Down Periscope

Down Periscope

Kind of looks like another planet, doesn't it? Actually, it's a view of the inside of my trachea, taken during my tracheobronchoscopy today at the otolaryngologist, or ear nose and throat specialist (ENT). To do this, the doctor inserts a flexible laryngoscope through my trach (see picture below). It's thin, like a suction catheter, except that it has a tiny camera at the end.

The purpose is to check the bottom of the trachea for any abnormalities. By the way, the two holes that you see in the first picture are where the trachea attaches to my left and right lungs. It doesn't hurt, though it makes me cough a bit. It is a bit more irritating when the doctor slightly pulls out the trach to see that immediate area.

The doctor was pleased with what she saw, and complimented me on my healthy, pink airway. Always love receiving compliments on the look of the inside of my body! Well, at least the inside of that part of my body. After all, there's a reason this entry is titled "Down Periscope" instead of "Up Periscope!"

Hey God, If You Hate Me, The Feeling Is Mutual

Step right up folks. Apparently 2008 is the year I bend over and take it up the ass from everyone. Yes, I’m getting fucked left and right and not in a good way. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it always does. The old cliché "well at least tomorrow has to be better" is total bullshit! Each day only intensifies my hate for this world. I’ve become a bitter old man well before my time. I’m seriously wondering if God secretly hates me because I just don’t see how it’s possible for life to keep getting any crueler, but then it does.

What really has me puzzled is I ask myself..."What in the world did I do to deserve all of this?" I must have royally f-ed up somewhere to be punished, but where?

It’s not like I’m some rude, selfish person with a massive ego who only cares about himself and believes he’s better than everyone on the planet. I do volunteer work. I give to charities. I do good deeds nearly every day and never look at it like "ok, what’s in it for me." I never seek payback. I genuinely do kind things because...well I don’t know why. I would like to think it’s just because I’m a good person and that kindness and compassion comes naturally, but now I’m beginning to think I need to change what comes naturally and become a total and complete asshole.

If people want to constantly jerk me around, you better believe I’m going to do something about it. I’m not anyone’s doormat. I’ll stand up and fight and fight dirty if need be. I’m no longer bringing the polite boy behavior to the table. It will be more of a "go fuck yourself" attitude. I think I will find myself getting farther ahead in life. I mean I can’t possibly fall any farther behind. I no longer believe in good karma/bad karma. I’ve put the good karma out there all my life and it doesn’t come back around like the movies would have you believe.

Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom and things can’t go anywhere but up, I get shit on again. And again. And again. I was hoping by now that it would hit such an all-time low that I couldn’t do anything but laugh at it. Unfortunately, I don’t see the humor it in, or in anything for that matter. Constantly my head pounds with a painful massive headache because I’m beyond angry. I never get a break from it or any type of release. It just keeps building and holding me to this edge of explosion. I might have to take a metal baseball bat out to a tree and wack away or something.

Lent is coming up and if I were a good Catholic boy, I would be asked to give something up. I think I may give God up because he obviously gave up on me long ago. (Now if I get struck by lightning for saying that, it would probably be a blessing.) Hope is another good thing to give up. Oh...and fast food. Fast food is just disgusting.

12 Rounds

It’s just one of those days,
when you don't wanna wake up.
Everything is fucked.
Everybody sucks.
You don't really know why,
but you want justify rippin' someone's head off.
No human contact.
And if you interact, your life is on contract.
Your best bet is to stay away motherfucker.
It's just one of those days!

"Break Stuff" by Limp Bizkit

I knew it as soon as the alarm went off this morning. A complete 180 degree turn from last Friday morning. Today when the birds began to chirp, my immediate reaction..."shut the fuck up!" I think the anger built in me while I slept. I went to bed angry and woke up angrier. It seems like I’ve been angry a lot lately. Overwhelming stress and constant pressure has been mounting on me for some time now and the sheer weight of carrying it around in silence is really beginning to take its toll. It is showing. I’m snapping and becoming increasingly hostile. If I were 12 again and on a playground, I would be looking for a fight. Push come to shove and I would engage without hesitation. I’m dying for an ass to kick and a neck to break. I want to draw blood and have it drawn from me. To taste the copper metal drip from my lip. Only a boxer would understand how truly beautiful pain can be. Pain is the ultimate release. And if pain is weakness leaving the body, who wouldn’t want to experience that suffering if you knew later it would make you stronger?

