Here's your Antichrist Superstar...

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I probably gained another five pounds. Despite my earlier concerns, Thanksgiving day wasn't nearly as awkward (or violent) as it could have been. I made it to my aunts house around 2:00, spent the afternoon nursing a couple of beers with my cousins and watching football, and mostly managed to avoid my uncle.

Oh, right. And there was another incident. And it's beginning to make me believe in God. And hate him. I really don't even want to write about it, because it's getting ridiculous, and people are going to think I travel under some sort of perpetual cloud of retarded dumbassery, but... *sigh* here goes:

My uncle took me outside to show me the new fence he put up. It's a fairly nice fence. Big, white, wood. You know. A fence. Anyway, as I'm looking around, asking him about the post holes, I step in dog shit.

And so it begins.

My uncle suggests that I go into the basement and wash my shoes off in his slop sink. I say this is a great idea, and wasn't I clever for wearing waterproof shoes! So I go into the basement, he gives me a little rug to stand on, and I take off my shoe. I hold it under the faucet, and turn the water on.

[here it comes]

The water comes ROCKETING out of the faucet, hits the sole of my shoe, and splatters dog shit and water... all over my shirt. Yes, it was a lovely poopy-shirt Thanksgiving.

Friends, this is a new low. I think I need to take some sort of class, or get reprogrammed, or something. This cannot continue. Needless to say, I ate thanksgiving dinner in a t-shirt. Nice. Everyone else is in a nice button-down, or a dress, and I'm in a white t-shirt. And no, I couldn't borrow a shirt, because I'm bigger than everyone in the house. Goddamn it. I guess I lied when I said it wasn't awkward.

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Anyway, I really wanted to talk about my Friday night, which was weird, but in a different, non-shit-related way. Wednesday, Mrs. TK and I had gone out for dinner and ran into an old, dear high school friend and her family at the restaurant (her dad lives in the same town as us). He very kindly invited me to dinner at his house for Friday night, and while Mrs. TK was working, I agreed to go. And then he said, "Great! That'll make 12 people!"

Um... what? Twelve people? Aw, balls. As some of you know, I'm not great with crowds, and I'm really not great with new people. But I sack up and go. And... well, it had a real bull-in-a-China-shop feel to it. Her father is quite wealthy, being some sort of attorney. Her father's boyfriend (yes, I said boyfriend) does some sort of thing where he secures insurance for fabulously wealthy foreign people. Also on the guest list:

-Her brother, who is in Rabbinical school.
-Her brother's extremely unfriendly and whiny girlfriend, who is in Cantorial school. (I provided the link because I had no idea what this was.)
-Her stone-deaf grandmother, who would go into periodic rages because everyone kept mumbling.
-A rabbi
-Someone who works in the Governor's office
-A neurosurgeon
-the Cultural Attache to the Israeli embassy

Oh, did I mention I was the only non-Jew there?

I know, I know. You're thinking, "Wow, TK. You must have been completely comfortable and not even a little bit awkward. I'm sure you didn't swear accidentally and inappropriately, or laugh too loudly, or knock over anything important".

And you would be saying this, because you are a moron who has never read this blog before.

Oh, also, as soon as I walked in? The smoke detectors in the entire house went off. No joke. It was like cocktail hour during Pearl Harbor. LOUD, REPEATED HOWLING, with smoke everywhere and the windows open. Literally started the moment I walked in. I swear to God... This led to a number of conversations like this:

TK: SO, HOW DO YOU KNOW [redacted] AND [redacted]?
Other person: EXCUSE ME?
TK: WHAT?
OP: WHAT?
TK: GODDAMN, THAT FUCKER'S LOUD, HUH?
OP: WHAT?

