Wednesday, January 19, 2011

You don't like War? Well, bleep you!

So I’m talking to Charby about the news of the day. After we determine that the world would be a far, far better place if everybody were to think like me, I propose that the problem with the fundamentalist freak show has less to do with Jesus and more to do with tribalism. Show of hands time: How many of you have been actively proselytized? What the f*ck? Do the born againers get coupons at the Church of WWJD for bringing newbies in?

They’re not the only ones. Unions, at least here in the Capitol City, would love to see the end of the small bidnessman vis a vis bodyshopper (re: me!). The local membership of Communist working party yearn to have me as a member (victim). My church is always asking for new parishoners (historic st mary’s – check it out some Sunday. Admission is free). Planet Fitness would love to have me (and you) but we grunt.

I guess that’s why I liked the community here. We had at least one thing in common. On the face of it, it wasn’t booze but time and place. If I cracked and called one of my former classmates a communist, he knew I meant it in the best, nicest way. Suppose you support legal hemp farming and I didn’t, there was still something bigger keeping us together. Say it loud and proud folks: Keveny, Cohoes, turn of the eighties! Hoo-rah! Three cheers for commonality mofos!

So the next time you’re ready to tear into some rabid left (right) winger going on about gun rights (control), think to yourself: What would KC do?

That’s right, the only solution is to put an arm around the f*cker and start singing.

As a totally unrelated aside, my keen detective sense kicked in and figured out who the hell my fan in TexASS is. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Matt Ducatt of Texas Tech, formerly of the hill. Go check him, here or on Facebook.

Me? I will be throttling a disagreeing and disagreeable coworker.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

How to Be Awesome Part I: Make Your Kid’s Soccer Team Awesome

Let’s cut right to the chase: As your child’s recreation league soccer, your responsibilities are:

1.) Make sure there is a snack. Don’t scoff. Very important. Every activity that gains and retains your child’s interest includes a snack. No crappy soy based snacks either. Best snacks have sugar, fats, and salt (or a combination of the three).

Get the snack assignments out of the way before the season begins. Parents are happy to stop off at the grocery store and pick something up. Set up a schedule. Stick to the schedule.
If, on the off chance, this week’s snack parent fails to buy or show, you, as the coach, must be prepare to solve this problem. I always have a supplemental snack in the trunk of the car for just such occurrences. I need it every season. Remember the watchword is “snack.” And “prepared.”
2.) Exercise. The children may bring chairs, blankets, mats, whatever however, they will not be using them. Recreation League is a misnomer. The child is here to air himself out. Her one-hour foray into awesomeness will consist of:
a. 5 minutes on some soccer drill
b. 5 minutes on a competitive drill where the drill involves running and losing involves pushups.
c. The game.

You might not believe me but I never jest about pushups. They are very important. One other
important note: coach needs to be kind of fit so he can demonstrate good sprinting and pushup practice.

3.) Everybody plays. This means you autism boy. I don’t give a shat if you go out there and run laps for twenty minutes. You (or your parents) signed you up. You did not come here to sit on the sideline. Get out there and get them.

You think I’m mean. You think I make light of developmental issues. Well, I might, but I’m not doing that here. For two years running, I got Stevie who suffers from autism or Aspbergers or some crazy ass disease. That little sonofa (tyke) was dragged (by me) for various kickoffs, throw ins, and general soccer activities. When I became distracted, he might run about the field with no apparent direction or purpose. That is until I chased him yelling “Get the ball Stevie! Get the ball! The ball! The ball! Get! The! Ball! “

He scored in the second year. That is success. I now have another disciple in the “Rules of Awesomeness.” If you doubt me, feel free to contact my daughter.

4.) We play to win. Again, I don’t cotton to those awesomeness lackers who would tell us that a score should not be kept. They are living in some fantasy world where they think they can pull the wool over the kids’ eyes. They are mistaken. The kids keep score. They equate losing with being ineffectual and lame. As the coach do what you can to get that win. That is without breaking rule 2. If you are currently lacking in awesomeness, here is a mnemonic phrase to help: “Everyone plays to win!”

For example, my best player this past season also played for the SERIOUS soccer program. For our team’s purposes, that meant he needed to spend a great deal of time in goal. There was that rare occasion, where our team of heart breakers and widow-makers might be losing. My response, in keeping with rule three, was to play without a goalie (this is rec league – NO RULES!). My extra man (AKA my best player) would help us even the score and return to his post.