Perhaps all this anger is really just weakness in disguise. I’m not sure I could build a strong case to debate that. Actually, there may be some truth there. Psychologists have long claimed that depression is anger turned inward. And sooner or later it will lead to self-hatred. Perhaps that too is true, or perhaps "it’s just one of those days."

It started at work with an insensitive, sexist, raciest redneck old man more than double my age. He’s lazier than a drunken NYC street bum and more worthless than a $2 hooker who doesn’t give head. He’s the ultimate grab bag of shit and if I told you just one tale, you would say that the portrait I just painted of him is rather kind. I won’t explain exactly what he did today, because my blood is already boiling enough. I’ll just say that with a single e-mail, he managed to insult and publicly humiliate nearly every female in the office. And for whatever reason, nearly every one of these women then come crying and complaining to me. Some days I feel like I’m running a preschool rather than a business. I have to listen to the drama all day, comfort the sobbing and assure them I will do all I can to ensure this will never happen again. The thing is, none of these people are even in my jurisdiction, but yet I have to deal with it. Tell me, how am I supposed to fire someone who doesn’t even technically work for me? All I can do is reprimand him, basically slap him on the wrist when really what I want to do is pick him up by the fucking throat and choke the shit out of him until he gags on his dentures and drops to his knees before me. I couldn’t wait to leave work and come home to relax. Finally some peace of mind, right? Wrong!

When I arrived home, I hear this strange noise that sounds sort of like falling rain, but it’s coming from inside the house. It’s more intense than rain though, more like a bathroom shower head. I pause a minute thinking what it could be. I am able to locate the noise. It’s coming from downstairs! I open up my basement door only to have water shoot up at me. The water tank in my basement, finished basement I might add, had burst and is spraying water in every possibly direction within a 20 foot radius. You think a horrent gets mad when it’s wet? You’ve never seen me get completely drenched in my lucky (now unlucky) three-pieace Armani suit as I’m blinded by a stream of water blasting me in the face as I fumble to reach shut off valves. I estimate the total damage to my basement is around $10,000...give or a take a few grand.

At this point, if I had a gun near me, I would have blew my brains out. No such luck, so instead I decided to take some built-up aggression out on my punching bag. Just one punch in and the bag splits right down the center, tearing open. Great. "It’s just one of those days."

So now I move to Plan C - get drunk.

Vodka don’t fail me now.

My Vacation

My Vacation

No, I'm not writing to you from a warm sunny beach. Actually, I haven't even left my house. But to quote after McCauley Culkin from his much cuter "Home Alone" days, I made my family disappear! And for me, this qualifies as a vacation.

I certainly love my parents, but I'm just about 30 years old and the thought of still living with them is, well, old. I have yet to abandon the thought of moving out, as difficult as it may be, but in the meantime, any opportunity to be independent for even a short period of time is a cause for celebration.

Sure, you may say that having to handle the day-to-day responsibilities of living alone (even though I am technically never alone because my nurses must still be around) can be a bit of a hassle at times, but I find it incredibly liberating. And in any case, who ever said that life was supposed to be easy? The point is that I should be entitled to the same life that everyone else has, both the good and bad.

Unfortunately, because insurance only covers 16 hours a day of nursing care, moving out presents a challenging proposition. The only reason I am able to have complete coverage while my parents are away is that my parents are able to pay out of pocket for the extra hours I require. It's as if they are paying for two vacations at the same time.

Then again, it really is two vacations -- theirs and mine. And let me tell you, I'm going to enjoy every last second of mine, even if the scenery outside isn't the least bit tropical like theirs!

Thanks for the Memories

Thanks for the Memories

It's awfully hard to believe that I graduated from Temple University nearly 8 years ago! But even though my undergraduate days have been over for so long, I remember them like they were just yesterday. I remember how hard I worked, how much fun I had, and how independent I was. It was, without a doubt, the greatest time in my life.

So it's always nice to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak. Today I attended an alumni brunch at Temple's School Communications and Theater, where I majored in journalism. It was an opportunity to catch up with a few familiar faces and meet some new ones, as well as to stuff my face with some good food. I did manage to stop eating long enough to pose for the camera with Hooter, the Temple Owls mascot.

