Fart Count from 8-10PM

Tonight I'll be counting the number of times my dad farts along with the length of time for the longest fart. Please trust in my work. The man farts prodigiously. It astounds me and I pray it is not genetic.

From 8 until 10 PM I will count his farts like a survivor counting the blasts from a basement in Dresden... I do this for you.

jb

Prune Juice and Dog Poop

Did the dog poop?

Did the dog poop?

Did the dog poop?

I hear it over and over, incessantly. Every time I take the dog outside my parents want a full report on whether the dog took a dump. God forbid he doesn't dump I get instructed on how to to create a more 'poo-friendly' environment for the little guy. So I've begun responding with a 'yes' regardless of the dog's performance. But I think they're starting to get suspicious. They must think he dumps at least 5 times a day, but it's a loaded count. Sometimes my uncle takes care of the dog. On those occasions he leaves notes that reads: 'pee no poop' or 'poop and pee'. The imperative nature of knowing the status of the dog's bowl patterns seems strange to me. I have to wonder if there isn't a spreadsheet somewhere on their computer called Howie (the dog) Poop Regulation, where they chart the frequency of the dog dumps for quarterly analysis.

It wouldn't bother me so much if Howie could talk. But, without a voice he is unable to communicate or argue with them. I'm not sure he would anyway. He seems lazy and uninterested. Therefore I am the voice of doo doo for the dog. I dub myself, Dog Poop Whisperer.

This is an example of a quarterly review where my parents are hovering above a spreadsheet analyzing the data:

Jane: Last quarter poop decreased by 13%.
Joe: What can we do to increase poop-i-tude? What's wrong?!
Jane: Maybe we should hire a consultant.

I feel bad for the dog being scrutinized during his private moments. Sometimes I find some prunes (frickin gross) on the stove in a small pot. On those occasions I may start asking my mom if she pooped. Maybe she'll begin to understand how the dog and I feel.

(Editors note: Of course I have problems with the use of the word Poop and Pee-Pee by adults. I am doing my best to offer an unbiased, 3rd party perspective of the situation.)

drink, drank, drunk

I've been drinking more recently. I blame it on my parents. Unlike most 33 year old progeny who direct blame at their ripened counterparts, I have reason and right. If you doubt me, you shouldn't. You will be wrong upon reading the following sentences. Think about the last time you spent time with your parents. Did the thought, in any form, 'I could use a drink', ever cross you mind?

A beer might taste good right now?

I sure do like vodka?

A Camelback with tequila sure would go with these shoes?

The only acceptable answer is 'Yes'. If you say otherwise you are a liar. If you are not a liar, you must have one of those unnatural, my-parent-is-my-buddy relationships that defy nature and we could never be friends so I don't care. In fact, parental loathing is a common trait in nature. The back story on that diseased monkey from the movie Outbreak (95, Wolfgang Peterson) is quite interesting. One day, after monkey school, the OB Monkey had gotten into a verbal scuffle with his dad-monkey, who, as a result, had thrown some scat toward his branch. Luckily it didn't hit him but the OB Monkey jetted the jungle anyway, did the good thing with a bad monkey, became OB, and to make a long story short caused millions of human deaths and Dustin Hoffman's dismissal from the SAG.

So we've established that we all think that very thought during parental visits. Now do the math. Multiply the seconds by the minutes by the hours by the days by the months and when you connect the dots on the page they form the picture of a frickin drunk bum named Me. But really, this is a copious amount of booze and one crazy guy sitting at the bottom of the bottle. I currently store a pint of whiskey in my bedroom just so I can get through the morning conversations before my peaceful shower. I built a sub-drawer underneath the upper drawer of my dresser. If you are underage and you want the design, please contact me via email and I'll send over the CAD drawings. I'm drunk right now so please wait until morning... afternoon please. I pour Bailey's in my Cheerios. It's the only way I can look in the mirror and smile anymore.

Being a smartie, you know I say this in jest. My parents don't actually make me drink. They make me think about drinking. And after thinking about drinking for a long time I have a drink. So it's on my back. Don't blame my mom and dad for my liver problems, blame the thoughts that they cause.

Damn The Enablers.

jb

Hilarious

The other night my mom was in a horrible mood and verbally assaulted me upon walking into the house. My first reaction was to rifle back a few shots in her direction but just before I opened my mouth I watched my dad slide across the vinyl floor behind her, Cramer-style, waving his arms while mouthing the word 'NO!'. I started laughing and backed off. My mom thought I was laughing at her and raised the temperature of the fire and the diatribe continued.

Having no choice I retired to my room and threw Jane's Addiction into the tape player and let it rip. That'll show her. I'm going to be a famous one day!! Wahhhhhhh!!!

drink, drank drunk

I've been drinking more recently. I blame it on my parents. Unlike most 33 year old progeny who direct blame at their ripened counterparts, I have reason and right. If you doubt me, you shouldn't. You will be wrong upon reading the following sentences. Think about the last time you spent time with your parents. Did the thought, in any form, 'I could use a drink', ever cross you mind?

A beer might taste good right now?

I sure do like vodka?

A Camelback with tequila sure would go with these shoes?

