20 Very Important Things To Do On A Vacation Friday – Part 3: The Evening

  Note: As we all know, night hours are dangerous when it comes to slacker activity, because you might get a second wind and actually accomplish something, and we don’t want to ruin our personal goal of contributing absolutely nothing to society for one day. (I almost blew it with the near-arrest for public-indecency, as my incarceration would temporarily improve the quality of life on city streets. At least those streets that lead to bars.) Therefore, we must be especially diligent and restrict our efforts to only those activities with minimal or even negative value. And here we go…

  (If you need to read this series from the beginning, click Here.)

41. Go into the bathroom, flip the toilet paper so it unrolls the other way, then leave. Wait for eventual commentary.

42. Count the number of items in your refrigerator that contain cheese in one form another. Briefly realize that this might be a reason why you have to grunt when you get out of chairs. Decide that you don’t care and slam the door.

43. See how long you can sprawl on the couch and stare out the window before you get a cramp.

44. Get a black felt-tip marker, take out a box of cereal, and scribble across the front: “Why don’t these things have prizes anymore?” Put the box back and throw the marker in a corner.

45. Watch the cat attack the marker with a determination that you have never felt in your entire life.

46. Wonder what it would be like if you could pounce at will and there were no complications from doing such. Would you still have the same friends?

47. Take the marker away from the cat once he pries the cap off and starts scribbling an EKG readout on the kitchen floor.

48. Listen as the cat goes into the other room and starts clawing furniture because you are stifling him as an artist.

49. Go into your clothes closet with the mission of finally getting rid of all those things you can no longer wear. Run across your “Frankie Say Relax” t-shirt. It’s now 400 sizes too small and there are more holes in it than Mitt Romney’s campaign. But you can’t possibly part with it and this mission is doomed. Leave.

50. Decide that you want to listen to some 80’s music. Turn on the radio and, after frantically switching stations, discover that said music is now considered “Golden Oldies” and you can only find it on satellite radio, usually on a station hosted by Nina Blackwood as she shuffles to the microphone using a walker. Cry a little bit.

51. Wonder how many people reading this post will actually get these references.

52. Wonder how many people understand that MTV used to play music videos.

53. Turn on the TV to find out what IS playing on MTV these days. Get distracted by clicking on a movie that you don’t recognize, starring people that you don’t know, and featuring a non-existent plot comprised of folks doing nothing other than standing around and trying to jump-start new catch-phrases while promoting products that no one really needs. Realize that the main character is actually an extended car-crash sequence.

54. Wonder if actual screen writers have been banned from Hollywood. Is this something else that the Bush Administration destroyed? Giggle at the thought of how the current Republican Party is pretending the Shrub Administration never took place. Stop giggling when you realize that people are stupid and Romney could get elected and eventually we’ll have to overcome what he has destroyed. Curse the stupid people who forgot about the first car-crash sequence and are voting for another one.

55. Turn off the TV and think about reading a book. Wonder how different the world would be if everyone did that from time to time. Wonder if this thought makes you seem like those slightly-obsessive people who wail about the dangers of watching too much TV. Wonder if that’s not such a bad obsession to have.

56. Realize that you have wandered in your thoughts from humorous to thought-provoking, and that this is not such a good thing to happen on a Friday night. Friday nights are when you do random and carefree things because you have the rest of the weekend to do something more serious, like shell out money to pay for the damages you and your dumbass friends caused on said Friday night when somebody hollered “hey, let’s try this!”

57. Try to get back in the proper fun-loving spirit as you think of three absurd but entertaining activities to round out your list of pointless things to do on a vacation day. Try your best to make them not sound like filler entries just to meet your quota.

58. Drink beer. (Okay, I failed with the originality on that one, but seriously, everything is always much more enthralling when drinking an elixir intended to jack up your faculties. (Drinker A: “I once went to a peanut farm.” Drinker B: “Oh my GOD, I’ve always wanted to go to a peanut farm. Tell me everything!”) Until the next morning, when simply opening an eye feels like your eyelid is made of sandpaper as it rips your cornea to shreds.

59. Eat some of that cheese in your refrigerator. I know it’s essentially artery-clogging, but it sure tastes good, even the smelly ones, and I can pretty much guarantee that no one has ever said on their death bed “Dear Lord, I wish I hadn’t eaten all that cheese.” Unless they were talking about something else entirely, some non-dairy bit of tomfoolery, but that’s none of my business and I don’t judge. Okay, I do, every day, but only in a professional capacity as a blogger. Swear.

60. Go back and read all 775 posts on this blog. This won’t improve your life in any way. But you never know when I might show up as a category on “Jeopardy”, and you really should be prepared…

Cheers.

10 Amazing Things You Can Do with an Empty Beer Bottle while Drinking with Friends in a Bar

1. Reenact the JFK assassination.

Have one of your tipsy drinking mates slowly slide the bottle down the table. Take the wrapper off a straw and use it to make spit wads, firing at the bottle until it tips over. (For extra color and fun, use some of the parsley from your appetizers to make a grassy knoll. Borrow someone’s nail polish, and use it to paint one of the coasters pink so somebody can be Jackie and wear it as a hat.) You get the “Magic Bullet Bonus Badge” if you knock the bottle over in exactly four shots, but people can only find 3 of the spit wads.

