I FOUND HUMANITY...

I FOUND HUMANITY…

(LANGUAGE ALERT)

Ok, so here’s the deal… I broke my foot. Yeah, yeah I know: “How’d you do it? Falling off a ladder? Jump off the roof trying to kill yourself? Riding a motorcycle? Trying some new elaborate masturbatory position called “the tantric pretzel” or something??? Training for the next MMA/UFC fight???”

No.

I was looking at ants.

Yup.

Ants.

See… this is embarrassing, but what on my blog isn’t?

‘They’ say ‘truth be told’ a lot… may as well do it ehh?

Sobriety is a bitch, and stupidity on sobriety is like a female pit bull: MAJOR *salute* BITCH!

So I am not the cleanest mofo on the planet. I’m not a hoarder, just don’t tell my tables or couch that. They’re the catch-all for, well everything. And I am a fan of eating food where I watch TV and nap, so the couch is it.

Few weeks ago I was eating a sandwich and an ant crawled up to the plate on my coffee table and continued to walk right around it. It seemed to be sniffing where it shouldn’t, so it got the ol’ thumbs down on the oak.

Sorry gladiator ant. I was NOT entertained!

When I lifted my plate, there were 2 more. These aren’t the big black easy to spot ants, but rather the little ones that make you think “Is that a crumb or a crumb with legs?” So I called in my buddies Siskel and Ebert for extermination, and made them watch Sharknado. At the opening credits the ants were dead and Gene and Roger were back to being spun in their graves. (To aide you with the voices in my head telling the story, that’s 2 thumbs down.)

Went to work the next day and opened my bag and there were 3 ants crawling in my bag. It’s a backpack, not a trash bag… so I killed them and then 3 more popped up. At this point I knew I had a problem. Yet looking deeper in my bag I pulled out a candy sac from couponing, and there was a bit of a nest there. I may have killed 15 more by the end of the day.  I texted my cousin and he gave me some exterminator grade goo to put around when I found the nest.

When I got home, 3 more on my table made me get the hard stuff and start-a-cleanin… half vinegar, half water in a spray bottle and a Swiffer mop head did the deed… I moved couches, threw out old candy, sprayed down the table… every bit of wood in my living room beyond the hardwood floor was drenched in solution and mopped up… it worked like a charm. After that day (knock on wood) even now writing this weeks later, NO MORE ANTS. It was amazing.

2 weeks ago I go outside and BOOM there’s this trail of mini-ants. (Reminds me of tom and jerry when they’d be at a picnic and the ants would walk down the hammock line and vibrate the line so much that tom and/or jerry would fall out of the hammock.)… (ALSO channeling Samuel L Jackson *IT’S MYYYY BEER* in the Snakes on a Plane trailer: “Enough is enough!!! I have had it with these MFing ANTS in the MFing HOUSE!!!”)

I follow the trail back to this crack in the sidewalk and there it is. Ants coming and going like grand central station. Some with granules of food going in and out of this crack. And I’m like BINGO BITCHES! YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!! So I grab the syringe of exterminator goo and douse the area around this crack… and the ants love it. It’s serious poison to them, but they don’t know this yet. And I feel really good about this now. I found the nest, didn’t have to exterminate the entire neighborhood’s animals in the process… all is right with the world. Minus the ant holocaust going on, all is right with the world.

(I figure later in the world of ant billboards there will be an odd looking teapot in the shape of a bald man’s head with a tremendous bushy beard and the spout will be in the shape of a syringe, causing controversy in the JC PENNY of the ant world… )

Later in the night, round 11pm or so, I go outside with my flashlight app and check on the massacre. Few ants still on the spot, others back on the trail, but still going strong into/out of grand central. I found I needed more light so I went back inside and got my spotlight. I decided on checking around the house where this trail may have ended up or even what they were FEASTING on. And not to disrupt the trail I step over it down onto the last step, skipping 2 in the process, in flip flops.