The only acceptable answer is 'Yes'. If you say otherwise you are a liar. If you are not a liar, you must have one of those unnatural, my-parent-is-my-buddy relationships that defy nature and we could never be friends so I don't care. In fact, parental loathing is a common trait in nature. The back story on that diseased monkey from the movie Outbreak (95, Wolfgang Peterson) is quite interesting. One day, after monkey school, the OB Monkey had gotten into a verbal scuffle with his dad-monkey, who, as a result, had thrown some scat toward his branch. Luckily it didn't hit him but the OB Monkey jetted the jungle anyway, did the good thing with a bad monkey, became OB, and to make a long story short caused millions of human deaths and Dustin Hoffman's dismissal from the SAG.

So we've established that we all think that very thought during parental visits. Now do the math. Multiply the seconds by the minutes by the hours by the days by the months and when you connect the dots on the page they form the picture of a frickin drunk bum named Me. But really, this is a copious amount of booze and one crazy guy sitting at the bottom of the bottle. I currently store a pint of whiskey in my bedroom just so I can get through the morning conversations before my peaceful shower. I built a sub-drawer underneath the upper drawer of my dresser. If you are underage and you want the design, please contact me via email and I'll send over the CAD drawings. I'm drunk right now so please wait until morning... afternoon please. I pour Bailey's in my Cheerios. It's the only way I can look in the mirror and smile anymore.

Being a smartie, you know I say this in jest. My parents don't actually make me drink. They make me think about drinking. And after thinking about drinking for a long time I have a drink. So it's on my back. Don't blame my mom and dad for my liver problems, blame the thoughts that they cause.

Damn The Enablers.

jb

What the dog is doing...

The dog gives himself oral pleasure all day. More often than not, you'll find his mouth wrapped around his red rocket taking care of business. He seems to love it. I wonder why? I guess it's a

I love God. I really do.

God gave me a hangover the day after my high school reunion. He had tested me and I failed. He threw the kitchen sink at me and I broke down laughing. Drugs, sex, depression, gambling, failure, misery and I hadn’t even gotten past the front door. C’mon, Big Guy! He gets to make kids retarded and I can’t laugh at the people inflicting retardation on them? Seems a square deal.

So, thanks to God’s decision to give me a hangover, I feel that I have every right to highlight my night’s experiences in detail including names and life story. But because I am an intelligent person I realize that my anger is between his holiness and myself. The good people of Brighton High School have nothing to do with this mess therefore I will use rhyming substitutes:

Beffanie Birby- Beffanie traveled in a killer trifecta including Pandy Pliers and Sven Prank, the most verbose of the trio. Sven came out swinging and I was defenseless, she didn’t give me a chance having responded to 'How are ya?' with a train-wreck-of-a-tale. How can you defend against the uppercut: her husband (another esteemed Brighton graduate) had taken out thousands of dollars of gambling debt in her name. Body blow: he proceeded to take out $5k more for good measure after they mended their wounds from the uppercut. Knock Out: She’s six months pregnant. Pandy was a pleasant enough conversationalist until she began talking about her failed attempt at an acting career in NYC. The delivery was long, dry and was lacking humanity. No wonder the Broadway Crowd didn’t buy it. But Beffanie was just as nice as in high school. Looks like she just fell in with the wrong crowd. That'll learn ya, Birby.

Mackie VacClain: She still eats at Mama Nuccio’s pizzeria? I hadn’t heard anyone refer to that place in a decade. It's likely that she plays a game of three of Kung Fu master while waiting for her pie to finish. In her defense it's only when her fat husband comes to town.

Framien Nomeo: He enjoyed throttling innocent people in high school as he does today. Yes, today he’s a cop. Surprised? This is exactly what he said 'Yo. Me cop now. Me surprise you? Freeze!' He's huge and scares me so I froze and wept.

Migs: Although this is his real nickname I’m not worried. I am positive he can’t read. Blaspheming the word ‘entrepreneur’, this guy wore a train conductor’s hat and was hopped up on goofballs the entire night ranting about just getting off his shift. If having your own section at the Denny's makes you an entrepreneur, then I was Mark Cuban in high school (hi Mags).

Goey Wallagher: After having taken 2 bong hits every day of his life from high school through college, (editor’s note: Goey didn’t go to college) he really dug in dhis heels, looked inside and stepped up to bat. Today he’s up to 5 bong hits daily before going to his shift at Bennigans.

Pooter: If your name was Pooter you’d have a chip on your shoulder, too. Although his name actually only rhymes with Pooter, it’s just as bad. ‘Hey Thor, Pooter and Brucie are coming over for martinis!’. Get the picture? The solution: lifting weights, tattoos and bartending. Smiles not included.

Mave Stingram: you really have no choice but to feel bad for this guy. After dumping his 'stank ho wife' (his words) of six whole months he was connived into working out with some ‘UFC’ fighters only to find out a month later, when he emerged from his depression, that he was a towel boy at a local bath house. He had no memory of the preceding 24, doo-doo filled days. Ewwww.

Rames Snooch: 33 and lives with his mom. Loser.