2. Start a jug band.

Of course, you might have to wait until all people at your table have reached the point where they don’t care what they do as long as the alcohol keeps magically appearing, presented with a flourish by the server who also magically keeps getting sexier every time they drop by with another tray-load. Once inhibitions have been satisfactorily lowered, ensure that all band members have an empty bottle for an instrument, and are christened with snappy street names like “Throttle” and “Wonderbuck”.

Then instruct everyone to commence with the blowing into the empty bottles, creating those off-key foghorn noises that could be any note on the planet. Insist that your new band only perform selections from the Led Zeppelin catalog, because this seems fitting in some way. If nearby patrons express annoyance about your jam session, ask them to join you, because you’re having some issues with the harmony on the backing vocals.

3. Cause confusion.

Pretend to be mildly perusing the back of the beer bottle, reading the fine print. Gasp suddenly, and then exclaim “Oh my GOD, I finally understand every season of Lost. I’ve got to talk to my lawyer.” Then excuse yourself and rush off to the bathroom.

4. Make a political statement.

Hold the empty bottle up and query the crowd. “What’s the difference between this and George Bush?” Pause dramatically and then announce: “Nothing.”

5. Annoy those people who are “just having club soda”.

Roll the bottle up and down the table until this person snaps and does something amazingly disruptive and mean-spirited. Extra points if you can get to 50 rolls before the snappage occurs. Triple points if you can somehow convince the tea-totaller that the culprit is actually your neighbor, and Prudence clobbers said neighbor with the beer bottle before stomping out of the building and slashing everyone’s tires.

6. Begin a romantic relationship with the bottle.

Make your table neighbor go irritate someone else for a while, then place the beer bottle in the center of the chair. Scoot the chair as close to you as possible, then repeatedly lean over to pet on the bottle and make cooing noises. Make a little bib for it out of your napkin, and then feed it French fries by shoving them into the neck of the bottle. If anyone questions your activities, because you’re basically being boring and stupid, say something insipid like “But he always knows the right thing to say to me, which is nothing. He completes me!”

If your tablemates continue to be unsupportive, dramatically snatch up the bottle in a huff, and then go stand by the jukebox, pretending to console your little lover. Wait a few songs, then throw the bottle behind the jukebox for someone to find in a few weeks, because you can only take this so far. March back to the table and announce the severing of the relationship. “I found out that he was cheating on me with that slut over at Table 4. He’s dead to me now.”

7. Play “Bowling For Drunks”

If necessary, rearrange your table and/or chairs so that you have an unobstructed pathway to the restrooms. Wait for obviously-schnockered patrons to stumble toward the facilities, then fling the bottle along the floor , aiming for their feet. 2 points if they only stumble, 5 points if they fall, 10 points if they take someone down with them, 20 points if multiple people flop about and can’t get up, and 253 points if someone manages to get pregnant during the melee. (“Honey, you shouldn’t have worn that easy-access hooker skirt. Sayin.”)

8. Build a miniature Stonehenge.

Arrange several bottles in an irregular circle, knock some of them over, partially submerge one in the queso, and suddenly start talking with a British accent. If people come up to your table and want to talk to you, make them purchase a ticket before they can sit down. When they leave, point out the gift shop that is really a broom closet. Lock the door if they are actually drunk enough to go in there. If neighbors question the possible banging sounds, mumble something about old pipes in the building, then distract everyone by ordering nachos.

9. Become a specialized dating service.

(Note: Your target must be fairly inebriated for this one to work. Plan accordingly.) Scooch over to one of your little friends that is perpetually sad about her lack of success in the dating scene. Convince her that you have a sure-fire method to win some man-meat, something you read about online. “Beer Earrings! Every straight man loves them!” Use some dental floss to tie a bottle to each of her ears, knocking her annoying hands out of the way if she tries to fight you.

Once properly trussed, continue pouring alcohol in her mouth and muttering words of encouragement about how hot and sexy she has now become. Once you have her convinced that the planet wants to sleep with her, point out a stud-boy standing at the bar and currently not making small talk with vapid women sporting big hair. “Go on, girl. Get you some of that!”

Hopefully, with her head wobbling under the unaccustomed weight, your little friend will sashay her way to the stud and strike up a conversation. If things go as intentioned, Lolita will be unable to stop herself from trying to whip her hair around sexily, causing one of the dangling beer bottles to wallop Jethro in the forehead, knocking him out cold. Immediately rush over to Tall Drink of Water Now on the Floor, and drag him out to Lolita’s hybrid car in the parking lot.

Shove Stud into the trunk, then turn to Lolita and say “will you NOW stop bitching about not having a man in your life? Run free, little sparrow.” Wave lovingly as Lolita drives off into the sunset, then immediately delete her name from all electronic communication devices. There are going to be some questions very soon that you don’t want to answer.

10. Throw your last empty bottle through a window.

Then leave. You have plenty of time to make your escape, because it will be at least 15 minutes before one of the drunken patrons suddenly realizes that they might have heard something that didn’t sound quite right. The actual hole in the window won’t be discovered until the following week, startling the entire staff and resulting in bitter accusations work-place strife.


