There have been many landmark decisions: Brown v. Board of Education, Roe v. Wade, Cary Schwartz v. going to South Padre Island for Spring Break during Freshman year of college or going back to Dallas and maybe participating in a day trip to Ft. Worth in order to visit my grandmother at the department store where she works, and the Supreme Court's Same-Sex Marriage decision. All of these decisions have been, in my opinion, the right thing to do including my decision to spend Spring Break in Padre. Yes, I could've scored some free Drakkar cologne from Na-Na but then I wouldn't have had a chance to make out with a High School senior from Houston behind the stage at South Padre Island's famed nightclub, Louie's Backyard.
For those of you living under a rock, getting out of a 3 day coma or not having a Facebook page, the Supreme Court declared same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states last Friday. This is a decision that gives people the same right to a legal union even if you happen to be in love with someone who is the same sex as you. It is one of those decisions that makes me happy, proud and, well, gay. Now, I'm not gay in the way that people use that word now. I am not sexually attracted to men not named Johnny Depp, I've never seen an episode of "Glee" and of all the Avengers, Scarlett Johansson is the only one I want to bang not named Chris Hemsworth. I am gay in the actual definition of the word: "full of joy, merry; light-hearted, carefree."
I am happy, therefore I am gay.
I am gay for many reasons. I am gay because I have great friends - some of them happen to be in love with someone the same sex as them. I am gay because I have a loving family - some of them happen to love someone the same sex as them. I am gay because I have a wonderful fiancee - who happens to be a different sex than me. I am gay because being happy - being gay - is very important to me. I am gay because I believe everyone has the right to be in love with whoever they fall in love with. I am gay because it is the right thing to do. I am gay even though I love a woman. I wish everyone was gay.
I am gay and I am proud.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
What Happened to Cameron Crowe?
This past weekend a movie that nobody cared about, written and directed by a filmmaker that people used to care about, starring actors and actresses that people seem to care about came out with very little fanfare. "Aloha" written and directed by Cameron Crowe made a little bit of money - around 10 Million - which is respectable, but not great. Considering that the lead of the movie is Bradley Cooper whose last movie made 350 Million (American Sniper) and whose last 4 before that made over 100 million and one of those is the monstrosity that was "The Hangover Part 3," it seems like quite the bomb. Money aside, according to Rotten Tomatoes, the movie is god awful at 18%. Eighteen is not a good number for a filmmaker. The only director who's life would've been easier if he had an eighteen is Roman Polanski.
I used to love Cameron Crowe. I was so influenced by his directorial debut, "Say Anything..." that I used it as the blueprint on how to act like a respectable man when I first started dating. I was so influenced by John Cusack's portrayal of Lloyd Dobler, that I even sent the woman I lost my virginity to a card thanking her, just like Lloyd did. To this day, when I get nervous, I talk way too much and spurt out a bunch of nonsense just like Lloyd did. I once tried to profess my love to a woman I had a massive crush on my Freshmen year of college and after the most painful 6 seconds of silence, she quickly handed me a T-shirt, sprinted down the University Towers 5th Floor hallway, flew down 3 flights of stairs to her room and barely made eye contact with me for the next four years. That was the equivalent to one of my favorite lines in move history when Lloyd Dobler heartbreakingly speaks into a payphone during a rainstorm, "I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen." Except in this case, the "pen" was an AE PHI Sorority Crush Party Off-White T-shirt that was 3 sizes too big and made me look like I was the "After" picture of a Jenny Craig ad.
"Say Anything..." to "Singles" to "Jerry Maguire" to "Almost Famous" is quite a resume, most people would say. I loved each and every one of these when they first came out. I suppose I must now say one of the most controversial things a self proclaimed movie nerd like myself can say about any movie. This is something that I should be ashamed of, but I now feel I'm ready to stand strong and "come out" to the world... I do not like the movie "Almost Famous." For some reason, this is a very blasphemous thing to say. I saw this "masterpiece" on Opening Night in the year 2000 and thought it was fantastic. I then saw it again about 6 months ago and I know think it may be the most overrated movie of all time. I disliked it so much that I assumed something was wrong with me. This is supposed to be one of cinema's finest treasures of the millennium and I found it to be cheesier than a chunk of cheddar humping a slice of Swiss. Regardless of my feeling towards that hunk of garbage, I understand that most people cherish it in the same way Renee Zellweger cherishes Tom Cruise in "Jerry Maguire" or the way Tom Cruise cherishes Xenu in a religious pyramid scheme.
After "Almost Famous," Mr. Crowe made the polarizing "Vanilla Sky." This was some sort of hallucinatory dreamscape which some people seemed to like but most people seemed to hate. I'm somewhere in the middle - didn't exactly hate it, but didn't like it. It was a departure for ol' Cam Cam and I gave him the benefit of the doubt for the effort. Up until this deformed Tom Cruise flick, he had pretty much only made "young men trying to figure things out" movies and his next project would be right in that lane. "Elizabethtown" was Cameron's follow up to "Cameron Diaz possibly kills Tom Cruise because he's lusting after a cartoon mouse played by Penelope Cruz" and it seemed to have all the elements that made C.C. one of the most respected writer/directors of his generation. Something happened with that movie though - It was a heaping pile of shit. That movie was so bad it made "The Godfather Part 3" look like "The Godfather." "Elizabethtown" was so horrible it killed the careers of both the male and female lead. If this movie had not have come out, we might have seen "Silver Linings Playbook" starring Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst. I guess there's a silver lining after all.
After the monstrosity of "Legolas goes back home to Kentucky for his dad's funeral and falls in love with a very annoying child-woman," the ex-husband of the guitarist from Heart didn't make another (non-documentary) film for 6 years. Normally that wouldn't be that big of a deal. Quentin Tarantino generally takes a few years between movies. Stanley Kubrick took 12 years in between his last movie (Eyes Wide Shut) and his second to last movie (Full Metal Jacket). Terrence Malick pretty much has made a career of making one movie, then waiting 20 years and making another one. Terrence Malick is to filmmaking what Michael Douglas is to parenting. The problem with Cameron Crowe taking 6 years to make his next movie is because the next one was "We Bought a Zoo."
"We Bought a Zoo" is as bad as its title. The movie is literally about Will Hunting buying a dilapidated zoo run by Lucy from the movie "Lucy." It is also over two hours which seems excessive. How long do we need to watch Jason Bourne try to bond with an elephant before we realize that this movie is a joke? The Joke was on me though, because this insane flick grossed 75 million dollars. I guess people will pay for anything if there's a small chance of seeing Scarlett Johansson's cleavage.
With his latest movie, Cameron Crowe has let us all down again. "Aloha" looks like the kind of movie Bradley Cooper and Emma Stone would go see in another movie where they play a mismatched couple on a first date seeing a generic shitty rom-com set in Hawaii. Having said this, I'll admit that I haven't actually seen "Aloha." I also haven't seen "We Bought a Zoo." I don't think I need to because these movies seem lame, immature and childless with no redeeming qualities. I don't know why anyone would want to watch that nonsense. They're both about men who refuse to grow up and go about their life in a constant string of delusion and arrogance. What a bunch of crap.