As I write this entry, I'm chuckling at the memory of attending a basketball game in which Hooter was issued a technical foul for mistakenly entering the court because he/her/it thought that there was a timeout on the floor. Former head coach John Chaney was furious at the call and he ended up with a technical foul as well. Then the team lost the game, which made me livid!

While I can never re-create that time in my life, it sure does feel good to once again be a student at Temple, where I hope to complete my master's degree in urban studies by the end of the year, even though I don't physically spend much time on campus.

It's just too bad that the basketball team is not nearly as great as it once was. But maybe things will start to turn around because I'm back! GO OWLS!!!

In The Still Of The Night

It was one of those mornings where you are in the most comfortable position your body has ever experienced. It’s like every muscle in your body has died and gone to heaven. Every part of your being feels calm and peaceful, for the first time in a long time, a rarity for me. It was one of those mornings where you are the absolute perfect temperature of cozy. Downy soft sheets and pillowcases, still retaining that fresh inviting scent, have lured me in and kept me sleeping in. They are soft to the touch, but at the same time, crisp and untainted from a prior evening washing. Never underestimate the power clean bedding has on one’s unconscious state of rest and relaxation.

Sleep. It’s something I get very little of due to insomnia. I get 3-4 hours of semi-decent sleep...and that’s on a good night. I toss and turn. My mind races. I count the minutes and hours that tick by. The red illuminating numbers on my alarm clock have become Public Enemy #1. And each day when the alarm goes off just before 6AM, I feel like hurling it against a wall and watching it shatter into pieces. I’m not a morning person. In fact, I hate mornings and that’s probably because I get so little sleep during the night. Although on this night, my body finally gave in. Perhaps from sheer exhausting of having to battle insomnia that even the insomnia itself needed a break. It too needs rest. And so it rested, until...

"Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet."

I was groggy when it began to play. I wasn’t quite sure if I was dreaming or if I had somehow slept thru the final weeks of winter. Had the season ended and a new one begun? Was that the song of Spring I heard calling? I rolled over, pulled the covers up to mid-ear and clutched the pillow lying beside me tightly to my bare chest. It can’t be morning yet. The deafening silence was still very much present in my bedroom. That black noise you hear, but have trouble describing. It’s loud, but empty. It’s fuzzy, yet clears your mind. It’s in the still of the night. You can find it there and you can find it during and after a snowfall. It’s white noise. It’s black noise. It’s unclear and intangible. It sometimes makes me think I’m losing my mind, that I’m the only one who hears it, but I’m certain that it’s there. It’s surrounding me. Puzzling me. Then the deafening silence breaks once again and I hear...

"Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet."

The sun had not yet risen. The morning rush hour had not yet begun. The day was not ready to start, but yet they were there. Morning birds. Early risers. Too early for the day and much too early for Spring. They lined up on a snow covered branch just outside my window sill. I was being sung to. The song? I’m not quite sure, but perhaps the classic "In The Still Of The Night"? Perhaps they wanted to break the deafening silence? Or perhaps they sensed I needed a song? I don’t know why they chose me, but I didn’t mind the serenade all that much.

Exciting Times

Exciting Times

Some things are truly worth the wait. Today, the New York Times story about DMD research and treatment for which I was interviewed several weeks ago finally ran. The article and video can be found here. I thought it was a great piece that highlighted the fact that without a cure for Duchenne's, doctors are now focusing on managing the disease, "making better use of available therapies to eke out longer lives for their patients." There is no doubt that it is this philosophy that has been responsible for keeping me around.

Naturally, I was most impressed with the video segment that ran with the story because it featured me! Just like the print article about me that ran in the Philadelphia Inquirer on Monday, the story was not overly dramatic, but offered an honest account of my life. Not only did it address the medical issues that I face, but it also focused on some of what I've been able to accomplish in spite of my disease.

Still, I would be remiss if I did not raise an objection to the part of the article that described how one boy, whose ability to walk appeared gone forever, regained that ability. While this is a wonderful thing, I think that parents often get too carried away with the fact that their son is going to be a wheelchair. Obviously, no one wants to be in a wheelchair. But the fact of the matter is that you can accomplish much in the wheelchair and I think it's important that parents of children with DMD, one of the audiences targeted by this blog, understand.

