You Could Be Outside Instead

The Blueberry Pig Meal

2012-03-06T21:34:00.001-05:00

My wife is a good cook. She won't admit it, in fact, she'll down right deny it. I try to convince her, but no matter what I say, she still doesn't think she is a good cook.

This hot dame is not Shannon.

I am a simple man, not like Forrest Gump (I would never again dare to slander such a holy figure as Saint Gump. I have learned my lesson Gump-lovers.) By simple I mean, I am just a meat and potatoes kinda guy. You don't need to use rare herbs to get me to like a dish. I can enjoy the exotic dishes, but given the choice between a Fleming's steak or a Casu Marzu with Kopi Luwak coffee, I will take the steak any day.

Now, Shannon doesn't try to fancy our meals up too much. For one, she simply doesn't have the time. Plus, in our family if she dresses it up too nice - we won't appreciate it. My son and I attack the food, like it is trying to get away. I swear, that sometimes, he literally wrestles the food. She also has many hurdles to overcome, as well. Our daughter, who just turned five, is a strict vegetarian. Our son, doesn't like anything, until he tries it. Me, I'll try some foreign exchange meal - but I would usually just prefer gnawing on some pizza.

Now, giving my wife more props, she is also trying to keep us healthy. I approve, however, the word on the street is that pizza isn't a "healthy" food. Sure, she has found that happy medium. Pizza once in awhile, but most of the time she cooks.

Now, my wife grew up without a mother. She was raised by her father and I must say, he did a pretty darn good job too. We don't see eye to eye on a lot of issues, but when it comes to Shannon, we both think she is pretty neat. He worked a lot of hours and he was no gourmet chef in the kitchen. So, when she got older she had to teach herself how to cook. So, while she was learning to cook - her father and I became sort of her guinea pigs.

She found a recipe for pork chops. She knew that I have an affection for blueberries and found a recipe that combined the pork chop with the blueberry. Now, I am not a big pork chop eater. In fact, the last time that I can remember having a pork chop, I was dating her. (I have been married for over 12 years now.) So, pork chops and me - we ain't tight. I love other pig products. (Sorry my veggie friends.)
I love bacon.
I love ham.
I love bacon, again.

But, she made a dish that was out of this world. Not good, out of this world. More like, trippy...

Her father and I sat and waited for the meal; hungry. Because that is another thing we have always had in common - food. Shannon's shy little voice came from her kitchen. "Um, maybe we should just order out," she said.
"Nonsense," her father and I responded. "Bring us our meals."
I don't think this is exactly how the story went...it was a long time ago, and I tend to over exaggerate.
"I don't think you'll want to eat it."
"We'll eat anything," we bragged.
"But..."
"Dagnabbit, woman. We IS hungry!"

These sexy beasts are not Shannon's dad and me.

That is when we saw them. The pork chops still sitting in their dish. They were purple, just like pork chops are suppose to be. Purple? Purple Pork Chops. The blueberries had turned the pork chops the shade of the Joker's coat. (His coat was purple...in case, you didn't pick up on that.)
And I am not positive, but I think she was serving us Barney.

He did go missing sometime around then.

Well, needless to say, we tried those purple pork chops. They were also a little rubbery too. It kinda felt like chewing on a dog's toy. They were awful. Just down right horrible. But, we always laugh about her purple pork chops.

Pretty positive that Shannon put these in there.

Now, when she cooks, 98% of the time it is awesome. She does a killer job, and I love having a wife that cooks. It is rare thing nowadays. So, I am thankful and blessed. However, there still are those 2% where I have to go to Philly's Phatties and get a cheesesteak.

Eater of the Purple Pork Chop,

BILL

Bad Job Academy

2012-02-27T21:38:00.002-05:00

I am a big fan of movies. I love a great film. I am also one of those wanna-be critic chuckleheads. I can't just sit there and enjoy the movie for entertainment. I dissect it like a high school science class.
I love art direction, camera angles, lighting, and all that boring stuff.
Yeah, I probably follow the directors more than the movies themselves.
Who wrote the movie? Well, seriously I'm asking.
How much CGI did they use? I don't care.
What's the dialogue?
I'll admit I'm a nerd, not like Potsie Weber, no more like Roger Ebert, but without the money, fame and speech impediment.

It's Oscar time...
and every year the Academy Awards usually get it wrong. Every year they make more bad choices than Eddie Murphy...Sure, they get one right once in awhile, but Murphy picked Shrek too.

Let's look at some of our past Oscar winners for Best Picture:

Dances with Wolves

This would make a much better movie.

Wow! That movie was long...I fell asleep just thinking about it. That movie was so long that I stumbled out of the theater like Rip Van Winkle, disoriented...
"What year is it?"
"Where is my family?"
"The best actor in that was the 13th Buffalo."
If he had actually danced with wolves, maybe I would agree that it should have won. Now, of course no other movies in 1990 were worth the Oscar over that Kevin Costner wolf dancing film.

Oh yeah, Goodfellas. What is wrong with the Academy? Did they not see both movies? Henry Hill should have put Costner in a trunk. And how did Marty Scorsese not win the best director? Scorsese should have put Costner in a trunk. (I know the joke didn't work the first time either.)
Bad job Academy.

How Green Was My Valley

I guessing the third one to the left.

I've never seen it, but I have seen the Maltese Falcon...and movies don't get any better than that...oh wait, what? Citizen Kane was in the same year? Newspaper mogul, who the film is based on, William Randolph Hearst made sure that Kane didn't win, so are you telling me some shady business was going on behind the scenes at the Academy? What is going on?
Bad job Academy.

I'll just pick one more.

Forrest Gump

Mama said, "life is like an overrated movie."