Now if you excuse me, I have to go get my tickets for the "Entourage" movie.
I used to love Cameron Crowe. I was so influenced by his directorial debut, "Say Anything..." that I used it as the blueprint on how to act like a respectable man when I first started dating. I was so influenced by John Cusack's portrayal of Lloyd Dobler, that I even sent the woman I lost my virginity to a card thanking her, just like Lloyd did. To this day, when I get nervous, I talk way too much and spurt out a bunch of nonsense just like Lloyd did. I once tried to profess my love to a woman I had a massive crush on my Freshmen year of college and after the most painful 6 seconds of silence, she quickly handed me a T-shirt, sprinted down the University Towers 5th Floor hallway, flew down 3 flights of stairs to her room and barely made eye contact with me for the next four years. That was the equivalent to one of my favorite lines in move history when Lloyd Dobler heartbreakingly speaks into a payphone during a rainstorm, "I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen." Except in this case, the "pen" was an AE PHI Sorority Crush Party Off-White T-shirt that was 3 sizes too big and made me look like I was the "After" picture of a Jenny Craig ad.
"Say Anything..." to "Singles" to "Jerry Maguire" to "Almost Famous" is quite a resume, most people would say. I loved each and every one of these when they first came out. I suppose I must now say one of the most controversial things a self proclaimed movie nerd like myself can say about any movie. This is something that I should be ashamed of, but I now feel I'm ready to stand strong and "come out" to the world... I do not like the movie "Almost Famous." For some reason, this is a very blasphemous thing to say. I saw this "masterpiece" on Opening Night in the year 2000 and thought it was fantastic. I then saw it again about 6 months ago and I know think it may be the most overrated movie of all time. I disliked it so much that I assumed something was wrong with me. This is supposed to be one of cinema's finest treasures of the millennium and I found it to be cheesier than a chunk of cheddar humping a slice of Swiss. Regardless of my feeling towards that hunk of garbage, I understand that most people cherish it in the same way Renee Zellweger cherishes Tom Cruise in "Jerry Maguire" or the way Tom Cruise cherishes Xenu in a religious pyramid scheme.
After "Almost Famous," Mr. Crowe made the polarizing "Vanilla Sky." This was some sort of hallucinatory dreamscape which some people seemed to like but most people seemed to hate. I'm somewhere in the middle - didn't exactly hate it, but didn't like it. It was a departure for ol' Cam Cam and I gave him the benefit of the doubt for the effort. Up until this deformed Tom Cruise flick, he had pretty much only made "young men trying to figure things out" movies and his next project would be right in that lane. "Elizabethtown" was Cameron's follow up to "Cameron Diaz possibly kills Tom Cruise because he's lusting after a cartoon mouse played by Penelope Cruz" and it seemed to have all the elements that made C.C. one of the most respected writer/directors of his generation. Something happened with that movie though - It was a heaping pile of shit. That movie was so bad it made "The Godfather Part 3" look like "The Godfather." "Elizabethtown" was so horrible it killed the careers of both the male and female lead. If this movie had not have come out, we might have seen "Silver Linings Playbook" starring Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst. I guess there's a silver lining after all.
After the monstrosity of "Legolas goes back home to Kentucky for his dad's funeral and falls in love with a very annoying child-woman," the ex-husband of the guitarist from Heart didn't make another (non-documentary) film for 6 years. Normally that wouldn't be that big of a deal. Quentin Tarantino generally takes a few years between movies. Stanley Kubrick took 12 years in between his last movie (Eyes Wide Shut) and his second to last movie (Full Metal Jacket). Terrence Malick pretty much has made a career of making one movie, then waiting 20 years and making another one. Terrence Malick is to filmmaking what Michael Douglas is to parenting. The problem with Cameron Crowe taking 6 years to make his next movie is because the next one was "We Bought a Zoo."
"We Bought a Zoo" is as bad as its title. The movie is literally about Will Hunting buying a dilapidated zoo run by Lucy from the movie "Lucy." It is also over two hours which seems excessive. How long do we need to watch Jason Bourne try to bond with an elephant before we realize that this movie is a joke? The Joke was on me though, because this insane flick grossed 75 million dollars. I guess people will pay for anything if there's a small chance of seeing Scarlett Johansson's cleavage.
With his latest movie, Cameron Crowe has let us all down again. "Aloha" looks like the kind of movie Bradley Cooper and Emma Stone would go see in another movie where they play a mismatched couple on a first date seeing a generic shitty rom-com set in Hawaii. Having said this, I'll admit that I haven't actually seen "Aloha." I also haven't seen "We Bought a Zoo." I don't think I need to because these movies seem lame, immature and childless with no redeeming qualities. I don't know why anyone would want to watch that nonsense. They're both about men who refuse to grow up and go about their life in a constant string of delusion and arrogance. What a bunch of crap.
Now if you excuse me, I have to go get my tickets for the "Entourage" movie.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry's
I don't have a lot going on these days so I'm always excited when something falls into my lap. Even something as annoying as picking up someone from the airport gets me excited because I'll have a legitimate reason to leave the house. The best situations are when something free and delicious appears right before your eyes. During my normal routine of clicking through the silliest part of the ol' interweb I came across the greatest banner known to man... FREE ICE CREAM CONE DAY AT BEN & JERRY'S!
I'll be honest with you, I've probably only been to an actual Ben & Jerry's store twice in my life. One in the Haight/Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco in the late '90's. I was visiting my friend, Adam, and I asked him to take me to the mecca of San Fran hippie culture. This place was the epicenter of the 60's counter culture movement. Peace and love were the value's it was based on. This was the place that dreams were made of. Everyone loving each other and interacting in a positive environment where you feel like everyone has your back. Unfortunately, Haight/Ashbury by the late '90s had pretty much become Time Squares but instead of the Disneyfication, it was Classic Rock-ified. It had now become clear to me where Spencer's Gifts ordered all their Led Zeppelin Blacklight posters.
The second time I visited a Ben & Jerry's store was in beautiful downtown Burbank, California. It is located in a huge shopping area next to an Ikea, a mall, a still operating bookstore, an AMC movie theatre with 16 screens and a Cold Stone Creamery. The reason I've only ventured into this Ben & Jerry's one time is evident from the last sentence, I mean, why waste my time at one ice cream store when the one directly across the street can roll in Reeses Peanut Cups and Butterfinger to your Cake Batter Ice Cream? I am, and will always be, a Cold Stone man. This would sound much more macho if I were a Stone Cold man. It would also mean I was dyslexic.
Since I rarely visit San Francisco and have a deep allegiance to Cold Stone, I do not foresee myself becoming a patron of Ben & Jerry's. That is of course, when I have to pay for it. Seeing the banner ad for Free Cone Day turned my Cold Stone heart into a Ben & Jerry's mind. I also thought, why not make a day of it? A movie and free ice cream? Junior High Cary Schwartz just hit the jackpot!
