30 Days Out and It Hits Me

I've noticed something odd quite recently. Since moving from the 55+ community (the Pelican Place) the funnies have become an infrequent visitor in my life. My days are now calm, complacent and predictable. There is no more 'grandma gossip' and old guy farts. I am no longer awaiting the drop of the hat like a guy with terets on the green mile. My edge has turned to fluffy cotton. I breathe easy, sleep well, meet women, eat heartily, drink too much, sit on my couch and smile a massive, cartoonish smile. If I weren't enjoying my days so much I'd force myself into another uncomfortable situation just to stimulate the rods and cones.

But I do have a story. One story from my first day in the new apartment.

After my first night in the apartment I awoke with piss and vinegar pulsing through my veins. I had only a bed in the entire apartment yet it was one of the most comfortable, placid awakenings (that word reminds me of Crossing Over which is a ridiculous hoax of a TV show) of a life. There was only carpet. There seemed to be miles and miles of of plush tan carpet in which to sink. 13 seconds later I hopped to my feet disappointed because I had no heroin. If Trainspotting taught me one thing it's that carpet is a fantastic lark while jacked up on smack.

As a result I was forced to leave the apartment in order to locate a morsel of food and a coffee. Coffee is a form of heroin or crack, I am sure. Some claim it can no be based on it's negligible effect on the user's lifestyle. If you smelled my buddy Turtle's kitten breath after a grande of morning smackum jackum you might change your mind.

With no distractions (13 seconds of carpet riding behind me) I left for my new Whole Foods (overpriced organic shit from Machu Pichu). Opening the door can be a story unto itself. On this day (have you ever seen Cheaters? Listen to his delivery when he shows the video footage in the last scene. Priceless!), the world theatre had begun upon the opening of my door. At about 24 degrees beuond closed, I heard a sentence projected loudly and clearly but audibly behind a closed door. A sound can sometimes open a portal in time through which you can relive a few seconds of the past. This time it was the college dorm sophomore year. This is what I heard on the first day in my new apartment:

Male Voice (loudly, almost angry): Yeah, I fucked her!
PAUSE
Male Voice: Yeah I like it!
PAUSE
Male Voice: Yeah I came in her!
PAUSE
Inaudible Woman's Voice: ???? Sobbing ???
Male Voice: But I love YOU!!!

Unfortunately I was unable to identify the location of the conversation down to a specific door but I've narrowed the search down to 3 doors. And unfortunately I haven't been able to make a clear ID of the actors. But I do have a plan of action. Later this week I'll be donning my old girl scout outfit to sell some cookies and ask a few probing (potenitally anal) questions. Who can say no to a 33 year old guy dressed in a girl scout outfit with carp on his finger?

jb

A Piper is Down

We lost one yesterday. A lady in her mid-fifties was diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago and passed away yesterday. Bad day for the Pelican.

Everyone is a little bummed so no jokes today.

Everyone should tip a 40 to the homies at the Pelican.

jb

Jessica Tandy

Bert Jacobs died this afternoon. I dedicate this pseudo factual essay to Ol' Bert.

Old People Communities are constructed of the following ratio: 90% evil and 10% death. The 55+ community, as an entity, is deceivingly energetic with singular, maniacal intentions. It slowly and patiently preys on the innocent, effervescent bodies that wander into its lethargic, feeble grasp. Individually, the old timer is a harmless non-force, barely noticeable to the naked eye, but when grouped en masse these innocuous octogenarians rip mountains asunder and part seas. The blue-haired, predatory force, which has been known since the Middle Ages as the White Hair Conundrum (WHC), is clearly responsible for bad things, like the weekly ambulance visits, one of which took away poor Ol' Bert Jacobs. Silly bastard. The WHC shares no allegiances and will therefore cannibalize itself without second thought. Bert is proof of this. The WHC is to be feared. There is good reason why the 55+ community has not existed until the last 50 years and America is at fault. I've constructed a loose thesis called 'The History and Nature of Old People', some of which I've outlined in the following paragraphs.

Old people are evil when left to cavort in groups. They are hate ridden monsters consumed with regret who are jealous of smooth flesh and active libido. They hug children to steal their energy (which is also known as Loving Them To Death). Have you ever heard an old lady say something like 'You are so cute I could eat you up!'. Unfortunately she's being quite literal so keep Granny at arms length.