Today's world is becoming more and more accessible. And let me tell you, when I started using my wheelchair, it was a tremendous relief. Sure, I was able to walk before that point, but it certainly wasn't easy. I was terribly unsteady on my feet, constantly afraid of falling.

My point here is that, yes, we need to cure all aspects of this disease. But let's not forget that being unable to walk will not kill you, but the pulmonary, cardiac, and nutritional aspects of the disease will.

Perhaps with stories like the one that appeared in the New York Times today, hopefully one day soon, we won't have to talk about any such aspects of DMD because there will be an effective treatment for the disease.

My BFF

Happy 1st birthday to my best friend, whom a year later, I still carry your snoring (now 45lb) wrinkle laden body upstairs to bed with me. You’re the best part of my every day. You’ve made my house a happier place to come home to. You are the purest form of unconditional love I have known. Now if you would only understand the concept of being my wingpup and stop stealing all the girls from me, our relationship would be flawless. I can’t fault you for being a pimp though. The ladies love you, this is true, but not as much as I love you. Just remember, it’s bros before hoes.

Now, a birthday poem to my little buddy. And yes, I know dogs can’t read. Just humor me people, ok?


A Boy and His Dog
by Edgar Guest

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair
No better friendship is found anywhere
For they talk and they walk and they run and they play
And they have their deep secrets for many a day
And that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels

He may go where he will and his dog will be there
May revel in mud and his dog will not care
Faithful he'll stay for the slightest command
And bark with delight at the touch of his hand
Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels

No other can lure him away from his side
He's proof against riches and station and pride
Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery's breath
Is lost on the dog, for he's faithful to death
He sees the great soul which the body conceals
Oh, it's great to be young with a dog at your heels!

Inquiring Minds

Inquiring Minds

When I responded to Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Daniel Rubin's request on his blog for comments from people with disabilities in the Philadelphia about accessibility, little did I know how that I would soon become the focus of one of Mr. Rubin's columns.

Last week, I received an e-mail from him expressing an interest interviewing me about my life and my soon-to-be released autobiography -- as soon as possible. The interview took place on Friday and today the story, fittingly titled "Aspirations Like Any Other" appeared in the paper.

Truth be told, I have always been an admirer of Mr. Rubin's work. His columns are always very thoughtful and heartfelt. His story about me did not disappoint. It was not one of those sappy, melodramatic, "Look at the poor boy in the wheelchair; he's going to die" pieces that, let's face it, we see all too often. No, this was anything but. It painted an accurate picture of my life, which has been challenging at times, but which has also been productive and enjoyable.

The story was poignant, making reference to my desire for independence and love, but humorous in detailing my recent cheesesteak expedition following my recent cardiology appointment.

Word has it that I will soon appear in another well-known newspaper. Seems I've become quite the media darling!

I’m An Angry Little Boy

I’m an angry little boy. I feel like spitting off a bridge, punching a pillow and kicking a puppy! Ok, kicking a puppy is going a little too far, especially considering my puppy is the best part of my every day. Although, I am angry. I literally stomped my foot, crossed my arms in defiance and began immediately pouting. I’ll admit it, sometimes I can be a bit of a child. I don’t like it when things break, especially when it’s not my fault. I did absolutely nothing to cause it to happen, but it happened. My barely 3 month old $500 PS3 system broke! Dead. Fried. Ca-put. (Is that even a word? I think my Mother made it up.)

To add further insult to injury and aggravate me even more, Sony's pissy attitude about the whole thing is simply unacceptable. This same thing has happened to literally thousands of other people and NOTHING has been done to prevent the problem, nor has ANY type of apology been given. As someone who runs his own company, this is just unbelievable to me. The #1 rule in any business is that you bend over backwards to please the customer. Obviously Sony doesn’t get that and is guilty of some very poor, poor business practices.

Seriously, I’m really fucking pissed off! Excuse my language. I’ve discovered even though I’ve lost my temper like a little boy, I have been cursing like a grown man. After buying several games, an extra wireless controller and most recently a bluetooth headset for online gaming...I now have over a grand of worthless PS3 crap sitting in my living room entertainment center collecting dust. If that’s not bad enough, in the last week or so I’ve become addicted, yes addicted, to Call Of Duty 4. If you don’t know what that is, then you simply won’t be able to understand how emotionally distraught I am at the moment. I must have my fix!