But, wait this a movie everyone loves. It has to be the #1 most overrated movie ever! Okay, I forgot Scarface...my bad. So, did I like Forrest Gump? I didn't, but in case you forgot...I'm not normal. I'm not like that town in Illinois. (Hopefully, you get that joke. It is weak, but you should expect nothing less.) It's like this joke:

Why was six afraid of seven?

It wasn't. Numbers are not sentient and thus incapable of feeling fear.

Another weak joke. I am in one of those moods.

How did Forrest Gump beat both Pulp Fiction and Shawshank Redemption. Forrest Gump took out two of my top twenty movies of all time and it doesn't even make my top 250. It had a couple of good catch phrases and I do love shrimp, but seriously? That is a terrible job Academy.

Sorry this isn't one of my funnier posts, but it's better than reading other blogs, unless they are really good blogs...than you should read them. I wish I had more jokes for you, but how about next time? Is that okay? Thanks for understanding...just being critical.

All that to say some of my favorite movies aren't the greatest movies. Yes, I love some of the critical acclaimed Godfather movies, Citizen Kane, Wizard of Oz, but there are others that I am not fond of at all...On the Waterfront or Singin' In the Rain. And I have favorites that like Dirty Work, Batman, Zombieland, and The Royal Tenebaums.
So after reading all this, just ignore it and go out and enjoy whatever movie you like. I hear White Chicks is on cable.

I give this post two thumbs down.
- Critic Bill

Wife Minus Kids

2012-02-20T21:39:00.001-05:00

I received quite a bit of good feedback for the romantic post (In the Mood). Thank you. So, here is a quick story of Shannon and I sans kids.

We were looking fine. We had just attended a marriage counseling course down in Rome, Georgia, called Winshape. No matter what your relationship is with your spouse, I highly recommend. It is well worth the trip. You will gain so much and become a closer, tighter unit.

We now had one more night in Georgia, and we decided to dress up and go out on the town in Atlanta. I was looking handsome in something handsome (that's not really important). Shannon was decked out to the nines. (I don't know what that means, but it sounds classy.) And she was classy. Make-up done perfectly. Hair, the way she likes it, because when you have kids a mother has very little time for herself. Kids try to make every parent look like a homeless person.

Must go bald!

Shannon was wearing a beautiful outfit with high heels. Remember that. She was also carrying a small purse. Small is the key word in the last sentence, again, when you are a mother of little children, small purses become obsolete. She was free of the kids and in no way needed to carry around our lives on her shoulder. How are you going to carry tissues, ear muffs, crayons, flare guns, socks, make-up, combs, brushes, hair clips, and more with a small purse? You can't.

Things for a trip to the park.

But that night, the purse contained just the essentials, just keys, make-up, brush, lipsticks, and some money.

Trying to be a sexy mom is tough...you have no time for yourself and you become a slave to the needs of those little vultures. I love our kids. Shannon loves our kids. But, sometimes parents need a time-out...and that brings us back to this short story, which is getting longer by the second.

We picked the Hard Rock Cafe, because that is totally my style.

There was a small wait in the foyer, but while we waited there were huge pictures of Hendrix and Lennon, along with their guitars. The music was rocking and the floors were wooden. Wooden floors, another important key. Those floors looked newly waxed.

This is a picture of high heels on wood.

Did you see where this is going, Stevie Wonder?

I was looking up at some rock and roll artifact, when I heard the thud of a body hitting the floor and having to duck from being struck from the small purse flying over my head. A loud gasp echoed through the Hard Rock. There the purse was in front of me...Shannon's. So, now I knew who the thud belonged too.

I peered out of the side of my eye and there was my beauty, laying face first on the floor of the Hard Rock. She had attempted to slide, like Pete Rose, for some reason. She was "safe!"

Actual picture of Shannon.

I did what any loving husband would do...I thought...do I pretend not to know her? Or be oblivious, I am good at that. But, in the end, I helped her. She was still beautiful, but her cheeks didn't need any blush. She was okay, just embarrassed, and rightly so...she had just wiped out in front of a crowded restaurant. But, I still love her.

I know this makes me sound like a real creep...but, it's all in fun. Right?

So, I always try to teach a lesson. So, today's lesson, children: Do not go out to dinner with Shannon, if she is wearing high heels.

From,
Bill, the one who didn't fall that time.

In the Mood

2012-02-14T05:18:00.000-05:00

If you really love some one tell them. And ...
Don't forget to be romantic. Keeping the romance alive is tough, especially as you get older.
I know, I know, you are still young at heart. No matter what those crow's feet are telling you. Let's be honest, your face is always changing. You are getting older. We all see it, so let's just admit it. Okay, ladies and gents?

In life, you start out looking like a porcelain doll. Smooth and silky, ah those baby years... you know, you were cute once. Those years go by quickly. Then you turn seven, and it's like you walked through Chernobyl. Your teeth start falling out in rapid succession. It's scary, there are children running around looking like Jack-O-Lanterns. Those years are a little rough, but what comes next is a nightmare...The Pizza Hut years.

Yearbook photo - 1993

Even they couldn't have made a greasier bubbly mess than the face of a teenager. Teenage faces have more blackheads then a Spike Lee joint. Let's call it like we see it, teenagers are disgusting creatures. The male teenagers' voice can become a pentatonic scale in one sentence. And the female teenager will wake up four hours earlier to try to cover the loads of blemishes with make-up and fix their hair, (trying to remember that their face is not a coloring book and hairspray isn't a sealant -a little dab will do you.) following it up by trying to cover up those raccoon tired eyes, because of waking up four hours early to start the beautification project.

But, those years pass too and you HAVE to move quick, because you really only have a good four or so years before the wrinkles begin, because old age is like the Big Bad Wolf and there is a lot of huffing and puffing at your front door. Let me tell ya, old age ain't kind. I don't know what is worse, looking like a pepperoni pizza pie or a human Shar Pei.

