Saturday, January 24, 2015

Dr. Ken, Mrs. Noisewater, and Pau: The Oneness

I have been writing on this blog for a long time now.  Around 10 years.  Who I was when I started was a suddenly single young man (but pretty much a boy) fresh off a divorce.  There are entries about my single days on here that are sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, but always me.  No matter how much I have evolved and grown up over these years, it's still me.  And the roller coaster of my career changes are almost as nutty as the dating saga.  And yes, a lot of drunken tales of lunacy.

Then one day I decided to grow up.  I decided to make Mrs. Noisewater formally Mrs. Noisewater.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket like Frodo walking through Middle Earth as we waded through the crowds in the Lincoln Park Zoo Lights.  Turns out Europeans must love lights and captive animals.  Sorry if you're European, but some of those folks can be a little pushy and shovey in a crowd.  We were both getting aggravated, and anger is not a good emotion to go on when one pops the question.

Then as we walked towards North Pond (a great little gourmet restaurant in the middle of the park), I thought somewhere en route I could do the deed.  Just as I was considering it, Mrs. pointed out that it was dark, swampy, and smelly.  She was right.  The Dagobah System* hardly has the right conditions for romance, so we forged ahead.
Anyone smell bat guano?
We were around a half hour early for our reservations, and she said we should just go in and have a bottle of wine at the bar while we wait.  I noticed that outside the restaurant there was a perfect skyline view overlooking the pond with some benches, so I said we should just sit down for a minute and enjoy the night and the view for a moment.  This is when she knew something was up because I wanted to do something like that rather than drink wine.

Essentially what I told her is that what I dig most about her is that she not only puts up with my weirdness, but she likes it.  She enjoys my company and we're both laughing all the time.  I then looked her in the eye, got one one knee, finally got that ring out of my pocket, and asked her if she was willing to spend the rest of her life with a nut like me.  She cried, said yes, and we eventually made our way inside.

The meal was awesome just like it was when we went at the same time last year (the day after Christmas - our relatively new tradition).  When we were getting ready to leave, Mrs. Noisewater pointed out that Pau Gasol (one of my favorite Chicago Bulls players) was sitting near the exit.  I decided I had to say something to him but not bother him and mess up his evening that he was having with a lady of his own.  I walked by, stopped by his table momentarily to say discreetly, "Hey Pau, keep it up.  Go Bulls.  Keep it up."  He smiled, gave me a fist pump, and I headed out of there high on life.  How could this day get any better?

Pau was surprised to see me that night.
I then surprised Mrs. Noisewater with an impromptu engagement party that I arranged with many of our good friends at a nice neighborhood bar down the street that has lots of peoples' dogs in there all the time for some reason.  We had some of our closest friends congratulating us, toasting us, and we were petting random peoples' adorable dogs.  What more can you ask for?

I know I have slowed writing production down a lot lately, but don't worry, folks.  I will NOT be that guy that finds love and then hangs up their blog.  I have seen that too many times, and I refuse to be that guy.  I want you all here with me when I move into another chapter of my life.  Thanks, everyone for being with me over the last decade.  It's been quite a ride.
*That was my second nerdy reference.  Deal with it.  I'm a grown-ass nerd now.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

I was out with an old friend recently to see Dean Ween at a tiny Lincoln Park bar, and you know when someone mentions something assuming you already knew this monumentally huge bit of information?  So your mind is blown, your heart sinks, and you have to interrupt the person and ask that they back up and repeat that part to be sure you heard it right.  I don't see this friend often, and I see the peripheral friends in that circle even less.  I guess he assumed that I knew that Pimp was dead. 

Pimp is our good friend Brad's little brother who was named Pimp because he wore green shoes one day.  It didn't take a lot to get a lasting nickname back then.  Apparently  a group of friends went out to Oregon to visit another guy Norm (another nickname) who lived out there.  Norm decided to take everyone hiking.  There was a little bridge that everyone crossed.  Everyone but Pimp.  Just as he was about to cross, an avalanche/mud slide or something crashed down, swept him up, took him down, and killed him. 