I ventured to Burbank from Los Angeles which is about 5 miles away but takes 45 minutes. It doesn't matter though, the light at the end of the traffic tunnel leads to free ice cream. I arrive in Burbank and access one of their many free parking lots which is oddly exciting to me since I live in L.A. In pretty much every city in America, a free parking lot at noon on a Tuesday is as normal as a sunrise. A free parking lot at noon on Tuesday in Los Angeles is as abnormal as a son rhys. That anolagy only works if you aren't the parents of lovable wacky movie actor, Rhys Ifans from Notting Hill, or lovable wacky TV actor, Rhys Darby from Flight of the Conchords. If you can find me a non wacky Rhys, I'll eat my hat... which is exactly something a wacky Rhys would do.
I decide to see a movie first so I can work up an appetite for my free ice cream cone. I grab my ticket for the Ben Stiller/Naomi Watts dramedy, "While We're Young" and rush over to Theatre 4. The idea behind this movie is that if you're in your 40's, hanging out with young twenty-somethings will invigorate you and make you feel young again. The viewer realizes this because Naomi Watts dances to hip-hop music and Ben Stiller buys a hat. I enjoyed this movie but it made me feel old. Not just because the subject matter warrants it, but because Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys has so much grey hair!
I finish the flick and head over to the grand finale of my day - Free Ice Cream. The first thing I notice is the absurd long line leading into the high calorie locale. The second thing I notice is the amount of firemen holding signs that say "Fill the Boot." The third thing I notice is the twelve signs placed along the windows of the store thanking everyone for supporting the Muscular Dystrophy Association. The fourth thing I notice is the firemen accepting donations from EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN LINE. Everybody is reaching into their wallet and placing a wad of bills into the "charity boot" that the firemen are passing around. That boot is getting stuffed more than a passed out woman at Bill Cosby's.
I realize now that the "free" ice cream isn't exactly free. I can take out a dollar bill, hand over to the MD fighting fireman and still get a decent sized scoop of Chubby Hubby for a major discount. The only problem with that plan is, I only have 2 five dollar bills. I patiently wait in line clutching a five dollar bill when it dawns on me. Paying 5 dollars for a 3 dollar scoop of ice cream would completely go against my entire plan of having a free scoop of ice cream. Realizing the math made me immedietely jump out of line and head on over to Cold Stone. I mean, if I'm paying for ice cream I should grab my Like 'em sized Cake Batter with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Butterfinger plus I didn't have to wait in line because every sane ice cream lover was across the street getting their "free cone." April 14, 2015 is the day that Cary the Asshole decided to spend $7 on a candy bar infused heart attack inducing confection instead of giving $5 to a very deserving charity. Maybe April 14, 2016 will be the day I finally decide to not be a dickhead.
I'll be honest with you, I've probably only been to an actual Ben & Jerry's store twice in my life. One in the Haight/Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco in the late '90's. I was visiting my friend, Adam, and I asked him to take me to the mecca of San Fran hippie culture. This place was the epicenter of the 60's counter culture movement. Peace and love were the value's it was based on. This was the place that dreams were made of. Everyone loving each other and interacting in a positive environment where you feel like everyone has your back. Unfortunately, Haight/Ashbury by the late '90s had pretty much become Time Squares but instead of the Disneyfication, it was Classic Rock-ified. It had now become clear to me where Spencer's Gifts ordered all their Led Zeppelin Blacklight posters.
The second time I visited a Ben & Jerry's store was in beautiful downtown Burbank, California. It is located in a huge shopping area next to an Ikea, a mall, a still operating bookstore, an AMC movie theatre with 16 screens and a Cold Stone Creamery. The reason I've only ventured into this Ben & Jerry's one time is evident from the last sentence, I mean, why waste my time at one ice cream store when the one directly across the street can roll in Reeses Peanut Cups and Butterfinger to your Cake Batter Ice Cream? I am, and will always be, a Cold Stone man. This would sound much more macho if I were a Stone Cold man. It would also mean I was dyslexic.
Since I rarely visit San Francisco and have a deep allegiance to Cold Stone, I do not foresee myself becoming a patron of Ben & Jerry's. That is of course, when I have to pay for it. Seeing the banner ad for Free Cone Day turned my Cold Stone heart into a Ben & Jerry's mind. I also thought, why not make a day of it? A movie and free ice cream? Junior High Cary Schwartz just hit the jackpot!
I ventured to Burbank from Los Angeles which is about 5 miles away but takes 45 minutes. It doesn't matter though, the light at the end of the traffic tunnel leads to free ice cream. I arrive in Burbank and access one of their many free parking lots which is oddly exciting to me since I live in L.A. In pretty much every city in America, a free parking lot at noon on a Tuesday is as normal as a sunrise. A free parking lot at noon on Tuesday in Los Angeles is as abnormal as a son rhys. That anolagy only works if you aren't the parents of lovable wacky movie actor, Rhys Ifans from Notting Hill, or lovable wacky TV actor, Rhys Darby from Flight of the Conchords. If you can find me a non wacky Rhys, I'll eat my hat... which is exactly something a wacky Rhys would do.
I decide to see a movie first so I can work up an appetite for my free ice cream cone. I grab my ticket for the Ben Stiller/Naomi Watts dramedy, "While We're Young" and rush over to Theatre 4. The idea behind this movie is that if you're in your 40's, hanging out with young twenty-somethings will invigorate you and make you feel young again. The viewer realizes this because Naomi Watts dances to hip-hop music and Ben Stiller buys a hat. I enjoyed this movie but it made me feel old. Not just because the subject matter warrants it, but because Ad-Rock from the Beastie Boys has so much grey hair!
I finish the flick and head over to the grand finale of my day - Free Ice Cream. The first thing I notice is the absurd long line leading into the high calorie locale. The second thing I notice is the amount of firemen holding signs that say "Fill the Boot." The third thing I notice is the twelve signs placed along the windows of the store thanking everyone for supporting the Muscular Dystrophy Association. The fourth thing I notice is the firemen accepting donations from EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN LINE. Everybody is reaching into their wallet and placing a wad of bills into the "charity boot" that the firemen are passing around. That boot is getting stuffed more than a passed out woman at Bill Cosby's.
I realize now that the "free" ice cream isn't exactly free. I can take out a dollar bill, hand over to the MD fighting fireman and still get a decent sized scoop of Chubby Hubby for a major discount. The only problem with that plan is, I only have 2 five dollar bills. I patiently wait in line clutching a five dollar bill when it dawns on me. Paying 5 dollars for a 3 dollar scoop of ice cream would completely go against my entire plan of having a free scoop of ice cream. Realizing the math made me immedietely jump out of line and head on over to Cold Stone. I mean, if I'm paying for ice cream I should grab my Like 'em sized Cake Batter with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Butterfinger plus I didn't have to wait in line because every sane ice cream lover was across the street getting their "free cone." April 14, 2015 is the day that Cary the Asshole decided to spend $7 on a candy bar infused heart attack inducing confection instead of giving $5 to a very deserving charity. Maybe April 14, 2016 will be the day I finally decide to not be a dickhead.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Jewish Easter
There are a lot of days I look forward to every year. My birthday, Christmas/Chanukah, the first Cowboy game of the season, 4th of July/Superbowl Sunday/New Years or any other date reserved for drinking all day and any day I'm about to go to Vegas. But the best day of the year, the one I hold dearest to my heart, is Jewish Easter.