Really though, the worst part is that when the hard drive crashed in my PS3, it took ALL the data with it! All the hours I spent playing, correction, the hours of my life I wasted playing. All the stats, demos, downloads, career saves, all of it gone! Unrecoverable and lost forever! This is the point that I would begin crying if I was a girl, but I’m not. I’m an angry little boy so I will begin pouting like one instead.

To make a long and painful story short, Best Buy basically said F-U when I tried to return my PS3. They told me it was Sony’s problem and they would have to deal with it. So after 2 phone calls to Sony, where I sat on hold for a good 30 minutes each time, I’m informed that I will have to ship it back to them. Once they receive it, they won't even attempt to recover the data I lost. They just toss it in the trash with a "oh well, too bad, so sad" attitude. I felt like reaching thru the phone and beating the shit out of the tech support woman, beating her with my dead PS3.

Now granted, I am a tech savvy guy and I could go out and buy a new hard drive, open up the system and see if there is anything else that needs repaired, but why should I? I shouldn't have to put another dime out! This is Sony's fault so it should be their doing to correct the problem in a timely manner. They will send me out a new PS3 system, which is good, but it will take up to a month to receive it! A month? A month! I’m going to go clinically insane on every cold and rainy lazy Sunday afternoon. What is a boy to do? On second thought, I think I will turn into a girl, curl up in the fetal position and cry the hours away.

Someone please comfort me, because if these wireless controllers actually had cords, I would be forced to end my life with one right now.

Heartening News

Heartening News

I can't say I'm a big fan of the holiday, but it turned out to be a pretty sweet Valentine's Day after all. Today, I had my annual echocardiogram at the cardiologist, which I always dread because it looks at the functioning of my heart, typically an issue in guys with DMD. But the news was good, folks. There was noticeable change since last year!

Not only that, but the very lovely Michelle, who performed the test, was able to find a perfect view of my heart on the first try, so my chest wasn't even that sore afterward from being pushed on with the probe of the ultrasound machine. You might say she saw into my heart -- hey, it is Valentine's Day, right?

So after leaving the doctor's office, I did what every good cardiac patient does to celebrate news like this: I ate a greasy, artery-clogging, but delicious Philly cheesesteak sandwich! My doctor wasn't especially thrilled when I told him where I was headed after seeing him. But I was on a mission -- in four months, I will be hosting friends from England (you know who you are). I want to take them to the best cheesesteak establishment in the city, so I've begun an expedition to find that place. Today marked the first stop: Dalessandro's, in the city's Roxborough section. Let's just say their sandwich warmed my heart, which was fitting on this day!

A Valentine That Says It All

Sometimes a direct, brutally honest approach is the way to go when it comes to expressing one’s inner most feelings. There’s no sugar coating the facts. She wants to get in my pants and Hallmark couldn’t have said it better.

Yes, this was an actual Valentine that was sent to me. How can receiving something like that not make you laugh?

Coming Out Of The Closet

They call it "coming out of the closet", the phrase given to the process in which a person openly admits their homosexuality. I imagine it must be very difficult to do and I image that it’s nearly impossible to fight off the overwhelming fear of how your big news will be received by family and friends. I can understand why one would postpone “coming out” for as long as possible. Although on the other hand, I can’t even begin to understand how horrible it must feel hiding such a huge part of who you are. To carry on a charade day in and day out would simply be exhausting! I feel for people who are gay, I really do. I’ve never been homophobic and I don’t think people choose to be gay. I think you are born either straight or gay and that’s just the way it is. Just like you are born with either straight hair or curly hair.

Now sure you can change your straight hair to curly or your curly hair to straight, but you can’t change your sexual preference. And because you can’t change it, you are FORCED to accept it. And those around you are ASKED to accept it. Accept who you are, because unlike hair, this is just not something you can change in a day. Or in a month. Or in a year. Or even in your lifetime. Although many years ago people thought you could "cure" someone of being gay by giving them electric shock therapy. What’s even more shocking than that is how my entire family had no clue my cousin was gay, not even my Aunt and Uncle!

My Grandmother broke the news to me last week.

"Did you hear, **** finally told his Mother he’s gay?"
"No, but I figured he was."