Some slacker actually called me on it. I knew he was awesomeness deficient because he had rain gear on and a stop watch (because don’t you know if we don’t finish the game right on time we might miss our tee time). When he asked what I was doing, I told him “Teaching winning.” I don’t think he agreed with my awesome philosophy, but then again his kids were using their hands (and not just on the ball either).

Final word on winning. Don’t be confused. Failure to win does not make you a loser. Not trying to win makes you a loser, a slacker, and, by definition, non-awesome.

Now get out there and be fugging awesome, for the love of God.
Bet you thought this was going to be about you. Sorry.

I do however, have some notes for those interested.
1.) Got hits from France. More than one. Don’t know who it was. Just thought it was rad.
2.) Someone uses their Playstation to surf the web. And get here. I’m not throwing stones, just reporting.
3.) Turk sighting. No email. Sorry.
4.) Texas contact. I know who it is. Maybe you do too. But I’m not much in the mood for calling people out, so I will let this one be. This policy will probably change.
5.) Couldn't fit all the labels I wanted for this post. Here's the rest: edwards, cornell, crogan, frangie, kluz, doremus, cashin, coulombe, waterman, tremblay, borden, johnson, maloney, mcElligott, flinton, keefe, lester, roy, fortin, rogers, clements, fleury, foster, mcGivern, dugan, roberts, abbott, dingley, muller, guzy, heins, campbell,decker, winner, lewis, napolitano ,prediger, franklin, seeberger, benardo, finn, bania, carboni, murray, wandell, bulmer, parker, maron, owens,costello, charbonneau, fisher, barr, gratton, pontore, esposito,iachetta, cote, breton, conroy, grego, hack

Friday, December 24, 2010

Merry Christmas -More Holiday Fiction to Make You Cry

The day will come when God will render his judgement. I’m not pining for that day. I despair over the things I’ve done. But I hold fast to a few good things I’ve done. Given enough years, it’s bound to happen right? When St. Peter asks “Why should I let you in?,”

“Hey man, one year I saved Christmas.”

It was cold, dark, and fucking stormy Christmas Eve in Cohoes. Since I got Turkey Day off a few weeks back, I was stuck closing the bar that night. Don’t be sad, it’s all right. I have no family, no girl, no ambition except my rope habit.

I leaned on the service bar with a foot on a beer cooler, wallowing in my lonely sobriety, waiting for a customer. Watching the snow blow, I played a game in my head. Winner would be the next person through that door. Chances were, that would be me. Bored I grabbed for the tv remote so I could at least pretend to have some company. Hunh, Yule Log won’t do the trick.

Times like these, when I figure no one is here, no one is coming, that my idle mind turns to crimes. Ronny took the deposits with him tonight but that wouldn’t stop me from emptying the register, taking a bottle, and heading home. After Christmas, I could tell Ron that I got rolled. It’s not that much money anyways, just enough to change a hundred. Probably, Ron would be more upset about the missing booze. My imagined perpetrator had expensive taste, much like me. Before I plans caught any steam, I was stopped short by a grimy, smelly, and drunk Santa Claus.

He wasn’t fat but he was as tall as Santa. He didn’t bellow “Ho,ho,ho!” but he was loud enough. With the blast of wind he let in when he entered, there was no guesswork about the smell. Yes Virginia, Santa smells like a mix of booze, puke, and deli meat. His face was slack. Plenty of alcohol relaxed more than his tongue. It looked like his face was melting a little. His cap was relaxing a little bit too. It kept slipping down the front of his head, getting in his eyes. His finally removed it, staggered over to a stool at the middle of the bar, and tried to sit down. Success took three tries.

Oh hell, here we go…

“Barkeep! Barkeep! Merry Christmas to you and yours! How about setting me up with a beer and a shot of jack?” This was not a question. He barked like someone’s first wife or something.

“Don’t you think you had enough buddy? I bet you someone is waiting for you at home. Merry Christmas man.”

He got all froggy on me. “Don’t ever tell a Navy man he’s had enough! Why when I was your age, I was no genius but I knew enough to keep my frigging mouth shut and do what I was told. Pour me a drink! ”

“Umm, no.”

“Sonuva-, you know what? You’re getting coal tonight, you miserable mother- “(I can’t write down the rest of speech as there might be some believers out there that would be offended to hear ol’ St. Nick go off).

I felt the need to steer Santa off track for a few minutes until I could find a cop or something to bring his scrawny ass home. “Hey Santa, aren’t you late for an appointment or something? I think I heard some kids crying in Maine or something. Is there some elves or reindeer to get you back on your route?” Judging by the old dude’s face, my plan failed.