Jewish Easter is a magical day that consists of Jewish boys and girls scrounging up whatever bills they can gather and spending it on half price candy. Every grocery store and pharmacy in the country orders WAY too much Easter candy every year so on the day after Easter, they load up 12 shopping carts full of candy and place them right at the entrance in hopes of luring all the non Jesus believers into buying their chocolaty goodness.
Today is a day of great responsibility. You mustn't just wander in freely and start shopping around. There needs to be a plan. Without a plan, you'll have no hope. Walking into a store on Jewish Easter and not having a thought out strategy will seriously mess you up. One year, I strolled into the nearest Rite Aid pharmacy without a blueprint of what I was doing and immediately felt tingling pain and numbness in my hands and feet. Actually, that could've been the diabetes acting up after celebrating Jewish Easter the previous year.
Jewish Easter was first celebrated by my family when I was just a young, pre Bar-Mitzvahed tyke. My father would pack up my mom, my 2 brothers and myself in the family Chevrolet Van and drive the 3/4 mile to Eckerd's drugstore. He'd present us all with $5 and utter the greatest words known to man... "Buy whatever you want!" He'd then follow that line with this one, "as long as it's half price." This is pretty much what my father says about anything always.
The treasure hunt would begin. My older brother went straight for the Reese's Eggs while my little brother tried to find the largest chocolate bunny in the place. This is no joke, I'm talking about the ones on the top shelf! The Schwartz boys don't mess around. I would scour the aisle looking for a sleeve of Cadbury Creme Eggs that was always impossible to find. To this day, I believe the Cadbury company sneaks into every place in the world selling their delicious, gooey filled, milk chocolate eggs at 11:59 PM on Easter Sunday and removes every single one from existence. I also believe the Cadbury company only hires people that are descendants of Ninjas and Santa Claus.
I'd take my 5 smackeroos and run down the aisle swiping various pimple causing delectables into my cart like I'm a contestant on "Supermarket Sweep." I'd grab all the Easter faves: Snicker's, Hershey's and Milky way eggs, Butterfinger and Baby Ruth bunnies, Huge rabbit shaped chocolates that you would think takes 4 months to eat but when you get home, you feel dubed because it's hollow. No worries though, nothing a spoonful of Peter Pan Peanut Butter couldn't fix.
Nowadays, I've upped my game. I double up on my childhood allowance and walk into the place with a crisp ten spot. It's all about the Hamilton's, baby! I waddle into the neighborhood Albertson's, take a quick left past the fresh baked goods that appear to be made a month ago, slip between the elderly Armenian couple that are arguing over what generic Cheeto's brand will taste the best, and sashay through the cereal aisle, taking a quick second to ponder whether they should even make regular Cap N' Crunch without Crunch berries anymore. I mean, why would you buy those when they offer the berries in there for no charge? If I'm gonna cut up the roof of my mouth, there better be an extremely vague taste of strawberries involved.
Once I hit the motherload, I casually place the shopping cart behind me and do the happiest of happy dances as I sprint through the aisles, spilling every half price piece of luxurious Easter themed candy into my arms. In this moment nothing else matters. Religious wars in the Middle East, Political Unrest in Bangladesh and The Cowboys inevitably going 7-9 and missing the playoffs on the final drive of the season. I will get my candy, I will get a great deal and I will have to take a Pepcid by 4:15 PM.
Happy Jewish Easter to you all!!!
Jewish Easter is a magical day that consists of Jewish boys and girls scrounging up whatever bills they can gather and spending it on half price candy. Every grocery store and pharmacy in the country orders WAY too much Easter candy every year so on the day after Easter, they load up 12 shopping carts full of candy and place them right at the entrance in hopes of luring all the non Jesus believers into buying their chocolaty goodness.
Today is a day of great responsibility. You mustn't just wander in freely and start shopping around. There needs to be a plan. Without a plan, you'll have no hope. Walking into a store on Jewish Easter and not having a thought out strategy will seriously mess you up. One year, I strolled into the nearest Rite Aid pharmacy without a blueprint of what I was doing and immediately felt tingling pain and numbness in my hands and feet. Actually, that could've been the diabetes acting up after celebrating Jewish Easter the previous year.
Jewish Easter was first celebrated by my family when I was just a young, pre Bar-Mitzvahed tyke. My father would pack up my mom, my 2 brothers and myself in the family Chevrolet Van and drive the 3/4 mile to Eckerd's drugstore. He'd present us all with $5 and utter the greatest words known to man... "Buy whatever you want!" He'd then follow that line with this one, "as long as it's half price." This is pretty much what my father says about anything always.
The treasure hunt would begin. My older brother went straight for the Reese's Eggs while my little brother tried to find the largest chocolate bunny in the place. This is no joke, I'm talking about the ones on the top shelf! The Schwartz boys don't mess around. I would scour the aisle looking for a sleeve of Cadbury Creme Eggs that was always impossible to find. To this day, I believe the Cadbury company sneaks into every place in the world selling their delicious, gooey filled, milk chocolate eggs at 11:59 PM on Easter Sunday and removes every single one from existence. I also believe the Cadbury company only hires people that are descendants of Ninjas and Santa Claus.
I'd take my 5 smackeroos and run down the aisle swiping various pimple causing delectables into my cart like I'm a contestant on "Supermarket Sweep." I'd grab all the Easter faves: Snicker's, Hershey's and Milky way eggs, Butterfinger and Baby Ruth bunnies, Huge rabbit shaped chocolates that you would think takes 4 months to eat but when you get home, you feel dubed because it's hollow. No worries though, nothing a spoonful of Peter Pan Peanut Butter couldn't fix.
Nowadays, I've upped my game. I double up on my childhood allowance and walk into the place with a crisp ten spot. It's all about the Hamilton's, baby! I waddle into the neighborhood Albertson's, take a quick left past the fresh baked goods that appear to be made a month ago, slip between the elderly Armenian couple that are arguing over what generic Cheeto's brand will taste the best, and sashay through the cereal aisle, taking a quick second to ponder whether they should even make regular Cap N' Crunch without Crunch berries anymore. I mean, why would you buy those when they offer the berries in there for no charge? If I'm gonna cut up the roof of my mouth, there better be an extremely vague taste of strawberries involved.
Once I hit the motherload, I casually place the shopping cart behind me and do the happiest of happy dances as I sprint through the aisles, spilling every half price piece of luxurious Easter themed candy into my arms. In this moment nothing else matters. Religious wars in the Middle East, Political Unrest in Bangladesh and The Cowboys inevitably going 7-9 and missing the playoffs on the final drive of the season. I will get my candy, I will get a great deal and I will have to take a Pepcid by 4:15 PM.
Happy Jewish Easter to you all!!!
Friday, February 6, 2015
The Proposal
I recently had a life changing experience. It's a positive life change - has nothing to do with bad turbulence on a flight, bad dealings in a business plan, or bad Mexican food near a co-ed bathroom. This experience is one that most of us go through in a lifetime if you're lucky enough to find someone that you can tolerate, or more realistically, they can tolerate you for longer than a week and a half. I decided, after 8 years, to propose to my wonderful girlfriend.