Your work here is done.

Bonnywood Archives: Flashback #1

Note:  Originally posted on "Idiot Fondue", nearly two years ago...


Case Study #1


An annoying debutante writes:

Dear Brian, how much beer, is too much? luv tiffles

And Dr. Brian responds:

Good gawd, woman, why the hell would you ask this question? Are you serious? There is no reason to worry about the limitations on beer, real or imagined or put forth by the voices in your head. There are natural laws of nature that will take care of this issue for you. Just keep drinking. Eventually you will either pass out and awake in a strange bed, or you will die of alcohol poisoning. You are wasting valuable drinking time by even bothering to ponder the implications of your actions. Order another round.

Instead, let's focus on other issues that are more important and screamingly clear in your email. First, you've got to drop the "tiffles" angle. Obviously this is not your real name. No decent parent would ever mark a child with such a pathetic cattle brand, no matter how many episodes of "Dharma and Greg" they have seen, or how many Hallmark cards they may have pawed at Wal-mart. Stop pretending. If you must take on an assumed name, go with something firm and constructive like "Studebaker" or "Propane". This tells the world that you own your life. "Tiffles" tells the world that you might wet yourself if the milk expires.

Second, let's talk about the grammar. Or better yet, the appalling confirmation that you have no idea what this might be. Yes, I have tremendous insight, and realize there was an incident in the sixth grade where your Dr. Pepper Bonnie Belle Lipsmacker application device malfunctioned, and you spilled the syrupy concoction on your English textbook, thus sealing the pages together for three semesters and you were held back a grade. This is no excuse. You were fixated on your lips, instead of attaining proper communication skills, and you must own the oversight and take steps to rectify the situation. Sign up for classes immediately.

Besides, I can tell by the way you signed your name that the boy you THOUGHT you might be attracting with your wanton lip-prepping had no interest in you. Yes, I am talking about Pete. I can visualize him by the way you parted your hair in the employee ID photo from the time you worked at Casual Corner. Pete did not want you and your glistening beauty products. He wanted to join the wrestling team, and relished the thought of having access to the boys' locker room. I cannot say any more without violating the sanctity of doctor/patient privilege.

So, Miss Studebaker, thus ends our virtual session. Drink more, apply less, and try to act like English is not your second language. Everyone will benefit.

Sincerely,

Dr. Brian

Restaurant Review #2: I Didn’t Know You Could Put Feta Cheese On That

  Editor’s Note: Faithful followers of this blog will know that, back in the day, I posted my first restaurant review, detailing my experience at a certain food establishment in Dallas that did not quite satisfy me. Food was great, service was abysmal, that sort of thing. The followers will also be aware that the owner of said establishment did not care for my review, and posted a comment on the blog, calling me a name that cannot be used in polite company. (Rhymes with “trick”.)

  I had mixed reactions to the this startling comment. On the one hand, my natural need for everybody to love me was mortified. Why this hatred for an honest review? On the flip side, the “Norma Rae” in me was thrilled. Fight the power! Don’t put up with crap, especially when the owner proved himself to be worthy of the slur he directed at me. In the end, I decided that maybe restaurant reviews were not my forte, because I wasn’t aiming to win free future meals like so many dining reviewers expect, fawning over ho-hum offerings to score special treatment. I didn’t know the game.

  But time passes, reflections are made, and I finally realized that, what the hell, if I can’t speak my mind, I’m in the wrong country. So once more into the bleach (shout out to Blondie fans), and let the chips fall…

  So my best friend Apiphany had been babbling about this certain taco joint for quite some time. As is our usual protocol, I only half-listened to her musings. Blah blah best queso ever, blah blah coldest beer on the planet, blah blah these tacos will make you wanna slap your Momma twice. I fully expected her to move on to another obsession within days.

  She did not.

  Her rhapsodizing continued, to the point where she began following the owner of this small but growing chain of restaurants in Twitter. She was re-tweeting like a woman possessed. Fine, I get it, you really enjoy this place. Now, could you let it go? We have more important things coming up, like the mid-term elections and such. That has got to be more critical that your suspect infatuation with things folded in a tortilla, soft or fried.

  Then, as happenstance would have it, one of our mutual friends joined the cause, trying to convince me and my partner that we hadn’t lived until we consumed the divine delicacies of a place known as “Fuzzy’s Tacos”.

  Fine. There are times when you just have to give in or you will never hear the end of it. So we set a date, a Tuesday night when it wouldn’t be too terribly crowded and I could focus on the food instead of the fact that large crowds of people make me insane and temperamental. Actually, leave off “large crowds of” and you’re much closer to the truth.

  So the fateful day arrives, and things don’t look good. Let me set the mood for you: As many of you know, I cannot stand to drive from Dallas to Lewisville in rush-hour traffic. This is an activity that will crush your soul, to the point where all you want to do is pull off to the side of the road, fling yourself into the ditch, and then assume the fetal position until the traffic dies down, which is somewhere around 3am.

