I'm going to watch NASCAR today. I'm also going to drink beer. Good beer. Like, $14 for a 6-pack beer. I am probably going to fall asleep about 10 minutes in to the race broadcast. No, I do not feel bad about any of this. Yes, I am an old man. As I have heard multiple times by multiple people over the past, say, 27 years.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my own father for not going out to get milk and never coming home, not drinking scotch and beating any of us up and resisting the urge to beat me to death with a tire iron and bury my body in the back yard when I was a complete asshole between the ages of 12-17.
That said, I am a pretty good son. I did go to college (however counterproductive that ended up being) where I was only arrested once, by campus police, and he never had to bail me out of jail. I also managed to avoid knocking up my girlfriend until I was 25, an accomplishment indeed for someone as charismatic and good looking as myself.
All of this just means that he did a pretty good job.
As for myself it is still pretty weird celebrating Father's Day, even though today will be my third one. I honestly didn't even remember that it was today until midway through the week. I guess I should be celebrated? It just feels strange. It is tough, I don't really picture myself as a dad. I mean, I am. I have a kid. I drink beer, eat meat, go to work, bitch about the house being filthy, drive a 4-door sedan with a car seat. I am definitely a dad. But somehow it feels weird celebrating Father's Day. I'm also not quite sure why dads don't get as much hoopla as moms do. Must be the whole physically squeezing the baby out of the womb thing. I like being a dad, don't get me wrong. Av is the best. She is hysterical and bizarre and infuriating and adorable, and she has taught me pretty much everything I know about life. But it still feels weird celebrating Father's Day as a father, not just a son.
Another dad thing that I have managed to accomplish is my recent entry in to a bowling league. Yes, a bowling league. Just like Al Bundy. It has long been my dream to be in a bowling league. I love bowling, and I feel like I need a hobby or activity, and I hate golf, so here we are. Every Monday at the Lynnway Sports Center. Bowling and $2.50 PBR. Can't go wrong. I even bought a vintage polyester bowling shirt from EBAY. $12. Would have been $8, but Monica thought it would be funny to bid against me to see how worked up I got when I thought I was going to lose. She was right. I got worked up. Then I had to pay an extra $4. Dammit. Oh well, I'm the best looking dude there.
Unfortunately, most of the people that I tell about the bowling league just mock me, don't take it seriously and think I am some sort of tool. Story of my life. Who cares? I like bowling and race cars and Norm Macdonald. At least I don't fucking like dolphins. Or politics. Imagine how much this blog would suck if I liked politics?
I had to work a party of republican pink polo-shirt wearing aristocrats at the bar the other night. Turns out rich people are so rich because they save all of their money not tipping.
Quote of the night, after an hour-long, off and on, back and forth debate with the groom over whether or not I would hook up his iPod to our music system (I refused).
"Man, I just wanted to hear this one LFO song."
TOOL.
...
Taxi-cabs, the sharks of streets, with fins of fire they troll for fares
Taxi-cabs, the sharks of streets, with fins of fire they troll for fares
I have long hated taxi drivers. In part, because of my experience as a drunkard, in part because of my experience as a motorist, and in part because of my brief experience as a tourist. No matter your reason for taking a cab, it always sucks. The drivers are awkward and foreign, or worse, not foreign and chatty in your language, they drive like shit, they get lost, they smell etc... This story is not about any of those things.
Last night my friend Mike and I were leaving work. It was about 2 a.m. We noticed some commotion across the street with fire trucks and ambulances and police cars near the water. We investigated and it became clear that they were trying to extract a vehicle from the water behind the parking garage. Someone had apparently either drunkenly driven off of the ledge, had a medical emergency and drove off the ledge or was trying to commit insurance fraud. Now, if I were more enterprising, and less miserable, jaded and bitter toward the newspaper industry, I would have walked down there, used my reporter skills to interview some people on the scene, talked to the cops and snapped some cell phone videos or photos.
It would have been great. I could have gone home, written a story, emailed my pictures to the lady at the place I freelance for who covers Salem, AND I would have known what was going on. Instead, Mike and I leaned on a railing and watched some divers until some clearly disappointed spectator walked by and said "The car has South Carolina plates and they say they can't see anyone in the driver's seat, but there is a key." Somehow, that was enough for both of us and we went home. Today, as of 11:30 a.m., there is no media coverage anywhere. Do I feel bad about dropping the ball pretty much for the entire community? Nope.