Minutes after my thirtieth birthday party.

The teenage years had a new body hair battle, but bad news...the hair wins in the end. You can't stop it. You can try to shave it, pluck it, wax it (Alone in the Bathroom), but it won't quit. We can't beat it, so do we join it? Trying to grow a mustache to hide those two inch long nose hairs isn't fooling anyone, grandpa. You want to look your best, guys, for that special someone, well I have more bad news.

The hair on the top of your head...gone. But, like some crazy magic trick, it's gonna reappear...abracadabra, hey ladies meet...Ear hair.

Oh yeah, that's sexy.

Getting old sucks. It just does. Sure, that little old couple look so cute, but you gotta admit - it's pretty gross. Right? It's going to be hard to have those romantic feelings when I'm older.

I mean, nothing gets your partner going more than a bottle of Metamucil and brand new Depends.

Add your own joke about Depends. It's easy enough.

So, after all that in you are still in the mood?

Still trying to build that romance? It ain't easy...especially when you have kids. Between work and kids, it's hard just staying awake through an episode of Survivor, let alone trying to be romantic.

Sure you find him cute.

Sure you find her sexy.

But, exhaustion isn't an aphrodisiac.

So, what do you do? There are plenty of ways to try to spice up the romance. Don't ask me, I don't have a clue.

Sure, you have to try things. You must have a routine. Maybe, guys, those old baggy pajama pants and your favorite t-shirt with the sweat stained armpits isn't a turn on.

Dress Foxy - Not Wolfy

And don't think you are getting out of it that easy women...

because no make-up, hair in a bun, same pajama pants and one of our old t-shirts (because, it is just more comfortable) ain't doing any good either. Okay, I lied. (Truthfully, it doesn't really matter what you wear...you could be wearing a hefty bag and dressed like that bird lady from Home Alone 2.)

Hey Baby, whatcha doing later?

But let's get back to the real romance killers, yes, the kids really put a giant damper on the whole romance thing. No more spontaneity...that is history. The only thing that becomes spontaneous is the fact that during your alone time you might have to comfort a bad dream or worse yet, the true killer, having a sick child. Nothing is worse than seeing a sick child (right after you really thought you were getting somewhere.)

Romance is important. It really is. Your partner is the most important person, (and if you are single...well, I have other posts that will relate better to you. This isn't one of them. So, instead, go out and find the perfect mate. They are easy enough to find, just make sure you get some good binoculars and that they have a large tree in their front lawn. I'm kidding, don't be a creeper, because finding the perfect mate behind bars is even harder...and if you think finding time for romance is tough with kids, imagine a cellmate.)

Everyone is different and everyone has different things that help add a boost to their romance, but there are some old wive's tales that just don't work.
Add a little music for some extra romance.

Music does not add anything to the mood. Oh, sure, you want to argue with me. Well, if I agreed with you, then we would both be wrong. Music in theory, should work, but it doesn't.

Four major problems with Mood Music

1. You know the song

Singing along while trying to be sexy, you might as well just put on those Depends. You might think you are sounding like Eddie Vedder, but you really sound like a cat with it's tail caught under the rocking chair.

"Yeah but, Bill, I put on Let's Get it On, by Marvin Gaye. That's sexy."

Is it? Because if you listen carefully enough it sounds like the opening to The Price Is Right. So, now you have Rod Roddy in your head saying,

"Billy Merkh, come on down."

Okay, that's dead. Rod Roddy has never helped cure any romances. "But, what about a little Barry White?"

Yeah, that's what you need. Some big black dude in the corner, talking racy to your woman. No, thank you. I feel inadequace enough. I don't need...

"You are lookin' fine, baby."

2. You don't know the song.

Not sure I've ever heard this song. Oh, this is a cool song, yeah she is looking sweet...okay, where are we going? Is that a drum solo? That's odd. Oh, wait is this song about NATO? I think I am being lectured about child labor in Hondorus. No, honey, you still look amazing. Wait, I am pretty sure, he's talking about Kim Jong Il.

"You looking fine, baby."

3. You will never think of that song the same again.

"And it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old ball game..." he he he that is filthy. You still have the giggles eating Cracker-Jacks too. But, that still isn't as bad as trying to explain why you always snicker at the theme to the A-Team.

4. You will remember the other times you heard that song.

You look so beautiful, sweetheart, oh remember when we heard this song...where were we? Oh yeah, church, boy, this is awkward.

So, I guess music is out of it.

But, if you learned anything, which I'm sure you haven't, remember one thing...

Finding that special someone is one of the greatest gifts that you will ever know. Treat them great. Treat them right. Treat them like they are one of the greatest gifts, because they are. It doesn't matter what is on the outside, they are a special treasure. Let them know it. You will have some rough times, but don't let that discourage you. There has to be a reason you fell in love them to begin with. What was that reason?

Their smile?

Their eyes?

Their humor?

Their kindness?

Their brains?

Why did you fall in love? Cherish them. And if you think that your romance is gone...find it. Take the time to let them know that you love them. You will be happy you did.

BILL LOVES SHANNON

CHECK PLEASE!

2012-02-10T05:17:00.000-05:00

Are you a bad orderer?

You know what I mean, when you go to a restaurant and want something - you place your order with someone, are you bad at it?
On a scale from 1-10 what kind of orderer are you?
Let's give a scale - 10 - being Megan Fox and 1 - being Kathy Griffin

10 - Ordering Scale

1 - On any scale

How I imagine Megan Fox ordering at a restaurant:

Megan: I'll have a well done burger with no cheese, a side of fries and a Diet Coke.

It left no questions. Because at this establishment, burgers come with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. The Bun is a sourdough bun and the ketchup is already on the table.