  And this particular journey was no different, sucking the life out of me as I didn’t move for large chunks of time, trapped in place with semi’s in front and back of me so I couldn’t see a damn thing, and some idiot on the left listening to a CD of marbles being thrown into a garbage disposal. Top if off with a wreck that forced folks to detour on some service roads that were never meant to be that popular, and you can imagine my utter dismay with everybody in the world.

  Finally, mind shattered, I rolled into the parking lot of Fuzzy’s Tacos.

  And found that everyone else was already there and, naturally, they had already started drinking. Which meant that they couldn’t care less about late-arrivals who were unfamiliar with the place and didn’t know the rules. The gang had taken up residence at one of the picnic tables on the patio, so I marched up to them.

  “I need a beer.”

  They all looked at me in surprise. I don’t know why. This is usually the first thing that I say anywhere I go, even church. Perhaps they didn’t hear me correctly. “I need a beer. Where’s the person that I tell that to?”

  Apiphany finally spoke up. “Ohhh. They don’t have waiters. You have to go inside and order at the counter.”

  I instantly hated this place with an intense passion. I want people to bring me things, I don’t want to go get them. I glanced at Terry, and noticed that he did not have a beverage before him, meaning he had not yet done the “going inside” business, or perhaps had tried doing that and failed in some way, meaning it might be even more troublesome than my already dispirited soul could imagine. “Have you been inside? Do you want to go with?”

  Terry, quickly gauging my state of mind and pondering the various ways in which my dissatisfaction with unsavory situations may or may not play out, agreed. “Let’s go.”

  “Get the queso!” screeched Apiphany. “You’ll DIE!”

  I’ve already done that, thank you very much. About 50 times on that freaking highway that brought me to this stupid town. We opened the door and sauntered inside.

  Now, I haven’t been to the other Fuzzy’s Tacos locations, but I’m assuming that the layout is generally the same. You have your standard tables and booths scattered about, which is nice if you just want to sit and do nothing. If you want to eat, you have to get in line at the counter. There’s a huge sign indicating all of the possible edibles, so you have to stand there looking skyward, deciphering, while people behind you in line tap their feet because they’ve been here before and know the drill. I don’t like it when people are self-centered and assume that everyone should know what they already know, and they get impatient. It makes me get a little ornery.

  So I stepped up to the lady at the counter. “We’re new. Can you tell me everything there is to know about Fuzzy’s Tacos?” The groans from behind me pleased me immensely.

  Turns out, it’s not all that bad. You figure out which of the suggested combo ingredients sound titillating, designate whether you want these ingredients wrapped in a hard or soft shell, select a beverage, and hand over some money. When your order is ready, a pleasant voice will announce this from the heavens, and you can then sally forth to the pickup window to retrieve your treasures. We picked out a few things, making sure queso was in the mix, requested a couple draft beers, scanned plastic, and received a number.

  (Side Note: They fix the drinks for you right there at the counter, and I have to say that the mugs they use for the draft beer are huge and chilled to Arctic proportions. Things were already looking up.)

  Feeling as if we had just accomplished great things, we headed back out to the patio, where we were greeted by an incredulous Apiphany. “You didn’t get the queso?” The expression on her face fully indicated that something horrifying had just happened near a grassy knoll.

  We were perplexed at her outrage. “Yes, we ordered queso.”

  “Where is it?”

  She was starting to get on my nerves. “I’m assuming it’s going to be with our food when they call our number.”

  She rolled her eyes as if she had just lifted up a rock and discovered mentally-deficient slugs. “It’s already at the pickup window. They put it there when you order. It’s the tacos that you get later.”

  And how were we supposed to know this tidbit of information? I glanced at the rest of the gang for moral support. They were all staring back blankly, appalled at our obvious lack of intelligence. Perhaps I should just get a t-shirt made: We’ve never been here. Ever. We are going to have questions. And on the back: You suck. Go away.

  Lolo finally piped up: “Well, I was a little confused my first time, too.” Well, hallelujah, at least somebody was going to be nice. I glared at Apiphany to make my silent point. She just turned away from me, tearing into her next beer and babbling about yet another time that she wore something pretty.

  We slipped back inside to rectify the Fumbling of the Queso Play.

  A bit later, Terry and I were both tonguing the bottom of the queso bowl, clawing at each other to get the last drop. It’s quite good. I’m sure that long-term relationships have been destroyed when one of the partners heartlessly ate more than their fair share.

  A few minutes after that, Mary Magdalene announced from the sky that our number was ready. We soon had the infamous tacos in our hands, ready for perusal. And this is when we discovered that they sprinkle a bit of feta cheese on top of the tacos. Hmmm. This could be a make-or-break ingredient.

  They were delicious. Both of mine were gone in the time it took Apiphany to reapply her lip gloss. Naturally, she started gloating about our enjoyment of the fare, so I had to downplay my pleasure a little. She already thinks highly enough of herself as it is, constantly peering around corners, searching for the royal retinue which must have misplaced her cradle at an inopportune time, ready to reclaim her throne.

  And thusly, I lost my virginity at Fuzzy’s Tacos.

  Good food, great queso, frost-bitten beer. And it’s cheap, always a good thing. There’s the little quibble about having to fetch your own things, but after a while you get used to it. And if you’re a drama queen like Apiphany, having to run back inside every so often just means that many more grand entrances. (Wave stoically, clutch pearls. Rinse and repeat.)

