The Grammy’s — The Gen X Perspective

I can’t help myself.  I’m watching the Grammy’s, and it is such a self-congratulatory clown fest, I gotta blog moment to moment:

8:00 p.m. EST — Undeniable proof that Lady Gaga is a drama club nerd who woke up 4 years ago and thought “I know what will make me famous . .. . I’ll wear a thong and 9″ inch heels and HUUUUGGGGGEEEE shoulder pads.”  Yep, we’re all impressed Lady.  Oh, by the way, I had to switch the channel when they threw Lady into a cauldron.  My daughter was still in the room.  When I flipped back, Gaga was doing a “return from the dead” duet with Sir Elton John.  They are both covered in soot and, apparently, back from the dead.  Elton John covered in soot? Hey, Elton:  You’re a Sir, dammit, don’t let some flash in the pan make you agree to any costume change that includes covering yourself in dirt.  Take it from Madonna: Dirty = okay.  Dirt = desperate.  Got it?

8:13 — Beyonce’s “All The Single Ladies” wins Song of the Year.  Appropriate coming from a woman dating the most Powerful Man in the Universe.  No, not Massachusetts Senator-elect and former centerfold Scott Brown.  I mean Jay-Z.  He’ll remain the most powerful man in the world until 50-Cent cashes in the rest of his Vitamin Water stock in 3 months.  Enjoy the time, Jay.  By the way, I love “Crazy in Love” by Jay-Z and Beyonce because they really ARE crazy in love.

8:15  Green Day performs with a broadway cast.  Who would have thought 3 chords would last them over 15 years?  Enjoy it, Billie Joe, Billie Bob and Billie Bill — there’s no way you’ll see the pearly gates of heaven.  You’ve obviously made a deal with the devil to gain any sort of popularity.  And, just to set things straight:  You’re not British, are you, Billie Joe?  You’re from, like, Charlotte, right?  Start singing like it.  It’s never too late to let that Southern accent shine.  Also, this is quite a bold move to perform with Broadway actors who have no money in the bank and 10 times m0re talent than you.  Bold move, to say the least. 

8:23  Commercial for CBS’s Monday night line-up.  Really?  35 year-old nerds and Charlie Sheen are actually funny?

8:25  Josh Duamel presenting.  Somebody tell Josh-y that his wife is in the building.  That should help him keep his hands to himself. 

8:26 Taylor Swift just won her first Grammy of the night.  Nice work, Kanye.  Before you stepped up to the plate she was only moderately successful.  Thanks to you, she is every girl’s hero now. Please, Taylor, please:  thank Kanye in your acceptance speech.  You owe him big time.

8:27 The Mentalist Simon Baker presenting.  Oooohhh — he wears funky glasses and her STILL looks handsome.  Shame on you, Austin Powers.

8:28 Beyonce performing.  Man, is it windy in there.  She’s decked out with the Bomb Squad from Public Enemy.  Did she get permission from Chuck D to skip their performance at Northern Lights to do the Grammy’s? 

8:30 Beyonce’s gone from screaming her own song to screaming “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morrissette.  Proving, once and for all, that Alanis’ music rules the world with an iron fist.  The only time I looked up from my computer was when she switched to “You Outghta Know”, and thought:  now THIS sounds good.  Alanis Morrissette:  enlightened, running the marathon, and writing music that kicks ass 15 years after release.  Nice.

8:34  They just promised that “Robert Downey, Jr. will be bringing out Jamie Fox, T-Pain and Slash . . .” otherwise known as ‘One Big Mess.'”  T-Pain.  T-Pain?  Come on.  You should only be allowed to call yourself that if your first album is entitled “Painful.”   I just checked Wikipedia.  His first album wasn’t entitled “Painful”, it was called “Rappa Ternt Sanga.”  That means “Rapper Turned Singer.”  It took me 5 minutes to figure out the translation.  So, in other words, not Painful, but definitely painful.

8:40  Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift and now Pink.  I’m sensing a pattern.  Yes, they’re all women.  But I’m looking slightly beyond the obvious.  Every song is this:  “I’m strong.  I’m confident.  I’m passionate about the fact that I can’t forgive you.  And I’m singing soulfully about it.  And even more soulfully about it.  Now I’m screaming.  Look at me!  Now I’m really screaming!!  [A guitar solo and some awkward high-heeled dancing]  I’m soulful.  The End.”