Derek Hoop: Drum roll, please. Silence. This is the fantastic stuff. Having spent 17 years smoking weed, drinking booze and blowing lines with out sleeping, this chubby Robert Downey Jr. proclaimed his sobriety in true style… while sipping a Seagrams 7 and 7. 'Clean, not sober' he said. He interjected occasionally to describe how terribly messed up he had been and luckily only fell off the wagon once in seven months. Maybe his drink was in celebration and symbol of seven months of almost being sober!

Shine on you crazy diamond! I have risen like a Phoenix, looking downward into the gullies and canyons of the lives of Brighton High.

So take that God. You 15,000,231. Me 1. But I’m on the board!!

High Technology

The other day I was walking into the condo, having parked my ride in the lot after going to a meeting and picking up a sandwich at the local deli. Having not eaten for awhile I was an extremely hungry guy. I cut a b-line towards the walkway that lead to my parent's front door when I saw ol'-Alice smoking a butt on her porch. 'No cause for alarm' I thought, 'It's just good ol' Alice'.

'Hey Alice.'

'Hey Jamie'

Ol' Alice lives at the front of the building, facing the parking lot and is often outside smoking a cigarette. Probably some thin, long, 1920's prohibition-type, speak easy smokes. Her constant watch over the Pelican provides old, chubby hawk-like protection. She knows all. She single-handedly ruins my chances each weekend of throwing a Pelican-wide rocker ala Jeremy Piven in PCU.

After Alice said Hello I noticed the back of an old head toward the corner of the porch and it slowly creeked around and called my name. It was the nice, little, old lady, Trudy, who lives in the condo opposite Ol' Alice's so that, together, they form guard posts on either side of the walkway into my parents casa. Like two feeble, old lionesses. Little Ol' Trudy said 'Jamie I need your help'. So I asked her how I could help. Curiosity owned me by this point and I watched my delicious sandwich fading away into the distance:

Trudy: You are a computer expert, right?

I was not. Not by IT standards and not by anyone whose graduated from using a Commodore 64. So, yes, I have a lap top. But, no, this does not make me an expert.

Wondering where this could lead I asked 'Well, what do you need?', knowing there was no chance in hell she could ask something that I couldn't solve. 'I know about computers' I rambled. For no reason, I felt it my duty to impress Ol' Trudy with the depth of my IT knowledge. I could've gone into a dissertation about how I'm not a computer expert but know a little about computers but I figured there was little chance she could ask anything to discover my fraudulent implication. And according to Einstein, position and speed are relative to the observer. So for the intent of this conversation I was a screaming comet booming across Trudy's nose as she stood motionless on the porch.

'I'm having trouble with my TV' she said.

'TV? I thought you said computers? What do you need, lady? And at what point do you make the distinction between machine and computer? Stainless steel toaster oven? Welcome to the digital age, Silver Fox.' I thought.

'I can't turn it on.' she said.

'Uh?' I was mumbling. Old lady's don't know about the red button?

'My daughter said I have to press 4 and it should work. But it's not working. I press 4 and it doesn't work. My dog jumped up and changed the channel two nights ago and now it doesn't work. I press 4 and nothing happens.'

Ignoring my hunger and having already dug myself in too deep by professing my IT street-cred to Ol' Trudy, I committed myself to solving her TV conundrum while practically insuring my entrance into heaven. And, one day I could be in the same position, curious why my Flux Capacitor had quit Fluxing, in need of some consult. So I took a walk with her into her condo bedroom, where the TV was located. I thought about how, one day, if I make it to 80 years old, this very walk could be the start of a sexy, 'old man, good time' story that I leak out to the other old dudes at the weekly Bocci Ball match. After puking in my mouth a little bit, pondering just seconds too long on this wrinkle ridden storyline, I was struck by how old my parents are NOT. They are not as old as Trudy. In her condo there we're things for which you may need an Old Bitty license to possess. There we're throngs ornate pictures, gardens of beads and a ubiquitous, musty old lady scent. There were drink glasses smaller than my parents already miniscule drink glasses. There were pictures of kids who had kids whose kids had kids that we're now trying to get pregnant. My parents had not yet hit this kind of old age. Although they had trouble working their remote controls, their house still smelled of fresh humanity. So this means my parents could have years ahead of them... many interesting years by my guess.

Another thought entered my brain. When my generation reaches their Golden Years, 'Old Lady' aesthetic taste will not be what it is today. Old people taste changes with the times and trends. Unlike an actual physical Old Lady, the 'Old Lady' style is a roving target. I theorize that Old lady houses in 2057 will probably look like much Ikea, West Elm or Pottery Barn showrooms of today. And the young whipper-snappers of tomorrow will joke about our Krelja shelves and Derstuh couches and over-sized bean bag chairs. Old lady styles will have become more complex and splintered thanks to the marketing genius of a handful of today's mass-market, contemporary furniture designers. Maybe they should work on infusing some anti-granny-stink chemical into all of their textiles while they're at it.