Click Here for more Fuzzy info, if intrigued.

The Bubble Bath, Part 12

Editor's Note: The Bubble Ship has departed Atlantic City, racing back to Philly. Terry and Bubbles are ensconced in the front set of the car, having had less alcohol than me and therefore in a more subdued mood. I have been banished to the back seat, where I am supposed to be blogging, and I am doing that from time to time. But I'm also singing. There are two reasons for my one-part harmony...


One, Bubbles does not have AC in her car. So the windows are down. Since we are traveling at roughly the speed of light, gale-force winds are whipping around in the back of the car, creating a nice sonic shield to muffle my warbling. I don't have to be anywhere near the right key, and no one will care. Two, singing is one of the few distractions I can think of to help me not ponder the fact that the evil wind is ripping the hair from my skull.


Eventually, we roll into Philly and other activities arise...

  First, we have to get beer.

  This is a primary directive in any successful social situation. There must be beer, preferably tons of it so that no one has to make that critical decision about whether or not to swipe the one remaining bottle in the otherwise empty refrigerator. Entire branches of my family no longer speak to one another specifically because someone made the wrong move with that last bottle. There are rules to follow. Perhaps someday I will distribute a brochure to my lesser friends who don’t understand this.

  Anyway, we’re searching for beer, and there are some complications. The most obvious setback is that Terry and I don’t live in Philly. We have no idea where to procure brewskis. Since it is Philadelphia, the natural assumption is that beer surely must be freely available, once one figures out where to get it. We must now depend on our friend Bubbles, especially since she is navigating the rocket ship.

  Trouble is, Bubbles is not well-versed in beer obtainment. Not that she’s not familiar with alcohol, by any means, she just prefers the harder stuff that she can sip while entertaining her guests. She does not indulge in guzzling as the boys from Texas do. So she only knows where to find the hard liquor. Complicating this is the timing issue. There are different hours of availability for liquor and for beer. Bubbles can tell you the precise second when you can no longer score a bottle of gin. She doesn’t have the faintest idea about the deadline for longnecks.

  It is, however, starting to get late. The general consensus is that the beer deadline, whatever it may be, is surely approaching. Decisions must be made. I put aside my netbook with the latest blog draft, something about how lonely my hand is when it’s not holding a chilled bottle, and try to assist in the search for grain-based intoxicants.

  As mentioned, I am not familiar with the area. But it sure seems to me that we are zipping past several establishments that could possibly satisfy our needs. Then again, I am not familiar with any of these store names. I don’t want to holler out a suggestion, only to find that we have turned into the parking lot of an acupuncturist with a fondness for neon Budweiser signs.

  Suddenly, Bubbles spies a venue that meets her needs, and we rocket across several lanes filled with death-cars. She slams the vehicle to a halt and leaps out. She and Terry thunder inside the small convenience store. I climb out of the floorboard and back onto the seat, removing the netbook from my ear, where it had lodged when Bubbles violently terminated all velocity. Initially, I decide to just wait patiently. I’m sure the two of them have the skill set required to adequately complete the purchase.

  Time ticks, and I start to get concerned. Why is it taking so long? Something must be amiss.

  Then I start surveying my surroundings. Have we managed to pull up to a colorful crack house of some kind? Is there a possibility of drive-by violence and irritated people performing rude hand gestures? Perhaps I should investigate. Stealthily, of course. No sense in walking up to that guy standing on the corner over there, asking “Is this the type of place where people get killed?”, as if I were interested in being serviced in that way.

  The door to the store suddenly pops open, and Bubbles trots forth. She comes up to my window. “Do you think a 12-pack will be enough?”

  Good Lord, woman, are you insane? “We need at least a case.” (Only because no one should be forced to make that last-beer decision, you understand. I’m just looking at it from an etiquette perspective, of course.)

  Bubbles nods her head. Got it. Then she adds “It’s packed in there. They stop selling at ten.” Then she turned and dove back into the apparent melee.

  I glanced at my netbook. 9:50p. Holy cow. The drama that would have erupted if we’d been forced to head back to Bubbles’ place empty-handed. I craned my neck to get a better look inside the store, and could see Bubbles and Terry, clutching items, way at the back of a line. I had some time to kill. Great. I could get a smoke in before the rocket ship lifted off once more.

  And I could watch the desperation and mayhem as the local citizenry raced to beat the beer deadline. There’s a dark side of me that enjoys watching panic-stricken people take extraordinary steps to feed their addictions, especially when my own habit-provisions are already relatively secure and en route to my waiting arms. It’s fun.

  And these people did not disappoint me.

  I had barely stepped out of the car when this pickup truck, that couldn’t possibly still be running but somehow was, basically jumped the curb, sailed through the air, and slid to a halt about two inches from my nose. My jaw hadn’t even stopped dropping before the two occupants were out of the truck, bumping into each other as they ran toward the store, and knocking over a newspaper box as they vanished inside. One of them let out a celebratory squeal of triumph as the door closed.

  Well, then. Perhaps I should be making my performance appraisal from a safer location. Such as back in Texas.