Wait — that’s  not Pink!  It’s the Virgin Mary in a long white robe and hood.  Wait again.  Plunging neckline.  That can’t be the Virgin Mary.  Maybe it’s Princess Lea.  But, Carrie Fisher can’t sing.  Wait — sher just de-robed.  Definitely NOT the Virgin Mary.  Looks like Pink with Blonde hair and the body of an East German swimmer.  Pink’s now she’s spinning in the air, basically naked.  Sopping wet.  With three naked gold people hanging over her.  Is this a song or a gold medal performance in trapeze?

8:46  Keith Urban presenting.  For the un-initiated:  Urban is Australian.  He’s an Australian Country Western singer. Read that again.  Confused yet?  Me too.

8:47  Best New Artist:  The Zach Brown Band.  Who?  Oh . . . . .  that guy. Zach, right?  I didn’t know the pudgy guy from The Hangover even had a band.  Good for him, because the “I’m disgusting and yet you gotta love me anyway” act was getting old.  Good for you, Zach — way to have a back-up plan.

8:54 AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW  YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!  The Black Eyed Peas are performing.  Or, as I call them, “”The Hooker, the B-Grade Wyclef Jean, the c-Grade Jermain Dupree and the Realllly Scary Guy With Long Straight Hair.”  This music is hilarious.  Every single BEP song sounds like it was written and recorded by two high school kids messing around on their Garage Band program on their Apple computer for 10 minutes.  The only difference is that, when the high school kids throw the crap away, the BEP’s send it to Sony Records.

The Black Eyed Peas.  Everyone treats them with such reverence, like they’re music royalty.  Listen up:  the Black Eyed Peas are the Village People of the 2k10. Everyone’s got that, right?  Guaranteed:  they’ll be the best punchline at every wedding starting in 2021.  You know how you danced your face off when YMCA came on at your buddy’s wedding in 2001?  That’s how the kids will react to the BEP’s in ten years.

9:07  Someone else is performing.  I honestly don’t know who it is.  I looked down, and I missed who these people are.  It looks like Lance Bass singing with one of the finalists from American Idol.  Sounds good.

9:09  Best Comedy Album category.  The one I’ve been waiting for.  Come on Punch In The Face.   Come on.  I can feel it.  This is my year.  My video has 139 hits on www.funnyordie.com/chriscurtin.  Surely that’s enough momentum to put me over the top.  And the winner is . . .  Stephen Colbert!!  Corporate America’s answer to the question “hey, do you have a sense of humor?”  Great. 

9:18 Record of the Year Category.  Note:  Ringo Starr looks fantastic.   The winner is:  The Kings of Leon.  Finally, some dudes on stage.  And the song is killer. 

9:20 Robert Downey, Jr is presenting.  How is this guy not dead or really, really old?  He looks great.  Hold on . . .  RD, Jr is making a theatrical funny.  He’s announcing an opera.  Oh wait — it’s funny-man turned waaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyy too serious actor Jamie Foxx.  He’s has dramatic Kanye-level voice effects on, and their’s only one problem with that:  Foxx can really sing.  The effects are supposed to be reserved for guys who can’t sing.  Wait another minute — now I know why he has the effects on the mic:  it’s because the lyrics are awful.  It’s just several 40 year-old men screaming “Blame it on the alcohol.”  Maybe the Black Eyed Peas should be more comfortable than I previously thought. 

9:26  Just a few minutes left to vote for the song Bon Jovi will play later in the show.  Can we all agree to have them play  “Cherry Pie”?  Oh wait — that was Warrant.  Actually, that’d be great.  Let’s all write in for “Cherry Pie.”

9:32  Best Rock Album.  Nominees include Dave Matthews.  He’s considered rock?  I thought he was folksy bluegrass.  And the winner is . . . Green Day.  They look very normal.  Too normal.  So normal that Billie Joe starts to panic at the end (“Oh no. Everyone’s gonna know I’m just a regular guy”), so he blurts out: “and I’m gonna go have shots with the Kings of Leon!!”  No you won’t.  You’ll be tucking your kids into bed while the Kings of Leon are doing . . . what really cool rock dudes do.  I have no idea what that would be.  But it will definitely be things that neither I nor Billie Joe can witness or relate to.

9:34  Zach from the Hangover is on stage singing America the Beautiful.  I didn’t know he wrote that.  Incredible.

9:35  Zach’s playing with Moses from the Bible!!!  Cool . . . but I always thought Moses was more of a jazz guy. 