“What do you care? We’re you good this year? Let me check my list.“ The stinky man had a piece of paper in his pocket. He gave it a little look, turned to me, and said, “it says here you’re a rotten mother-“ (again I left out the swear parts).

“All right. That’s enough. You had your fun. Do you want me to call the cops or you going to leave peaceably?” I can’t do this all night. It might sound funny now but in the heat of the moment you just want work to be drama-free. I was better off without my visit from St. Nick. If he didn’t leave now, I would be speed dialing 911.

He gave me a look and a burp. Then he turned in his chair. He knocked it over when he got up of course. He practically crawled out the door into the storm. Never to be seen again I hoped.
Not the kind of guy to pass up golden opportunities, I locked the door behind Kris Kringle. If Ron calls, I’ll listen to his complaints next week. There was no good to be gained by staying open. Now if the phone doesn’t ring while I go see a man about a horse, I will be a rumor in two minutes.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear upon my return? Some glass about the door, now open. As was the cash register and all the bills were gone. Wonderful! I would grab a shot of bourbon before I called the cops but my cat burglar took the Jack Daniels too.

Well, at least I know who did it. And that he couldn’t get very far.

Hearing Ronny’s “What! What! WHAT!” ringing in my head, I did what I could to secure the dump and headed out the door. It was snowing and blowing, but I could still see the straw man’s footprints. If I couldn’t catch a drunken, miserable, old slob in a snowstorm, I deserved whatever Ronny dished out. I walked up Ontario Street, to Park and followed his prints.
Before I reached Rennselaer Ave, I found my Christmas miracle. Santa Claus was sitting in a snow bank. He wasn’t moving; I knew he was passed out before I reached him. Snow was already piling up his wet pants. His beard was stiff from the cold, snow, and booze, which, of course, smelled like he poured the bottle on himself. I kicked the old man’s boot.

“Hey Otis! Time to get up and give me my money back!”

Aside from the “Unh. Fug Yule,” there was no sign of life. I kicked him a little harder. He tossed a bit in his snow bed. Turning to me, eyes closed, he mumbled, “Hey Jimmy! Look what Daddy got you for Christmas!”

I had to rouse this guy. “Hey man! My money! C’mon.”

“Ooooohh.” With a finger to his nose and a turn of his cheek, he puked into the gutter. After that exertion, he lay on his belly. I knew I couldn’t leave the bar untended much longer, so I went through the bum’s pockets, carefully, very carefully. I found the money easy enough. It was in his right pocket. I searched the other pocket for his wallet. Finding that might make it easier for the cops. Inside was his cash-free Velcro number. Inside that was an id and a paystub. Shockingly that the guy had a job. Might explain the Santa outfit.

There was one other thing. When I pulled it out, it made me wish I had given him a drink and a ride home.

It was a DS. It was a freaking video game. For a kid. In its original packaging.

I wondered if he bought it.

I wondered if I could work a little Christmas miracle.

Pot smoker I might be, I really had no idea how good my stamina was. I tried getting St. Nick oh his feet so he could stagger back to the bar with me. That worked until we collapsed at Breslin and I nearly vomited on Santa. I dragged him by the ankles for the last two blocks When we got back to the bar, I propped him up in a chair, wiped his chin and beard, and tossed chunks in the men’s room.

I called his home and by God, his old lady was still awake, all worried about him. I told him where he was and that I would wait. She didn’t break my ass getting there either. I waited maybe 15 minutes. She apologized and asked about the damage. I told her not to worry about it. I was already concocting a lie for Ronny. Mrs. Claus poured her husband into their ride and they took off into the night. I never saw them again.

There was some plywood in the basement. Not the most handy man around, I had a hell of a time blocking the door. By one in the morning, I was set to enjoy some Christmas in solitary with my friend Mary Jane. The holiday and that night’s events got me thinking though. About how we work so hard to screw things up. About how Santa should spending less time under a bottle and more time giving away Nintendos. About how I should blaze away less and more time doing something, anything.

I wish I could tell you what happens afterwards. Best I can do is tell you I’m doing the best I can. I hope that’s good enough. Anyways, I might have it all trumped. I saved Santa Claus man. I may have saved his life. I definitely saved his kid’s present. Saved Mrs. Claus some aggravation for sure. God surely can’t cut me down now.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Lucky 200th

Check out the latest from Dawn McGelligott. She produced a film of the first few pages of her script called "The Fool of Muncaster."