My lady and I had been together for eight years. Most people (i.e. my parents, her parents, every aunt/uncle/cousin we have, friends, acquaintances and outward strangers) all thought we were bat-shit crazy to be together without "putting a ring on it." They would say very cliche things like "Shit or get off the pot" which, while I understand the metaphor, isn't exactly how I'd explain my relationship with my lovely gal. Is marriage some sort of grand situation where you'd never have to empty your bowels again?
The first step in the journey to "off the Pottsville" would be to find the perfect ring. I'm not exactly a jeweler so I wasn't sure where to begin. Should I hit up Kay or Zales at the mall? Is there a Robbins Bros. nearby? Maybe she would appreciate it if I "went to Jaryd!" After conferring with her best friend and "The Bachelor" watching co-hort, I was informed that, "if she finds out you got her something at Zales, she'll shove that ring right up your ass!" That didn't sound like a very good proposal, although it did sound like an interesting honeymoon.
I found a ring at a boutique jeweler and gravitated towards a beautiful piece that seemed to fit my gorgeous life partner's unique taste in jewelry and my "Jew-ey" taste in prices. As I was buying this beautiful testament to my undying love for my one and only, I realized that I have no idea what her ring size is, so I had to abort the mission. I wasn't sure how to find out the dimensions of her ring finger so I once again called on the help of her best friend/gay bar dancing associate. I was informed of said friend's ring size and then told that mi amore's finger is at least one size bigger. At least one size bigger is what I assume my girlfriend is thinking about during copulation with me.
I proudly purchased the ring, clapped my hands together and thought, "the hard part is over." As it turns out, the buying of the ring is the easiest part to handle. Now I had to figure out the best way to ask for hand in marriage without doing something too unoriginal, stupid or flamboyant. My girl is not the kind that would want to be proposed to in a crowded place like a trendy restaurant, a public place like a sporting event's Jumbo-tron or a glamorous place like the "Glitter Gulch" in downtown Las Vegas.
I decided to make my plea for her hand in marriage at a rarely visited dog beach in Malibu, California. This was great for a few reasons: There will not be many people out there so I can find a secluded place away from the action and not embarrass her too much. The golden sand and crystal blue water will be a beautiful landscape to remember as we look back fondly on this momentous occasion. And our two canine companions will be present which means she'll have to say yes - otherwise I'll take the four legged members of our household, swim to Catalina Island and send a ransom note in a bottle back to shore. The best way to get someone to spend the rest of their life with you is through some sort of peculiar dognapping scheme.
I told my roommate with benefits that we should take our pooches to Malibu on December 30th, 2014 for no reason in particular. While she was in the bedroom getting ready to go, it dawned on me that all I had was a ring and no other celebratory accessories. It might seem anti-climactic to propose and then not be able to continue the momentum with some libations. I grabbed 2 champagne glasses and a delectable $8 bottle of Wilson Creek's Almond Champagne that we were saving for the next day and snuck it into our traveling beach bag. We made the 25 mile drive to Malibu through windy, one-way, hillside trails and arrived - pooches, ring and champagne in tow - to the desolate and gorgeous dog beach. As we exited the Toyota Corolla and made our way to the spot that will be remembered forever, our little dachsund/min-pin mix decided that would be the best time to start vomiting like he just attended his first frat party. That little bastard has always been a cock blocker but now he was taking it to new levels.
Now, I don't want to worry too much about the little bugger. He was fine, but my almost fiancee assumed he was inches from death and must be rushed to the hospital ASAP. I didn't really have much of a choice in this matter - it's not like I could've said, "Hey, why don't we at least chance our puppy's demise and check out the ocean for 2 minutes or so?" We rushed back to the car and I realized that I must call an audible. There were three things I had decided: 1) Proposing in a car while speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway might be a tad dangerous. 2) I wanted to be engaged in 2014 and not on New Years, which left that day as the ONLY day left on the 2014 calendar that wasn't designated for Ryan Seacrest's toothy smile at midnight. And 3) I wasn't going to fucking propose at The Los Feliz Small Animal Hospital.
Our little bundle of fur was fine so we took him home. We were told to monitor him at home which means I had no choice but to take care of my "bidness" at the apartment I share with my true love and our pesky, four legged friends. I had to think fast because I know I couldn't just plop down on one knee in the living room while she cradled a pretending to be sick mutt and watching DVR'd episodes of "The Shah's of Sunset." I excused myself from the residence so I could get some flowers and a nicer bottle of champagne. I mean, she deserves more than an $8 dollar bottle of sparkling vino... my baby's getting a bottle of the nicest $17 bubbly that Alberston's has to offer! I grabbed the champagne and a dozen red roses and headed back home. I didn't want her to see the flowers so I snuck through the backdoor... which maybe I'll do again on the wedding night. (OH NO HE DI'N'T!)
I layed down the flowers in the hallway leading to the bedroom and called for future bride to help me out with something. She begrudgingly left the couch to find out what her lazy boyfriend needed help with. I had secured myself in the room with a chilled bottle of champagne ready to be opened and an engagement ring that may or may not fit on her finger. I heard her make her way down the hallway and had a five second panic attack where I literally had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I have the ring out of my pocket? Should I be on one knee already? Should the ring be behind my back? Should I stand and then take a knee like I'm on a junior high football team? I decided to be on one knee when she entered the room and I would calmly ask her to marry me. She opened the door and said exactly the loving words you'd expect someone to say when they see their life partner on one knee with an engagement ring raised towards her. Those words were, "Whoa, dude!"
I would love to say that I was very manly and calm and asked for her hand the way a suave leading man would in a romantic movie starring a younger Richard Gere. Instead, I blubbered through a cheesy speech that sounded more like something from "The Elephant Man" than "Pretty Woman." To everyone's shock, she said yes and now we get to start our life together as an engaged couple. I look forward to our future wedding, our grand life together and a brand new set of silverware that one of our seldom seen cousins in Arkansas buys us off-registry at Wal-Mart.
My lady and I had been together for eight years. Most people (i.e. my parents, her parents, every aunt/uncle/cousin we have, friends, acquaintances and outward strangers) all thought we were bat-shit crazy to be together without "putting a ring on it." They would say very cliche things like "Shit or get off the pot" which, while I understand the metaphor, isn't exactly how I'd explain my relationship with my lovely gal. Is marriage some sort of grand situation where you'd never have to empty your bowels again?
The first step in the journey to "off the Pottsville" would be to find the perfect ring. I'm not exactly a jeweler so I wasn't sure where to begin. Should I hit up Kay or Zales at the mall? Is there a Robbins Bros. nearby? Maybe she would appreciate it if I "went to Jaryd!" After conferring with her best friend and "The Bachelor" watching co-hort, I was informed that, "if she finds out you got her something at Zales, she'll shove that ring right up your ass!" That didn't sound like a very good proposal, although it did sound like an interesting honeymoon.
I found a ring at a boutique jeweler and gravitated towards a beautiful piece that seemed to fit my gorgeous life partner's unique taste in jewelry and my "Jew-ey" taste in prices. As I was buying this beautiful testament to my undying love for my one and only, I realized that I have no idea what her ring size is, so I had to abort the mission. I wasn't sure how to find out the dimensions of her ring finger so I once again called on the help of her best friend/gay bar dancing associate. I was informed of said friend's ring size and then told that mi amore's finger is at least one size bigger. At least one size bigger is what I assume my girlfriend is thinking about during copulation with me.