9:36  Whoa!  Zach from the Hangover is really going at it on the Gui- tar to a stunned audience.  Hey, Zach, don’t feel bad if the audience isn’t feeling you.  This isn’t the Milwaukee Waterfront Festival.  It’s the Grammy’s. 

9:48  A washed-up Stevie Nicks sounding much better than Taylor Swift in another painful duet.  Taylor:  Text Kanye and have him jump on stage to stop this train wreck before it costs you another 3 Grammy’s tonight. 

9:52 Lionel Richie!!  He’s only won 4 Grammy’s?  That Cannot Be Right.  Lionel rules!  Plus, he officially looks younger and better than he ever did in the Dancing on the Ceiling years. 

9:53  Get your 3-D glasses out.  We’re gonna see Michael Jackson in 3-D!!  Here to sing an MJ tribute are . . . . A Whole Bunch of Random People!!  Where were we supposed to get the glasses?  The Optometrist’s office?  Our local 7-11?  I didn’t get the memo.  Why doesn’t anyone every tell me anything?  Did they come in a bottle of Pepsi? Dammit.  I’m never gonna enjoy this without my 3-D specs.  And who has 3-D specs just lying around?  Sure, Potsy and Ralph Malph, but that’s about it. 

 10:08  Sheryl Crow is on stage.  Eat your heart out, Lance Armstrong. 

10:09  Bon Jovi!!!  Forget Jon.  I see Tico.  Go Tico!  Drum your little heart out, Tico!  Go Tico Go!!

10:10  First time I laughed out loud tonight:  Just look at Sambora’s hair. No wonder it didn’t work out with Heather Locklear.  No self-respecting Pantene spokeswoman can hang with a dude with hair like that.  With the bangs, he looks like a date to the Junior Prom. 

10:13  Menage-a-mic!  Gretchen, Jon and Ritchie just shared the mic.  I thought only Springsteen, his new wife and the guy from the Soprano’s could pull the menage-a-mic!  But — No.

10:14  The fans want Bon Jovi to play Living on a Prayer!  Of course we do.  It’s called music.  We used to hear it all the time in the ’90’s. It was an incredible. 

10:16  Mos Def is the coolest man in the world.  Period.  I’m going out to buy the jacket and the tie to try to be more Mos-Def-ish.

10:17  Rap Collaboration category.  In other words the “Big Old Mess” category.  And the Winner is . . . Kanye West.  That was easy.  He performed in every song nominated, so it was kind of a lock. 

10:18  The show will continue . . . but I’m going to bed.  Tell me how the rest of it went tomorrow.

ITT Technical Institute — Punch In The Face

I had such great expectations for me.  I really did.  Me was a great guy. Full of spunk and verve, and a bod to match.  Maybe not so much the bod part . . . but you get the point.  But then I see those guys in the ITT Technical Institute commercials, and I realize that I’ve gone wrong somewhere.  These guys get a 9-month certificate in computer diagonostics, and they’re living the dream.  You’ve seen the commercials.  These guys are winning stuffed animals at carnivals. They’re riding 4-wheelers through the woods and flying remote controlled airplanes with their sons.  Most impressively, their wives make grand and sweeping statements about them that can’t possibly be true:

ITT TECH GRADUATE’S WIFE:  “After attending ITT Tech, Gerald has become the kindest, most compassionate and — at the same time — most driven and successful man that ever walked the planet.”

Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about the life oasis that is ITT Tech?  I’d love to win a prize at a carnival.  Dirt biking in the woods looks like a blast.  I could fly a remote airplane, I think . . .

Oh, what’s the point?  Why should I even dare to dream an impossible dream?  Some people got it, and some don’t.  I guess me . . . just . . . . don’t . . . got . . . it.  Wait a minute, I just connected my Wii to the television.  Maybe I do have the elusive “it” factor.  Somebody get me an ITT Tech application.  I’ll be living the dream in no time.