The last step really isn’t a step. It’s a half inch corner of the steps sticking out of the brick walkway that surrounds my corner of the city block. Well, I hit that half inch corner and immediately I heard a “crack” (which is weird how it was audible yet made no sound… I think it’s like why your voice sounds ridiculous on a recording but normal to you in your own head. Resonance? I forget… ) as my foot hit the side of the stair and down I went. I skinned my knee as if I was 8 years old, and I ended up on my back. Five seconds ago I was king of the world, now I’m a turtle on his back… laughing.

“OUCH!” I thought… “I hope no one saw me!”

Just then a car that had started to pull away from a stop sign at my corner as I started my descent decided to back up and ask… “Are you ok?” with that odd undertone of held-in laughter… I know this undertone because I have asked many myself with this same thought of “DON”T LAUGH… YET!”

“YEAH YEAH I’M FINE! MAYBE MORE EMBARASSED THAN IN PAIN BUT I AM FINE… THANKS FOR ASKING!”   do you need help he asked? 

“NO NO JUST DRIVE AWAY! YOU CAN LAUGH AT ME MAN IT HAD TO HAVE BEEN FUNNY TO SEE. I’LL LIVE!” alright he said i was just checking... 

And he drove away… nice of the guy to back up… yet I heard him break into laughter as he drove away, as I would do. and then I did. It was the dumbest fall in human history, along with the dumbest reason to fall… “I didn’t want to disrupt the ant trail, your honor.”

I went to work the next day and using an umbrella as a cane, most suggested to call my doctor. So I did and he sent for xrays and low and behold I broke my 5^th metatarsal bone, or in layman’s terms, the ‘you’re an idiot if you break this one’ bone.

The un-funny bone.

I was fitted with a boot, and given a cane to use that my grandfather used in the years before his death. It was one of those things that was an honor to have and to hold, let alone actually USE because I needed it. and let’s face it: it worked better than a pocket umbrella-cane. (just for the visual… it’s a full sized umbrella.)

But a funny thing happened.

In the days following I found something I didn’t think existed anymore. I found humanity. People moved out of my way, held doors, waited for me, were polite in every turn, and I think even wiped my ass once or twice without asking. That last one was welcomed but weird nonetheless… For the most part I am grouchy working for the government with the idiots that work here. But the folks who showed me there was still good in the world made me feel better about them too. People even stopped by to ask how / what happened… and I am stuck to giving the embarrassing above story on how I broke my foot. One guy even said “C’mon dude, in this case you have to lie about it…” and my forever retort is “HEY! YOU ASKED!”

It makes me cry just thinking about how nice people have been.

These were complete strangers to me, seeing me like a bird with a bum wing, and offering me some popsicle sticks and string to wrap around it to get me back in the air again.

4 weeks ago these same folks would let the elevators close in my face. Slammed regular doors in my face… anything to rearrange my face, as my mirror has told me to do for years… but now they smiled and made awkward conversation seem, well, not so awkward.

My advice: DO SOMETHING COOL to break your fifth metatarsal bone in your foot. It’s painful but once you get the boot on it’s not too bad (thanks Vicodin) and you will see what I mean. It’s 

incredible.

And I KNOW when I am healed I will go back to those doors slamming into my face, elevators not being held, and I’ll go back to being the weird guy in the corner.  And in a lot of ways it’s exactly what I want. Normalcy.

But for now, I’ll take humanity however I can get it. 

EVER BUY A HOUSE?

WOW… A COLONOSCOPY ISN’T EVEN THIS BAD…(it's the preparation that sucks!)

***MAJOR LANGUAGE / ADULT CONCEPT (ONE) ALERT***

Ever buy a house? Not me.

