen and see if it cleared up on it's own, he could send me for an MRI (which he did... and you remember how that turned out don't you?) or he could operate. And while I know the operation wasn't trivial, he made it sound like repairing my shoulder (by eliminating my AC joint altogether) would be as matter of-factly, as scraping the the last little bit of Jiffy out of the Jar to make a peanut butter sandwhich - a bit anti-climatic. Can it be that it was all so simple?

Anyway, that was then, now is now. The back has come back 100%, the shoulder is still out on leave - but I'll live. So I'm tooling around the house, and I do it again. Nothing conspicuous, nothing grandiose, nothing spectacular... I just moved funny and bam that's it... the right shoulder has now joined the Myseriously Induced AC injury party. Again, I thought I had just popped something out of place... but no... it's the exact same M.O. as last time. I'll pass on the shoulder inflaming circles I performed in the past... this time I'll just take it easy.

With my mobility curtailed once again (and lucky me, this happens 4th of July weekend - so rather than get off of work due to an injury... I have my vacation time to lurch about the premesis... who could ask for anything more?) I decide a movie might not be such a bad idea - War of the Worlds just came out, and I think it'll be interesting, so I gather up my stuff to run my errands so I can go see it later. As I'm about to pull out the driveway, a young girl (who lives in the same complex as me... I know this because several times she and her boyfriend have tried to flag me down to come to their car wash - which I ignored as often as they did it) walks over and asks if I have a lighter.

She asks this question because in her words, she's in some trouble and she needs to smoke... let me repeat that for effect. She's in trouble... and therefore, she doesn't need help, she doesn't need the authorities, she doesn't even need a ride... she needs a smoke. Is this NOT the beginnings of a porn movie? No? Perhaps not - maybe that's me projecting. Either way - this conversation is surreal.

I look at her like she's crazy, and finally after what had to be an awkward silence for her I explained that I don't smoke and put the car in gear... she then says that she and her boyfriend were hungry... ***Wait a minute... I thought they were in trouble... a second ago that's what she said... that they were in trouble... now they're hungry..? Where'd that come from. Is this from the Beginners Guidebook to the Art of Flim Flam?***So now, this girl, who couldn't be any older than 15, steps closer to the car... and then I noticed that she was waif-like all over her body, I mean skinny to the point where bones are poking through skin - yuck - everywhere except in her chest.

Top heavy barely describes it... these things were like ballasts, they were barely held captive by her shirt. And now she's trying to put them all up in my face (which ordinarily would be a great thing, but like I said... 15 at best... no R. Kelly DVDs starring me thank you very much). If you are street smart, if you know Flim Flam when you see it, or even if you just saw Jurassic park... you're like me thinking this is a set up... send the bait one direction to distract you from the attack coming from the other. So I begin looking to the right, and I see her boyfriend, walking up (he's a good ways off - I mean way off - so if it was a setup it was quite possibly the worst timed and poorly coordinated scam ever executed this side of the Missisippi). So I say to the girl, let's call her Ms. Chesty, that I don't have any cigarettes, but if she's hungry I'll buy her and her boy a cheeseburger... which seemed to genuinely surprise her. She asked how would we meet up, and I said, I was going to the post office, and I'd be back in 15 minutes. She smiled and skipped off towards her boyfriend (which I imagine probably hurt a little bit to do... don't blame me, blame physics)

As I drove to the post office, I thought I will be really hot, if I go and buy these cheeseburgers, and come back and they not be there. So of course... what happens? I buy two double quarter pounders, drive back... and they are not there. I drive up and down the neighborhood, through cross streets, and cross roads (I even found a back entrance to my apartment complex in the process). I found everything but the two kids. So what does the man who is on a breadless diet do? He eats the double quarter pounders himself... yes... both of them. Anger fueled my hunger.

So now it's time to go see War of the Worlds. After much searching I finally find a parking space, go inside, get my ticket and get in the theatre early so I could get the seat that I wanted. Right smack dab in the middle. I am bracketed by one friendly chick with a distinctly Bohemian flair, who was a self-professed scaredy cat, and on my right a couple, destined to be the next Star Jones and Al Reynolds or Terry McMillan and Johnathan Plummer. The dude was so obviously gay she couldn't have missed it - but apparently she had. I thought his repeated claims of seeing Shemar Moore being flashed on the screen were probably sufficient evidence (it was actually a picture of Chad Michael Murray ...how do these two dudes look anything alike? They're not even the same color - maybe he just WANTED to see Shemar Moore). Compound this with the fact that ol' boy came in wearing ripped jeans (what straight dude you know that does that anymore?) Those are dead giveaways I would think. But maybe not. Maybe she just doesn't see it. (I guess if he gets to see Shemar when he looks at a young white guy, she has the right to see a straight man while looking at him - gotta have balance).

Anyway... the movie begins, and I won't give any of it away (not that there's much to give away... but I'll get back to that too), but I did notice that Spielberg put his finger print on this movie in an interesting way. I was a bit annoyed by each of the characters taking turns "wigging out" during the scenes, but it was an entertaining movie despite the fact that the AC - (the air conditioner not my shoulder) went out. I will say this about the movie, since it was based on a classic by H.G. Wells, which has already been redone more than once... you wonder what Spielberg could have up his sleeve and what he could possibly do to make the movie intersting (pay attention now... this is the pinnacle of this blog installment) At the end of the movie, when the alien machines begin to topple and fall... the girl next to me (who indicated that she was 25 years old) says, "I don't get it... what happened... why are they falling"?

Maybe it's me - but failing to understand why the machines are failing in "War of the Worlds" is like wondering out loud, "hey why is that Green Stuff making Superman weak"? As many times at it's been remade, do people really not know how the story ends?