I proudly purchased the ring, clapped my hands together and thought, "the hard part is over." As it turns out, the buying of the ring is the easiest part to handle. Now I had to figure out the best way to ask for hand in marriage without doing something too unoriginal, stupid or flamboyant. My girl is not the kind that would want to be proposed to in a crowded place like a trendy restaurant, a public place like a sporting event's Jumbo-tron or a glamorous place like the "Glitter Gulch" in downtown Las Vegas.
I decided to make my plea for her hand in marriage at a rarely visited dog beach in Malibu, California. This was great for a few reasons: There will not be many people out there so I can find a secluded place away from the action and not embarrass her too much. The golden sand and crystal blue water will be a beautiful landscape to remember as we look back fondly on this momentous occasion. And our two canine companions will be present which means she'll have to say yes - otherwise I'll take the four legged members of our household, swim to Catalina Island and send a ransom note in a bottle back to shore. The best way to get someone to spend the rest of their life with you is through some sort of peculiar dognapping scheme.
I told my roommate with benefits that we should take our pooches to Malibu on December 30th, 2014 for no reason in particular. While she was in the bedroom getting ready to go, it dawned on me that all I had was a ring and no other celebratory accessories. It might seem anti-climactic to propose and then not be able to continue the momentum with some libations. I grabbed 2 champagne glasses and a delectable $8 bottle of Wilson Creek's Almond Champagne that we were saving for the next day and snuck it into our traveling beach bag. We made the 25 mile drive to Malibu through windy, one-way, hillside trails and arrived - pooches, ring and champagne in tow - to the desolate and gorgeous dog beach. As we exited the Toyota Corolla and made our way to the spot that will be remembered forever, our little dachsund/min-pin mix decided that would be the best time to start vomiting like he just attended his first frat party. That little bastard has always been a cock blocker but now he was taking it to new levels.
Now, I don't want to worry too much about the little bugger. He was fine, but my almost fiancee assumed he was inches from death and must be rushed to the hospital ASAP. I didn't really have much of a choice in this matter - it's not like I could've said, "Hey, why don't we at least chance our puppy's demise and check out the ocean for 2 minutes or so?" We rushed back to the car and I realized that I must call an audible. There were three things I had decided: 1) Proposing in a car while speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway might be a tad dangerous. 2) I wanted to be engaged in 2014 and not on New Years, which left that day as the ONLY day left on the 2014 calendar that wasn't designated for Ryan Seacrest's toothy smile at midnight. And 3) I wasn't going to fucking propose at The Los Feliz Small Animal Hospital.
Our little bundle of fur was fine so we took him home. We were told to monitor him at home which means I had no choice but to take care of my "bidness" at the apartment I share with my true love and our pesky, four legged friends. I had to think fast because I know I couldn't just plop down on one knee in the living room while she cradled a pretending to be sick mutt and watching DVR'd episodes of "The Shah's of Sunset." I excused myself from the residence so I could get some flowers and a nicer bottle of champagne. I mean, she deserves more than an $8 dollar bottle of sparkling vino... my baby's getting a bottle of the nicest $17 bubbly that Alberston's has to offer! I grabbed the champagne and a dozen red roses and headed back home. I didn't want her to see the flowers so I snuck through the backdoor... which maybe I'll do again on the wedding night. (OH NO HE DI'N'T!)
I layed down the flowers in the hallway leading to the bedroom and called for future bride to help me out with something. She begrudgingly left the couch to find out what her lazy boyfriend needed help with. I had secured myself in the room with a chilled bottle of champagne ready to be opened and an engagement ring that may or may not fit on her finger. I heard her make her way down the hallway and had a five second panic attack where I literally had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I have the ring out of my pocket? Should I be on one knee already? Should the ring be behind my back? Should I stand and then take a knee like I'm on a junior high football team? I decided to be on one knee when she entered the room and I would calmly ask her to marry me. She opened the door and said exactly the loving words you'd expect someone to say when they see their life partner on one knee with an engagement ring raised towards her. Those words were, "Whoa, dude!"
I would love to say that I was very manly and calm and asked for her hand the way a suave leading man would in a romantic movie starring a younger Richard Gere. Instead, I blubbered through a cheesy speech that sounded more like something from "The Elephant Man" than "Pretty Woman." To everyone's shock, she said yes and now we get to start our life together as an engaged couple. I look forward to our future wedding, our grand life together and a brand new set of silverware that one of our seldom seen cousins in Arkansas buys us off-registry at Wal-Mart.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Clogged Kitchen Sink
Today was supposed to be a special day. I had a very welcome day off smack dab in the middle of the week. I had plans - a lot of emails to catch up on, a lot of doggy cuddles to catch up on, and most importantly, a lot of sleep to catch up on. Things were gonna be great! I couldn't wait to sleep in, wake up late, drink coffee, eat Cap'n Crunch's "Oops All Berries" in my underwear, and scour the internet to read all about how awesome the Dallas Cowboys have been until their inevitable December breakdown where they miss the playoffs by one game.
Of course, the kicker was being able to sleep in. I'm the kind of person who can sleep through any kind of noise. TV, noises outside, alarms, barking dogs, screaming girlfriend - anything. I noticed something today... I cannot sleep through the foul stench of whatever odor was coming through the clogged sink in my kitchen. It smelled so bad in my place today, I assumed someone finally dug up the dead hooker that has been stored under my floorboard since Valentine's day.
I awoke from my much deserved slumber because my nose was filled with a horrendous scent. I followed the putrid smell to the kitchen and noticed both sides were halfway full with a black-ish liquid. It looked like something the classic 1950's movie villain, The Blob, would've thrown up. Actually, I once saw The Blob's vomit in the shape of a 1980's movie starring Kevin "Johnny Drama" Dillon. ZING!
Now, since I'm a real man, I figured the best way to handle this was by fixing it myself. I take great pride in how macho I am and I'm sure everyone knows that about me. I like to get down and get my hands dirty fixing motorcycles, gutting the half ton bucks I hunt for sport and shovel the massive amount of bullshit I just wrote. Actually, I am the opposite of macho. To say I am a man is an insult to the entire species of Man.
I do know a little about fixing sinks though because I'm very observant. No, I have never studied a plumber to learn the specifics of his craft but I have seen one or two Drano commercials. I can finally be a man and fix the sink myself with the help of a gelatinous fluid. I was starting to feel quite macho after all. I just needed to take care of a few things before heading out to the local Albertson's. All I had to do was wash my face with a gentle facial wash, cover my problem pores with a moisturizing lotion and freshen my armpits with baby powder infused Citrus Blossom scented organic deodorant. I may be a man but I smell like an arboretum.
I made my way to the store to pick up a nice hefty bottle of Drano and then I would make it back to my place to perform my manly duties. There was no other reason to be at the store but maybe I should look around just in case. You never know when something will pop up at you while shopping for the one necessity. I decided to take a stroll through the seasonal aisle to see what Halloween themed materials that may catch my eye before I head back to the casa and act like the man that I am. As it turns out, they were offering a sale on Reese's Pumpkins, Snicker's Witches and Butterfinger Monsters. I may be a man but I eat like a woman right before she menstruates.
