So...concerts or weed or friends or I don't know

I have no idea how to really go into this memory, but it came up in conversation with a friend this week and I definitely wanted to share it. Fair warning…this has no underlying meaning, so if anybody tells you it does (like when people try to say Star Wars has some underlying Republican/Democrat meaning) they are wrong (especially about Star Wars).  Think of this as a guilty pleasure entry, like when Dinkus watches Down Below or when I watch Rick and Morty (still not as good as The Simpsons).

Many moons ago I used to go to Dave Matthews Band concerts all the time (do not judge me)…like I spent way too much money, time, petro (that’s Australian for gas, I’ve really been listening to a lot of Australian-based podcasts…Do Go On and The Weekly Planet rule!) and anything else associated with DMB (again, don’t judge me). One of these concert trips was…interesting…to me at least.

So my friend and I were on the road to Star Lake Amphitheater outside of Pittsburgh (Lets go Pens) and he got into this real deep philosophical discussion about how he was going to be a better person. That meant no more alcohol, no more weed, no more being a douche (that would be the hardest, if you knew this guy…I kid…not really), etc. He had already gone a couple of months without smoking. He was passionate about this change. He was animated. He had convinced me this was going actually happen.

We both talked about being in our early twenties and how we needed to finally start growing up a bit. We were in committed relationships, we were starting real careers and we were paying bills on a semi-regular basis (eh…maybe not). We started to reminisce about previous concerts, stupid college (or University for those across the pond) antics. For me, it was a little bit of a somber conversation. We were basically admitting that our youth was slipping away (people in their twenties are stupid, especially me and most especially my friend, more on that soon).

We pulled into the stone and grass parking lot prepared to hang out and then enjoy several hours of jam band fun (by the way DMB plays for three hours, Steve Miller Band played for like an hour…you suck Steve Miller Band). This is important…go back and reread the last two paragraphs, I can wait. Seriously, reread them and the epiphany-type conversation we had. Ok, on with the story…

As soon as we pulled into our spot, and I mean my friend wasn’t even completely out of the car, two Phish head Beths (you know the kind; dirty dreads, faded hemp clothes, wreaks like weed and body odor) offered him weed. He immediately accepted. He looked over at me and with the straight face that only he could conjure up he said “Well, I guess those couple of months of not smoking are over.” I just laughed and walked to the trunk of my 2001 Alero (Oldsmobile baby!).

As he walked around the front of my car to meet Phish Head Beth #1, she was already handing him a bowl. I can say this without any doubt, his hand was a mere few inches from accepting the bowl when out of nowhere (actually it was from further down the parking lot) a Phish Head Bob came sprinting down holding some tattered tackle box. He got lit up like a Christmas Tree  in the Eat N Park commercial (trust me watch that link) by an undercover police offer…on…the…hood…of…my…car (like five feet from my friend and Phish Head Beth #1 holding a bowl between them). They, along with everybody within a 20 foot range, froze to watch the proceedings.

After the cop cuffed Phish Head Bob (remember it’s on the hood of my car) and wrestled the stinky burnout back to an upright position, they went on their way.

My friend turned back to the two Phish Head Beths and said “You know what, I’m good.”

Now, that is not quite the end of the story because in life there is no fade to black or dissolves to end a scene. You see after the Hemp Star was arrested we were still beside these two women. After they smoked in their car, they reemerged to join the rest of the world and talk to us.

Not ones to let an opportunity go by for a laugh, we decided to mess with the glassy-eyed disasters whose parents clearly failed. They asked us how we met, we said college. They asked which college, I said NYU and my friend UPJ (I think you see where this going). They asked if I wanted a beer, I told them I was a recovering alcoholic and rattled off some random number of days I was sober. In their best sleepy voices they told me it was amazing how recovering addicts always knew the exact numbers of days…probably said three or four different days of sobriety to them.  We told them we were brothers (we look nothing alike…he’s an Italian Stallion and I’m a Norse Force…teehee), after telling them we were friends.

These girls were toast…I mean that.  Totally and completely burnt to a crisp (how I like bacon!). I don’t even remember how our conversation with them ended, maybe they are still there (if you see them, tell them to go home and bathe).

That is it, I do not have a good way to end this one. So…um…good bye, for how…I guess.

So...Beau

One year ago my Dinkus lost her best friend, her 10 year old boxer Beau.  While on the outside she handled it well, I know her well enough to know she was absolutely torn up on the inside.  This one is for her (and me, because I miss him too).

Beau was the least behaved dog I have ever met...really. This guy would jump on you no matter what you did to him, or no matter what you were doing. Hands full carrying groceries, boxes, babies...he was gonna jump. Sleeping on the couch, bed, shitter…he was gonna jump. Wait, did I just type sleeping on the shitter? This guy got to the point that if he did not jump, we knew he was feeling a little under the weather.

