Episode 164: A case of mistaken identity and the Old Spot stalker

Sometimes I think that shit like this only happens to me.

Thursday nights are usually my early night at work. Sometimes I'll end up leaving around 10-10:30. When this happens, more often than not, I make my way around the corner and up the street to my favorite bar, the Old Spot. I like this bar for a lot of reasons. I have been going there for years, it is small, usually relaxed, not a lot happening. Couple TV's, some good beers on tap, solid food and I know the bartender. Most of all, almost no one I know goes there. That is the biggest challenge. Working in a restaurant, I am not one of those people who wants to go see 12 people I work with or used to work with or just served drinks to at another bar. I want to go out, have a few pops and keep to myself.

Occasionally, when drinking alone after work, you can end up with what we call the 'unlucky bar seat.' That is to say you are sitting at a bar with an empty seat next to you and someone terrible sits down. This is usually someone who talks a lot and who you do not know. This happened to me over the summer.

I was sitting at the bar minding my own business. The kid next to me makes a comment about something to me and it sparks a small, unimportant conversation. This is always how it starts. Next thing you know you are hearing stories about God knows what and he is asking you what you do and where you're from. On this particular night I was in an especially bad mood and probably a little bit more drunk than I would typically be in a regular post-work circumstance. This led to me engaging this individual, a 30-something male with one really, really wide nostril, in conversation. Eventually he left and I went on with my night, stumbled home and forgot he existed.

About two months later it is the same scene. I am at Old Spot after work, eating a burger, waiting for another friend to get out of work and meet me at the bar. I'm talking to the bartender when someone slaps me on the back. "Hey, Dan, how's it going?"

Now, it takes me a minute, but I am able to eventually identify this gentleman, mainly because of his nostril, as the dude who I talked to over the summer. I am not nearly as grouchy or drunk this time, so I am in no mood to talk to him. I'm eating. Leave me alone. He starts asking me questions. "Is this person still pissing you off at work?" "Is your daughter still doing whatever random thing your daughter was doing the last time I talked to you two months ago?" I had not only forgotten everything we talked about the first time we met, but I had forgotten who this dude even was and here he was reciting every bullshit drunk story I told him. It was so bad that once my friend arrived, I immediately asked for my tab and said, "Let's go do some karaoke." We got outside and my friend says "Ummm, are we really gonna do karaoke, because I am NOT drunk enough for that." "No way," I said. "I just needed to say we were going somewhere that I knew that dude wouldn't follow us to."

To fully understand this man, you first need a physical description. The Old Spot Stalker has Coke-bottle glasses, is cross eyed behind them, is balding in the back of his head, has a receding hairline and deplorable skin for a 30-year-old. His right nostril is the size of a large jelly bean. Not a Jelly Belly, not even a standard jelly bean, like, one of those dime-sized Easter jelly beans from when you were a kid that were like chewing gum because they had so much mystery confection in the middle. I am pretty sure that if you had a small miner's helmet light you could see all they way in to his brain. 99.9 percent of the time I can actually bring myself to look at his awful, awful face (which isn't often) this is what I am focused on. This is only his second worst physical trait. The worst is his teeth. As my friend, Pat, put it "His favorite snack as a kid was rocks." They are broken, crooked, rotted and pointing in all different directions. His breath is the closest thing to dog shit I have ever smelled that wasn't actually dog shit. He knows it, too, he keeps a pocket full of mints. It doesn't help.

The Old Spot stalker is a classic nudge. A loaner. Lives with his parents in to his 30's, minus a few awkward years going to college in New York City. Single and falling in love with crazy girls online, he is broke as a joke and, for some reason, can't seem to land a real job doing anything. Every time I see him his 'temp job' has just ended and he is in search of another one. I get that the job market sucks, but when all you do is look for temp work it is your own fault if you fail.

He has two common discussion themes, other than his pathetic job search. First and foremost, he talks about some girl he is 'seeing' that lives 'up north.' Second, he likes to take every opportunity to remind you that he supposedly worked on movie sets when he was in New York.