I have been in a few apartments and they basically say “how’s it goin?”, check your teeth, scratch your head and rub you behind the ears like you’re a dog… and boom you live there. Pretty simple ehh? Well, for an apartment…

It’s not the LOOKING for a house. It’s not the cheerful real estate agent whom you not just hope is good looking but is also good at their job. {My agent isn’t good looking, is flat chested, and allows no interest in me from the dating realm. That’s because my agent is a man. Yet if I tell you he is a good real estate agent, then I am telling you the wrong information. I won’t give his name here, but if you come to the midtown Harrisburg region on a drive you will see his sign on just about every house for sale in the area and for good reason. He has sold and bought just about every house, and he is knowledgeable about just about every one. He isn’t a good real estate agent… he is the best. No… THE BEST. There that’s better. Everyone from the bank to the insurance companies to the home inspectors to everyone . . . they all refer to midtown as his domain and say how absolutely awesome he is. And they would be correct. I DIGRESS… per the usual… }

It’s the PAYING for the house… and all that info they need to openly rape you of your credit history, bank statements, and tax information… in public! As if I were stuck in a stockade. Please throw tomatoes… (and stop raping me)… Speaking of the bank… Have I compared them to a colonoscopy yet? Well, I never realized I could take a fisting to my urethra…  And this fist is holding a handful of money they are ripping from my bladder. Get a visual? Enjoy the pain? Throw up? Me too! (you were warned there’d be one adult concept…)

Meeting my bank loan advisor, she was a pleasant referred-to-me woman by my real estate agent and she is fantastic as well. Very informative, very pleasant to the ears. I may have called and talked to her years ago… her number may have been 1-900-QUICKIE.…… But to hear her list of demands from the bank was like hearing it from Mommy Dearest! (put the hanger down and don’t cut my beard!!!)

Tax records! (snip!)

Pay stubs! (whip!)

W-2s! (snip!)

Bank records! (whip!)

I felt like one of Wayne Brady’s slapped bitches! (thank you Chappelle’s show)

But I gave her all the information she needed and then some more. We set up a bank account there so that I could get a lowered percentage rate for the loan and all was fine. Then I got an email from the bank asking for more salary information. They have my tax records for the last 2 years, W-2s and paystubs for the last month. what more do you need? I basically asked this and said this to the one lady at the bank. She didn’t really have an answer (salary verification is a requirement) so I thanked her for not explaining anything to me and hung up the phone in a fury. When I got the information she asked for, the HR people who had to verify my salary explained how much goes in (and comes out of you) to buy a house. And all she’s doing is following bank protocol. And all I was doing was being an ass. So, tail between my legs, I apologized to the bank lady and explained to her this was the first time buying a house and it’s overwhelming. She acknowledged my apology saying how nice it was to hear (she never hears them) but then asked for my salary information while twisting the knife…

Oh, as if you needed more info from me about this first time drilling n grilling… it ended up ok. Being it was my first time doing this house buying, I was unaware of this part of the process. Yet now that I know what to expect so in the future it shouldn’t be so bad.

AGAIN, this bank loan information roll out is like the night before shits for the colonoscopy. Once you are on and off that toilet more often than an altar boy kneels in front of a priest after mass, you then go to the actual -oscopy.

I was warned that the amount of paperwork you sign was monumental. “Sign what they tell you to whether you know what it is or not. And if you want to read it, do it later on when you can’t sleep at night. It’s better than Nyquil!” – I was told. Well, for one part it was true. For the other, not so much. I guess my bank helped out the mortgage broker process (or whatever) because even though there was a lot of paperwork indeed, I was expecting to sign my name 500 times. I even screwed up my own name due to signing so much stuff, even mixed up the dates. But in reality, I think less than 20 signatures were needed.

The move in date was any day after the above signatures were completed. I chose a week after closing and it worked to perfection. During the week, boxes were piled into the car and transferred to the house. I work close to my house so I just swung around the block and then drove back to the old apartment to load up for tomorrow’s offload. This was perfect, so that when the large stuff needed moved, it would make for an easy move for my helpers. And on that day, it was a Friday evening, we started at my apartment with a couch at 6pm. We were done and eating pizza (truck returned) at 7:45pm in the new place. It was quite possibly the fastest move in history, and worked out just as I planned it.

AND NOTHING BROKE, NOT EVEN A LIGHT BULB!

I set up my bed with help from friends and family, and after everybody went home, it felt good to know I was already there. I laid down to sleep and at about 2:45am I was awoken to drunken screaming in the street:

“FUCK YOU YOU BIESHA-SHIT! YOU NEVER LOVED ME!”

--“NO BITCH YOU NEV’R ‘OVED ME AND UGAN GO TA HELL!”