David Carradine’s Death — Punch In The Face

A few thoughts upon hearing about David Carradine’s death.  For the uninitiated, Carradine starred in the 70’s television series Kung Fu and more recently as “Bill” in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Billmovie series.  Carradine’s body was found hanging from the closet of a hotel room in a luxury hotel in Bangkok with a yellow rope tied around his neck and a black rope around his (ahem) genitals:

• Didn’t that already happen, like, 5 years ago? I could’ve sworn Carradine died from autoerotic asphyxiation in a hotel in Thailand in 2004. Are the news reports certain this just happened?  Is it possible the media is recycling the tragic deaths of low-profile actors?
• Even if his death did just happen this past week, everyone who heard the news had the same first reaction:  “The scary, creepy guy from Kung Fu was found dead by autoerotic asphyxiation in a Bangkok luxury hotel? [thoughtful pause]  That sounds about right.” 
• Everyone’s second reaction:  “So that’s why they call it Bangkok.” 
• Apparently, Carradine was 72 years old. 72?  That’s it?  He looked like he was 72 in ’72.  This guy always looked old enough to be Yoda’s uncle. 
• Finally, what is it about quality entertainers and autoerotic asphyxiation?  First, it was INXS’ Michael Hutchense.   Then, it was the guy who played Mikey from the Life Cereal commercials.  Now, its David Carradine.  (Okay, the kid from the Life Cereal commercial did not have an autoerotic asphyxiation issue.  But he was a quality entertainer, wasn’t he?)  What is the possible connection between Hutchense, an Australian heartthrob rock star, and Carradine, a reclusive sometimes Hollywood star of the martial arts genre?  Let’s see:  INXS’ most popular album was “Kick” and Carradine starred in movies that featured a lot of kicking . . .  Wait — I got the connection!  When they both tried getting their kicks, they ended up kicking the bucket. 

Men’s Health Magazine & Lance Armstrong — Punch In The Face

Got my Men’s Health Magazine in the mail the other day.  That’s right — I got a subscription.  I love Men’s Health because it has the same three articles every month:  “Belly Off in 19 Days!”; “How to Manage Your Boss”; and “What She Really Wants From You”.  “What She Really Wants . . .”  contains alleged “quotes” from the beautiful women of America:

“I love it when Derek and I watch football all day on Sunday — even the post-game interviews and the endless stream of highlight shows.  My favorite part of the day is when he ignores all of my questions and screams into his Bluetooth at his old college roommate/ bookie.”  — Sarah G., Seattle, WA

Sarah G. from Seattle.  I’m pretty sure “Sarah G. from Seattle, WA” is really “Richie V., Emmaus, PA” — this semester’s intern at Men’s Health.  At any rate, I like having several Men’s Health’s around the house in case — just in case — I ever get a life.  Then, that urban Style Guide and the article on how to win a bar fight will (finally) both come in handy. 

With all of the potential good Men’s Health can offer (if I ever get in a bar fight, I now know that I should try to turn away from the punch — thanks Men’s Health!), sometimes it can go a little far — and I think they just did.  The Men’s Health cover boy for last month is Lance Armstrong, and the heading states “Crush Stress and Strip Away Fat with Lance Armstrong’s Exclusive Success Formula.”  No offense to Men’s Health and Richie the Intern, but I don’t need to read about Lance’s Exclusive Success Formula for crushing stress — I think I got it down:

1)  Demonstrate a consistent pattern of abandoning all relationship-based responsibilities when things “just aren’t working out”; and

2)  Exercise 11 hours a day. 

Yup — that’s all you gotta do, fellas.  And believe me — following those 2 steps DOES “crush stress.”  I tried them both one Saturday when my wife took the kids to the in-laws.  Well . . . I didn’t really exercise for 11 hours that day, but I did run a mile on the treadmill in the basement in a 1-piece spandex suit, so I’m pretty sure I got a big enough flavor of good ole’ Lancie’s Exclusive Stress-Crush Formula.  And let me tell you . . . I crushed stress that day.  The problem is, it’s really hard to follow Lancie’s formula with — ya know — real responsibilities and — ya know — a job.  Maybe Men’s Health could write a stress-crushing formula for men with a — what’s that word?  Oh yes — a conscience.

Under Armour Gear — Punch In The Face

I’m trying to get back in shape.  I saw those adrenaline- pumping Under Amrour commercials and thought — yeah, that’s what I need.  Running through tires with a bunch of ‘Roid Rage Hulks and lifting cinder blocks like I’m Mahky Mahk in ’92:  WE MUST PROTECT THIS HOUUUUUSSSSSSSE.  So I went out and gots me an Under Armour shirt.  HeatGear.  Black.  Sounds cool — iscool.  Got home.  Put it on.  Well, “put it on” is a simplification — it was more like “paint it on.”  Getting this thing on IS the workout.  Once I fit this tighty over my shoulders, I had already fully exhausted my lats, pecs, bi’s, tri’s . . .  