"Oh, Adam Sandler, I met him on the set of such and such. He's OK" or (and this is a real comment) " I met Will Farrel on the set once, he was in the bathroom, he had a really small wiener." Yeah. Will Farrell was taking a piss and saw your ugly, misshapen nostril face and had a small wiener. Cool.

The stories about the girl are the worst. From my sporadic listening, here is what I can conclude is going on. Dude meets girl online, they meet up, go on a few dates, have sex. Dude gets a little crazy and thinks they are dating. Girl realizes his stalker like tendencies and backs off, only letting him in when she is drunk or she really, really needs to get laid. This unhealthy relationship goes on for a few months until she finally realizes how overbearing he is and calls it off. He gets confused because he is an idiot.

As of now, here is where we stand. Around Christmas he texted her constantly to see if she wanted to hang out/ spend the holidays with his family. She did not. After that, she avoided him pretty much constantly until one day last week he called her in desperation as his car had broken down and he needed to get to a job interview. Girl, against her better judgement, agrees to come pick him up, let him drop her off at work and go to his job interview. Dude proceeds to crash girl's car. Girl gets pissed, makes him pay insurance deductible, tells him he is crazy, she never really liked him and not to text her anymore. She sends him text messages because she needs his money for the car. He mistakes this as her messing with him.

Actual quote: "She keeps telling me not to text her, she doesn't want to talk to me, she hates me, leaver her alone. Then I get a message today about her car. Like, which one is it?"

Which one is it? WHICH ONE IS IT???!?!?!?!!?!?!?! SHE FUCKING HATES YOU DUDE!!! But you OWE HER MONEY! She isn't messing with you. She isn't "playing games." You crashed her car and she needs to get it fixed. Bottom Line. WHAT an IDIOT.

The mere fact that I can share this story with you should prove that I have been dragged in to way to many conversations with this kid, but this situation reached a head this week.

Let's rewind a few weeks. It is two weekends ago, on a Saturday, the night of the Patriots- Broncos playoff game. I am walking in to work and I get a text from a mysterious number.

"Hey, Dan, will you be working tonight?"

"Sure will, all night. Who are you?"

"This is Sean."

"Oh, Hey, Sean. I didn't have your number, sorry."

"It is ok, I am thinking of coming in for a beer tonight, I might see you later."

"Cool."

Sean. Hmmm. Sean? I don't know many Seans, and the ones I do know I am not exactly close friends with. Not close enough to have shared my phone number. I thought for a little bit and decided that it must be this guy Sean that I used to work for at the newspaper. He lives fairly close to the bar and he is in there every now and then. He was the only person I could think of. Maybe he wanted to make sure he could get a seat for the game. Who knows.

The night goes by, no Sean. I did see the Old Spot Stalker that night, though, and I was super mean to him. Told him I was way too busy to listen to his depressing stories. I forget this text message exists, but I do store the number in my phone under the name of the Sean that I think it is.

Fast forward to last Thursday. Walking in to work again I get a text from Sean.

"Hey, Dan, are you working tonight? Any plans on going out after?"

"Depends on if I am here late, if not I was going to go meet my buddy at Old Spot."

"Ok, great. I wanted to see if we could have a beer tonight. I wanted to talk to you about something."

Now, keep in mind, I have saved this number in my phone under the name of someone I used to work for. I am a little surprised, but enthusiastic about this meeting. I like work Sean, he is a good guy. Maybe he has a job opportunity for me. It is strange that he would want to get a beer, what could it be?

About an hour later I am still thinking about this meeting. My mind is racing. This is so weird. What could Sean want out of the blue? Are they really hurting that much at the newspaper? Is he going to try and get me back? Then, like a wrecking ball on the end of a crane, it hits me. Old Spot stalker is probably named Sean. I have never asked him my name, but I know he must have said it. It is probably Sean. You know what? It is Sean. Fuuuuuucccccccccckkkkkkk. How on Earth did he get my number? Now it hits me again. One night, while I was trying to avoid him, he tried to give me his number. Instead of writing it down, he told me to put it in my phone and call him so he had mine. Unable to avoid the situation, I did, and immediately deleted it, thinking I would never need it. Well, bad move. Old Spot Stalker had texted me. This was not a job opportunity, I would not be meeting up with an old work friend. I had just been so nice, so welcoming, so open to having a beer with this nostril, rock-tooth freak and I didn't even realize. Talk about a shitty feeling.