Those shoes may have looked like these.
I was crushed when I heard he was dead, and then I was even more devastated when I heard how.  What a freak accident and a violent end to one of the nicest guys I've ever known.  Norm feels horrible because he asked that they come out and visit him and took them on the ill-fated hiking excursion, but he in no way could have known this would happen.  It's hard to imagine everyone watching that avalanche come down and see their friend die, for Brad to watch his only brother die, and all of them rendered completely helpless to stop it. 

Pimp never drank a drop of liquor or beer.  We would all be hanging out in their basement drinking our faces off, shooting pool, playing cards, and listening to music.  All the while Pimp hung out with us drunk idiots and never had a bad word to say about anyone.  He was such a good dude.  He looked like C. Thomas Howell only slightly goofier looking in an endearing way.  One day he brought a girl out, she was really damn pretty, and we were all impressed.  He ended up marrying her.  They were both really quiet and nice folks.  I remember him going off to school to be an architect, and that was his line of work until his untimely end.  He was a really solid fucking dude.  

I decided not to go with a pic from "Soul Man."
Pimp, you will be missed, old friend.  My first drink tonight is for you, and if I had some green shoes, I would be putting them on right now.

Your Friend,

 Doctor Kenneth Noisewater  


Thursday, January 08, 2015

Kirk just got done with a rigorous workout, and while he usually isn't big on smoothies, he was dying for something with peanut butter in it.  When an attractive tight-bodied woman came up to the counter, he asked her "Can you make me something with peanut butter in it?"  She laughed and asked if there was anything else he might like in there.  He just sat down and said "I don't know.  Maybe a banana?  Surprise me." 

After paying for his drink and having a few sips, the girl at the counter came by to ask him "Aren't you a little curious what else I put in there?"

"Not really," he said.  "I trust you."

It was at that moment that another employee of the gym came by to ask if he had any phone messages.  He was a Black man with enormous muscles everywhere and long dreadlocks. "No," she said "but I did get another call from you here late last night." 

"That wasn't me," said dread locked man incredulously.  "I don't have time to be making phone calls like that."

"I know it was you.  Just stop it."  She was growing more angry the more he he was denying it.

"What is this caller saying?"

She paused before talking about the phone call because it was a little embarrassing for her, very embarrassing for him, and a little awkward for Kirk who was still at the counter sipping his mystery banana concoction.  But hey, dreadlocks wanted to go down this road . . .

"You asked if I worked out at the gym as well as working here.  And then you asked if my feet stunk at the end of my workouts.  And I know it was you, so just stop it and we won't have to talk about this weird ass shit ever again."

"Haha.  That's funny, but it wasn't me.  See you around."  And with that, dreadlocked guy headed off towards the free weights.

Coming up from a slurp off his straw and without looking up, Kirk said to her "Oh, that was totally him."

"Right!  I'm positive it is, but how do you know?"

"First off, he just said that he doesn't have time to make those calls.  If he didn't do it, he would just say no.  He wouldn't be making excuses."

"Very true," she said.  "What else?"

"Well," Kirk elaborated, "he then said that the call was funny.  Even if he didn't make the call, it was really sick and gross, like an obscene phone call type of thing.  That isn't funny, especially if you were there late and working alone.  I mean, if the dude is into feat, fine.  But you don't have to be all creepy about it.  Feet aren't my thing, and actually, I'm kind of surprised they are his.  Given his amazing physique, I had him pegged as an ass or leg man - some body part that can be accentuated through hard work and building lots of muscle."

"You're a wise man," she said.

"I'm not usually this intuitive" he said.  "It must be something in your amazing smoothie recipe.  Thanks."

Kirk tossed his empty cup into the waste basket, said goodbye, and headed out the door knowing he was now on the case of the rastafarian obscene feet phone caller.  He knew he had his man.  It was just a matter of proving it. 