That, too, isn't what this story is about. This story is about a cab driver. This cab driver arrived at the same time as Mike and I and stood on the same railing and talking to us. He was either drunk or on some sort of awesome prescription meds because he was making no sense and slurring his words. He was also clearly a crazy person. He spoke multiple times about how "You know, sometimes you get depressed and want to drive the cab in to the water. But you snap out of it."
He told tragic stories of other people he knew who have driven in to water and died. Whole families. Too many for one man to realistically know. The entire time his cab is parked on the side of the road with the keys inside, running. Eventually, after a few more suicide references and a few more stories, he asked Mike and I to watch his cab while he went and investigated. We did not. We did, for a brief time, discuss stealing it out of principle, if for no other purpose than to move it around the block just to scare the crap out of him. We decided against this for two reasons. One, there were cops everywhere. Two, we really didn't want this guy to kill himself when he found out we stole his cab.
Now, imagine yourself at 2 a.m. You have been drinking and you need a ride home. Or maybe you were at a house party and your buddy stole your car. Or maybe some crazy person stole your car and drove it in to a harbor. Whatever the case, you need a ride. You call a cab company and this man shows up. This depressed man, fucked up on something, to give you a ride. Nine times out of ten I bet you don't even notice, because he just drives your drunk, beat-ass home. But how many late-night cab drivers are like this guy? How many afternoon cab drivers are like this guy? Think about it.
Last night my friend Mike and I were leaving work. It was about 2 a.m. We noticed some commotion across the street with fire trucks and ambulances and police cars near the water. We investigated and it became clear that they were trying to extract a vehicle from the water behind the parking garage. Someone had apparently either drunkenly driven off of the ledge, had a medical emergency and drove off the ledge or was trying to commit insurance fraud. Now, if I were more enterprising, and less miserable, jaded and bitter toward the newspaper industry, I would have walked down there, used my reporter skills to interview some people on the scene, talked to the cops and snapped some cell phone videos or photos.
It would have been great. I could have gone home, written a story, emailed my pictures to the lady at the place I freelance for who covers Salem, AND I would have known what was going on. Instead, Mike and I leaned on a railing and watched some divers until some clearly disappointed spectator walked by and said "The car has South Carolina plates and they say they can't see anyone in the driver's seat, but there is a key." Somehow, that was enough for both of us and we went home. Today, as of 11:30 a.m., there is no media coverage anywhere. Do I feel bad about dropping the ball pretty much for the entire community? Nope.
That, too, isn't what this story is about. This story is about a cab driver. This cab driver arrived at the same time as Mike and I and stood on the same railing and talking to us. He was either drunk or on some sort of awesome prescription meds because he was making no sense and slurring his words. He was also clearly a crazy person. He spoke multiple times about how "You know, sometimes you get depressed and want to drive the cab in to the water. But you snap out of it."
He told tragic stories of other people he knew who have driven in to water and died. Whole families. Too many for one man to realistically know. The entire time his cab is parked on the side of the road with the keys inside, running. Eventually, after a few more suicide references and a few more stories, he asked Mike and I to watch his cab while he went and investigated. We did not. We did, for a brief time, discuss stealing it out of principle, if for no other purpose than to move it around the block just to scare the crap out of him. We decided against this for two reasons. One, there were cops everywhere. Two, we really didn't want this guy to kill himself when he found out we stole his cab.
Now, imagine yourself at 2 a.m. You have been drinking and you need a ride home. Or maybe you were at a house party and your buddy stole your car. Or maybe some crazy person stole your car and drove it in to a harbor. Whatever the case, you need a ride. You call a cab company and this man shows up. This depressed man, fucked up on something, to give you a ride. Nine times out of ten I bet you don't even notice, because he just drives your drunk, beat-ass home. But how many late-night cab drivers are like this guy? How many afternoon cab drivers are like this guy? Think about it.
...
All the suicide talk got me thinking. Some of my favorite songs are about suicide. And on this Father's Day it is nice to remind all of the republican aristocrat Bruce Springstein listening-to dads out there that just because your kid listens to a song about suicide, or murder, or sex or smoking weed, they probably aren't going to do any of those things because of that song. If they do those things it will probably be because you were kind of a shitty dad. Except for the smoking weed thing. They will probably do that either way.
This is a great suicide song. Unfortunately, the first and last 30 seconds are ruined by some chooch within earshot of the video camera saying things like 'Bro I love this song!'
This is a great suicide song. Unfortunately, the first and last 30 seconds are ruined by some chooch within earshot of the video camera saying things like 'Bro I love this song!'