  I walked slightly around the side of the building, to a little area where motorcycles and bikes could park. These modes of transport were smaller and I had a better chance of survival. I really didn’t relish the thought of being massacred by another airborne pickup, my last sounds on Earth being the rattle of empty beer cans in the truck bed.

  Once positioned, I lit my cigarette, and things were instantly better, because that’s how nicotine works. Almost instantly, several previously-unnoticed shadowy figures began appearing from other parts of the parking lot, wandering my direction.

  Terrific. I just wanted a quick smoke. I really wasn’t interested in the bonus plan where I get accosted and/or utilized in nefarious means for someone else’s entertainment.

  I considered my options. I could scream and run into the store, but that seemed a little excessive. I could jump back in the car, but since all the windows were down, these cretins could still lunge through the openings like Cujo after Dee Wallace Stone. (And Bubbles would not appreciate the stains on her upholstery.) Or I could just stand there. And I really wanted to finish my cigarette.

  Two of the figures broke off from the shadowy pack and stepped forward into the light from a nearby pole…


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.

10 Reasons Why the Tim McGraw Concert Frightened Me

1. Girls wearing cowboy boots and dresses.

We hadn’t even pulled into the parking lot when we began seeing examples of this startling fashion statement. At first, I thought there had been a tragic incident of some kind. Perhaps there was a fire, and people had been forced to flee wearing whatever they could find. Or maybe these folks were part of the chorus line for one of those down-home musicals where they sing songs about dirt and livestock, like “Wicked on the Prairie” or “Les Cows”.

But no, it soon became clear that these folks actually intended to wear what they were wearing. Now, I am by no means an expert on high-end couture. (I aim for comfort. Jeans and a t-shirt. Done.) But I do believe I am fully qualified to say that this particular rustic ensemble doesn’t always work.

Some women can pull this off, putting such an outfit together that is the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen. Others, not so much.

In fact, there are generally only two types of women who are successful with this clothing choice: Super models who are trying to sell folksy merchandise like horse shampoo or moonshine, and extremely tall ladies with very long legs, so your eyes have time to adjust between the hemline and the cowhide. Everyone else should proceed with caution. Or at least drink enough beer so that you don’t care if people are whispering about you.

And seriously, when it’s 110 degrees in the shade, why in the world would you want to shove your feet into hot, leather tubes with heels? This can’t be comfortable. Find some nice sandals and let people see that fancy pedicure that you spent too much money on.


2. Why do people wear cowboy hats when driving?

Don’t they just get in your way? What are you protecting your head from? Do dangerous objects often fall from the ceiling of your pickup? Is there enough clearance, or do you have to hunch over when driving? And how do you turn your head to look out the back window without slicing open the scalp of your passengers?


3. The tail-gate parties in the parking lot.

While I’m normally the last one to speak disparagingly about beer-drinking opportunities, I don’t quite see the appeal of tossing one back while sitting on something metal as scorching heat shimmers off of baking asphalt. And hey, let’s fire up this grill and make hamburgers, because nothing cools things off like burning charcoal in an iron drum. Before you know it, your beer is evaporating before your eyes and your hair is melting into your skull.

But this doesn’t stop some of these folks. Nope. There they are, six or seven of them in rickety folding chairs, main-lining Pabst Blue Ribbon and gnawing on chicken bones, shouting drunken greetings at anyone that walks by, and knocking noisy things over because they’re clumsy even when they’re sober. And this is two hours before the concert even starts. I was not in the least surprised when we encountered the one boisterous group playing Frisbee with a tattered tortilla.


4. Some people lose functional abilities when exposed to large crowds.

This became evident as soon as we approached the entrance gates to the outdoor amphitheater. Half the people had no idea what the entrance gates were for, wandering around in huddled clusters and glancing at the sky like maybe the clouds would spell out what to do. Then these huddles would come to a complete halt right in a high-traffic zone, shutting down all progress. Just go back home and start over.

Once inside, and we no longer had helpful “lanes” for the inebriated and simple to follow, all hell broke loose. People were just walking wherever they wanted to, even if it meant walking directly into you whilst they were clutching a lit cigarette. Watching where you are going apparently does not come naturally to some folks. Even though these same people are still allowed to vote.

And the children. Why are there children here? And what are you feeding them that makes the little urchins run madly about and scream with such enthusiasm, jumping and rolling and hollering? If I had acted like that when I was their age, one of two things would have happened: My parents would have assumed that I was on fire and thrown water on me. Or they would have taken my life and I would never be spoken of again.

5. Concession prices are beyond outrageous.

 I innocently strolled up to one of the many beer stands, desperately needing some adult refreshment after listening to a 7-year-old urge his Mommy to “watch me do this” 36 times in the span of three minutes. I calmly requested two Miller Lights. I watched the little man take two 16oz cans (yay, they’re the big kind!) and pour the contents into large plastic cups. (Apparently we aren’t allowed to keep the actual cans due to some type of legislative or corporate ruling.) Then he turned back to me.

“That’ll be twenty-four dollars."