Kathy Griffin ordering:

Kathy: We're ready. I want um...let me see...what do you like? Are the burgers any good? I'll have a burger...no wait...I had a burger last week and it got stuck in my throat...so maybe...do you have meatloaf? I didn't see it on the menu...maybe pancakes...What is everyone else having? Okay, I'll have the hamburger with what kind of cheese do you have? Okay, I'll take the American...no wait let's make it swiss...no make it american. I want fries. Can I have them well done. Don't burn them. Just a little blackened. But, crunchy....and no salt. and to drink...what kind of soda do you have? Oh...I'll take a Diet Coke.

Is that you? Are you a Kathy Griffin? Reading it, sounds ridiculous, but I have gone out to dinner with people like that...and I know you have too. And if you haven't, guess what? The person everyone dreads to eat with because they are such a bad orderer is probably...you.

Should have shaved my hairy knuckles

Here are some helpful hints that I can give to you to make you a better orderer: (take these with you and maybe you'll even get more friends or dates)

1. Order only what you want: (unless there is one item you have some crazy serious allergy if you eat it. But don't share too much about your allergy. "I can't have rhubarb or my butt looks like a Japanese flag.")

Rhubarb butt

Example of what NOT to do:
"I'll have a ham and cheese sandwich with mustard, no mayo, lettuce, no tomato, no provolone, with pepperjack, a pickle, no chips, on rye bread, not wheat or white, not toasted, for here not to go."

2. Order what the restaurant serves: If you go to a steakhouse - order steak. Seafood place - seafood. Salad Works - salad. Quizno - garbage.

Example of what NOT to do:
"Everything seems so meaty, do you have anything besides steak? Something more tofuy."
Remember it's not the waiter's fault, you chose to eat there.

3. While ordering don't be a tool.
"Hey, Sugarbridges, give me everything on the menu. Ha ha ha. I'm kiddin'. You gots some of 'em baked pasta things. Ziti. Like a zit. Har har."
You know you want the baked pasta, order it.

Looks pretty tasty.

4. While ordering, don't ask what everyone else at the table is having.
"I like spinach. Are you having spinach? Really? What are you having? Oh, the Grand Slam breakfast. That sounds good. What are you having? I like sausage and eggs. And you? I like bacon and french toast. Okay, okay. I'm ready. I'll have the Turkey club."

5. While ordering, don't try to pick up the waitress. (literally or figuratively)
"I'll just have a B.L.T. and a Cherry Coke...and what time do you get off tonight? You know I'm pretty killer. In fact, I'm the biggest killer since O.J. Simpson."

Hey Ladies...what you doing?

6. While ordering, stay off the phone.
"I'll have the...hold on a second man...I'll have a root beer float...hold on, man, I'm ordering...and some fries, and...yeah, oh you want some fries too, but I can't get over there tonight. I'm not freezing them, dude. They don't taste good...let me see...do the fries taste good if I freeze them?"

7. Don't ask the waiter or waitress what they like.
"What do you like better, the pork loin or licking the stop sign out front?"
How do you know that if they like it you'll like it too? Some people are into some weird crap, you can't trust them. And what kind of answer are you expecting? "Are the hush puppies any good here?" "No, in fact, if you want a good hush puppy, I recommend across the street. We have a Redbox outside."

8. Don't be so picky. Yes, you are paying for it, but there will be other meals. This won't be your last meal. (Unless, you are reading this from a Texas prison, because then your chances of it being your last are about 60-40.)
"I'll have the caramelized pears seared at three thousand degrees, by a chef from the Galapagos Islands, who only wears red socks when he cooks and has a tattoo of Tattoo from Fantasy Island on his left inner thigh and make sure it is on a blue plate and served with a chilled spoon."

9. Finally - Don't sound like an idiot while ordering. Make sure to use the right linguistics. If the word needs to be plural - use it. BUT, DO NOT make the word plural if it is not a plural word.
"I'll have the Macaronis and Cheeses. And give me some Shrimps salad. All I have is eighty-five cent."

So, take these with you and may they help you, brother. Dine out and enjoy.

Thanks for joining us.

Please Come Again Soon.

Tips are appreciated.

Your Waiter,

Bill

Solo Cathedral

2012-02-06T08:53:00.000-05:00

A little while ago I rambled on about searching for a church. (Murk Merkh Searches For A Church) Hopefully you read it. If you haven't, it doesn't really matter it was just a nice segue into another church post. That is really how you spell it. I thought it was spelled "segway", but that is the way cool people get around.

"They're all looking at me. Just act natural. Look straight and stay cool, Lester. That's it, I'm cool."

I know, I know here is where Bill gets all preachy.
No, in fact, this story isn't even about me. This is a story about a friend of mine, who was also in the hunt for a new church. This is a TRUE story and although I will try to do it justice I am sure that with what little ability I have I will slaughter it beyond recognition - kind of like what Daryl Hannah's surgeon did.

"If I were the King of the Forressssttt,"

Since, I will not use his real name in the story I will call him: Albin.
Albin is a single guy, not too much going for him. I mean, sure, he is nice and has a contagious laugh, but as a whole, just a simple man. He just goes to work and follows it up with sitting on the couch and watching sports on television. I'm sure he eats too, he is a little hefty...I'm sorry, that's unrelated.