Now, I have already made plans with my friend Pat to go to Old Spot. This is literally the only bar we go to. The Celtics are on, I'm hungry, my friend John is bartending. We are going. Screw the stalker. I purposely choose a two-top table off to the side in front of a TV. Even if the stalker comes in, I know that there will be nowhere for him to sit and I will be enthralled by some regular season basketball. Besides, back when I thought he was work Sean, I told him I'd text him when I was getting out of work. I never sent that text, so he won't show up, right? Ha.

Pat and I are in the middle of eating our food and watching basketball when I heard the door open behind me. I felt the draft on my back and, without turning around, I just knew who it was. I closed my eyes, looked at Pat and said "Please tell me there isn't an ugly man walking towards us."

Too late. There he was. In all his hideous glory, the Old Spot Stalker. He introduced himself to Pat. We continued to look at the TV. We did not offer to move to a bigger table. We did not engage him in conversation. He. Just. Talked. The whole time. About the girl. And the car. And the insurance. And his no job. And his shitty life. And Will Farrel's penis. Again. Then, he walked around the corner to go talk to the manager of the bar, this girl Kelly. "Yeah. I am here with my friend, Dan," we heard him say. I look over at John the bartender, he is laughing at me. He catches my eye, shakes his head, turns around and grabs a beer out of the cooler and brings it over. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Just keep drinking these. It can't hurt."

At one point, the stalker went to the bathroom. I stopped Kelly as she walked by and said " I just want you to know that weirdo is NOT my friend."

"Oh, I know," she said. " But I have to say, it is nice to know he is going to leave me alone as long as you're here."

Now, normally, this would be enough for me to ditch the Old Spot and find another bar. I have done the same to other bars for much less. But no. Not this time. This is my friggin bar. I go there. I go there on Thursday. I like it, and no rock-tooth dweeb is going to ruin it for me. I will win. I only wish this kid understood social cues so he could realize that I don't give two shits about his awful life, his breath smells and he should either get a job stocking shelves at Wal Mart or drive off a bridge, because he isn't getting my ear anymore.

...

FINALLY a live version of this song hits Youtube. I don't care if it sounds a little bit like Stairway to Heaven. Screw Led Zeppelin. This song is a triumph.

Episode 163: This is why we have riots

I am going to try and keep this calm. I even waited a day to let some of my anger settle before I wrote this, but it hasn't exactly worked. I am also going to try and not make this a crucifixion of police officers, but it might happen. I know many police officers personally, some are relatives, I like them very much. I understand why police exist and I appreciate that. Unfortunately, almost every single traffic cop I have come across in my life happens to be a massive piece of shit. And that is where this story will center.

Let's begin with the incident.

Back in November, I was driving home from work. It was late, like it always is. I was driving down my street and was about 100 yards from my house when I saw a police car screaming around the corner in my rear view mirror. I pulled in to my driveway, turned off my car, got out, closed the door, locked the car and started to walk down the driveway to my front door. After all of this has happened this police car parks at the end of my driveway and the officer jumps out and starts yelling at me.

"You're getting a ticket for that one bud!!"

Um. Ok. I am? What did I do? (All of my comments are internal because I learned at a very young age that arguing, or even talking to a police officer out of turn just spirals them in to some sort of power rage and does nothing to actually help the situation).

"Go get your reg! GO GET YOUR REG!" he screams as he backs me up my driveway toward my car.

I hand him my license and registration.

"Whose house is this?"

"Um, I live here."

"That's not what your license says. WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS?!"