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

I had only two topics that I wanted to write about saved in my phone after all this time, and here they are:

1. Man Shed: I have always been fond of the notion of a man cave to house all things too tacky to be displayed for anyone but select guests.  As a matter of fact, the tackiness of my basement would be such that even my closest friends and family wouldn't want to go down there.  I like things like those white Christmas trees.  Not because I like them, just because they suck so, so hard.

Anyone else dreaming of a white tacky-ass Christmas?
And I would have that anamotronic band from Showbiz Pizza down there like the guy in this clip and program them to perform all my favorite heavy metal songs.

"South of Heaven live from South of the untacky part of the house!

Of course there would be lots of sports memorabilia and a bar because I am fond of sports and drinking. The problem is that I will never be able to afford a mystery cave that opens up when you twist a statue like in Bruce Wayne's mansion.  Truth be told, I wouldn't even have the money or space to waste a perfectly good basement on my rebelling against what society says is good taste.  Sadly, that's a fight I would fight out in my backyard, freezing my ass off in my poorly constructed man shed with its walls covered in nudey posters and a roof letting in freezing rain, huddled in the fetal position drinking a can of beer with one hand and with the other trying to adjust the rabbit ears on my black and white television to faintly see the Cubs losing 11 to zip in the fourth.

2. Nursing Home Orgy: Someone was just telling me that there is an increase in STD's in nursing homes now due to the following factors -  (1) An old age meat market up in there due to all the baby boomers getting to that age (2) Older people in better health these days which makes them stay sexually active later in life (3) Old people not giving a good god damn about using condoms in their 70's.  And who can blame them?  I hated them in my 20's.

I looked it up, and it's true that STD's are spreading like wild fire in those joints!  I just don't like the idea of getting a call from the retirement home to hear about my grandpa coming down with a case of drip dick.  Good heavens, Grandpa!  And how much lube must they be going through nowadays around there?  Do they get their morning pills every day and their daily bucket of Astroglide?

Out of the blog-o-sphere all this time, and this is what I come up with?  My pathetic man shed dream and old people doing the nasty?  The really nasty as the case may be.  What's up with all of you?  I'm going to run down the blog roll and see . . .

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Recognize this stinky bastard?

If you said Stinkor from "He-Man: Masters of the Universe," you would be correct!  In case you can't recall, he looked like a skunk and his power was that he smelled really, really bad.  One of my closest friends just directed an episode of "Law and Order SVU."  They liked how it came out and asked him to do another.  It hasn't all gone to his head yet because he is still sending me pictures like this.  So he sends me this pic of what appears to be Stinkor sunbathing, and I laughed my ass off.  Why would he care about tanning if his odor offends anyone he comes near?  Actually, the toy itself smells, and if you leave him in a contained small space, the smell intensifies.  And it still works despite the fact that it's from like 1985!  Director friend was going to donate him to somewhere, but I jumped at the chance to take him off his hands.  Stinkor is being shipped from L.A. to Chicago as we speak.  I told Mrs. Noisewater that when he arrives he will go right into his new home: a mason jar sealed up with a lid.  Mrs. Noisewater is not liking the idea of intentionally brining an item in our house that smells and displaying it on our bookshelf, but she will learn to love our stinky new friend soon enough.  
One reason I haven't been posting in a while is that my ankle looks like this:
I'm no doctor, but that doesn't look good.

It is a real drag when I'm injured because I like to be active, I was just getting in the habit of going to the gym every day, and my job involves a lot of walking around and going up and down stairs.  I just have to do a lot of rehab on it.  Jesus, just look at it.  Does it look like the foot of a zombie?  You can be honest.  

Also, what do you think is going on in this pic:

I would be surprised if anyone guesses, but this would be 30 men with sleeveless basketball jerseys competing on three Super Nintendo versions of "NBA Jam"in an all day tournament complete with press conferences and awards.  Yours truly one the trophy for the best team name for "The Fundamentally Sound Behind the Back Inbounds Pass."
That trophy is prominently displayed on my shelf.