I finally got the shirt on.  As I strode around the house, I could feel the benefit of this incredible gear.  I felt huge.  Bulging, really.   For a moment, I felt like Ray Lewis doing push-ups in prison.  Like Terrell Owens doing sit-ups in his driveway.  Like Jose Canseco swinging a baseball bat in 1989.  Like . . . well, I guess I’ve made my point.  Then, I got a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.  I stopped and turned to get a full view of me in all my hugeness . . . and . . . I looked like Kermit the Frog dressed as a turtle-necked poet.  No . . . that’s too kind.  I can’t dis my frog Kermie like that.  To be more accurate, I looked a balding, pregnant 14-year old boy.  Like Sinead O’Connor’s portly little brother.  An absolute freak of nature.  All I could think was:  I can’t believe they forgot to sell me the optional 6-pack ab inserts.  I knew I forgot to buy something at the store.

The “Soul Punch” — Punch In the Face

I’ve had it.  No more soul punches.  I’m marking this day down.  I’ve given the last fist pound of my life.   For the (fortunate yet) uninitiated, the “soul punch” or the “fist pound” is the latest hand-to-hand colloquial greeting people (friends?) give to each other when saying hello, goodbye, or whenever there is an awkward pause during a discussion between two adult males.  Speaking of discussions between two adult males, when did we men lose the ability to talk to each other without awkward pauses and barbaric gestures (read:  soul punches) filling the time?  Think about it fellas.  When was the last time you were this uncomfortable talking to another person?  You remember.  You were 16, and you had to get it together to convince someone to go to the Junior Prom with you.  Your heart was beating out of your chest as you asked her to go out on your first date to the Ponderosa Steakhouse.  That’s right.  Because nothing says classy like an all-you-can-eat buffet where kids under 12 eat free.  That  was uncomfortable.  But this is worse, because — now — its a different kind of discomfort.  Back then, you didn’t know what to say to your prospective date.  Now, I know everything I want to say to the other guy, but I don’t want to scare him off.  I want to ask him the same thing Kramer asked George before the K-man headed off to California to shop his treatment for The Keys:  Do you yearn?  I also want to ask the other guy random thoughts from adulthood, like:  Do you recognize the guy in the mirror?  And Do you also think that if — if — you just had the right directioning as a kid, you’d be a professional athlete right now?  Instead, worn down by the weight of adulthood and domesticity, we just sit there staring at each other . . . and, eventually, one of us reaches out to give the other a soul punch/ fist pound to mark the end of our uncomfortable encounter.  

What’s so bad about the soul punch/ fist pound?  First, I’m pretty sure it was invented by a germ-a-phobe (or a small group of germ-a-phobes) in Southern California (read:  Howie Mandell) who started using the soul punch as a relatively germ-free alternative to the handshake.  Also, a hairy knuckle to hairy knuckle connection is — let’s face it — a little creepy and not very satisfying.  But there is an even greater reason to join me in boycotting the soul punch.  Because — even if it was originally intended to replace the handshake, it has devolved into a repalcement for the more elegant and more comical high-five.   And that’s where the soul punch went wrong.  You can’t replace an icon.  The high-five is the perfect hand-to-hand connection between mammals on all levels.  Don’t believe me?  Try a little experiment on your own.  When something goes well tomorrow, you’ll have two choices:  the soul punch or the high-five.  Take turns trying one or the other.  I guarantee the high-five is more fulfilling, more gratifying, and more of a true “Yes!!!” feeling than the soul punch.  See, to perform the soul punch properly it has to be very slow and deliberate with both participants slo-mo’ing the entire thing as if, once their hands connect, they’ll become charter members of the SuperFriends and will — at that moment — acquire the ability to turn into useful crime-stopping animals (my apologies for the obscure SuperFriends reference).  The high-five, on the other hand, is all spontaneity, sass, verve and . . . life.  When a high five is right, it is right.  Think about the best high five you’ve ever connected on.  You remember:  it felt like lightning bolts were jumping off your connected fingertips toward Heaven . . . and when those lighting bolts reached Heaven . . . the clouds parted . . . and Jesus himself appered in the form of Queen’s Freddie Mercury . . . singing “We Are The Champions.”  THAT’S what a great high-five feels like.  Plus, the high-five has so permeated the very fabric of our culture that we get to witness great high-five flubs every day: on the Price Is Right, at the local Arena Football Game, and during heated political campaigns.  That’s right:  all across America people are wiffing on their high-fives, creating hybrid two-hand to one-hand connections, and falsely interpreting a high-five offer as a one-handed hug.  And that’s what makes the high-five great.  Because it consistently proves that spontaneous human interaction is both compelling and hilarious.  So — come on, boycott the soul punch and keep it real with the high five.  And to ensure you give the high five its proper due, make it a “two-handed to two-handed” high-five with your high-five buddy.  That’s what we call a “double-double” . . . and it makes the Howie Mandell soul punch look like a cabbage patch doll picnic.