And so on… … … I’m sure the make-up sex was fantastic.

I rolled over in my bed and smiled and thought “It’s great to be back in the city, err, home!”

III

N.A.S.C.A.R.

N.A.S.C.A.R. = Not Another Sports Column About Racing…  

Yup… but in this case, there’s a first for everything…

Language alert………. Hey, it’s NASCAR…

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

There was a time YEARS ago that I had no idea about NASCAR. I didn’t care about it.  It didn’t exist in my world… like water polo, horse jumping, camel racing or basketball...

There was a nothing happening day where a race was on and my friend mike was over. After hours of drooling in boredom looking for NOTHING on tv, we settled on NASCAR. I didn’t understand it, didn’t know anything, and didn’t care. But there was something to watch on tv. So to heck with it.  Mike had seen a few races by then and he said they were exciting and fun to see the wrecks. I thought “Hey! Why not?”

The cars went round and round in circles and every turn and every straight they came real close to hitting the wall, each other, etc.

An hour went by…

Again, we didn’t understand it, but they were driving fast (200+ mph) in close proximity to each other. That alone was pure excitement in anticipation for the hoped death on the track…  but no. The drivers were under some kind of influence because during that one particular race where all we wanted to see was a wreck, fire, debris… something… anything.

another hour…

by now the drool is a sippable puddle in my shirt…

there wasn’t even a caution flag. Doing a bit of research I can speculate it was 1997, and it was Talladega. The track at Talladega, Alabama (like Daytona) is known for their epic speeds and wrecks. But not that year.  Per Wikipedia, 1997’s Talladega was the fastest (average speed) race ever held, Mark Martin won, and it was the first race in Talladega history run without one single caution. Even non-race fans can think of Talladega and the synonymous “big one” (a known term for a large field-wiper-outer wreck on the track)… but this day where I was anticipating this beautiful fiery flipping 200mph death causing/defying wreck, none came.

Needless to say, to me, racing sucked.

So years later, in maybe mid 2003-04 a race was on and my buddies were in to it wholeheartedly. They were gearheads so I had no choice if I wanted to hang out. (this one had a few cautions in it and the racing was phenomenal, so my appreciation grew from there.)

My buddy John asked “Who is your driver…?”

--“Huh?”

“Who is your driver? If you don’t have one there is a guy in an orange car that has a mouth on him. He’d be right up your alley!”

I didn’t realize I had to choose in the 40+ man field… I had no idea what I was getting myself in to… but I like the color orange and I like people who go against the mainstream. And so the natural progression was to pick a guy named Tony Stewart. He was a fiery Hoosier to reporters, other drivers, and an all-around asshole. After a few races he started in on his own sponsors and even those sponsors who support NASCAR. Needless to say I became a fan instantly. Not even of the racing, but of him.

And so, in 2004 I was a race fan. I watched religiously and started to learn the rivalries, drivers’ personalities, numbers and sponsors. And in racing you rarely say the drivers’ name. you use their number or their sponsor to describe the car. “there goes the cingular 31… check out the 20 for the win!!”… it’s like shorthand for rednecks.

As he didn’t do much in 2004, in 2005, he was a Winston cup champion (maybe by then it was Nextel, but it doesn’t matter.). Tony Stewart, this phenom on the track, and jerk off (the track) was a good pick apparently because of his championship . . . it was amazing to me. yet it was a lot like not knowing anything about chess and being a fan of Kasparov out of nowhere...

So naturally I was not just hooked, I wanted a repeat of the last year… but that wasn’t to come for some time. A younger, nicer, better spoken driver came through and for 5 years he dominated the points and standings. Jimmie Johnson is now known as “Mr. Five Time” by the announcers during races and he literally dominated the points in every year they won. It seemed like a coup was going on with their race team, but between Jimmie and Chad Knauss, his crew chief, they were infallible. And as much as I hate Jimmie Johnson as a driver, (I was sick of him winning all the time) I admire his accomplishment. It has never been done before (5x in a row) and probably will be a record that stands the test of time.