Well, Albin is also a church-going kinda guy. He has never been heavily involved in any one church, but helps out when needed and doesn't mind getting his hands dirty either. (I'm mean, like cleaning, not like dumping a body.) But, his pastor left his church and there was a big falling out of sorts and now Albin was in a limbo of sorts. He was in search of a church. No easy feat. I can attest to that.
He was looking everywhere, when he ran into an old high school friend. Now, I wasn't there, but this is how I was told it went down:
"Albin, great to see you."
"You too. It's been a long time."
"Sure has. Blah, blah, blah. details unrelated. So, where are you going to church, Albin?"
"Actually, I'm kinda between churches right now, I'm looking around for one now."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Did you know that I am a pastor now, and I am starting my own church. Why don't you come on Sunday and visit. We meet at the elementary school."
"What time?"
"Eleven o'clock."
Albin thought for a few seconds and said, "Eleven o'clock sounds good. I will be there."
"Don't be late," said his former buddy, now a pastor. It had been years since he had seen this fellow and why not try it out? So, he did.
He pulled up at just before eleven. Out in the parking lot he was greeted by his "friend".
"Come on in," said the pastor. "It's just down the hallway."
They went into a room with about thirty chairs and nobody else was there. It was still before eleven. Then the pastor said, "Albin, but do you mind I am going to go over my notes, just find a seat anywhere." The pastor sat up front.
Albin sat in the third row. He brought his Bible and skimmed through it, waiting for the other members to arrive. Betcha know where this is going.
Nobody came. Eleven o'clock came and the pastor walked to the small wooden pulpit.
"Please rise," he said. "We will now sing our first hymn. Turn to page 52, To God Be the Glory."
Albin looked around. It was just the two of them. Maybe others will join.
They sang To God Be the Glory and followed it with two more hymns. Then he had them sit...following it up with announcements.
What follows announcements?
That's right...
"We will now pass the offering plate."
What would you do?
Because, it's official. This dude is crazy.

Not the Pastor - Just Crazy

Albin considered this and figured the entertainment value was worth: Two dollars.
It was cheaper than some other forms of amusement.

$36.95 - For the weight.

The whole time, acting as though it was a full house. Albin told me he started looking for cameras to see if he was being punk'd.
But, Aston Kutchner never came.
The sermon was preached and a final prayer was given and the congregation was dismissed. Then, the pastor walked over to Albin and said, "Hopefully you can join us again."
Albin never went back, in fact, I believe he went running to his car.

Now, if it was me, I don't know what I would have done...and I don't know if I could have held it together. It would have been too awkward for me. Just the two of us...especially the singing part. I didn't like being alone in the room with the Big Mouth Billy Bass.

"Take me to the river, Billy."

Hopefully this blog hasn't sent you running to your car. Keep coming back...and feel free to LIKE us. (C'mon, everybody's doing it.) OUR FACEBOOK FAN PAGE - please go and Like us...I'm begging you. PLEASE. PLEASE. It will make you popular. I promise.
Have you had any good church searching stories...I would love to hear them...unless they are boring, because if they are boring, my time is very valuable. I could be watching TV or writing this slop. But, if it is a good story, SHARE it with us.

Reverend Bill
(not actually a reverend)

Jungle Fervor

2012-02-01T05:14:00.000-05:00

It's Black History Month and here at the blog we are celebrating!
Why?
To recognize some great black people who might not normally get their due. But, don't worry honkies, you'll get your turn soon. Don't go getting your confederate flag panties in a bunch, just skip this post and listen to Ma and Pa play Dueling Banjos while you pick the straw out of your three teeth.

*May I take a quick sidebar? Of course, I can, it's my blog. This is for the few chuckleheads who still wave the confederate flag...I hate to break it to you, but you lost. In fact, it was lost around 100 years before you were born. Why are you still clinging to the losing side? I'm not wearing my "Russia 1980 Hockey Team" sweater, my "Green Goblin Forever" hoodie, my "Michael Duakis '88" windbreaker, my Team Drago" hat, my "Cobra Commander" pants or "You Could Be Outside Instead blog 2013 tee-shirt." What they all have in common is they are losers...and so are you.
"Psst..I've heard this Roman Empire might make a come back. Let's be the first ones back on the bandwagon."

We want to make everyone happy. (Except the Klan, we don't really care what they think. We enjoy Boyz in the Hood, much more than the boys in the hoods. Hey, that's the best I've got. I've got a couple more, like pointed hoods make it easier to fit the dunce cap, but that's a stretch, with jokes like those the enemy wins.)

The Klan on a stroll

Black History Month has always been met with great debate, but we are not here to talk about racism or the pros and cons of Black History Month. We are here for a few cheap giggles and because we are bored and we have nothing better to do for the next six minutes.

Now, I am not trying to be controversial or radical or whatever you want to label me, we just want to have fun. So, I thought, what better way to kick off February than to kick it off with a little soul.

We could have named all of the same black people we always talk about during Black History Month...

George Washington Carver Rosa Parks Booker T. Washington

George Washington Carver

But, this is a humor site, right? Well, at least we try to be funny. Although, we are about as funny as gynecomastia. Okay, that is pretty funny, but we still try our best. Hey, you get what you pay for, so stop complaining.

When I thought about what I was planning on writing for this post (yes I do think about this before I start writing) I thought maybe I would write about some great black comedians. But, every other black history funny blog is already doing that.

Dave Chappelle Richard Pryor Chris Rock Redd Foxx Flip Wilson Eddie Murphy

Bill Cosby Garrett Morris Dick Gregory Donald Glover Childish Gambino

Fred Sanford

But, today I would love to talk to you about a truly great American...and yes, he's black, because if he wasn't black it would make odd Black History selection. This man is an inventor and he has made it his goal to put a weapon in every child's hands. We would like to honor, the creator of the Super Soaker: Lonnie G. Johnson.

An Awesome Dude

Lonnie Johnson was born in 1949 in Mobile, Alabama. Down south, ya'll. His father was a World War II veteran, and a handyman who loved inventing. Lonnie's dad and he created a pressurized chinaberry shooter out of bamboo shoots when he was a child.