I realized that Trudy's cable box was already on once I took a gnader. So I assumed the problem probably lived with the TV. I flipped on the TV meanwhile Trudy was talking away about the number four and something else about her dog's collar or gold coated something... So I pressed 0 then pressed 4. Immediately the TV popped on. Trudy cheered. I explained to her why it worked (pressing 4 instead of 0-4) but she glazed over as the words drifted off into the ether. She graciously thanked me and offered that 'maybe she could do me a favor one day', just like the Godfather. I pictured a Tiny Old Lady version of Marlon Brando rubbing her cheek, mumbling those words and how she could impose her own brand of fear into the underworld.

And as I took that first bite into my delicious sandwich, I felt the presence of an angel as God granted me entrance into heaven. Being surrounded by a gaggle of gray hairs does have its benefits.

There they go. Here I am.

It is 8:02PM on Thursday evening, dinner is over, my brother and his family have split and here I sit with the parents. I see no light at the end of the tunnel. We've eaten dinner and... my dad just farted. That makes it better. Something to distract me. He drops bombs consistently through the day, night and in between. These bombs are well advertised. He's the Deutsch of fart-publicity. His bombs do not go unnoticed. Sometimes the neighbors come over to make sure everyone is OK.

Depression has hit the Pelican. It's getting rough in here and I'm not sure I can last much longer. If you've ever seen the Survivorman, I am he, but in the oddest element. It may not be the Canadian Rockies but his trip only lasts 7 days. My trip is now on 100+. Sweet Jesus that's a long time.

This started as a joke. It may end sadly. I may drown myself in a bowl of tapioca pudding left in the fridge. At least my last gulp of air will be delicious.

My dad and uncle were talking about having Ojeda (ahh-jeh-duh) at one point during the day. I've heard the term used since I was a kid by ever Italian inter and extra my family. There is never a complete explanation of Ojeda, just a general description: 'You feel like shit and it's caused by something you ate'. From this I'm guessing it could be heartburn, bloating, gas or something related. It's like asking an Italian lady how to make a recipe, you just get the general ingredients with no amounts. Then she adds two more ingredients at the end and says something like 'if you feel like using...' It's not very helpful.

I have Ojeda, I think. At every turn I am thinking about how to get revenue out of this company, our products and every sub-segment of every market. Mass, collegiate, military, specialty shops... just turn some revenue! I'd sell a limb to know a guy who knows a guy.

Enough of this cheer-fest. I'm going to slit my wrist with sand paper. Oh I can't do it. I have my high school reunion on Saturday and I wouldn't want anyone to think I was a loser.

Bear 2, Jamie 0. I hate bears.

jb

I can't hear you

The TV is so loud that I can't hear what you are saying. Huh? When the TV is on there is no quiet place in the entire condo. There is no escape. I feel like a Branch Davidian under siege. And make no bones about it, my parents like them some TV so it is constantly on. If a TV is not already on, I sometimes get ambushed. Often, when I power up tiny 19" TV in the small sun room I am blown away by the sound level... left on max from a previous session. Because the condo is in the sticks of southern Jersey, the nearest coffee shop, my sanctuary, is 10 miles away. I go there for the coffee and stay for the silence. The employees know me by name but I can't hear their names. There is a fat guy with a beard and a few teenage girls who work behind the counter. They are all mute.

I'm reading a War and Peace currently, something I've looked forward to for some time. This book is so well written that it is often referred to as the best book ever written. That's amazing. So I'll give you the best recap ever written:

We are introduced to the cast of Russian characters as Russia is defending itself from French attack lead by Napolean. Count Vasily is positioning himself and his family to gain position and cash from the recent death of Count Bulkosky. Jennie Garth just got voted in the bottom two. Rostov goes to the war front and gets his first taste of war... and likes it. But that was a stunning Polka by Mel B and her dress is fantastic. She deserves to be in the final. Prince Andrey is quickly gaining rank, after leaving his pregnant, young wife at home with his ugly sister and stern father. His military expertise is gaining notice and he will soon have audience with the Emporer himself. It takes guts to win this dance contest! Oh my gosh! Marie Osmond just fainted!

So that's how it goes, I think. I'm confused why there are so many dance scenes in the midst of a war, but hey, it's one of the greatest books ever written!

I love a good book.

The Morning Soup

By a certain age most people adopt a set of rituals, a rhythm that bounces, hops, stumbles or rolls, that gets them through the day happily. I have a very important set of morning habits that establish the platform from which I launch my day, everyday. To be able to enjoy these little pleasures habitually everyday might seem perfect but I argue that it's in having them fulfilled occasionally that makes them so enjoyable. In living at the Pelican I've learned this valuable lesson. If we were able to fulfill these 'perfect world habits' everyday they would quietly transform into mundane tasks and robotic movements creating no real sense of pleasure. Does that sound perfect?

So I'll cherish the next time I get to enjoy a morning breakfast as I read the paper with some music rolling quietly behind me. But today I awoke to a kitchen blaring the Today Show as listened to my mom recant the previous evening's episode of Dancing with The Stars while my dad wandered around looking for something that was somewhere else. Mom told me about a race car driver who 'dances good for a race car driver' and I'm not afraid to admit that I'm not even sure what that means.

Dad walked by confused.

She kept on this tack for a few minutes and, in order to not be rude, I responded with mumble noises of delight or displeasure although they were probably the same two sounds anywhere else outside of my head. Then she shifted, seamlessly, into previews of upcoming episodes of Dr. Phil.