"I live here, I moved over the summer. That is my old address. I changed my address with the registry, look up my info. What is the problem?"

"You blew threw that stop sign going 30! You never even hit the breaks! You didn't even tap them, you better believe I'm giving you a ticket!"

A few things that are important to note here. The speed limit on my street is 25 mph. I drive down this street every single day. I know there is a stop sign there. It is a four-way intersection. It is pretty dangerous. It is also after midnight. I am also pretty sure I wasn't going 30 at any point that I was traveling down the street. It is also pouring rain. I am confused.

I give him my info and he says "Lean on your car and don't move."

At this point, it is after midnight, he still has his goddamn blue lights on, his headlights are shining directly in my face and has been yelling. Awesome. Thanks for making it look like I just robbed a liquor store. Surprised you didn't call for back up.

Dude is in the car for 10 minutes, gets out and his tone is completely different.

"Daniel, so, how come you don't have your current address on your license?"

"Because the RMV doesn't send the new labels any more."

"Well, its important that you have that."

"Ok."

"I hate to do this to you, but I have to write this ticket, we've been having traffic problems on this street. Besides, right before you went through the intersection I saw three teenagers dressed all in black walking by there, you could have killed them."

Ahhhhhh, the old 'teenagers dressed in black' story. Similar to the box of kittens story from driver's ed. Also, I'm pretty sure there is a curfew in our town, so maybe this guy could have taken them home. Again, I also remind you, it is pouring rain.

So, Officer Traffic hands me a soggy ticket and says the following. Which blows my mind.

"I'm really sorry I have to do this, get that address sticker for your license. If you appeal this, you'll probably win."

"Thank you, sir."

Now, before I go on, let's note the things I said during this interaction. I explained that I lived in the house. Explained why I didn't have my address on my license and I said 'thank you.' That's it. Like I said before, arguing with police is useless. Kind of like arguing with an umpire. So, I knew I didn't blow that stop sign, but that isn't going to get me anywhere. The officer himself told me to appeal. So I did.

Now, this is my theory. I live in an uppity, affluent suburb that also happens to border two middle class, blue collar cities with crime problems. My street is a short cut from one of those cities to the other. Some dumb old hag probably called the cops and bitched about people speeding down the street or running stop signs. It's late, this guy sees me, thinks he can bust my balls and pulls me over. Notice how his demeanor changed when he realized that I lived in town.

Also, it is important to note that I have zero recollection of actually being at that stop sign. I just know that I have never blown a stop sign at 30 mph at any point in my life anywhere. At the most, I may have done a rolling stop, as it was well past midnight and there is no reason to sit there any longer than I need to.

The appeal.

I appealed the ticket, as instructed. I had to pay a $25 non-refundable appeal fee, and had to be at court at 9 a.m. yesterday. After standing around and waiting for the clerk to show up, the hearing started at 9:40. I was first because I was the only one from my town to have a hearing that day. Let's keep track of all the things that worked in my favor here together.

I sit down across from the clerk who explains to me the process. "We don't have a representative from your town, so the court officer will read the police report."

That's one. In all of my experience, if the officer or a representative from the town does not show up, the hearing is waived. I win. If I don't show up the hearing is waived. I can't have the court officer read my statement, right? Of course not. Soooo, why are we continuing?

The officer begins to read. "On the night of so and so I was on a routine patrol at such and such intersection when I witnessed a white car traveling at a high rate of speed."

That's two. My car is gray. Dark gray. It does not look white, even if it is dark, you cannot mistake it for being white.

The report continued. The officer got the address where he pulled me over incorrect, as well as the address where I lived (they are both the same place, yet there were two different addresses for each in the report, neither one of which were correct). That's three.

Then we get to the part that makes my blood boil.

"Daniel was polite and courteous, but he quickly admitted to the violation and apologized."

WHAAAAAAAAAT?! I'll give you a moment to scroll back up the page and recap the things I said to this officer. At what point did I admit to the violation OR apologize?