But, Lonnie kept on inventing. He was thirteen years old and took a lawnmower engine and scrap pieces from a junkyard and built his own go-cart. He was racing down the highway in his pimped out lawnmower go-cart when the police pulled him over. Good thing it wasn't the LAPD. (I've heard some things.)

Have you ever blown up your mother's kitchen? Lonnie did, while trying to make rocket fuel, which he got the recipe from a library book. (* A library is a place that has books. Books are things that are writings on paper - not a computer screen. I know, it sounds to weird to me too.)
Anyway, He was able to use that fuel to build a mini rocket ship. He later in life used some of these ideas when he worked as a system engineer for the Galileo and Cassini missions to Jupiter and Saturn.

Now, let's get to the important things like spraying neighborhood kids and cats with water. Sure, using the hose is always fun, but I need it portable. Oh yeah, the Super Soaker. Thanks, Lonnie.
He took PVC, a Coke Bottle, and plexiglass and armed his six year old daughter with the first ever Super Soaker. She destroyed the other kids with their weak little water guns.

And years later, and a revenue of $400 million, Lonnie can relax and kick his feet up, but he hasn't. He still continues to invent and owns over 62 patents. This dude is a genius. So, no matter what race you are, you gotta respect a this guy. Lonnie G. Johnson.

Now, go out and listen to Hendrix or James Brown and remember we are all the same on the inside. So, if you are still a racist after reading my blog, have somebody explain this post to you, because your family tree might be a straight line, but no matter what color you are, we still love you.

~A William Merkh Joint~

Let's Go Sledding!

2012-01-26T22:00:00.000-05:00

I like living in New Jersey. I know, I am in a minority, but I do have quite a lot of great reasons. Well, not any really great reasons, but I guess a few good reasons. Okay, okay, it's not even really that good, I guess it's just alright. NJ is just alright.

But, one thing we have that a lot of the other states don't have, well I guess a lot of them have it too...

Anyway, we have all four seasons. (That opening was terrible, I am surprised you are still with me. This is a post about the the four seasons, well to be truthful it is just about one season: the one we are currently in now, winter. You know I should start this whole thing off again, and maybe it will be better.)

I like winter.

I mean, I hate having to heat my house, bundling up to go outside, scrapping the ice off my car, and warming up the car before driving it. I hate shorter days, going to work in the dark and coming home when it's dark. I hate seeing all the bare trees and empty gardens. No BBQ's or eating outside, especially ice-cream. You don't see Mr. Softee, do you?

(I failed again...another pitiful opening. I tried, I promise. Let's give this another go. Shall we?)

I like sledding.

(Bingo - Nailed it.)

I didn't say I like snow, I said that I like sledding. Not skiing or snowboarding. I like sledding (and I include tubing too.)

Snow can be fun to look at from a distance. The beautiful snow on the mountain tops, or snow covered tree tops, but when the snow is all up in my grill that is when I detest it. I'm an adult. Adults hate snow. We still have to go to work. We still have to shovel our driveways and walks. I want to enjoy it, I just can't. Snow just adds more work.

I love the finished product of a snowman, but when the kids beg to make a snowman I try to smile through my groans.

"Let's make a snowman!" they all shout.

"Fine," through gritted teeth, I say. We all march around the yard looking for the "clean" snow, because nobody wants a stained, homeless looking Frosty, although after he is finished he will just wear my clothes, where he will be made fun of for being out of style.

"Ha ha, look at Vanilla Ice."

So, we try to make the bottom ball of snow first, the biggest one. Two minutes in, and I have a decent size ball growing, and they have since lost interest. "You keep making the snowman, we're making snow angels!"

"Are you kidding me?" I peg the snowball at them. It explodes into a billion pieces and I have to start it all over again. Because, "Dad, we really want a snowman? Did you see fill in the brat's name has a giant snowman in his front yard?"

"I bet he helped his dad."

So, as the kids run around, destroy all the good snow, I roam around like a nomad trying to find snow to pack our friend Frosty with. The three big snowballs are complete and ready for assembly. Trying to place the middle ball on (because I couldn't be out done by some kid down the street) I throw out my back, but it is now successfully on the snowman. Now, the head gets heaved on top. It is lumpy and abnormal, like a contestant on The Biggest Loser.

Now it's time it make it into a man. We get rocks for eyes and a carrot nose, Twizzler mouth, a couple sticks for arms, and a shirt that I was planning on wearing to church the next Sunday, but got over-ruled due to being "out-dated.". Plus, he is now wearing one of my hats that I should "no longer use", because when I wear it, "it just looks embarrassing." I liked that hat, feathers and all.

So, the snowman is done, and I have shoveled us out and it is time to do a little sledding - Oh yeah!

Sledding is not the same as when we were kids, I know I sound old, but it's true. This is how it is was when I was a kid. We didn't have any man-made snow hills. We didn't have the place where everyone meets to sled. We would use any hill we could find.

It all started by getting dressed to go outside in this blizzard. We would bundle up with three pairs of blue jeans, because we never had snow pants, and after the first ride, both butt cheeks were chapped. The wool gloves just helped to keep our fingers wet, so that it would actually help induce frostbite. The boots had just the right sized gap at the tops that when flying down the hill on a sled it was as if someone was shoveling the snow directly onto my feet, because jumping into the lake could not have made the six pairs of tube socks any more wet.

But, it was fun!

We would sled anywhere!

Hills with streets at the bottom.

"Watch out for the cars!"

Hills with trees.

"When you go down this hill, there will be three pine trees on your left, try to avoid them...and all the thorns on the right."

Hills with fences.

"I think it may have some barb wire hanging down, so be careful. Plus, that rusted sign says, "Warning - Electric shock."

Hills with lakes at the bottom.

"You have to tuck and roll at the bottom. Whatever you do, don't stay on the sled!"