Running a 5K Road Race — Punch In the Face

I’m trying to get back to my fighting weight.  Problem is, I haven’t been in a fight since before the Roller Skating Party in the Fifth Grade.  So now I have to lose 150 pounds in time for beach season.  It’s gonna be rough. 

 

So I’ve started running.  I have one goal when I’m running and only one goal:  to stop.  That way, when I go for a run, I run as fast as I can for as long as I can, so I can get back to sitting around the house doing nothing. 

 

In a rush of testosterone and physical optimism, I decided to run a 5K road race.  Nothing like an incredibly barbaric activity to shock my body (back) into shape.  Plus I don’t mean to brag, but I ran a little in high school . . . Freshman Cross Country Champ.  Bishop Gibbons High School.  Big Ten Conference.  That’s right — I know what I’m doing.  I also had a secret weapon:  at the end of the race, I’d start to yell “AISH!” with each breath.  I’d really AISH it out.  It was my Call of the Wild that would intimidate the competition and propel me to victory.  

 

I showed up at the 5K road race ready to race.  Just one problem:  I’m not Cross Country Champ.  I haven’t seen him for a long, long time.  As I walked up to the starting line, the darnedest thing happened:  Cross Country Champ appeared out of nowhere and started walking next to me.  Before I know it, we’re in step with each other — and he got right into my head:

 

Cross Country Champ [looking around at the Competition]:  What a joke.  I’m gonna kick some A-$-$ (aka A-double dollar signs) today.

 

Me:  Listen, kid.  You haven’t been around for a while — more than 20 years.  I know you were great – you were the best. But that was a long time ago.  Let me handle this for now – we’re just gonna take it nice and easy.

 

Cross Country Champ:  [Ignoring Me] Huh?  [bouncing up and down like a caged animal] I don’t like that guy over there. Who does he think he is?  We’re taking him down.  [shouting] Hey – You.  Yeah you.  Gibbons is in the House!  You hear that? [cheering] G-I-B-B-O-N-S that’s the way we spell success. Go Gibbons.  Go! Go! Go Gibbons! 

 

Me: [shaking my head and trying to lead the Cross Country Champ away from a sure physical confrontation]

 

Freshman Cross Country Champ:  And who’s this guy over here?  I think he’s giving me the eye . . . [to another runner]  We’ll settle this on the course!  If you can keep up . . . [back to Me]  I’m sorry.  Were you saying something?

 

Me:  Forget it.  Let’s just not die.

 

Freshman Cross Country Champ Guy leads me up to the front of the starting line and . . .

 

BANG!  We’re off. 

 

Cross Country Champ takes us out of the shoot like Tom Cruise running through the airport in . . . every one of his movies.  We’re 30 steps into the race, and I’m already spent.  In full-out panic mode, I start to “AISH” it out.  It appears to have little impact on my present competition.  After that, I pretty much blacked out.  I vaguely remember telling some guy who passed me to “go get ‘em  . . . for all of us” but, even now, I don’t know what that means.  Or what it could mean . . .  

 

After the race, having regained consciousness, I was leaning over a post-race table of snacks — bananas, muffins and PowerBars — and I had one final thought before being re-checked by the EMT’s:  if I’m too weak to unwrap the PowerBar package, how am I ever going to get the power inside me?

Friendless and 35 — Punch In The Face

I just got tickets to the big game.  You know — the game where everyone who’s anyone will be this weekend.  It’s gonna be huge, and I’ll be right in the mix.  And I don’t just have one ticket.  Me gots four of ’em.   That’s right.  Let the positioning begin, fellas.  Will it be my pals from my Thursday poker night?  Or maybe the guys from the Monday night flag football league.  I can’t forget my Saturday morning running club buddies — they love going to the big game.  There’s only a few problems:  I can’t play cards (can’t even shuffle cards), I’m pretty sure a flag football league would be the 7th layer of H-E-double hockey sticks for me, and the running club doesn’t exist.  Check that — the running club exists, and I always picture myself jet-setting around the country with a bunch of others runners kicking A-double $ in Masters’ competitions, but my bed’s too cozy to get out of bed to join them.  So what I’m saying is . . .