Which will soon be right next to Stinkor.

Good day.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

How Not To Relieve Midterms Stress

Sometimes when you don't have a blog topic you find yourself leafing through news stories: LeBron scores 40 for a Cleveland win, Kim Kardashian is naked in a magazine and her butt is still alarmingly big, European astronauts collected samples from a comet, and blah, blah, blah.  Then suddenly a news item is sent down from the bestiality gods: Fresno State student has sex with a sheep.

The student drank a lot of booze and was stressed about his computer engineering midterms, and ended up getting busted screwing a sheep and going to jail.  Big tests coming up when you are unprepared can be stressful, but a more productive means of reducing stress would be to study more.  I got pretty desperate in college, both for passing classes and having sex, but in neither case did sleeping with farm animals ever occur to me.  Furthermore, drinking too much isn't a good defense for banging a sheep because at no point in any stage of drunkenness have I known anyone to consider sheep sex.  Dropping standards a little, sure, but not switching species.  Now you're just a crazy person.

How would you feel if you spent your hard earned money to send your son off to college, and he never calls.  Hurts a little, right?  Then you finally get a call from Fresno, but it's the Fresno Police Department.  And they tell you that your son was just caught having sexual intercourse with a sheep.  That's a hard one to swallow.  Sure, we all experimented sexually in college. . . But not with animals!  Better get that engineering degree, son.  And change your name.  And get some therapy.  And move to the city so you're far away from any farm-related temptations.  And wash your wiener.  Gross.  

What do you make of all this sheep sex, readers?  Or anyone else have a wild (but not sick and wrong) weekend planned?  Anyone have a crazy story from their carefree college days that they want to share?

Sunday, November 09, 2014

Last night when I was at a Lakeview neighborhood bar there were two giant groups of people and us.  In other words, If it weren't for these big groups, the bar would only have a handful of people in it.  First, there were participants in a sweatsuit pub crawl.  I talked to the founding father who informed me that he hosts this annual event right around the time of his birthday each year, and because it falls in November, the sweat suits are the perfect attire for the weather.  His only rule is that the sweat suits must be monochromatic (the tops must match the bottoms).  Birthday boy had a red, white, and blue one on with a U.S.A. embroidered on there, and it cost him $100.  This seems like a lot of money, but it looked really damn comfortable.  Plus we were saying that after wearing it again for the Olympics and World Cup, he will have recouped the losses.  

This is the sexiest sweats outfit I could find on Google Images.

The other group were members of Jewish fraternity having a reunion of one time.  It was the solitary Black member of the frat that said something during one of those quiet moments where an odd statement goes right into you head and stays with you all night: "Sorry, I couldn't hear you - my dick's too big."  I googled this quote and couldn't find it anywhere, so I guess I'll never know just what in the hell he meant by that.  It's funny, even if it makes no sense.  Actually, it's funny because it makes no sense.

I then got a text from an old friend saying he was headed to The Liars Club, which if you have been around this blog for a while you know this to be the best bar in Chicago.  This friend of mine recently split up with his wife who was cheating on him, and he has been dating lots of women.  This is the best way to get over events like this, I have found.  The guy is on a role too because he is in great shape and it seems like many of my friends over the years have had wives and girlfriends say how good looking he is.  He had one of his Tinder ladies out with him last night, so I was sort of third wheeling it.  We had fun for a while talking about some of their commonalities, such as both of them having giant tall dads.  His is 6'6" and hers is 6'8"!  I said that even if they don't work out in the long run, they should just go ahead and breed anyways to make a star volleyball or basketball player.  Then on a trip back from the men's room I saw the two of them talking very closely and intimately and Tinder Girl was grabbing at his schlong.  They were getting down with that notion of breeding in the very near future, so I saw this as a good time to leave . . . 

Now I am hungover as hell and have accomplished almost nothing today, but what little I have accomplished, I have these two friends to thank for it.