That was my reply. I wasn’t shocked to hear my cousin is gay. Although I was shocked that everyone in my family was so clueless! How could I have been the only one to notice? Do I have a keener sense of gaydar than they do? I suppose they just didn’t notice the subtle signs like I did. Like when he came to visit us in the States, he always found more in common with my two older sisters than me. Even though I am closer to his age and we are both guys, we had little to talk about. The fact that he had no interest in sports wasn’t really a dead giveaway that he was gay, because a lot of straight guys don’t enjoy sports…I don’t know who those straight guys would be, but I hear there are some of you straight sport haters out there.

I suppose "boys night out" is what confirmed any question in my head as to whether or not my cousin was gay. Even though he was only 20 at the time, I was able to sneak him into a bar. I was hoping his strong accent wouldn’t draw attention and cause anyone to ask for his ID. Luckily that wasn’t a problem because he didn’t do much mingling. In fact, he really didn’t even look, let alone talk to any girls that night. I thought it was a little strange, but I figured he was just shy. Although when a girl with the body of a supermodel and face to match strolled by us, I thought for sure he would look! But no, not even glance. Not even a peak. Nothing! I couldn’t believe it. Not only did I check her out, but my neck suffered an injury far more severe than whiplash. I believe I did a double, triple take. My head actually performed a 360 degree spin as if I was the Exorcist about to spit pea soup at a priest. Yes, she was that hot. And my cousin, he didn’t even notice her.

Right then and there I knew the truth. My cousin is gay. The way I see it, he’s family and it makes no difference to me. I never told anyone what I discovered because I wasn't going to out him. Over 5 years passed before he came to terms with it. And 5 years passed with me knowing and keeping his deepest secret, unknown to him. I'm glad he's out in the open now. I feel happy for him to have freed himself from the charade he was leading. I hope my Aunt and Uncle will not look at him with shock and disgust, but with love and support. God knows the world can be cruel enough.

Battling One’s Inner Demons

"Something that you may not know is that I ask God every day to help you to feel happy. I may not know how bad it really is but I am aware how you suffer from depression. I hurt for you. It makes my heart ache to know you are so sad. And maybe your depression is what keeps you away from me but I can't suffer with you. It hurts too much. I do love you, David, and I always will. You have an incredibly beautiful soul. I feel like I have to battle the demons that torture your beautiful soul and I just can't fight them anymore. It exhausts me."

I spent the better half of the day reading that and re-reading it. Again. And again. And again. At this point, I can almost recite it by heart. It will be the last time I’ll ever hear from her so I suppose I should carry something from her with me, something in me. Those words are what will carry on within me.

It’s always been easier for me to be mad than sad. However, I just can’t be mad at her. I can’t hate her. In fact, I thank her. I thank her for loving me and I applaud her for being clear headed and strong enough to go elsewhere in her pursuit of happiness. I care enough to offer her that out. And she took it. Of course I did encourage it, despite the fact that it pained me greatly, but it was the right thing for me to do...or so I hope it was. (I did do the right thing, didn’t I?)

Part of me feels deserted, but another part of me knows I brought this upon myself. In a way, I deserve to feel alone. Although I also deserve to get better, if not for her anymore, at least for myself and for every person I ever find myself involved with in the present or in the future. I owe at least that. To her. To me. To them. They say you have to learn to love yourself before you can love someone else. I definitely don’t love myself right now and I feel almost guilty for anyone to love me. In my mind I can’t help but question why would they. I realize that is an extremely fucked up way of thinking.

So I’ve decided to make a promise that most likely will be left unheard.

I promise to get better. I promise to be better. I promise to be a better man. The man you somehow saw in me before the "demons" overshadowed my smile and left me in a dark place. That guy will return. New and improved. Positive and strong. I think he’s in there. No, I KNOW he’s in there. I’m going to find him and bring him to the surface once again.

The clown mask I wear every day is becoming harder and harder to pass off as genuine. So I need to take a different approach in life because if you think you’re exhausted, just imagine how I feel.

Related post of interest...

• 9/19/07 Creative People Are Tortured Souls?