Trying to remain calm I explained all of this to the officer. I explained that I never admitted to a thing, that he had harassed me about my address, that he changed his tune when he saw I lived there. I told him the teenager story and I explained to him that my car is not white. I also reminded him that I was in my driveway and out of my car when he pulled in to my driveway. That's four, by the way.

I told him my theory was that someone was either cruising around the neighborhood and he mistook my vehicle for his, or perhaps he was just looking to give out a ticket because there were complaints in that area. I also pointed out that I live on that street, travel it every night and at no point would I be flying through stop signs at 30 mph. (In the police report he adjusted my estimated speed to 25 mph).

Finally, I told him how the officer had told me to appeal.

All the man said was "That report seems pretty cut and dry. Read it again."

The officer that wasn't from my town or involved in the incident read it again.

"I think there is sufficient evidence, the officer says right there that you admitted to running the stop sign."

Trying to remain calm, but probably not doing a very good job, I said again that I did not ever admit to anything and denied running the stop sign.

"Well, it sounds like he was on a pretty routine patrol. He saw you do it."

"Saw me do it? He didn't even pull me over. I drove home and got out of my car!"

"Well, how long do you think it took him to gather himself and get to your home? Especially if you were going 25 without stopping."

At this point, the only thing stopping me from throwing this prick out a window was seeing the court officer's gun out of the corner of my eye.

"I wasn't going 25! I told you that."

"Well, were you going, maybe, five miles per hour?"

"No! I drove up to the stop sign, stopped, looked to the right and left and drove away. Did I sit there and hold my breaks? No. There was no one coming, at the very most I rolled forward to see around the corner before I kept going."

"Well, that sounds an awful lot like a yield. The law says you need to stop for a full three seconds at an intersection. And, why would you admit to it if you didn't feel he was correct."

"I told you I did not admit to anything."

"Well, it is in the report and if it comes down to it I am not going to call the officer a liar."

Yup. He through the 'full three seconds' driver's ed book at me. That is what we are dealing with here. A false confession, teenagers dressed in black and the three second rule. I was up four strikes on this guy and I lost.

I am pretty sure I entered a blind rage at this point, because I ended the hearing by simply saying "You know what? Fine."

"You can request a jury trial if you feel that this was unjust. There is a $50 filing fee."

"I'm not going to pay $50 to get out of a $100 ticket. Thanks, though."

"Do you need more than 20 days to pay?"

"Nope. Thanks, though."

"Who is next?"

Now, I don't know what I am more infuriated about. That the clerk was such a dick and ignored all of my points or that the officer lied on his report and said I admitted to the violation. You know what, though? I don't think it was either of them. I think the thing that pisses me off the absolute most is that I have to pay $100 because I didn't sit at a stop sign for three seconds. It is the ball busting. And that is what the police do. They bust balls. They sit around and wait for some guy on his way home from work to roll through a stop sign. Or for someone to take an illegal turn. I get it if somebody is flying down the street, pull them over, but don't bust my balls. And don't favor people who live in your town over people who don't. I get it, it is a white collar crime town and you can't catch the tax fraud or the parents who buy their kids booze until it already happens. But, you know what? Don't waste your time and resources busting people for stupid shit. Especially since, more likely than not, you weren't even looking for me. And if you do bust someone's balls, give them a fucking warning. Why does this have to cost me $100? You pulled me over in my own fucking driveway, after I got out of my car and you made me stand in the rain while you made a gigantic scene. You couldn't have just given me the teenager speech and told me to be careful? I got a lecture and a ticket. THIS is why people hate the police. They treat people like crap and they don't have any sense. I just hope that guy running stop signs at 30 mph in his white car made it home safe.

And don't give me the 'town needs money' crap, either. This town has the highest utility rates in the county and property taxes are through the roof. They are about to build a new police station. I should get to write this $100 off as a charitable donation.

See, I could have been a lot more angry about that. It is a good thing I didn't write it yesterday.