'Sure I can take the dog out, dad'

I learned about how Phil's next episode fills (Phil's fills?!) a house with social malignants with the promise of curing them of each of their bitter hate mongering illnesses. She told me of the black lady who does not let her kids play with black people. I thought about Dave Chappelle dressed in a white sheet playing the part of a black White Supremecist. Well, apparently Phil got wiley and planted black people in the audience who were uber-successful in order to teach or, maybe, publicly humiliate the lady. Then he rocked her world by dressing them in hip-hop garb and the 'hater' began hating and Dr. Phil told her that they were Dr.'s and lawyers and producers and the lady's world came crumbling down and the audience cheered and Phil said something profound like 'pay your bills on time' in his twang and talked about his wife and kids and stood on his pulpit and broke into an Aria along side that blind Boccelli guy. The audience wept and he got an emmy and a sponge bath from Angelina Jolie dressed like Laura Croft, Tombraider.

I think you can guess where I had stopped listening and sunk into my new favorite place: my 'inner' quiet morning nook. It's sometimes better than the real thing.

The Ladies, The Ladies

‘I live with my parents.’

It’s one of the first sentences out of my mouth when I meet an attractive female. I throw it out there like a hot grenade and watch for the reaction through my fingers. Oh, the carnage.

You might ask why I would chop out my own knees, why I would kick myself in the balls having not even gotten off the runway. I wish I could tell you that it were part of an agro-pimp, push-pull strategy that attracts women like fat kids to video games. It’s not. I simply enjoy good, old fashioned car wreck and the feeling of having chosen to drive into opposing lane. I like being both driver and voyeur; I’m the God of ruining a moment.

The grenade also serves a tactical purpose. It is a filter that eliminates the least inventive, most average candidates who have little or no imagination and no sense of adventure. And don’t be confused. What I’m doing is an adventure that makes Into the Wild sound like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. (It’s a book, you know… not Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride!) If she can’t understand my epic adventure and laugh along just a bit, then I don’t need to be hindered by her lack of vision. Wench.

Big news: living with your parents at 33 makes you a leper to most females. Knowing this, I approach my social life with a certain level of reality. My dating life has morphed into an extended practice session with an oft-aggravated enemy. Single women are largely angry at single guys.., just think about it. How many times do you hear women talk about the ‘losers’ they attract? They very commonly follow up that statement with the characteristics of said loser which, more often than not, include: lives with his parents. So, entering the colloseum, I know the gladiator I’ll be facing. And, unfortunately for her, she thinks she knows me.

Therefore, watching the results of the bomb dropping can be a delicious treat. If I had to pick a favorite reaction, it might be the ‘hearty laugh that slowly becomes uncomfortable as I remain painfully straight-faced’. As she expects some indication from me that it’s a joke, she receives nothing to guide her through the straits of discomfort. And, as a sales guy, I learned that listening can cause discomfort. Discomfort often causes people to shed hidden truths. So I listen and she writhes in the weird feelings of silence.

Her verbal reaction can be very telling, as well. Certain comments can make or break the girl. For example, if she asks questions about why I live this way, how I’ve managed the long and for how long I’ve been there, then I can assume that she might survive this ordeal and is therefore worthy of my time investment. But sometimes they change the subject immediately and squirm their way out of facing the ugly dragon. I respond to the remainder of their conversational statements and questions with references to my mom’s cooking and my dad’s penchant for farting.

But sometimes I know immediately that I don’t like her. On these rare occasions I don’t mention the odd living situation until the morning; when we walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where mom and dad are reading the paper and drinking coffee. This is probably the most effective of them all.

The Story Is Not About A Gay Aerobics Instructor

‘I watched the jar hovering slightly below her hand, which was facing downward’, he excitedly described the event like it was yesterday. As he continued ‘It was as if the jar was following her hand but she was not touching it. It was levitating’, I was waiting for the punch line.
‘So you’re telling me that it simply looked as if the jar was levitating while the three of you were tripping. But now you know that it was just perception, right?’ I asked.
‘No. She made the jar levitate. It was amazing. And I could read her thoughts. As she was levitating the jar I heard her think that she was going to drop it. And then I yelled “NO!!”. But the jar dropped. It was too late’.
So I asked again, if now he thought that maybe, just maybe, the acid caused the hallucination of the floating jar. He vehemently denied this hypothesis as absurd.

So it seems that my uncle had witnessed the destruction of classical physics. It also seems that he was tripping like Keith Moon at the Sunshine Motel in 1968 at the time of this historic event. But please do not ever suggest that the two are not mutually exclusive.

It was a Friday evening when I had no plans, nothing interesting was on the horizon so I walked down to Unk’s condo that he shares with his 95 year-old roomate, my grandfather, who was thankfully asleep. I expected the mundane but in my heart I longed for adventure. And I learned a lesson: Ask and the Pelican delivers. I wandered down to unit 26 of Pelican Phase Two to Unk’s condo. Unk was pouring martinis and his friend Jackie was on his way over for drinks and dinner. My uncle, aka Unk, had invited me to join in the festivities via phone earlier that day. As I mulled over the invite I thought, ‘How interesting could an evening of drinks with a flaming-gay, aerobics instructor and the original, earth-man, hippy be? And could this produce any fun stories?’ Like a tale written by Homer, the window of adventure had opened and I chose to jump through.