I’m friendless. 

It’s a fact, and I say it without any self-pity.  Okay, maybe an ounce of self-pity.  But I honestly don’t take my friendless-ness personally.  Maybe I should take it personally, but I’m convinced that whether or not a Gen-X’er has friends comes down to a 4-factor test based on the following:  1) age; 2) marital status; 3) familial status; and 4) employment status.  Let me walk you through these factors to illustrate my point.        

Age

If you’re 35, you’re certainly not too old to meet new friends.  But definitely in a “friend valley” age-wise.  I’ve got none of the friends I had at 25 (okay — 2, but we’ll keep it at “none” for dramatic effect) and I won’t have my 50 year-old friends for several years.  I wish I could say the loss of my friends from 10 years ago was due to dramatic circumstances that ended in knock out, drag out arguments in the middle of a barren city street at 3:00 a.m.  But I can’t.  I pretty much lost all of my old friends because I don’t go to Dave Matthews Band concerts and I don’t know what a Fantasy Football League is or how it works.  Actually, I know what Fantasy Football is, and I play it all the time in my mind:  I imagine I’m running punts back against a defense of swimsuit models who are trying to tackle me with big pillows.  So, there you go — Fantasy Football.  What I don’t understand is:  how do they form leagues around these football fantasies?  Would I have to join a “team” of weirdo’s who share the same football fantasy as me?  Maybe this is why I don’t have any friends . . .   As for my 50 year-old friends, I just haven’t met them yet.  I’m looking forward to it, but I got about 10 years before I lower my friend standard to the point where I’ll call someone my friend because we meet for a round of golf every Saturday.

 Marital Status

Fellas, I’ll make this one short and sweet:  if you’re married, you may have a couple of “married friends”, but no real friends to speak of.  All you have is your wife’s friends.  And their husbands.  That’s it.  

Familial Status

This’ll be even shorter.  If you have kids, you don’t have friends — you just have other tired parents at 3 year-old birthday parties at the petting zoo.  That is if — if — you even have enough energy to nod at these other people while your feeding apples to the llamas.

Employment Status

Got a job?  You don’t have friends.  You have the “Krazy Krew” from work that teases you about the fact that you like to order the same thing from the Chinese take-out place each week.  And they try to convince you to call the local morning show to request some Bon Jovi each Friday — a lil’ Bad Medicine before the weekend. 

So, there you have it.  A simple equation: 35 +  Married + Kids +  a job = me and three empty seats at this weekend’s game.  If you see me at the big game, feel free to mock me.  Heck, beat me up in the parking lot.  There’s nothing I can do about it.  My posse of friends left 10 years ago.  I don’t really know my wife’s friend’s husbands.  The petting zoo parents are napping. And the Krazy Krew at work doesn’t really exist — I work at home, and the Krazy Krew is entirely comprised of the cat.  And my Curious George doll.  Now that I think about it . . .  I’ll get ready for the beating now.   Feel free to Punch Me In the Face.  It’ll be poetic justice.

Vacation — Punch In The Face

Two types of vacation:  the  “Go Somewhere” vacation and the “Do Nothing, Go Nowhere” vacation.  I’m not down with either type. That’s right, Sports Fans:  Vacation, A Punch In The Face.

First, the Go Somewhere vacation.  Being from the Northeast, that typically means going somewhere in the Caribbean.  Ah, the Caribbean.  Nothing like the natural tension between  an essential tourism industry and intense poverty.  I can hear you now:  But C-ROC, the people in the Caribbean are so nice.  I’m sure that’s partially true, but let’s not confuse smiling with being nice.  I’d grit my face and smile too if making my living depended entirely on whether or not a couple of drunk co-ed’s from Kutztown State decide to have their hair braided.  But C-ROC, the weather and the beaches are so beautiful.  Yeah, I get it.  But every time I’m on a vacation in a tropical setting, I keep thinking:  What am I doing here?  I feel like there are only three types of people who really deserve a tropical vacation:  1)  soldiers just back from the war; 2) celebrities (hey, what else are they going to do other than pose for paparazzi photos while they frolic in the water?); and 3) migrant workers.  If you pick lettuce 15 hours a day, you need a week in an ocean view cabana.  Me?  I’m hunched over a computer in a temperature-controlled office three steps away from a Keurig coffee maker and a drawer full of Power Bars. That’s right K-cups and Triple Threat Bars — a vacation in my mind with each sip and bite.  Plus, I like being home — that’s why I live here.  I like Chili’s for Dinner, Dunkin’ Donuts for dessert, and Target for after-dinner entertainment — don’t knock shopping for black athletic socks until you tried it.  The Go Somewhere vacation isn’t for me.