...
Bet you thought it was gonna be 'Fuck the Police'

Episode 162: Cupid must watch some really messed up porn

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Episode 161: Stick shifts and douchebags

As a man, I am not afraid to admit that I have driven a stick shift exactly four times in my life. Twice while my 15-year-old fake high school girlfriend's fat, mustached dad was attempting to teach her (and by default, me) to drive one weekend. Once while screwing around with some metal/skateboarding kids I kind of thought were my friends in high school and once while attempting to drive a drunk friend's car home in college.

Three out of the four experiences, minus the one time with the kids who listened to Slipknot, went fairly well. After a few stalls I eventually got the hang of it and managed to nurse the car around with minimal transmission damage. From these experiences I learned three things. 1. I did not like driving with two feet. 2. Driving a stick is more work than it needs to be and 3. It is really only cool if you are driving a race car. Stopping and starting and shifting and clutching and rolling backwards is actually kind of annoying if you are just planning on getting over to the Target for an 8-pack of toilet paper and some batteries.

It was also around this time that I learned that primary category of people who own stick shifts are douchebags. Or cocks. Or meat sticks. Or Chooches. Or whatever term the natives in your parts use to describe some gym rat, tattooed "dude guy" who scores tail with his Honda Prelude and listens to either neu metal or popular hip hop. You know, guys who buy Toyotas or Subarus and add after stock spoilers that look like shopping cart handles, or decal kits or those little blue LED lights that make the bottom of the car light up.

When I was in high school these kids used to hang out in front of the Advanced Auto Parts (Or Double-A-P as they called it. Yes, that is a real story) and smoke cigarettes and compare aftermarket parts. As I have grown older and become an adult, these people are now insurance salesmen or construction workers or pizza delivery guys or whatever else they decided to do after their hairlines started to recede, and they don't show off their cars much. Many of them buy more expensive European stick shifts if they have the money, others pimp out Chevy Cobalts and pretend that it isn't just a Cavalier with a jazzy new name (which is actually a color named after an element, sooooo, your 'Cobalt' probably shouldn't be orange). They still date tan girls from the gym or hairstylists or the occasional 'used to be ugly and puts out easily now that she is a little hotter' banker type chick, and deep down, they still want to cruise the streets of their hometowns trying to impress, well, other idiots from their high school, but they don't. Instead they just rev their engines at stop lights and rock backwards when they start their cars. Most of them still think Jay Z is cool though. That doesn't change.

It is important to note here that I have an affinity for both sweet looking street cars and race cars. As a teenager I drove a Nissan 240 SX and a bright yellow Hyundai Tiburon. Both had all of their stock parts, though, and neither was a stick shift. I also got rid of both of them due to impracticality. I love cars. If I had the finances I would buy a very nice car. Maybe a Mercedes, or a Cadillac or a BMW. But I wouldn't be a dick about it. I think it is actually the sound of the revving stick-shift engine, which sounds so cool when coming out of a race car, that actually increases a person's douchebag meter when they are driving on a residential street.

Where am I going with this? What sparked this? I'm not really sure. I think it was an experience that I had last night, which actually proved everything that I just wrote completely wrong.

Because I drive a modest,silver, four door, American made family sedan, I have occasional car troubles. Lately, it has been my battery not being able to handle the cold weather. Whenever the temperature drops below freezing it won't start. Just 'click click click.' I have had to call AAA three times this winter. And it has been unseasonably warm.

*On a side note, I'd like to point out here how absolutely incompetent AAA can be. It is a great service that everyone should have but, damn, am I on a cold streak. All three times I've had to call AAA this season I've had the same Spanish kid come to jump my car. The first time, he runs his little 'battery test' and tells me my battery still has all of its life. The second time, he runs the same test, tells me the same thing and says all I have to do is make sure all of my accessories are off before trying to start my car (yeah, cuz everyone with a healthy battery has to do that, right?) The last time the dumb little shit doesn't even run a test, tells me it is my starter and sends me to a mechanic. The mechanic's exact quote, after my car started three straight times without aid in his garage was "Well, there isn't anything wrong with your car, you probably just have an old battery." Cool test, AAA. Cool fucking test. I could have told you that the first time. Thanks for wasting, my time... I digress.