My first experience with the idea of 'energy stealers' came about from repeated viewings of On Golden Pond. As I studied each scene, I realized this was a documentary about training of old earthlings how to steal energy. I'm sure you remember the plot: Jessica Tandy, nearly on her death bed, gains super human strength, saves a baby and multiplies herself. Where do you think her energy and vibrancy was derived? Yep, she ate the baby. Most of the Tandy multiples have left the planet to inhabit other parts of the universe but I wonder why Jessica Tandy is still living? She was 95 during the filming, right? That makes her 174 today which is suspicious.

Here's some more concrete evidence:

Have you ever seen the children with that so-called disease which makes them appear obscenely old? You know the little guys in the over-sized baseball hats walking around Disney world? Well it's not a disease, folks. They look that way because a deviant parent left the child at a 'community' with the grandparents for an extended period of time. The grandparents (and friends, like wolves) proceeded to hug the little kid for hours resulting in a shriveled and creepy mannish-boy thing. The poor kid is left devastated. But why do old people want, ney need, hugs? And what do the prune people gain from reducing the taut skin of a sweet 5 year old child into an ever lasting knuckle-faced freak?

2 minutes of 'doin' it like teenagers' time.

I've seen it go down first hand. The old couple hug the children, run back into their condo and pull the shades down. The 'swing and bebop' music soon follows humming from the stereo at 7 (the maximum daytime volume at a 55+ community) and it's on. Grandpa swaggers out 3 minutes later puffing a cigar with his belt still akimbo and cane swingin' by his side. Grandma sips some brandy and passes out on the rocker. Thankfully I have yet to witness the main event but I heard that you turn into stone if you gaze directly into it just like Medusa's head, the ancient Greek symbol for multiple old people in one place.

So the children suffer a life time of indignity for a few minutes of raisin humping.

Europeans understand the consequences and potential power of a geriatric army, which is why each family is responsible for keeping its elders captive, alne, within their home. The socially acceptable term for this unspoken rule in Italian is 'la cosa vecchia' or 'the old thing'. It translates roughly into English as 'keep your old people in the house'. It's why Europeans live with such a large, extended family. American's, being separated from their roots and European history, quickly forgot the Euro-tenants of social order and began construction of a brand new social order based on social efficiencies, not history. A few short years of intense study provided the impetus to segregate the old people from the masses. The Supreme Court determined that 'old people get in the way' in the landmark Smith Vs. Grandpa Smith case. In a letter to the cabinet Theodore Roosevelt stated that old people 'were the greatest threat to liberty that we will face as a nation and as a people'. He minimized the old people's middling efforts by moving them all into regional facilities known as 'homes'. Unknown to the US power players, this is exactly what the old people craved most in their wicked, sporadically beating hearts. Their time had been served to them in a tiny glass along with their vitamins.

Although, warnings had been issued to Americans in the past there was no effective response. Sufficient sign posts had been clearly marked within our history, language and art, such that we should never have come to this point. At the turn of the century, characteristic American artist Norman Rockwell integrated symbols and clearly dictated this forthcoming disaster in well known paintings and little known pieces like 'Beware: Old People Cometh' and 'Grandma Loves Not'. Looked upon as a story, his entire catalog teaches us how to minimize the threat of 'la cosa vecchia'. When Norman included an old person in a painting they were usually alone or occupied by some time-consuming, menial task. To put it plainly, Norman showed us how to kill our old people with a sugar coating. For example, in one painting, an old lady is sewing a flag. That's nice. It's like he's saying 'Shut up an sew until you're finished. And when you're done I've got more. I SAID SHUT UP!' In another, an old guy is playing banjo while his grandson threateningly points a roll of papers (or, more likely, a billy club) in his direction as if to say 'I know your deal, old man. Don't even try it.'

Today our country's youthful, people are occupied with their everyday lives. Jobs, bills, the stock market, housing, inflation... none of which matter. And in the background, out of sight, out of mind and gaining power, momentum and numbers a huge faction of hard candy chewing elders prepares to rise into power. First the US. Then the world. Then the universe. I've seen the plans, which were written in cursive latin so it took a few hours to translate. But when I was finished I read and wept aloud for all of humanity.

What does this mean for us today? It's too late. Don't even worry about it. In my opinion, we stand no chance. Having penetrated an active cell I can tell you that their power is far reaching and widespread. I suggest moving to a cold climate and staying away from the Game Show Network. Our parents have failed us and, as a result, we have to become Canadian.