I was stunned. Twenty-four bucks for two beers? Are they kidding me with this? There better be a damn steak that comes with it. I grudgingly pulled out two twenties and the man began fiddling with his register. When he slowly counted back my change, angling for a tip of some kind, I snatched the rest of the bills out of his hand. A tip? Hell, no. Take your tip out of that car payment I just handed over. Geez.

6. “Lawn seating” is a very interesting thing.

 I suppose that in the spring, when temperatures are milder and birds are singing, the prospect of sitting on a nice patch of grass on a gently-sloping hill, listening to your favorite artist, can be very relaxing and satisfying. In fact, I’m sure that you would be inspired to join hands with the other people on the grassy knoll and sing something pretty about butterflies, world peace, and drinking Coke.

When the temperature breaks the century-mark, and the humidity is so intense that your fingernails are sweating, that stupid hill with the dead grass is a whole other game. You roast away, with the sun searing your body and sending everyone into a coma of dehydration and memory loss. You’re too weak to even lift your head and look in the direction of the stage, so you just lay there, delirious, listening to faint music that you can hear in the distance, and praying for sundown.

Of course, once night comes on, we have a different set of issues. First, no one can really see any thing, especially if they’ve been sucking down beer in the heat. This results in uncoordinated people stomping on some of your critical body parts as they wander off to the bathroom. Then there’s the critters, insects and bugs who come from nowhere and don’t seem to be very pleased to find you sitting on their homes. Nothing quite compares to the sensation of a Junebug wriggling in the crack of your ass. Good times.

7. Teenagers are an entirely different species.

 I don’t understand these things. They speak an entirely different language, are convinced that they know everything there is to know about anything in the world, wear trendy outfits that look extremely uncomfortable and they didn’t even pay for them, and don’t seem to comprehend phrases like “could you please stop bouncing and sit down so that I can determine which of those ants down there is Lady Antebellum?"

8. Some people should never leave the house.

 Dear Annoying Lady Who Is Six Rows In Front Of Us,

I’m so happy that you are really enjoying your time here at the Tim McGraw concert. I’m sure that your enthusiasm has lead to an interesting life for you. However, might I suggest a few things? Just because they MAKE spandex mini-shorts does not mean that you should put them on. Especially if they are an ugly brown. And although you may really cherish your sports bra, perhaps you could actually wear a shirt on top of it. We are seeing more of your business than even your doctor has seen.

And really, there’s no need for you to be moving about so much. I understand that you once heard a song about “wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care,”, but that song is very old, and you can stop doing that now. You are not in the audience at American Idol. Besides, we already know that you don’t care. Based on the condition of your underarms, you are either European or stopped caring a long time ago. Sit down, please. Before I shove your nappy ass down the hill.

9. Drunken people will applaud anything.

 Want to get the crowd whipped into a euphoric frenzy, Tim? Mention the words “Dallas” or “Texas”, and these people will go insane. We will be unable to hear the next three songs as thousands of people scream in spasms of self-congratulation. They will also clap if you mention drinking or sports teams, show images of your wife on that big screen even though she isn’t here and will not be singing anything, or if you dance with ugly children who happen to be sitting in the front row, sporting an enormous bow special-ordered from the Aretha Franklin boutique.

10. Post-concert survival requires careful planning.

 Don’t ever stay to the end of the concert. That way lies madness. As soon as people on the stage look tired or hungry, start packing. Roll the other drunks off your blanket and find your shoes. The very second that Tim pauses, pretending like it’s the end of the show but you know he’s going to be doing some encores, start running. Don’t stop for anything. If someone is too slow to get out of your way, resulting in some unfortunate bleeding, that’s their own fault. They should have trained more.

And don’t relax just because you made it out of the gates. Other, faster people have escaped before you. They are already in their cars, and the parking lot exits are getting really busy. Every second you waste could jeopardize the operation and lead to you being trapped in one of those aisles that all the other cars ignore and no one will let you out. Speed is critical. Do you really still want to be here when the sun rises on the drunken bodies scattered across the grassy knoll? No, you don’t. So get moving…

10 Reasons Why the Morning After Your Memorial Day Party Can Be Frightening

1. Who are all these strange people sleeping on your couches?

  Granted, some of them look a little familiar, so they could actually be invited guests who decided they might not be in the best condition to get on the nation’s highways. But it’s hard to tell. Let’s face it. After several hours of drinking, and even more hours of your inebriated face mashed into couch leather, you’re not exactly ready for any type of beauty contest. People just don’t look as sexy as they thought they did at 2am in the morning, sucking on a bottle of wine and doing a shimmy dance with a tiki torch.

  Of course, you could just poke one of the snoring droolers, and then demand identification papers, but that might be going a bit too far. After all, these poor folk are going to have a hard enough time as it is by just waking up in a strange environment. All that confusion about things being in the wrong place, possible guilty feelings concerning slurred words they may have uttered after the fifth shot of tequila, and the growing realization that the bra they are now wearing is not their own.

  Just let them sleep. They should come out of the coma in a little while. If not, proceed to the kitchen and make cleaning noises. Bang on something metal until they scream themselves awake. If you still don’t recognize the couch guests once they are somewhat mobile, be sure to check their pockets and purses before they stagger out the door, and make a mental note to change the locks before the next party. Or just move to a new house, might be easier in the long run.