Anyway, yesterday the temperature dropped to a miserable 22 degrees in the afternoon. My car just barely started when I left for work and I knew right away that I was going to need a jump to get home. But I will be dammed if I was calling up that little tow truck idiot again so I asked a girl at work who I knew had a car (which is an extreme rarity in the restaurant industry) to please jump me before I left. She handed me her keys and said 'Let me know if you have any questions, my car is kind of weird.' How weird can it be? It is a Chevy. Besides, a battery is a battery, right? After 15 minutes in sub-freezing temperatures at 1 in the morning trying to locate her damn battery, I had to consult her owners manual.

Turns out that her new aged car actually has two batteries, but neither one of them are normal batteries, they are 'no maintenance' batteries, which apparently is code for 'you can't jump your friend's car because one of us is buried in the undercarriage of your car and the other one only has a positive charge.' The manual actually said that if the battery dies, in order to jump it with another car the batteries had to be the same, low voltage and grounded by a piece of long, unpainted metal. In other words, if I tried to jump my car with her fancy battery there is a good chance one or both of the vehicles, and possibly myself, could have burst in to flames. All in the name of saving energy. C'MON! Sure, great, this probably saves an iceberg somewhere or preserves gas or something crunchy and stupid, but dammit, it screwed me over last night.

The girl felt bad and didn't want me to wait for AAA, so she called her boyfriend to come give me a jump. Now, among the most demoralizing moments in a man's life, having some chick you barely know call her boyfriend that you have never met to come jump your car in 10 degree weather is right near the top. The only thing worse would have been if I asked him to change my tire while he was there.

I waited for this kid for a bit, freezing my ass off, until I heard the rev of a douchebag engine rumbling down the street. "Oh, great," I said. "Of course this gym rat girl has a stick shift boyfriend." As he Tokyo drifted in to the parking lot I could hear the bass bumping from his Nissan Sentra. It was too dark to notice aftermarket parts.

Fearing one of those fantastic meat stick interactions, I gave him a 'dude' head nod and attached my trusty, rusty jumper cables to his engine. As it turns out, this guy happened to be a pretty nice dude. He spoke intelligently, didn't judge me for needing to have my vehicle serviced and carried on a friendly, cordial conversation.

See. Not all stick shift gym guys are douchebags. I admit my mistake. Now it is off to Pep Boys to get raped on a new battery installation. The only place cheaper is AAA and I'd rather spend an extra $20 than have that dumb teenager try and replace my battery. He'll probably tell me I need a new transmission.

...

My musical opinion of the day: Fuck Rush. No need to ask any questions. Just accept it.

On second thought...

So, it is a new year and with that comes a bit of reflection. Among the many revelations that I have had during this holiday time, perhaps the most important is this: I am not nearly as clever and motivated as I thought I was. Ending this blog and trying to begin a new one at this stage was not necessarily a horrible plan, but it was quite misguided, and anyone who attempted to follow my feeble attempt at doing so, the appropriately titled 'Bog Dump,' quickly realized, along with myself, that it wasn't going to work. I am not connected to anything, and I am not motivated enough by current events to maintain any sort of hip, Internet-savvy blog. I hate politics. I hate celebrities and I hate waking up in the morning and having to care. So, today, January 3, 2012, I have decided to revive Trial By Fire and continue to share my thoughts here, rather than attempt to recreate myself as some sort of blogging madman with a trendy website name.

Despite the title, this blog has always been about more than parenting anyway, so it will continue to be about everything, and it will continue to be at this address. Enjoy.