For your reference, I've listed just some of the WHC achievements that I know about:

• The creation of paper money (jingly pockets sink sips)
  
• Orange juice concentrate (can't afford Florida? bring Florida to you!)
• Global Warming (can't afford Florida? bring Florida to you!)
• Oprah's death (trust me on this one)
  
• Every prune farm in the world
• The inexplicable resurgence of the K-car in the 90's
• Party of 5 cancellation (order without old people!)
• The cancellation of Arrested Development (????)

It wants only one thing: more life. Living here has taken it's toll on me. I'm slower than I was a few months ago. I plan my meals. I demand early bird prices and home-cooked quality.

This Evenings Dinner Conversation

Tonight the dinner conversation was a simple delight. Most dinner conversations are driven by my mom and are usually focused on the happenings of TV land... mostly reality shows. But tongiht we were treated to a special opening event: chapter 2342 of 'Do you know a good job for Jamie...?' Tonight's suggested job was 'back up musician in a rock band'. I'll be hitting the road in the morning in search of a band that needs a 33 year old guy who can play a guitar with mediocre skill and has a repertoire of 15 songs. When I told her that I did not want to play 'Do you know a good job for Jamie?' she replied curtly with, 'You are nasty and impossible to talk to.' And I hadn't even brought up the fact that she doesn't even think her son is good enough to front a band. Thanks for the No Confidence vote.

So we moved on to a recapitulation of last week's reality shows. It is a new season, bitches! The conversation centered around Amarosa from the Aprrentice show with Trump. Apparently it's an All-Celebrity cast this year including the pseudo-celebrity Amarosa (Am I spelling that correctly? There's a local Italian bread company with the same name and I can't help thinking she's can't be Italian). Anywho, Amarosa took charge of a team of women and decided that using celebrity to raise money was utterly unnecessary, probably because she has so little celeb juice. Her team was comprised of a bunch of actress ladies who fell right in line with little or no argument. But the other team had the old-style, New York, Jewish guile of one Gene Simmons. Simmons went grassroots, called up some well funded buddies and raised X times as much money as the actresses in the same time window. Don't mess with Gene in or out of costume.

Lastly, and most unfortunately, I was drop kicked by the following response to, 'Mom, do you know what jail bait means?' She had just used the term in conversation and I was curious if she knew what she was saying.

Her response was 'They used to say I was your dad's jailbait'.

I finished my dinner in silence and can NOT wait to be gone. I'm officially looking for a position with company managing marketing so if you know anything please help me. Please.

God bless.

The Backup Singer.

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

Femullet In the Roost

There is a femullet in the roost. It's about 3 inches length on the top, which is flat, with a smooth, 12 inch running board down the back. It comes accessorized with a bossy, commanding personality reminiscent of a a miniature Hitler that hates men instead of Jews. As proof the man-hate I've been shown emails from my mom's yahoo account. The messages most often end in a joke that bashes males. Angry, singular male bashing jokes. She is small, wiry and I have a strong suspicion that she can handle herself in a fight. Really.

So I think you get the picture. She likes the ladies. And I think you understand the dilemma.

I now have competition.

Until recently I had envisioned myself as the sole alpha-playa in the midst of hundreds of lovely octogenarian babes at my beck and call. I walked the walk of a king proudly addressing his servants.

'How're the new gums, Gerty?'
Hey there, Sugar Wrinkles!'
'Who loves ya, Martha'.

I'd fire off trigger fingers and throw out sexy man-winks to the throngs of seemingly hungry-for-me, wrinkle ridden, goddesses. I'd walk at half pace to keep speed with their maxed out Lark scooters, rub their shoulders and whisper into their new-age listening devices. I'd invite them over (while my parents were out, of course) for the weekly Pectoral viewing and Bicep rub down.

I was proprietor of Hobbly Town. King of Depend-ville.

Maybe it is my blatant overconfidence that is making this such a harrowing experience. Yes, it is true. Even the Gods can fall from the heavens. Well maybe I should just take a breather. In reality, there is no proof that the mullet has yet to succeed in touching the hearts of any of my loyal fan base. She has, in fact, shown some affection for my mom, which could work to my advantage. And i think my mom might be into it. Therefore, while my mom temporarily occupies her heart I could grow my flock and extend the fan base beyond the Pelican. I could step up to alpha male for all of South Jersey's 55+ communities. I could sell my services! I'll advertise in the AARP magazine! I'll start a website and take reservations and provide feedback to my customers and allow them to rate my service (5 stars is the only option)! I'LL MAKE AN INFOMERCIAL!

I rock. I feel better now. I'm back. Thanks for helping me talk through this almost-issue.

Knock Knock Knock. I think a Pruny Minx is knockin and Daddy is home.