My bag is now full of candy with a tiny bit of room left over for some Drano. I make it home and open up a few Reese's Pumpkins. I figure I should get my chocolate peanut butter fix before I dirty my hands with the toxic pipe cleaner. I wolf down every delicious morsel and then head over to show that sink who's the man. I open up the Drano and pour half a bottle down the left side of the sink, then the right. That's right sink, who's the man now! As it turns out the sink is the man because the sewage goo that was invading my pipes just grew larger. Reading that last sentence out of context makes this sound like a "Fifty Shades of Grey" fan fiction blog.
After emptying the bottle of Drano into the sink and scarfing down another 4 pieces of candy, I did what any man would've done in this situation. I called a plumber to come fix the clogged sink. I didn't feel that defeated though. I knew I was the man. I'm sure I'll be just as manly as the macho plumber that comes to my door. Doorbell rings and there awaits the knight in shining armour that has come to my rescue. The first thing I notice is the nametag... Jessica. The second thing I notice is that we wear the same deodorant.
Of course, the kicker was being able to sleep in. I'm the kind of person who can sleep through any kind of noise. TV, noises outside, alarms, barking dogs, screaming girlfriend - anything. I noticed something today... I cannot sleep through the foul stench of whatever odor was coming through the clogged sink in my kitchen. It smelled so bad in my place today, I assumed someone finally dug up the dead hooker that has been stored under my floorboard since Valentine's day.
I awoke from my much deserved slumber because my nose was filled with a horrendous scent. I followed the putrid smell to the kitchen and noticed both sides were halfway full with a black-ish liquid. It looked like something the classic 1950's movie villain, The Blob, would've thrown up. Actually, I once saw The Blob's vomit in the shape of a 1980's movie starring Kevin "Johnny Drama" Dillon. ZING!
Now, since I'm a real man, I figured the best way to handle this was by fixing it myself. I take great pride in how macho I am and I'm sure everyone knows that about me. I like to get down and get my hands dirty fixing motorcycles, gutting the half ton bucks I hunt for sport and shovel the massive amount of bullshit I just wrote. Actually, I am the opposite of macho. To say I am a man is an insult to the entire species of Man.
I do know a little about fixing sinks though because I'm very observant. No, I have never studied a plumber to learn the specifics of his craft but I have seen one or two Drano commercials. I can finally be a man and fix the sink myself with the help of a gelatinous fluid. I was starting to feel quite macho after all. I just needed to take care of a few things before heading out to the local Albertson's. All I had to do was wash my face with a gentle facial wash, cover my problem pores with a moisturizing lotion and freshen my armpits with baby powder infused Citrus Blossom scented organic deodorant. I may be a man but I smell like an arboretum.
I made my way to the store to pick up a nice hefty bottle of Drano and then I would make it back to my place to perform my manly duties. There was no other reason to be at the store but maybe I should look around just in case. You never know when something will pop up at you while shopping for the one necessity. I decided to take a stroll through the seasonal aisle to see what Halloween themed materials that may catch my eye before I head back to the casa and act like the man that I am. As it turns out, they were offering a sale on Reese's Pumpkins, Snicker's Witches and Butterfinger Monsters. I may be a man but I eat like a woman right before she menstruates.
My bag is now full of candy with a tiny bit of room left over for some Drano. I make it home and open up a few Reese's Pumpkins. I figure I should get my chocolate peanut butter fix before I dirty my hands with the toxic pipe cleaner. I wolf down every delicious morsel and then head over to show that sink who's the man. I open up the Drano and pour half a bottle down the left side of the sink, then the right. That's right sink, who's the man now! As it turns out the sink is the man because the sewage goo that was invading my pipes just grew larger. Reading that last sentence out of context makes this sound like a "Fifty Shades of Grey" fan fiction blog.
After emptying the bottle of Drano into the sink and scarfing down another 4 pieces of candy, I did what any man would've done in this situation. I called a plumber to come fix the clogged sink. I didn't feel that defeated though. I knew I was the man. I'm sure I'll be just as manly as the macho plumber that comes to my door. Doorbell rings and there awaits the knight in shining armour that has come to my rescue. The first thing I notice is the nametag... Jessica. The second thing I notice is that we wear the same deodorant.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Vegas, baby!
I, just like most people, am an avid fantasy football player. I, just like some people, attend a live draft every year. I, unlike a lot of people, attend that live draft in Las Vegas. It is always a great time. Catch up with old college buddies, spend time in poker rooms and at blackjack tables, and act like a teenager for a weekend. The problem is, I'll act like a teenager and then by Monday, I DEFINTELY realize that I am no longer anywhere close to a teenager.
I am an average 30something male with a job. I'm unlike an average job having man because my job does not require me to be there on Fridays. It's kind of like my freshmen year in college where I scheduled all my classes Monday thru Thursday so I can have Fridays off to sleep in, relax and listen to Guns n' Roses "Appetite for Destruction" on repeat. The cool thing about the Fridays off is I can plan trips around then. For instance, if I'm going to Vegas for a fantasy draft, I can leave early Friday morning and have time to hit the poker rooms and relax by the pool before others get into town. A nice relaxing way to start a debaucherous weekend.
Of course, my life doesn't really work like that. If I have something planned that I'm looking forward to, it'll inevitably be messed with. I bought my cheap ass Southwest Airlines ticket from LAX to Vegas for a Friday that I'm not working, only to find out that I would be working that day. I have worked exactly one Friday since before Thanksgiving and it happened to be the one day I had a plane ticket that cost me a whopping forty nine dollars.
Because I'm a team player, or because I really don't want to be fired, I changed my flight. No big deal, I'm on Southwest so there won't be any change fee, I'll only have to pay for the difference on the new flight. Now, spending two hundred dollars on a flight is pretty good, but not after you've already spent the forty nine bucks. Oh well, I'll just win it back says optimistic me. I change my flight so instead of leaving at 9 AM and enjoying my day in Vegas. I'll be leaving at 10 PM and slaving away in Los Angeles. The good news is, I'll save all that money I was planning on spending in Vegas.
I finish my grueling day at work and head on out to the airport so I can start acting like a teenager. I get to LAX, go through baggage, check the monitors to see if any changes and and sit down at the nearest bar to start my weekend with a twelve dollar pint of beer. No worries, I'll just win it back in Vegas. Finish the most expensive beer I'll have until the next time I'm at the airport and go wait in line for my plane. As it turns out, it is now delayed so I guess I'll be having another expensive mug of suds sooner rather than later. No big deal though, I'll just win it back.
After about an hour delay (and twenty four dollars worth of slightly cold Blue Moon), I'm ready to take off to Sin City. I'll now be in at around midnight but not to worry, I'll be a teenager this weekend so I can stay up all night and be fine. I eventually get to Vegas to meet up with all my "acting like teenager" friends but I guess their teenage act is to go to bed by 11:00. I guess I'm playing blackjack the same way I listen to Alanis Morissette - alone.