And so it was that the gay aerobics instructor would be the least interesting story in the room. Beside a couple of references to evenings where they snorted some cocaine together, Jackie was largely baffled by the illicit, libertine adventures of Unk. Unk took to the podium like a 4-star general of the free-love army, espousing story after story, making my sin-strewn life seem Christian by comparison. Jackie and I bonded through a mutually shared disgust, fear, shame and embarrassment, although I can’t be sure for whom I was embarrassed. Every story felt like a punch to the ribs, gut and groin and I was sure it would never end until the finale. Imagine a July 4th celebration that ended with the detonation of a nuclear warhead just one-mile overhead. The Le Tigre symbol is now melted onto my left nipple.

So it began… Naked. Quailudes. In the doorway of a party. Naked. Quailudes. In the doorway of a party. Naked. Quailudes. In the doorway of a party.

‘So we went to these parties,’. It should be noted by his choice of the plural that there were at least 2 of these parties. ‘where you would walk into the house and into the atrium. As you stood in the atrium a person would order you to get undressed.’, Unk recollected.

‘Dude, you’re telling me you got naked right there? Before you went into the party?’ I was dumbfounded.

‘Yeah! It was great. You just get rid of all that bullshit and everyone is naked.’, and as he made that statement I thought of what the ‘bullshit’ might have consisted. I’m fairly sure he was implying the social interaction that takes place before having consensual ‘sweet lovin’.

‘So you take your close off and the person at the door tells you to open your mouth and they throw in some qualudes’ he continues.

‘What’s a quailude do to you?’, I ask.

‘It makes you really relaxed and horny’, says Unk. So now it’s all but signed, sealed and delivered that I’m hearing a story about an orgy-type party that my uncle had attended more than once. Immediately I thought of the strategic problems that this opportunity poses. You have a roomful of naked women, but you have a roomful of naked men. If you were to meet a nice, family-oriented girl and things progressed quickly, your rear flank would become exposed. If one of the naked dudes chose to attack your weak side, you would be defenseless. It’s like a mouse-trap where the penalty is catching gay instead of dying.

“Ahhh’, I vented, exhausted.

‘And if you don’t take the quailudes you can’t get into the party. They leave your clothes at the door so when you leave you can put them back on.’

I’m usually entertained by his antics but this time I was wounded. No more questions were asked and I quickly found my way out of the house. Jackie and Unk proceeded to have dinner and what-not. I asked for adventure and I got a naked uncle, two qualudes and a pile of soiled clothes. Having made my farewells, I walked back to Phase One, took a shower and cried myself to sleep.

Sometimes you get the bear. Sometimes the bear gets you. Bear 1. Jamie 0.

Look How Healthy I Am

After having two beers over the course of a 2 hour span at my uncle’s house, my parents simultaneously thwarted my attempt at having a third drink by warning that I would not be ‘allowed’ to leave the house if I consumed more alcohol. I will be healthier for having lived here.

It's Not Sleepy Time

Since I was a kid my dad has shown no respect for my sleep needs. I can’t be sure whether his insolence was directed toward me, singularly, or toward sleep, as a natural act. For example, while in high school, he would barge into my room at 6:30 AM, flipping the lights on while speaking in full-confrontational tone about the negative ramifications of being tardy for school. He would regularly beat my alarm clock by 2 minutes. The most precious 2 minutes of sleep. Everyday was a fire alarm. I stand today living breathing proof that ‘morning person’ is a result of nurture, not nature. There are no morning squirrels. All squirrels are ‘morning’ squirrels, hungry for nuts. I didn’t remember much more about my sleep traumas as a child but these last few weeks have broken the Damn of Terror, which repressed years of early morning jihads.

I am on amber alert… again.

Week One: I had just moved in to the Pelican. It was a Saturday, mid-day and I was taking a nap. I sleep very lightly so when I am out, I cherish every second. And my naps take 30 minutes. No more, no less. Therefore the window to fuck with my nap is slim. He barged into the closed room and stated loudly, ‘Jamie’. He ‘states’ my name on these occasions, as if he is answering the question ‘Would you like steak of fish?’. It’s cold hearted. A shiver-shock shot down my spine. I fear these moments like Luke feared the Emperor in Star Wars. Luke felt his presence, loathed his presence and was omniscient of his presence moments ahead of time. Dad, you are the Emperor of Insomnia.

Then he repeated himself. ‘Jamie’ (or steak?). I didn’t answer. Most people would walk away and feel slightly horrified for having fucked up someone’s nap. Not this guy. He’s like a retarded version of Columbo. Colum-fuck up your sleep-O. He gets his answer, every time, to a question that, really, need never have been asked.

‘What’, I bluntly state, obviously annoyed. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. Now his tone falls to that of a care-giver. Evil, hateful, care-giving, mother fucker.

I once saw a National Geographic show about the hunger in Ethiopia when I was young. It stayed with me for years after. And I took notice that not one hungry dude was sleeping in Ethiopia. I took notice: hungry people sleep like hell.