The Clueless Never Score

A week earlier, I was invited to a friend’s Super Bowl party. The only problem was when they invited me, we were all completely shit-faced. So the next morning when I began sobering up, I hadn’t a clue whose party I agreed on attending. I just remembered them being adamant that I attend, that it would be awesome and that they loved me. What is it about alcohol that makes straight people of the same sex profess their undying love for one another? And why is it that alcohol only allows you to remember things like the number of drinks you had, the order in which you drank them and the exact percentage of alcohol a Booker’s shot contains? Yet alcohol conveniently lets you forget more important facts like the name of the girl whose phone number is now stuffed in your pocket. All you remember is that she was a good kisser and was into you enough to offer up her digits. However, that doesn’t help much unless you plan on calling and asking if "hey you" is there.

It took a good of couple days before I figured out a tactful way to unravel who was behind the mystery invite. Ok, who am I kidding? I didn’t do it tactful. It was more like a phone call to my buddy that consisted of..."Dude, whose house are we invited to for the Super Bowl? I can’t wait to see Tom Brady’s perfect season shoved up his ass."

Little did I know that upon arriving to the Super Bowl party that I would have a pair of humungous fake breasts attached to my elbow the entire night. Now I know what you are thinking, but no it actually wasn’t good. Well the breasts were 23 and very perky so that was good, but the problem with theses giant breasts were that they were attached to a mouth that just would not shut up. I mean NEVER shut up! I swear the girl didn’t even take a breath between sentences. It was like one pointless topic after another that she just went on and on and on about. I tried to drink myself to a happy place in my mind, but that failed. I looked at my nachos and cheese and considered slicing my wrists and throat with a broken nacho. Although I reconsidered when I became afraid that the last moments of my life would be lying there hearing her give me play-by-play details of her trip to Vegas where she stayed up for the last 48 hours, got lost on the strip, nearly missed her flight home and…blah, blah, blah.

Enough already! Stop talking! Stop talking because I’m not listening. In desperation, I even txted my friend sitting 10 feet away with the message "HELP ME!!!" My pleas for help go unanswered as they were all getting a good laugh out of my torturous situation. My friends are caring like that.

Let’s do the math. Guy + 60 inch HDTV + SuperBowl = hush. When I keep getting up when you are in mid-sentence, chances are I’m not interested in what you are saying. When I keep leaning forward and to the left to escape your jabbering in my right ear, chances are I’m trying to hear the game and not you. When I start grinding my teeth and the vein in my forehead begins to protrude because I’m feeling highly irritated after missing the first three quarters of the game, I want you to leave me alone. And finally when I purposely sit elsewhere in the living room where you couldn’t sit down beside me and continue talking, get a fucking clue!

When the game is over, she corners me again, this time asking if she can give me her number. I tell her I have a girlfriend (a lie) just because I can’t even begin to imagine what a date with her must be like. Just think, on a date she would have my full undivided attention and I can only assume that she would talk even more, if that is even possible. I just can’t have that nightmare take place so I used the "I have a girlfriend" line. It worked, barely.

Old People Suck

I once read that the NFL is targeted to men ages 21-35. So can anyone tell me why Tom Petty was the Super Bowl halftime show? The dude is like 60! When were his songs even popular? I’ll tell you when, when I was playing with Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars. It was like watching my Dad rock. I was almost hoping for Janet Jackson’s 40-year-old pierced tittie to pop out again. As horrifying as it was to watch some old boobie blast onto my TV screen, it still would have been more appealing than seeing "Free Falling" being performed.

I know, next year we can really dig up the dead! How about The Grateful Dead and that parrot fairy, Jimmy Buffet? That way all the senior citizens who don’t even watch the Super Bowl can do the jitterbug at halftime. And since we are catering the halftime show to people outside the NFL’s target market, why not gear all the advertising accordingly? They could have 30 second ads with a mother and daughter walking along the beach discussing that "not so fresh feeling" or some sorry bastard who relies on Viagra to get laid. Here are the facts - guys under the age of 35 don’t need douche and don’t have trouble getting it up.

They did a fine job with the commercials, keeping it to 3 of my favorite things – beer, sports cars and Victoria’s Secret. It targeted young bachelors perfectly. So I can’t fault them there, but when it came to the halftime show, they totally dropped the ball.

My point is this, if I were in charge of the Super Bowl, I would keep my target audience in mind and adjust the half time show accordingly. That means musical entertainment should be from the current decade, that’s 2000 - 2008 people. I suppose all is well that ends well and having the Giants win Super Bowl XLII was a good enough ending for me. Technically though, they should be called the New Jersey Giants because they don’t even play in New York.