Beau once ate an entire pizza (pierogi too…those from the Pittsburgh area know how big of an offense this is) off the counter. I walked upstairs when he was snout down in the middle of the box. I. Did. Not. Get. A. Single. Piece (come to think of it, maybe he was sending me a message about my diet…ignored that one). Beau’s reaction was what I would come to expect anytime you caught him doing something he was not supposed to be doing…he looked at you and wagged his little stumpy tail while somehow looking like he was smiling. That was Beau.

This was also Beau. He would go nuts if you left him alone for anything over 1.2 seconds. He chewed up a railing, two doors, a step, a door frame, ruined a chair pillow by standing on it so he could see out the window for our return (I still look up at the window expecting to see him there) and who knows what else he destroyed that we blamed on the kids. 

Speaking of the kiddos, I actually miss them crying out "Dad, can you get Beau outta my room?!?!" (although it is slowly getting replaced by "can you come get Noah?").

The bed..oh lord…the bed. Moving him was impossible. It is easy to see how God fit so much love into that crazy canine when you tried to lift him…dude was solid. I somehow think he got heavier when he jumped on the bed (physics be damned). I can remember sleeping on the couch because I could not move him (and not because Dinkus was ever mad at me).

I also think he knew Dinkus better than I ever will. On more than one occasion he would come lay next to me or sit with me. It drove Dinkus crazy. I think Beau knew what he was doing; he wanted to make her jealous. He wanted that extra special loving that only a puppy mom can give, and of course it worked.

I think Dinkus tried to use Beau as a deterrent when I first started flirting with her. Little did she know that Beau and I had formed a pact. I would help take care of him, provide him with the best puppy brother ever (Colby you are missed my friend), and I would love Dinkus with all my heart as long as he helped me with my flirting. It worked. Beau was the best wingpup ever.

Beau was the reason we could not have people over. As I said before, he jumped all the time so he would annoy the guests. You could not put him downstairs, due that aforementioned separation anxiety. He would knock you over and trip you. He would shed constantly. He was a drooler (kinda like me), so you might leave our house with a wet spot.

And you know what…I would not have traded him for the world. He was Dinkus’ Beau, but he was my friend.

 Miss you big guy…now, get off the damn bed!

So...Homer Simpson

I am turning into Homer Simpson (minus all those sweet Nuclear Power Plant 7G dollars). Lets start with the obvious (and painful)…

His age has been said to be 36, 38, 39 and even 40 (it is soooo close now), my age is 39. He has three kids, his oldest being his 10 year old son, Bart, his middlest being his 8 year old daughter, Lisa, and his littlest being his 1+ year old daughter Maggie. I have a ten year old, Luke, a 7 year old daughter Avery and a 2 year old daughter Noah Lynn. Ugh…that was boring to write, but I am sure the rest is better (spoiler alert, it isn’t).

The dude loves to eat, I would eat 5 day old sushi (mmmm…5 day old sushi), if I knew I wouldn’t get caught (I could care less about getting sick, until I am actually sick).  Because of our shared love of food (I could so go for a grilled cheese sandwich), I have started to put on a few lbs, which have made my mid-section very Homer Simpsonesque (sorry, dinkus…I’m working on it…I mean not right now, but you know what I mean).

So what about the not-so-obvious Homer Simpson qualities I embiggen (diehard Simpson Nerds unite!)…

Like Homer Jay Simpson, I totally outkicked my coverage in the spouse game. My wife is smart, caring, active, an amazing mother to all three of the kiddos, sells real estate (remember that one episode Marge did that, uh oh…is dinkus going to be a cop, or get a boob job), thinks more than 3 spices is too much in cooking (mmmm…mywife’schickenburritos), she loves an often bumfuzzled (it’s a work, look it up) guy, she is trustworthy (I would trust her to take bowling lessons), and is incredibly beautiful (Marge is a knockout, in fact she was on Playboy).

In my mind, I am a killer softball player. I was a pretty darn good baseball player in my day (left bench is a position, right?). Homer was recently enshrined in the MLB Hall of Fame, I believe someday I will be too (shut up, don’t take this from me). He got to hang out with famous athletes (Daaaaaaaaarrrrrryyyyllll!!) and I have too, kinda(I peed next to Lance Armstrong and called him “One Nut” Lance, true story).

Homer has a blog! He was the mysterious Mr. X. I have a blog! I am the boring M.