Plus, we liked to live dangerously. In fact, it was encouraged.

"Don't be a sissy, Billy, try standing on the sled, and grab that branch half way down, but don't fall into the stream on your left and traffic is starting to pick up on your right. GO!"

"But, Mom, I'm scared."

"Hey, you wanted to go sledding."

I did want to go sledding, but I also wanted to see my thirteenth birthday too.

And to make it more dangerous we had metal blades on the bottom of our sleds.

"Come on, kids, watch out for the three foot long razors, and be careful you don't want to decaptate yourself like Cousin Artie."

The hills in winter caused more amputees than the Vietnam and Korean war combined, causing children everywhere to hobble and limp for the rest of their lives.

"War? Car accident? Polio? Oh, sledding. That's awful."

But, it was fun and still is.

I love taking my kids sledding.

However, I am not so sure they love sledding with me.

I have flipped my daughter while trying to jump a make shift ramp, using a wooden pallet and trashcan. I have jumped onto my son's sled, and by accident, completely whitewashed him the entire way down. But, kids get over it.

The only thing I HATE about sledding is: the other people sledding.

First, wait till we are finished our ride. The hill is going to be there in thirty seconds. Wait!

Second, when walking back up the hill, stay to the sides. Why would you think it is a smart idea to walk directly up the middle of the hill, where everybody else has just smoothed it down. I would ban all people who have the nerve to do it. Idiots.

Lastly, really I had no other real complaints, I'm just not a people person. So, them just being there, annoys me.

So, after a long day of sledding, with frozen keysters, chapped lips, chaffed thighs, chilled toes, and numb extremities, along with the snot caked faces we arrive home to ring out the piles and piles and layers and layers of wet clothes and enjoy some hot coco by our electric fireplace.

I love winter.

Chilly Willy

Remember we need you to LIKE us. It is how we grow.

THANKS

My meeting with Marlon Brando

2012-01-23T12:11:00.000-05:00

"Hi, Mr. Manzo, would you mind coming up and saying 'hello' to my wife's boss, he's a really big fan."

Let's rewind, since you have no idea what I am talking about. (Maybe I should have started from the beginning, but that was what we call 'the hook', it gets you, the reader, to want to keep reading to find what it is all about...however, it wasn't a very good one, so you probably aren't even reading this part.)

But, it makes one ask a few questions:

Who is Mr. Manzo?

Who is Shannon's boss?

Why is Shannon's boss a big fan of Mr. Manzo?

Why are you still reading this blog when there are dishes to be done, dinner to be made, laundry, or removing that uncomfortable zit you weren't sure if anyone noticed, but we all did.

The answers:

Mr. Manzo is Albert Manzo, and is married to Caroline Manzo, who just happens to be one of "the Real Housewives of New Jersey."

Albert Manzo showing off his famous choke hold on Caroline.

Shannon's boss is Jay. He is the owner of the salon she works at. Let's take a few seconds to discuss Jay, shall we? First, a really smart business man, he owns two salons and does a great job with both. Second, don't screw with him. If you go to work, be prepared to work. Do you know how much drama this man has to deal with? (I mean two salons and dealing with the wall to wall of estrogen, now that takes a strong man. Trust me, I had a peek into his world.) Lastly, When Jay is done work and ready to have a good time he's gonna try his hardest to make sure you do too.

Not Shannon's Actual Boss - Just I googled the word Boss and thought this picture was funny.

Cue story : Shannon's Work Holiday Parties

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS

or as we like to say where I am from...
one hundred dollars, (I guess we never really had another name for it, we weren't very original.)

Sounds good, doesn't it? One hundred dollars. And it's easy enough to get it too. All you have to do is introduce Jay to one of the cast on the Real Housewives...and he's gonna make it easy for you too. First, he'll rent a limo to take you to The Brownstone. (Think ritzy, glamorous, elegant...I know what your thinking those are also all words that describe Bill, but we are still talking about the Brownstone.) But, here is the easy part to making the one hundred dollars: One of cast members owns the Brownstone. The kazoo sounds: da da da da...Mr. Manzo. (We are a cheap blog and can't afford a trumpet.)

We had to look spectacular, (See* You Can Put Lipstick on a Pig) Jay, the stylists, and I arrived at the Brownstone...All of them looking foxy stepping out of the limo as they entered. Shannon was looking mighty beautiful, and I was looking like a Caucasian James Brown.

Not Bill

The room inside was magnificent. There were large, round tables surrounding a colossal dance floor in the middle. The room was filled with stylists from all over New Jersey...and me. I didn't own a salon, I didn't work in a salon, I didn't even go to salons (Shannon cuts my hair in front of the TV at home.) The room was dimly lit by the glow of the stylist's cellphones. Facebook was on overload from all the uploading coming out of the room that night.
There were so many women there, an abundance of high heels, up-dos, and tight dresses saturated the area. Hundreds of ravishing women, ready to have a good time. (and ten or so men...and I'd bet a hundred dollars, most of them didn't notice there were any women there.) Now, I have no real statistics, but did you know that 99% of stylists are women? You did. Good. Now, I know you already know that all stylists have "that look".
Oh yeah, she is a hair stylist.
So just being there, I felt like I stood out more than Kirstie Alley in a room full of anorexics.
"That look" they have, I don't have that. No, not me, my look is more the "bloated look" usually reserved for corpses found drowned in a lake. And quite a few people got confused and thought a celebrity had graced their event, but were disappointed when they realized that I was the "Puffy" they were all talking about.
So, I didn't fit in with the stylists, but I did fit in with some of the other people there that night.
The owners? No, of course not, apparently you have never read me before, because that was a terrible guess.
No, the staff. Come on, that was easy. You know, the guys serving the dinner then clearing off the plates and disappearing into the back. Those guys. So, while the chicks decided to go out and dance, I slipped away to find someone from the cast of the show. Now, I had never seen the show before (and actually, still haven't) but that wasn't about to hinder me from finding them and I would have stayed and danced, but two things were stopping me.
1.) I wanted $100.
2.) My dancing reminds people of a electrocution gone horribly wrong, somewhere between seizure and convulsion. Dancing was off the list.
"Someone call 911, that inflated man looks like he is going to croak!"