2. Who is in the bathroom, and why are they not making any noise?

  This is always a risky quest to undertake. You can’t just barge in, because they might be engaged in an intimate activity that does not require a studio audience. They could be resting in between bouts of recycling. Or they could be lying face down in the tub. One never knows. If you don’t feel mentally prepared to deal with all these possibilities, then make somebody on one of the couches find out who it is. It’s the least they can do after belching into your grandma’s afghan all night.

3. What is that mess on the kitchen table?

  It’s a fact of life that most dishes which look amazing and delicious when first presented will deteriorate over night into something else entirely, most usually a congealed vat of grease with some odd bits trapped just beneath the surface. (Yes, you were shoving THAT into your mouth at one point last night, rhapsodizing over the flavor and licking your fingers clean. Now it looks like something that Oprah would pull along in a little red wagon when she’s doing a segment on weight loss.)

  And the troubling bit is that you KNOW you put away all the delicate goodies hours ago, supervising the two drunken people who had the manners to ask if you needed any help, while the rest of the carefree crowd avoided the kitchen entirely. (This “clean-up duty” is the best way to separate your friends: There are those who love you and will immediately race to assist when they see you scraping queso dip off the wall, and there are those who are just using you, hiding in another room until everything is sparkly and then wandering in, pretending to be devastated that they didn’t make it in time to help you out.

  Oh, and then there’s third group: Those folks who don’t give a damn if anything gets cleaned up and don’t even try to offer help. They apparently believe that little hostess fairies flitter in and tidy things up, and their clean-up efforts are limited to throwing an empty beer can in the general direction of the trash can. These people suck. Interestingly enough, these are the same people who don’t understand why no one wants to be in a relationship with them.

  Anyway, if some of this perishable food is back out on the table, then it means some little piglet burrowed into the fridge, and then encountered some type of issue that prevented him or her from returning the containers and covering their tracks. Which might explain…

4. Why won’t the refrigerator door close?

  Holy cow, who let loose some billy goats in here? Your organizational skills from the night before are no longer in evidence, with the perfectly-stacked and arranged containers now all over the place. We have guacamole dripping out of the produce drawer, potato salad in the egg tray, and half-eaten Pop-tarts shoved in between the condiment bottles.

  There’s not an inch of available space. But that didn’t stop the last person who tried to shove something in here. Nope, they apparently just opened the door, hurled an armload of containers and plastic baggies through the air, and then slammed the door mostly shut, hoping the weight of the door would keep things in place until they could get in their car and drive away. I really need to get new friends. At least some nicer ones.

5. Who jacked up the stereo?

  This thing was fine when I went to bed. But there must have been an adventure of some kind once prissy Brian quit whining about wine spillage and left the hard-core partiers to their own devices. One of the stereo speakers was on the front porch. (No idea. Did Eva Peron stop by and need to make a statement to the neighborhood?) The bass was turned all the way up, because drunk people don’t think there can ever be too much of that. And the radio station was now set to a Christian talk show. I guess somebody needed some spiritual guidance after they ran out of Jaegermeister.

6. Why is my throat raw?

  This could be the result of anything, really, considering the crazed mix of the crowd, but I’m leaning toward two explanations: One is that I had enough beer to decide that I suddenly understood world politics and needed to share that with everybody for hours. Or there had been singing. Probably singing. Nobody can belt out some Elton John like I can after being fortified with Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Hold me closer, Tony Danza.

7. What the hell happened on the patio?

  Generally, knowing my friends as I do, I can usually piece together what may have taken place in a given area based on the physical evidence. Other times, I don’t have a clue. Whatever happened out here required that most of the patio furniture be relocated in odd positions, power cords knotted together in an intricate web (did they need roof access for some reason?), and the spokes of the patio umbrella were now pointing the other way, toward the sky, creating an impromptu tribute to Marilyn Monroe and that pesky subway steam. Some stories are just better left untold.

8. Dear God, did we really drink all that beer?

  These are the moments, reviewing the towering stacks of beer cans and wine bottles, spread out over the patio like an alcoholic Stonehenge, when you realize that something fundamental really needs to change in your life. Then the moment passes and you just go back in the house, ready to lay on your butt all day and watch meaningless television until you get thirsty again.

9. What is wrong with the siding on the end of the house?

  How did they manage to damage THAT? With their car? The house is at least four feet away from the nearest part of the driveway. How do you get that confused? And you didn’t even leave a note. These people just have no sense of decency. Or direction.

10. If a guest is passed out in the yard, and they are closer to their car than your front door, are you still legally responsible for their well being?

  No. This is international protocol, understood by all legislative bodies. If the victims are closer to the car, especially if one or both of their arms are outstretched as if lusting for the vehicle, frozen in time like a Pompeii villager, it is a clear indication that they were done with your particular social extravaganza and they were moving on. Legal liability has ended. Likewise, it’s also international law that any items your guests leave behind, intentionally or not, automatically revert to the ownership of the host. Especially if money is involved.

   Because you’re going to need that cash when the city cites you for the giant cow statue, stolen from the local Western Sizzler and now sitting on top of your house. Don’t cry for me, Angus-tina…