November 2014 Archives

what i'm stankful for

Before I venture off to Thanksgiving dinner, I want to note just how great yesterday was. My best day in years.

First of all, Amy was on vacation. Words cannot express how sick I am of talking to that woman every morning. Staying in the work realm, we officially landed a big contract for 2015, thereby ending our year of "I wonder if we'll have jobs next week."

Socially, the day started with Steph and Andy at the dog park, followed a few hours later by her capitulation on the vegetarian Thanksgiving issue. Then I went to the downscale cigar bar, where almost everyone I know in Pittsburgh had spontaneously gathered to load up on booze and nicotine before they had to deal with their families. The entire day was a whirlwind of people buying me bourbon and cigars, and finally the owner brought out a huge tub of free buffalo wings. While stuffing my face, I was introduced to "Les the Jew" and "Mick the Mick," and some inebriate asked Les, straight-faced, "Do you guys celebrate Thanksgiving?" Everyone laughed, including Les. We regaled one another with stories for hours, until finally the owner said he had to go home to his family. Sadly, I schlepped off the the bar across the street, where the black guy seated next to me ordered a Jack and cranberry, then, noting my retching noises, insisted that I accept a free one. It was as disgusting as you're imagining, but free is free. And then I so hit it off with the lovely Italian girl seated on my other side, she insisted on running home to get me the best goddamned cannolis ever made.

So what am I stankful for this year? Not being in Seattle.

thankgiving

Surprising no one, I accepted the Thanksgiving offer that involved the least amount of effort on my part. So tomorrow I'll be venturing to Steph and Andy's for a vegetarian Thanksgiving. Or so I was resigned.

"FYI, I'm making a turkey," texted Steph just now. "You looked like you were going to cry."

That's rubbish, of course. I was weeping outwardly.

knightmare postscript

The morning after telling Liz's molester to "have at her," I went to a different cigar bar. I entered to a round of applause. So at least we know my Pittsburgh legacy.

knightmare

Last night I ventured to the neighborhood upscale cigar bar, where I found my two smoking buddies, Risa and Liz. The following skism between my perceptions and reality occurred.

What I thought happened   Reality
The women were sitting side by side in leather easy chairs, both facing the football game. A gentleman had pulled up a chair to face them. Judging my how closely he was huddled with Liz, they were clearly friends. The women introduced me. He told one mind-numbingly lame dirty joke after another. I zoned out.

"I don't think Liz's husband John here is going to much like that," Risa said, trying to draw me back into the conversation.

I would not be drawn back in. "I hardly know her," I shrugged at the guy. "Have at her."
  They didn't know the guy.

He had fixated on Liz's chest from the moment he walked in, and she had been playing whack-a-mole with his hands ever since. Not once, not twice, but three times, he slid his hand up her miniskirt and felt her up. That's what he was doing when Liz's knight in shining armor told the creep to "have at her."
     

"THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" they screamed in unison as soon as he left. Even the appalled wait staff scolded me. It was my finest hour.

By the by, reasonable though the question is, it's probably best to wait a while before asking a woman why she didn't stop her molester herself.

I might be kind of stupid.



"What the Fucking Fuck?" awards 

  raven-symone

The Cosby Show's cousin Oliver decided to get ahead of any rumors. Unfortunately, she writes like an actress:

"I was NOT taking advantage of by Mr. Cosby when I was on the Cosby Show!"

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donner party, table for two

Miss Ava has apparently cultivated a taste for Polish food. This time, I was ready with my camera. The things I do for you people.

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my calvin and hobbes moment

I traveled to Minnesota last weekend to see the Ohio State/Minnesota game with Dirt. It was 5 degrees. I'm told I'll feel my feet again sometime in May.

I've known Dirt's German Shepherd, DJ, since he was a hairy little fetus. Back in Metamuville, we had a ritual. He would bark furiously, and I would yell "It's me, goddammit!" and he would charge me, snarling and snapping, and leap into my arms. It was cute. Five years ago.

Now 110 pounds, DJ didn't feel particularly compelled to amend our ritual. Barking murderously, he knocked the wind out of me before I even hit the ground, which then knocked next week's wind out of me, for good measure. I laid there, incapacitated, as every orifice in my head was tongue-raped by this toilet-guzzler.

There simply isn't enough Purell.

tundra

"While I'm back East, what say I shoot into Minneapolis for the Minnesota/Ohio State game?" I stupidly said back in August.

"Are you high?" Dirt sagely replied. "It will be 10 degrees."

"You pussy. C'mon, it'll be fun," I stupidly replied.

"Pass," Kiki smartly replied.

As I pack for tomorrow's outdoor game, I just checked the weather.

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Please tell every woman who ever rejected me that my last words were of her.

you don't know me

New buddy Andy was driving me around Pittsburgh, showing me different neighborhoods in which he thinks I might like to one day like to live. We were on the north side when he showed me a lovely brownstone near a cluster of adorable shops and taverns. "If you go a few blocks thataway, the neighborhood gets a little sketchy," he cautioned. I perked up a bit. He continued his thought. "But then...you're a little sketchy."

the cure for insecurity

I went out with Michelle last night. In the space of 75 minutes, I went from "she is entirely out of my league" to wishing she would contract hyena syphilis. Those would be the 75 minutes that she was late.

No apology was forthcoming from Miss Thang. Next.

adventures in babysitting, part deux

My regular bartender was telling the story of a creepy customer who tried to purchase a kiss from her. I'm not sure what mental defect compels some men to try to purchase the affections of non-hookers, but he was acutely symptomatic. At first he offered her $1000. When she demurred, he chased. He doggedly offered more and more money. Supposedly he went up to $10,000. 10 grand for a kiss.

"And you said no?" I said. "At a certain point, isn't he pricing you into doing it?"

The assembled women glared at me.

"I'm not being sexist." I explained. "For 10 grand, I'd rim the guy's dog."

Everyone recoiled. Everyone except Michelle, who guffawed and slapped my back.

Michelle is a fellow barfly. We've since had several of the long, drunken conversations typical of our species. At our bar, she's often the center of attention, so I share her with the world. Charismatic, pretty, highly educated, stylish and successful, she is entirely out of my league. I treat her accordingly. I'm often the only guy in the room not hitting on her.

It helps that she's 16 years younger than me. When we began hanging out, I'd thought she was 10 years older than she was, and she'd thought me 10 years younger. On the heels of the Sarah triumph, this has rattled my confidence in my ability to estimate age.

This morning at the dog park, I fell into a conversation with a woman I estimated to be in her late-20s. At one point, she mentioned how she brings her puppy to her football games, then runs the track with him later.

"Oh, neat. Wait..." I swallowed my face. Good god, I'm talking to a high school cheerleader!

But no. She simply plays in a football league. And I officially have a complex.

2 games, 12 touchdown passes, 0 picks

Half of my readership is non-American, so I've refrained from writing about football. But for the sake of posterity, allow me to note that in the Steelers' 80-something years of history, their quarterback has thrown for 5 touchdowns only six times. Four of those were Roethlisberger. And three of those, I've seen in person.

Whatever else happens this season, I've seen something truly historic.

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