Yet year before last (2011) Tony Stewart ended up in victory lane 5 times out of 10 championship races in “the race for the chase” (the ‘world series’ of racing) and he won it by 1 point over Carl Edwards. But more importantly he closed the book on the 5 year story that was Jimmie Johnson. They literally call Tony the ‘bookends’ to Jimmie Johnson’s record shattering achievement.

And so… again, a first for everything, it was determined that I MUST go to a race at least before I die. I think it was 2009, and my Uncle Gib is a fan of racing as well. so he met me at the Lewes, Delaware ferry port and we stayed at my godfather’s trailer. It’s a beach house for them, and it’s about 3 miles from Rehoboth beach. It’s also an easy 45 minutes from Dover… not a bad drive at all. Well, better than 4 hours from home.

We woke up early on a cool end-of-May day and trucked our way north. We found the parking area and hopped on a school bus that served as a taxi for those who parked there. In the drive to the track the bus driver and Gib struck up a conversation due to Gib being a Mets fan. The driver had a blue and orange NY cap on, so he was as well. they drowned in their tears of baseball fandom for the 10 minute drive… We thanked the driver for the lift, and out we went.

That “monster” you see on TV for the race is immense. Dover is known as “the monster mile” due to its length and the way it gobbles up cars and the cement is known to ruin tires during the races. But outside the track, just by the main gate, sits a concrete “monster” which seems to rise up out of the ground, stories tall, holding a car.

And once in the main gate and after the awe of looking at the monster, you could either go through the mall or go to your seat. The mall is basically a souvenir section with every driver’s gear you could imagine being sold from the side of their semi-trailers. I bought a few things from Dover and Stewart, Gib bought a few things from a few drivers for him and his friends, and just as we met back up and were about to head in, the flyover occurred.

You know…

National anthem…  includes a must-have flyover by a plane or 2. Maybe when you’re in the stands you could anticipate it better, but we were in the mall where you couldn’t hear or see much of the track or the pre-race festivities. Well, I have heard some loud things in my life, but this noise made me shit my pants… but the shit was too scared to come out.

Screaming I asked “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??????????????”

-          “What?” Screamed gib…

“what was that?”

-          “What?”

“exactly!”

-          “Oh, the flyover! 2 fighter jets.”

“what?”

This may have been the start of my tinnitus issues…

I haven’t left my house or apartment much in life, but to me, nothing in this world is louder than a fighter jet, let alone 2 of them… and Dover is along route 1… right around the corner from the Air Force base.  The fact that they flew over wasn’t the issue. it was this sonic boom of whatever that flew by and I hadn’t seen it. so I could prepare or even go “OHH, there they are…”… it was just a loud indescribable ROAR that came and went without warning or anything.

I literally never saw the planes.

We made our way to our seats and we were 10 rows up from the bottom of just out of turn four. If you watch it on TV, you’ll see a ramp from the stands to the ground in that area. We were 10 rows up from the top of that exact ramp. So we were right at the opening to the pits. And Kevin Harvick’s team was directly in front of us. My Uncle Patchy would have loved these seats.

But the roar of the engines, the smell of racing fuel, motor oil, exhaust, air ratchets and the constant ass massage from the cars was astounding. I know it’s cliché, but if you‘ve never been, you have to go. an unexpected bonus on this hot day was the vortex that is created by the cars going 130+ miles an hour, so a steady breeze keeps the crowd cool on a hot sunny day.

Earplugs were a must on this hot day for me, Gib went without. Yet mine weren’t those little foam easy jobbers you can plug your ears with. I thought I’d prep by using those noise cancelling over the head ones you’d find at the Home Depot or worn by Navy guys helping the planes take off on the aircraft carrier (think Top Gun)… I was clearly new at this looking around. It was me and babies wearing these headsets. I felt like I was wearing black on white tee shirt day. I would not be surprised if commentator Darryl Waltrip (“BOOGITY BOOGITY BOOGITY” himself) saw me in the crowd and announced to the nation “There’s a newbie”…

After a few hours, it was down to the last few laps. Stewart was in the lead but hadn’t pitted during the last of the cautions, giving him the lead. The dreaded Johnson was in second with fresh tires. With 2 to go Johnson gained on him and on the last lap he overtook Stewart on the back stretch and won the race.