After the thirteen losing hands of blackjack in a row, I decide it's time to go to bed. I mainly decide this because I ran out of all the money I was planning on spending for Friday night. Actually, I ran out of that waiting for my flight at LAX, so I've dipped into my Saturday fund. Nothing to worry about though, I'll win it back. I get up to the room to sleep my unlucky blackjacks hands away and get ready to act like a teenager starting early Saturday morning. I wake up just like a teenager the next day. That is after I stretch my aching back out, pee seven times and take a blood pressure medication. That's exactly what a teenager would do.
I made my way down to the tables with the rest of my allotted "Saturday" money and was gearing up to win all my money back. I sat down, ordered a "free" beer and got ready to become a thousand-aire. Now, if I thought thirteen losing hands in a row was traumatic, imagine how I must've felt when I lost twenty two. That "free" beer I ordered wound up costing $500.
Since I was completely out of money, I was able to go to the one machine in Vegas that always pays out - the ATM. I put my card in and, BOOM, I know had another five hundred bucks to turn into five thousand. I decided this time to switch it up a bit and approached a roulette table. I took my chips and followed the advice of Wesley Snipes from the classic '90 film, Passenger 57, by "betting on black." As a simple rule of life, you should always follow the lead of Mr. Snipes when it comes to handling money.
I put my chips on black and the wheel spun. When it stopped, that little white ball was surrounded by the intense red of a roulette wheel. Chips gone. No worries, I had some more chips. Put it on black! Next spin = red. Well, it can't be three in a row, right? Wrong. What are the odds of it landing on red for a fourth time? I'd say pretty low. Bet on black, landed on red. Fuck you Wesley!
Back to the ATM. Of course this time, the only machine that pays out in Vegas didn't pay out. No more funds in my account. Oh well, I did have a nice necklace I received from my dead Grandfather ten years ago. I'm sure the family wouldn't mind if I pawned the one family heirloom I have so I can get some money and pay myself back for all that I lost. I mean, what are the chances that I would continue losing? That's not how Vegas works. If you don't win, then why do so many people flock there constantly to win money. These billion dollar casinos lining the strip are funded by people spending money in Vegas on food, drinks and hotels, right?
I found out that the casinos might be paid for by schlubs like me spending thousands of dollars trying win back a few hundred. Vegas kicked my ass and me crying for my mama. The problem was my mama wouldn't take my calls. I guess that's what happens when you constantly call her for money... or for more precious family heirlooms you can pawn in Vegas for seventy five bucks.
I am an average 30something male with a job. I'm unlike an average job having man because my job does not require me to be there on Fridays. It's kind of like my freshmen year in college where I scheduled all my classes Monday thru Thursday so I can have Fridays off to sleep in, relax and listen to Guns n' Roses "Appetite for Destruction" on repeat. The cool thing about the Fridays off is I can plan trips around then. For instance, if I'm going to Vegas for a fantasy draft, I can leave early Friday morning and have time to hit the poker rooms and relax by the pool before others get into town. A nice relaxing way to start a debaucherous weekend.
Of course, my life doesn't really work like that. If I have something planned that I'm looking forward to, it'll inevitably be messed with. I bought my cheap ass Southwest Airlines ticket from LAX to Vegas for a Friday that I'm not working, only to find out that I would be working that day. I have worked exactly one Friday since before Thanksgiving and it happened to be the one day I had a plane ticket that cost me a whopping forty nine dollars.
Because I'm a team player, or because I really don't want to be fired, I changed my flight. No big deal, I'm on Southwest so there won't be any change fee, I'll only have to pay for the difference on the new flight. Now, spending two hundred dollars on a flight is pretty good, but not after you've already spent the forty nine bucks. Oh well, I'll just win it back says optimistic me. I change my flight so instead of leaving at 9 AM and enjoying my day in Vegas. I'll be leaving at 10 PM and slaving away in Los Angeles. The good news is, I'll save all that money I was planning on spending in Vegas.
I finish my grueling day at work and head on out to the airport so I can start acting like a teenager. I get to LAX, go through baggage, check the monitors to see if any changes and and sit down at the nearest bar to start my weekend with a twelve dollar pint of beer. No worries, I'll just win it back in Vegas. Finish the most expensive beer I'll have until the next time I'm at the airport and go wait in line for my plane. As it turns out, it is now delayed so I guess I'll be having another expensive mug of suds sooner rather than later. No big deal though, I'll just win it back.
After about an hour delay (and twenty four dollars worth of slightly cold Blue Moon), I'm ready to take off to Sin City. I'll now be in at around midnight but not to worry, I'll be a teenager this weekend so I can stay up all night and be fine. I eventually get to Vegas to meet up with all my "acting like teenager" friends but I guess their teenage act is to go to bed by 11:00. I guess I'm playing blackjack the same way I listen to Alanis Morissette - alone.
After the thirteen losing hands of blackjack in a row, I decide it's time to go to bed. I mainly decide this because I ran out of all the money I was planning on spending for Friday night. Actually, I ran out of that waiting for my flight at LAX, so I've dipped into my Saturday fund. Nothing to worry about though, I'll win it back. I get up to the room to sleep my unlucky blackjacks hands away and get ready to act like a teenager starting early Saturday morning. I wake up just like a teenager the next day. That is after I stretch my aching back out, pee seven times and take a blood pressure medication. That's exactly what a teenager would do.
I made my way down to the tables with the rest of my allotted "Saturday" money and was gearing up to win all my money back. I sat down, ordered a "free" beer and got ready to become a thousand-aire. Now, if I thought thirteen losing hands in a row was traumatic, imagine how I must've felt when I lost twenty two. That "free" beer I ordered wound up costing $500.
Since I was completely out of money, I was able to go to the one machine in Vegas that always pays out - the ATM. I put my card in and, BOOM, I know had another five hundred bucks to turn into five thousand. I decided this time to switch it up a bit and approached a roulette table. I took my chips and followed the advice of Wesley Snipes from the classic '90 film, Passenger 57, by "betting on black." As a simple rule of life, you should always follow the lead of Mr. Snipes when it comes to handling money.
I put my chips on black and the wheel spun. When it stopped, that little white ball was surrounded by the intense red of a roulette wheel. Chips gone. No worries, I had some more chips. Put it on black! Next spin = red. Well, it can't be three in a row, right? Wrong. What are the odds of it landing on red for a fourth time? I'd say pretty low. Bet on black, landed on red. Fuck you Wesley!
Back to the ATM. Of course this time, the only machine that pays out in Vegas didn't pay out. No more funds in my account. Oh well, I did have a nice necklace I received from my dead Grandfather ten years ago. I'm sure the family wouldn't mind if I pawned the one family heirloom I have so I can get some money and pay myself back for all that I lost. I mean, what are the chances that I would continue losing? That's not how Vegas works. If you don't win, then why do so many people flock there constantly to win money. These billion dollar casinos lining the strip are funded by people spending money in Vegas on food, drinks and hotels, right?
I found out that the casinos might be paid for by schlubs like me spending thousands of dollars trying win back a few hundred. Vegas kicked my ass and me crying for my mama. The problem was my mama wouldn't take my calls. I guess that's what happens when you constantly call her for money... or for more precious family heirlooms you can pawn in Vegas for seventy five bucks.
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