Now, a brief synopsis of what you have missed. The holidays have come and gone and my house is now filled with trains. The big ticket gift this year was a train table and Av still can't believe it. I would say she spends 4-5 hours a day playing with it. I managed to get off cheap by purchasing many of the Thomas the Tank Engine characters off of EBay, a move that worked out fairly well aside from the one clearly counterfeit batch that I got from China. I thought about sending them back, but she is a toddler. She will never notice the smeared paint or the slightly askew parts. All I have to say is that Thomas the Tank Engine must be friggin loaded at this point, because these little wooden trains are damn expensive and they keep developing new characters and new movies so you have to keep buying more. I picture that little blue train on MTV cribs, showing off his pimp new shed, draping gold chains over his funnel, dancing around little hoe trains with big booties while he sips champagne. The point is that it is quite the gold mine. An entertaining gold mine, though, I will say the character development in that series is impeccable. My repertoire of voice characters has vastly expanded.

The best part of Christmas was that it was really the first year that Av had an idea of what was going on. She had a great time and she got lots of exciting presents. Watching her joy made the season much more tolerable than usual, something I will enjoy for the next three or four years until she becomes one of those asshole kids who want iPods and cell phones and computers for Christmas. None of which she will probably ever get and she will proceed to resent me in to adulthood, just like you and I did with our parents. Ahhh tradition.

As for myself, nothing has changed. I am still a bartender, still treated like a 16-year-old at my job and still spend most of the daylight hours feeling useless and unproductive. I stopped freelancing for the time being because I despise the new editor at the website I was working for and essentially started blowing him off. I do not feel bad about this. I will not be treated like an underling for $40 a story, thank you very much. Eventually, I will have to get back in to it somewhere, or perhaps I can find a new career. So far that isn't quite working out. I like to take naps.

I did join a gym for the first time in 4 years. That's a great time. All of the smells and noises and sights are the same. I still forget to charge my iPod every time I so I have to listen to the shitty stock pop music they play at a barely audible level, I still get tired really fast and want to go home after 10 minutes and I still feel weird, awkward and out of place lifting weights. But, I have to go. My father had a heart attack this year and since getting out of the hospital he has done nothing but remind me of all the hereditary health problems in my family and insist that I get all sorts of tests at the doctor. Actual quote "Between the cancer on your mom's side and the heart problems on mine, you're pretty much fucked." Awesome. Thanks, Dad. In the past two months I have been convinced that I have everything from esophageal cancer to ALS. I'm probably fine, but I figured I should probably get my fat ass to the gym anyway, at least to prevent Monica from leaving me for someone in their 20's when she hits her sexual prime in a few years. Yes, these are things that I think about. Yes, I am probably insane.

One of the many awesome things about my gym is that it just opened, so all sorts of people I know are joining, too. Nothing increases your embarrassment and insecurity at the gym like seeing one of the cooks from work, or some lady you know from Target and so on. Oh, and apparently old men still think its cool to just show off their balls in the locker room. How is this still ok?

As the year goes on I have a few modest goals. First, I want to lose some weight and look good enough to actually want to go to the beach this summer. Two, I want to win my bowling league. We are alone in third place and digging ourselves a hole, but I think we have a shot. We should probably drink less. Third, I would like to have some sort of plan regarding my professional future. I can't be a bartender forever, and I have decided this will be the last apartment I will ever rent. My landlord is a dick, and I am sick of having to share a driveway. Finally, I want to restore this blog to something I do consistently and that people actually read. That is all. Shouldn't be too much to ask. Most- all of this, actually- depends on my own laziness and motivation. If I can achieve three of these four the chances of me waking up in the morning and not hating everything about myself on a daily basis will probably be above-average. Again, not making any promises.

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2011 was a shitty year for music. I couldn't name you the majority of the pop stars on the planet and there hasn't been a new band or musical group that I enjoy in a long, long time. The Black Keys have a new album that I hated, loved, hated again and now feel largely indifferent about minus a few songs. I'm more angry that I have to pay $75 for shitty seats just to see them live now, which I refuse to do. Other musical decisions I have made this year include not hating Lady Gaga anymore (She could just be so much worse compared to all of the other crap out there) and I have officially lost any and all remaining respect I had for Weezer. Which wasn't much to begin with.

Here's hoping Queens of the Stone Age follow Tool's lead in 2012 and get off their asses and back on tour. I might actually pay $75 to see this.