Seems like a boo right?

Sort of.

Gib and I went to our first NASCAR race together and our drivers were the ones to fight it out for the win. The excitement was exhilarating. When he crossed the finish line I gave Gib a high-ten for the fabulous finish and we worked our way to the bus for the ride back to the car. And during that walk back it was determined that Stewart’s second place finish gave him the overall points lead for the series to that point. So the Lowe’s 48 car won the race, but Tony was in first place in the standings.

But enough about the cars… track… drivers… and the drive… the race FANS are why you should go. those internet fads called “Walmartians” look ‘normal’ compared to some of these folks. Boobs are great, but 70 yr old nipples could use a shelter. The intense different type of tattoos, piercings, and daisy dukes for 80 yr olds is why you go. I on the other hand was sitting next to a woman who had a loose sleeveless shirt on and grand 28 year old mammaries… for that reason I only really saw the last 2 laps, and what’s funny is the following year we sat in about the same spot, and she was sitting in the row below us. Yet with a better fitting shirt on the sides, she forgot a button or 2 in the front. I think I got a pic of the slip too.

So again, the race wasn’t much to see versus the people-watching… and yet I realize at that point I was one of them and finally initiated in the club of race attending race fans… and I felt welcomed to be there.

III

I RIGHT WRONG...

The more I read blogs and other peoples writing on the internet or in the family alone (ED, CISSY) I realize I suck as a writer. Using such words as those I cannot fathom to include in a write up, I find myself at 36 writing to an audience of 7 year olds. How do I mean? Well, in my writing, people like Aydan (9) and Carly (7) could read it and understand every word of it (minus the occasional bleeped words of course). They wouldn’t have to consult with a Roget’s thesaurus or in this day and age the Rogett’s app.  Is it one T or two? I dunno.

(Side note, it’s pronounced “Rog-eys” not “Rog-its” like I thought. Thanks Trebek. You properly- pronounced Doosh. I love Sean Connery, but only impersonated on SNL.)

Yet as I write this it still hits me weird that an odd 1,000+ hits have been associated with my blog. There’s only 54 posts up, but it has been looked at 1000+ times. I have told not many about the blog, it’s at the end of every email I send though, so maybe the occasional couponner I correspond with may check out my blog.

I told a guy at work about it, and I have a friend named Mike too so maybe he follows. Maybe not. But I know that there’s too many parents with an outward lack of imagination for boys’ names. How many Mikes do you know? I know so many that I call most of them by another name, like their last name or a goofy nickname.

The name Peter would probably be a cool overly used name if in fact it wasn’t associated with the long (duck) dong in your pants. Then again, could you imagine telling your gal to hold off while your archangel gets its wings? Maybe that’s how the bloodflow became associated with maxi pads. (They have wings too!) Is this how the bull turned red? (They give you wings)

The problem and beauty of this blog is its simplicity and its derisions from the title of the post I guess. I wish I knew what derisions meant, or even if it is used correctly. But to sound smarter than I am I will leave it in. Remember that it is dumbed down due to it being then figured out as I write the first sentence. It’s thinking out loud as the fingers type.

Do you hear the voice in your head when you write anything or do you just argue with your own conscience as to what sounds right or should be on the paper? I think of the schizophrenic side of me fighting to get words on to paper too fast screaming loud enough for me to hear it. Then I argue with the walls of my apartment and hope the walls don’t think I am a bad writer… Which brings us full circle.

I wish I was a better wordsmith.

And thanks for checking these posts out. It’s fun to know my stone cold sober (and sometimes stoned only) inner thoughts make people happy enough to come back and read, and even sometimes print and give to others to enjoy.

III

Ps. Yes, this is a stall because I have no clue as to how I will start my godson’s 3^rd birthday poem, now 9 days late and counting. . . maybe inspiration will come at work tomorrow. It’s ok though, he’s too young to remember. Yet karma is pissed with me. And hatching a plan I am unaware of. Damn that karma.