Juxtaposition: I laid like a corpse.

What about a sleeping guy would make someone say ‘He might be hungry’. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if there is one thing that a sleeping guy wants, it is more sleep. And lots more sleep.

One summer we took him to Africa to visit the starving people in Ethiopia. He stepped off the airplane, walked up to a starving, black guy and offered him a pillow.

So I answered him. I told him that it was a ridiculous question to ask a sleeping guy. He got offended and left the room with the answer for which he came. Just like retarded Columbo would have.

Week Three: It’s pitch black. It’s 10 PM on a Sunday. I went to bed because I needed it severely. I know he feels my sleepy desires and feeds on it. In fact, he gets uber-happy whenever I am intensely tired. So I feel when he feels my presence and my sleep becomes instantaneously fucked up, as a result. The Dark Emperor of Insomnia broke into my cranium!! I think, ‘You gotta be kidding me. After 15 years he hasn’t missed a beat’. He hadn’t even stepped foot into the room and he had already ruined another night of my precious sleepy time. My precious.

Fortunately, he proceeded with his dark plan giving me the satisfaction that maybe he hadn’t read my thoughts so precisely. So after about 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep in the pitch-black room, on a Sunday night at 10:30 PM, the door slammed open. It slammed open to reveal the white hallway light and his wirey shadow.

‘Are you sleeping?’ he queries. This time, at least ostensibly, in his voice, he’s concerned about waking me. He's gotten old and is slipping. He thinks I don't know of his dark plan.

A tiny part of me knows this is hilarious. Unfortunately, the dominant part has already turned Hulk-green. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I ask, varnished in a thin layer of polite.

‘I have to use the computer’ he says, in a late Sunday night huff. Who has late-Sunday night huffs? It's a day of god, for Christ's sake! So I grab a pillow, walk into the living room and onto a couch. My sleep hath been ruined again.

Week Four: I come home on a Saturday afternoon. I walk into my bedroom which doubles as an office. My mom is sitting in a chair in front of the computer. My dad is standing behind her in his tighty whiteys looking over her shoulder. He looks over his shoulder at me and grins an evil grin.

‘Mind games. You bastard’, I think.

The old man is spry. And after 15 years he’s on the top of his game. I wonder if my neighbor’s parents are cooler?

'I live with my parents, too', he said.

I am not alone. There is another here with me. He lives here with his parents, too. Today he found me. And he is a douche bag.

John: Hey! Are you Jane and Joe’s son.
Me: (Confused, I size up this chap. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the neck ribbing removed exposing his burnt red neck in contrast to his pasty white upper torso skin.) Ummm, Yes.
John: I’m John. I live with my parents, too.
Me: (Recovering from the near verbal thought ‘You know it doesn’t make us friends, right?’) Oh yeah? Cool.
John: How do you like it here?
Me: Well, it’s yellow. I guess. Kinda sucks…
John: I love it. I never want to leave. This place is great.
Me: (smirking, thinking that this is great material and I should be so lucky to have his wit and timing… then, realizing that he’s DEADLY serious) Yeah it’s not bad. The river. (looking toward the river). Trees. (looking at the trees).
John: My parents and I bought our place together. I have a girlfriend. She’s going through a divorce and her husband is being an asshole. So, you know.
Me: (I did not know and did not portray that I knew)
John: (fishing for a response) I was out on the river looking for that kid who drowned the other day.
Me: (Obliging) Oh. You a fireman?
John: And an EMT and I work for a pharma company.
Me: (Thinking: the only job this guy has with a pharma company is part time Algernon) Oh. Cool. (Thinking: Let him talk. This is gold!)
John: Yeah. I go to school all the time for EMT. I’m really trained. They hire guys with no experience but when I walked in the door they were like ‘you gotta be kiddin me! You’re hired!’. The township is trying to weed out all the trash EMTs. (indicating that he is NOT one of the weedees)
John: What do you do?
Me: I work for a company that makes iPod accessories. (Thinking: if he was a girl I would’ve said that I own the company)
John: Oh that’s cool. So my girlfriend’s divorce is really bitter and she’s taking care of the kids so… (he trails off but is clearly implying something about the convenience/cool situation with his parental living arrangement because it affords him freedom from the hassles of his GF’s kids)
Me: That must be tough. (Having no clue WTF this guy is talking about)
John: (Looking back toward the BBQ) I’m not really a partier.
Me: (I take a gander at the party. A chair circle of ten, 50+ men and women including two parents, a wheel chair and a motor chariot) Oh yeah?
Me: (Reaching my discomfort level, I find a gap in the conversation) OK well I just have to go say hi to my parents. Good to meet you.
John: You too.
Me: See you around (Thinking: Please god no)


I wonder if John is typing his version of the conversation for his blog. Below I've written a rough draft of how I believe John might have perceived our interaction. And, yes, I've made some assumptions.