Homer has had a lot jobs, just so I can add a higher word count to this blog, here are some of them: boxer, mascot, astronaut, baby proofer, imitation Krusty, truck driver, hippie, plow driver, food critic, conceptual artist, grease salesman, carny, mayor, grifter, body guard for the mayor, country western manager, garbage commissioner, mountain climber, farmer, inventor, Smithers, Poochie, celebrity assistant, power plant worker, fortune cookie writer, Pieman, Kwik-E-Mart clerk and missionary (it’s not just a position?). I have had quite a few jobs in my life: butcher’s aide (if I didn’t go vegan after this, I never will), shoe salesman, sports writer, copy editor, office supplies salesman, copy writer, homecare and hospice representative, advertising account executive and pharma rep.

Homer has dreams, as do I (ok so everybody has this one in common with the Beer Barron). Homer dreamt of being an inventor. His mentor and inspiration was Thomas Edison (oddly enough I had a weird interest in the Wizard of Menlo Park when I was in elementary school), and he went for it. My dream is to become a novelist and my inspiration and mentor is Timothy Zahn (Star Wars Nerds unite!), and I am attempting to go for it as well.

Homer believes in his kids. He absolutely backed Lisa when she found out the town’s dirty little secret, sweetly saying “I believe you, honey. Of course I do. You're always right about this type of thing and for once I want in on the ground floor”, even though it cost him his job as town crier. I have total blind faith in my kids (despite knowing the genes I passed on to them, sorry kids). Soon your kids will either be voting for my kids, working for my kids or being treated by my kids.

Finally, and most importantly, Homer is happy. The Springfield Isotope fan has his bad days, injuries and faults, but man is he happy. I, being a huge Pittsburgh sports fan, have had my bad days, injuries (stupid crossfit) and I certainly have my faults, but man am I happy.

So I want to tell everybody that…D’oh…I bent my wookie.

So..absolutes.

That is all I hear lately, absolutes, absolutes, absolutes.

What ever happened to the gray (that's the American spelling by the way, look it up)? Being color "challenged" gray is my best friend when it comes to clothes.

It seems everybody has drawn a line in the sand in with a Sharpie, taped over it and laquered over it...actually you could just kick the sand, but I'm sure you get it.

Let's start with a touchy one, guns.  Oh no, I'm going to talk about guns in a typically lighthearted blog post! Some people are completely against them. They label them as death incarnate. By looking at a gun, you could die...from a heart attack.

These people are foolish. Responsible people have earned the right to be responsible. Forget the constitution, it was written way too long ago to be relevant on this issue (no way TJ, we're tight like that, had our modern weapons in mind when he put quill to paper) how about common sense?

These people forget our country was formed with diplomacy and guns.  That's a fact, a well-armed bunch of schmoes gave us this country.

The people that scream nobody better touch my guns or infringe on my right to own a gun are just as foolish.

There are mass shootings going on in this country way too often. Cops, children and innocent people are becoming casualties.

They won't even engage in a discussion on whether we need change. It's never the right time to talk about guns, right? Well if I'm diagnosed with cancer, I don't want the doctor telling me it isn't The right time to talk about it. The argument I hear most from this group is guns will find a way into bad people's hands, whether legal or not.

Keeping that in mind, these tend to be the same people that want to build a multi-billion dollar wall to keep out illegal immigrants (using the gun logic, wouldn't people still get in even if there was a wall?).

They have it in their minds that every illegal immigrant is a violent criminal who only thinks of committing crimes. Some of these illegal immigrants pay taxes, serve in our military and are they are the backbone of much of our economy (that's a fact people, look it up). We need some of them.

On the other hand, nobody should argue that border security is even more important now than ever. So to those that say let them all in, or they have been here for 5 years let them stay...that is not how it works. We have laws and nobody should be able to pick and choose which laws we enforce.

I can hear this side crying out, but that isn't fair! If you want to talk about the laws, that's different, but right now we need to follow the law.

The last one annoys me to no end, perhaps it's because of my very short-lived journalistic career. I am tired of people constantly believing everything they see on the internet or on TV (except for this blog, it's 100% accurate all the time).

These dense individuals gobble up the Alex Jones gospel like it's...well...gospel. It's not. He's an idiot. On the other side (I didn't forget you) John Oliver shouting that 13 million people losing healthcare is a tragedy, until you find out it is shit insurance that is basically only good if you get hit by a bus, doesn't mean we don't need to change the program.

The people that believe, retweet, quote  etc. sites like hardcorerightnews.com or bleedingheart.org are morons. Do some legit research people. Despite what the POTUS says CNN, MSNBC, ABC, WAPO, etc are all legit outlets. Despite what Nancy Pelosi says Fox News is legit. You simply have to watch the NEWS programs on those channels, not the entertainment programs.

We don't live in an absolute world, we live in a "except" world. Embrace it.

Now ABSOLUTELY share this.