That leaves me with the Go Nowhere, Do Nothing vacation.  I’d get to stay home.  It really doesn’t sound that bad — I can already taste the Chili’s Chicken Tenders and feel those thick black athletic socks snug around my calves.   But I’ve tried that, and even though it’s okay for a day, I just can’t take it.  Having time to actually do the things I enjoy reminds me of how much of my actual life I miss out on every day.  I don’t want to have those thoughts — thoughts of being able to spend more time with my family and friends, and exercising without guilt or panic.  In fact, these very thoughts are exactly the reason why I keep my nose to the grindstone.  As an old cowboy once told me, “No need to be ponderin’ the meanin’ o’ life . . . you’re here now, and, God willin’ you’ll be here tomorrow.  Now get back to the herd.”  (Okay, an old cowboy never really told me that . . . but I can imagine a Jack Palance-type guy with an Irish brogue telling me that and it’d really make an impression on me and my outlook on life.  After all, Palance could do one-arm push-up’s at the age of 87.  I could never ignore such a combination of wisdom and brute strength.)  So, following that fake advice, I’ll just keep my head down.  Buried in the sand.  Like an ostrich.  Hey, it’s cool and dark down here.  Not too shabby.

Finding Out Someone Else Has A Punch In The Face-Themed Blog — Punch In the Face

Well, this lasted long.  5 days, 2 posts and 1 killer old school rap  01-punch-in-the-face3, and I get a stark Punch In the Face:  Apparently, someone else already has a Punch In the Face-themed blog (on another blog site).  Look, I get it.  It’s the Internet and no idea is completely original.  And no, the themes aren’t exactly the same — my life is a Punch In The Face, and this blogger’s listing people she wants to punch in the face.  You see?  Clearly the two blogs theme-atically distinct.  But still, I kept holding out hope that my Mommy was telling me the truth:  that I really am special.  This latest revelation is evidence that, so far, no dice on the “special me” front. 

So, where do I go from here?  Do I just fold down my laptop and limp off the blog battleground with my head down?   You wish.  You wish I’d leave my legions of fans:  the fourth graders bumping the Punch In the Face mp3 on their iPod’s as they prepare for a grueling day of pop quizes and frustratingly small juice boxes; the salesman ordering a white-on-black Punch In The Face t-shirt from my members-only fan site; and the 5th-year lawyer at the white-shoe law firm whose only respite from the endless stream of billing his time in 6-minute increments is when he stuffs a print out of today’s PITF blog in his $200 trousers and sprints off to the bathroom for a daily dose of the Gospel According to C-ROC . . . 

That’s it.  I can’t just leave my millions of dedicated disciples.  I can’t leave you to fend for yourselves in this cruel, cruel world.  You’re very fragile.  You’re barely hanging on to the pathetic existence that you refer to as a “life.”  Need proof?  You’re reading this.  Wait . . . come back, I was kidding. 

As I thought long and hard about whether I should just throw in the blog towel today, I took an item out of my fan mail.  It was a letter — brown and tattered, and it had been folded over eight times.  I carefully unfolded the letter like an ancient treasure map.  Even though I’ve read this note before dozens of times — hundreds of times maybe — I have to see it, feel it, on days like this where my personal foundation has been shaken to the core.  The letter is from Alejandro, a 9 year-old boy from Acapulco (“Alejandro from Acapuloc”, isn’t that adorable?) , a place I haven’t been in about a decade.  The note — written in such simplistic Spanish it makes me blush — has only 4 precious words: “Tu Eres Mi Papi.”  Powerful.  Even as I type this, a tear is gently rolling down my cheek.   Wait.  You don’t get it?  How can you not get it?  Don’t you see? I’m this kid’s hero — I’m Alejandro’s personal David Ortiz. 

Well, Tu Eres Mi David Oritz, Alejandro.  Tu Eres Mi David Ortiz.

I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.