Needless to say, it NOT was the quiet little family meal I had expected. It was bizarre... not just because it was cold and smoke-filled and deafeningly loud, but because any time you are the ONLY person who is not of the predominant religion, during a very religious meal, it's a little jarring. Not to mention... there wasn't a lot I had to offer in terms of conversation. No one seemed interested in sports. No one seemed interested in The Wire. No one seemed interested in hearing me blather about my dogs. No one seemed interested in hearing how I got so fucking high the night before. I don't think anyone wanted to talk about the new Jay-Z record, and I certainly wasn't going to tell anyone about how I'd splattered myself in dogshit the day before.

It was... unusual, to say the least. But I actually had an OK time, and more importantly, came home with a clean shirt.

I call that fucker a win, if you ask me.


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Listening to: The Grifters - Blood Thirsty Lovers

Thank you, faceless consumer horde... I mean, people.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Today is the 21st. Which means it's Burt Reynold's Mustache Day.

So click here and read more stupid nonsense from yours truly.

Happy T-Day, peeps.

Now I wonder what it is you're after, keeping company with this disaster

What, you may be asking, do these things have in common?

They are all things I have spilled on myself. Today. It's not even noon yet.


Word-for-word conversation that I had with my boss 20 minutes ago:

Boss: Oh, I think you-
TK: I know. It's coffee.
Boss: Oh. Sorry. Actually, I think you got some right-
TK: No, that's yogurt. And before you say anything else, this here is ink.
Boss:... oh.
TK: Can we talk about something else?


Sigh.


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Listening to: DJ Shadow - What Does Your Sould Look Like ( Part 4)

Midnight's comin' round, still mostly down around here...

Sometimes, the real world can be a real bitch.

And so, I have a tale to tell.

When I was a senior in high school, on the last day of school there was always a talent show. At least, I think it was a talent show. I don't really remember, because I was high a lot. But I'll never forget my last day of high school, and I'll never forget Nick (not his real name).

At a time when high school stereotypes are either changing or disintegrating altogether, Nick fit the stereotype of "outcast" to a T. He dressed in ill-fitting, awkward looking clothes. His hair was a wiry mess with absolutely no style. He wasn't very good at school. He talked so quietly you could barely hear him, because he was self-conscious of his incredibly nasally voice. He had incredibly bad acne. He had few friends, and the few he did have were similar social outcasts.

I do not tell you this because I am trying to put him down, nor do I tell you because I was oh-so-cool. Despite my super cool fashion sense, I was neither much of an outcast, nor much of a popular kid. I was simply there. I had good friends, many of which are still around me. My point is, I tell you this because it's the truth. If you picture the sad sack outcast stereotype, this kid was it.

Anyway. So, our stupid talent show starts, and a couple of friends and I head over there. We stumble around a little, trying to find seats, because we are high as a motherfucker. And the usual collection of stupid dance numbers and lip syncing takes place. And then, we hear the loudspeaker say,
"OK, guys, let's give it up for Nick [Name Redacted]!!"

And there is collective silence. Deafening silence. Not because no one knows who Nick is, but because we all know who he is. My school was pretty big, but for the most part, you knew the rest of the students by name. And we all knew who he was, and knowing what we (thought) we knew, it seemed either a joke or a lie or... who knows.

So. High school gymnasium. 500+ kids sitting there in stunned and confused silence. And then... roaring over the loudspeaker... we hear it:

"Love is like a bomb, baby, come on get it on..."

No. Fucking. Way.

And suddenly, this kid, this introverted, misfit, four-years-of-quietly-suffering kid, comes TEARING out from the back of the room, pumping his fists and jumping in the air, and NAILS IT. He lip syncs Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me", and he runs crazily around the room. He dances like his life depended on it. He's high fiving people as he runs through the stands. He whips his shirt off and throws it at a group of preppy girls. He's shaking his ass like he's got bees in his pants. I'm telling you, he fucking killed it.

It was one of the greatest things I've ever witnessed. It was way better than the Paradise City scene in Can't Hardly Wait, because it was real and it was him and it was just fucking perfect. I'm telling you, every single person in that gym was on their feet and cheering. Kids were running in from the hallway to see what the ruckus was about. And then, as the song came to a close, Nick, with a huge, sweet smile on his face, took a bow and ran out of the room.