Title: People Love The John

John: (There's the guy Mom was talking about, walking over to the party. Why don’t they ever invite me?!) Hey, are you Jane and Joe’s son?
Jamie: Yepper. That’s me. Right-O!
John: I’m John. I live here, too. (And I got it made!!)
Jamie: Wow. That’s awesome!
John: Yeah, it IS awesome. Is it not, my friend? (I can save this guy’s life if he collapsed right now)
Jamie: Dude, this place rocks the party.
John: I am never leaving. (Is anyone dying?)
Jamie: Me neither.
John: Want to come up to my place to check out my trophies? (I should have said ‘awards'. Stupid!!)
Jamie: HELLS YES!! But First I have to go to this stupid party.
John: Well, you should knock up for me when you are done. (Trophies always knock ‘em dead!)
Jamie: Awesome-O.
John: Awesome-O. (I can’t wait till someone’s heart stops and he sees me in action!)
Jamie: Friends?
John: For life! (1 down, none to go!)

Washing machine use directions:

1. Turn the on the water main. That’s right, the water main is set to OFF until you choose to run the washing machine, at which point it must be manually turned to the ON position. My parents turn the water main OFF after each use of the washing machine.

2. Go ape-shit. So after 33 years of never having experienced such a washing machine configuration I was met with disappointment because I had potentially caused damage to the washing machine by not supplying it with water while on. They may have mentioned this odd rule once before but, in all honesty, 9 of every 10 words they utter are dimly perceived like the announcer’s words during a baseball game on the radio on a rainy Sunday afternoon. You heard him, you knew he was speaking yet you couldn’t recall a single word or phrase. But I do believe, this time, I placed this rule in the mental trash bin with complete intention.


I’m confounded by this paltry scuttlebutt for two reasons and believe there to be some underlying cause to their actions.

First, It seems quite odd to me that my parents, both of them, were livid about this non-event. My brother was visiting the day of the wrong-doing, from his own home (he’s got a house!), and overheard my father ask my mother which of them should ‘talk to him about it’. ‘Talk to me about it’. I hope Owen Wilson’s parents care so much about his heroin addiction as my parents do about their precious washing machine. At 16 I was scolded less severely for drinking a case of my dad’s beer.

Second, they had never had this routine before moving into the Pelican, have only lived here two years, and we’re now astounded that the son they raised to be a law-abiding citizen, had violated the sanctity of washing machine, and their precious bi-laws, in such a way. The bi-laws. The fucking bi-laws for Del Boca Vista (Pelican Place for my non-Seinfeld friends) state that ‘Each owner is responsible for all water damage resulting from their appliances’. As a condo owner who is friends with other condo owners, I believe that nobody reads the bi-laws. It’s a chunk of papers that you stick into a shoebox. As long as a neighbor isn’t having goat-sex, mutilating goats or loudly sucking dick for crack cocaine, which would cause one to search for a technicality to evict the freak, there is no logical reason to read them. But I guess some people over the age of 50 find bi-laws a form of entertainment. I will suggest some more: adding a second coat of white paint to your white walls and/or photo cataloging every belonging in your house alphabetically.

I think my mom may be that annoying tenant who attends every home-owmer’s meeting citing passages with old testament-like assertion. ‘Thout shalt not have leaky pipes. Lest the association will strike down upon thee with great vengance and furious anger…’

Yes, I am only 33 years of age, not 50+, yet in my years I have never experienced such a water-washing machine configuration. I call bullshit on my parents, the HOA and society at large.

It is my contention that there exists a 50+, mind-altering, space-ship expecting, juice drinking cult within the very walls of the Pelican Place.

But, luckily for me, the Cult Member’s Association documents state that anyone can join as long as you co-habitate with a person over the age of 50. See you on Galgamek!

Introduction

My tail is between my legs. I’ve made the conscious decision to keep it there. I take sole responsibility for having moved into my parent’s condo in the 33rd year of my life. As one might imagine, I have been more confident about myself in years past. In previous phases of my life I had been a leading sales person for a software company with two homes and a great travel schedule. I lived in Colorado and was experiencing what I thought my dream would be: working for a software company and snowboarding every weekend while traveling like a gypsy. Life was good, but there was something else I sought after. And today I believe the recipe for ‘something’ to consist of 1 part pain, 1 part discomfort, 2 parts humiliation and a smidgen of what-the-fuck-is-my-problem-? So I quit my job. And embarked on an adventure of starting my own business.

It is four years later. Two failed ventures under my belt and I’m on number three, the most grandiose of them all. I have one less house, travel (for fun) infrequently, have shoddy credit and haven’t bought new clothes in far too long. And a very important plot point must be mentioned… I moved back to Philadelphia, where I grew up. As I have rapidly burnt through funds over the last few years I am now in survival mode. I’ve cut costs in many facets of my life, including renting out my condo in downtown Philadelphia.

And have moved into my parents’ condo in their 50+ community.

Through me, I would like for you to experience what I experience: the Uno games, the pre-teen flashbacks, each blown opportunity at getting laid, every home-owner’s association meeting, the gossip about the early bird special scandal (I know what makes it special) and each lub-dub of every pace-maker driven heart in the facility. It’s all here, it’s all on the table. All nude. Totally wild. Texas Style.

This is embarrassing stuff so please do not forward this to your friends… or my parents... or any resident of Pelican Place.

Welcome to the world of Pelican Place, a 50+ community, and my new home.