Perhaps after watching the video, you have a question or comment for Dawn.

Feel free to use the links at your left. Go ahead, congratulate her.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Ginny Woolfe, Eighth Floor Fire Warden

An announcement heralding a general fire drill reminds me of my first day at the office. My supervisor, Catherine, echoed my mother, telling me to get down the stairs as fast as possible without injuring myrself or anyone else for that matter. I flew down the battleship grey stairs as if I were a winged angel. Transporting to the seventh floor, my first escape is impeded by a flood of people, one of whom is my ex-lover Gary, father of the beautiful child. I watch myself, rocking her to sleep in her Elmo onesie; she too, dreams of flying and being flown. She told me so before we went to the hospital, nothing serious, she fell and cut her chin. The surgeon stopped the bleeding then told me that the scar would whiten, lessen, but never disappear. My beautiful child is grotesque!!! Oh no, who will my child ever marry? She will never experience the joy of motherhood or loverhood she is bereft of the sisterhood of motherhood, hopefully she could carry on in love of God or the sick, at a convent or a hospital, recalling the grace and injury when she last visited.

In my orange vest, I grab my flashlight and head for the rest room where once we caught Raphael, dressed matronly and smoking a Virgina Slims, “you’ve come a long way baby,” hiding there waiting for the drill to finish. I asked him, half in mirth, half in solemnity, if he was lost and he told me that in his native Venezuela, people dress androgynously all the time, it was no big deal. In any event, I told him he needed to head for the street as this may not be a drill and I would hate to have to finish his Extract-Translate-Load program for him. He looked at me suspiciously and marched out of the ladies only to be spotted by Dennis a suspected homophobe. The laughter is cacophonous and I rush the stairs like I did when I was child in the meadow, running amongst wildflowers and wheat. Feeling a little like Melissa Sue Gilbert, pre Rob Lowe of course, running legs akimbo and hoping not to fall, if I fell somehow I’d be blind like my pseudo-sister Melissa Sue Anderson all Swedish and beautiful. I wonder where she is now? Probably a grandmother by now, pumping pink cheeked and chubby babies for a decade and a half, she’s now tired and wants to visit children in someone else’s house that way she can go home when she wants and watch reruns of herself on the Love Boat when she wants, watch and dream, watch and dream, watch and dream. Someday, when she has four generations of Andersons sitting at the table she helped her husband Lars build in the double wide trailer on the prarie, she’ll tell them all how she is disappointed, that her life took a wrong turn after 1980, she was bound for so much more and isn’t it terrible that she is burdened and burdening and they should just end the misery now. Even as she thought this, Melissa contemplated worlds where James Joyce stops mid-sentence asking himself “What the hell was I talking about?” Ginny stopped blinking and mechanically somnambulated down to second floor fire exit, pining for a day when she could smoke again. Blowing rings at her father she tells him she’s changing her major, this time to applied art, could she borrow another thirty thousand dollars. He tells her that they’ll be building igloos in infernal places before he pumps another dime into the “University of Woodstock” she needs to go out and get a job and…

I could go on like this all day. But I know you have other things to do.

So go do ‘em.

Monday, May 4, 2009

This Post Called on Account of Time

Man, it’s already 2:30 PM and I haven’t posted yet.

And we all know, there ain’t no way I’m posting from home.

Todo List for May 3, 2009

Dinner: Cook and Eat
Kids: Wash then beat
Softball: Pictures at six
Scooby Doo: Until I can’t take it.
Homework: First Graders do Calculus, Daddy struggles with integration for the second time this decade.
9:00 PM: Throw kids in their respective rooms, lock doors, hide ‘til morning

So, what’s a guy to fill his blog with?

I got it!

A man with a parrot on his shoulder walks into a bar…

Dammit! Out of time!

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Salute the Thumb

After a perfectly dreadful day at salt mine, the wife asked me how things went. I responded, as per my style, with two raised thumbs and an overzealous “Awesome.” For a moment I was dumbstruck by the origin and evolution of my reaction.

First let’s not forget this guy. He and his bald headed buddy started it.

It soon migrated to other celebrities.

And douches who marry celebrities

Then on to celebrities I don’s know.

The ensuing years, saw a work place migration.

You’re not even safe in your home.

Even the entitled aren’t immune

Some people herald that “thumb’s up” is officially passé.

Stage Four Social Cancer is achieved when the thumb signal goes international.

As a post, I grade today’s installment as