It was the last time I saw him. But it wasn't the last time I thought of him, not by a long shot. How does one forget something like that? Something like that makes history. It becomes a story. People I run into that I went to high school with all still remember it fondly.

And while I didn't see Nick again, that was part of the poetry of it. In my mind, he ran out of that gym, shirtless, and jumped into his car and drove to California, getting into adventures and eventually meeting the girl of his dreams. Or he struck oil in Texas and became a tycoon. Or somehow ended up a secret agent, living off of fancy food and cocktails in Europe, in between dangerous missions into the middle east. I played through these scenarios in my head, periodically, and I always smiled. Nick had done something no one I knew had ever known had ever had the guts to do. To finally give the finger to an institution that shunned him, or worse, ignored him, while at the same time causing them to celebrate him.

In that small corner of the world, Nick became a legend.

I mean, 14 years later and I'm blogging about him, for God's sake. We didn't even have the damn internet back then.

And then, two months ago, I saw him...


Bagging groceries in a supermarket.

I saw him, and he had a brief moment of recognition with me. I gave a little half-smile, and he simply looked away. Ironically, I remembered his name, and yet I doubt he remembered mine.

But there was something incredibly sad about that moment. Something that tugged at me. In a weird way, it was like seeing a hero come down from the pedestal. I mean, the guy wasn't my hero, but... there was something about him that always made me smile, something that always made me think, "Not everyone plays by the damn rules. Sooner or later, people will crack and they will run from their mess of a life and become free. They will break the shackles of anonymity and become someone, and no force on this earth can stop it from happening!"

And I kind of enjoyed that, even if it was something I'd only think about once every couple of years.

Like I said... Sometimes, the real world? Can be a real bitch.


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Listening to: Uncle Tupelo - Life Worth Livin'

I would like to extend to you an invitation to the pants party.

OK, I swear this is the last Red Sox related post. But when one finds a picture of Manny Ramirez fist-bumping Steve Carell... I mean, that's like a perfect storm of things I love. I mean, I even once made the analogy that Manny is like the baseball version of Brick Tamland.



Beautiful.

As you were.

What kind of fuckery is this?

Bullshit. That's what this is. Nothing but straight-up bullshit. So go screw, Onthevirg and Country Roads. Fucking tagging is for dorks. Not to mention that there's very little you vultures don't know at this point because a) I'm not that interesting and b) I pretty much blurt out everything about myself on this damn site.

Anyway, the retard-o rules:

A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog...

B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...

C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...

D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

Here you go:

1. I'm terrified of fire. Specifically, of my house burning down. I can barely sleep if I go to bed after using the fireplace, lit candles worry me, that sort of thing. And don't get me started on space heaters.

2. When I was six years old I insisted that my clothes match completely. As in, blue shirt, blue pants, blue socks, blue shoes. I was compulsive about it. Now I'm lucky if I remember to wear pants in the first place.

3. I never learned how to drive a stick shift.

4. I can crack virtually every joint in my body, and do it frequently. Knuckles, wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees, back, neck, you name it. If it bends, I can make it pop. This disturbs some people.

5. Not counting English, I have studied four other languages. I cannot speak, read or write any of them even remotely competently.

6. When I was in high school, I shaved half of my head, dyed my hair purple, had my ears pierced, wore motorcycle jackets and combat boots and skull rings, because I wanted to be totally punk rock. Now I shop at Old Navy and complain when the kids on the street yell too much.

7. The first concert I ever went to was Kool and the Gang.

As for tagging other people - I'm too fucking lazy. So if you read this, I'm suggesting A Lover and a Fighter, New Texan, Girl With Curious Hair, Maxine Motherfucking Dangerous, Alex the Odd, and now I'm too tired to think of anyone else. So if you punks read this, write some shit down, OK?

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Listening to: Built To Spill - Conventional Wisdom