"So, I hear someone from the Real Housewives owns this place," I said to one of my new busboy friends.
"Yup," he he replied and kept walking away. I could tell he wanted us to continue this conversation while strolling around, so I followed him.
"Is she here?" I asked trying to keep up with my buddy, the busboy.
"Is who here?" he asked, now putting silverware into a tub.
"The lady from the Real Housewives."
"Caroline Manzo?"
Sure. That sounds good. "Yes, Caroline Manzo," I said.
He so kindly told me to see another staff member. "Ask him," he said, pointing to someone across the room.
"Is Caroline Manzo here?" I asked the new fellow.
"She never comes here," he answered. "Her husband does."
"And he is on the show?" It was a question that I tried to make sound like a statement, but still raising me voice at the end, just enough so he would have to answer.
"Yes," he replied.
"Is he here?"
"He might be."
Things were looking promising. I could just think of all the things I could do with ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS.
One night at the movies.
Get dessert at Cold Stone Creamery.
Maybe even fill up the gas tank...that's right...I could almost see the attendant's face when I told him to "Fill it regular." Are you sure, Mr. Uses Change In the Seats? Fill it up? Did you strike it rich?
"Yes, Habeeb. Let's see what this old Malibu can take." I would say.

Mr. Manzo was there. In his office. In Meetings.
I began to talk to more and more of the Brownstone's staff. Finally, I hit pay dirt. Mr. Manzo's personal assistant began to hear my story. His eyes widened when I told him all about the cold cash I was about to make. He must have thought that I was pretty cool, because he told me that "Mr. Manzo, has a few minutes in forty-five minutes. You can come to the office and meet with him then."

I thought I could almost smell the money (although looking back it might just have been my cheap cologne.)
I told Shannon and forty-five minutes later...

Inside the office of Mr. Albert Manzo:
It was like walking inside to meet The Godfather, only I didn't know who this guy was, and of course I knew who Marlon Brando was. This would have been such a better story if it was about meeting Marlon Brando. Plus, it would have easier to write - because of course, you would have known who he was and I wouldn't have to do all that explaining. Plus, Brando oozes coolness. He did so many great movies and was fantastic in all of them. I am such a big fan.
You know what? I am changing this. Let's pretend that instead of Albert Manzo (yawn) I introduced Jay to Marlon "The Godfather" Brando (wild applause).

So, here I am in the office of Mr. Brando:

"Hi, Mr. Brando, would you mind coming up and saying 'hello' to my wife's boss, he's a really big fan."
Adding, "I can make one hundred dollars."
That guy from Apocalypse Now was so cool, he said, "Sure, I would love to say 'hello.'"
And that is just what he did...
and Jay was so excited to see the guy from On The Waterfront, he gave me a crisp, clean one hundred dollar bill.

So, if you don't think that you will ever get to meet a legend, an icon, a star...think about the time...I met Mr. Manzo...I meant Marlon Brando. It can happen to you.

Actual photograph, no Photoshop here.

Rolling in the dough,
"One Hundred Dollar" Bill

Thanks for reading.

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You Can Put Lipstick on a Pig...

2012-01-21T18:33:00.000-05:00

Dressing me up is a lot like declawing an alley cat. It is gonna be a struggle and you might get a few bite marks, but when it is all over it is worth it.

I am a slob. I am messy. I am most comfortable in beat-up sneaks, torn jeans, and a shirt more holey than the Pope. (Yes, I know it is spelled 'holy' when referring to something religious - but I was going for the easy joke...and yes, that joke was weak, but if you have read any of my other blog posts you would know I live off of weak jokes. I wouldn't be able to write a blog about anything without weak jokes. So, just laugh it off, and move on. You're better than that. Don't get so hung up on such a small thing, that really has absolutely nothing to do with this post.)

Where was I? Mister Messy Bill. I think I would be most comfortable if I stole and wore the clothes off of a hobo. I hate shaving, and wouldn't mind the look the Uni-bomber made famous.

I hate getting my haircut, although my wife is a stylist. I am a bum. I can't make it any plainer than that.

I am not one of those hoarders, that keep a collection of their favorite piles of rat feces. I love to be clean, just not well groomed. I hate the feeling of being dirty, but I guess I don't mind the look. I love smelling my armpits after the shower and smelling Lilac Melon Vanilla or whatever body wash happens to be in there. So, don't get the wrong idea...I am clean. I just like the idea of looking like a vagabond hippie, without the stank.

But, I do clean up nicely. Sometimes, I am sporting the 80's look, but that is simply a lack of money to buy the latest hottest trends. I like my "real" look, however, but it's hard buying clothes every few months, when the styles change. Every time, I buy something new, by the time I get it to the car, it is no longer in fashion. So, trying to pick an outfit out of my closet and not looking like Zack Morris is tough for me.

I don't own a suit and I can't tie a tie. Eventually, I am going to have to grow up and put on a pair of big boy clothes. I am a second grader trapped inside a man's body (although, I am sure some would argue that last part.) I use to borrow my black socks from Shannon, because my socks all included the words 'white tube' in the description. My white undershirts look like they are Desert Storm camouflage (and probably bought the same year we started that war.) So, I guess you get the picture or you have a real difficult time with reading comprehension, I am disheveled, unkempt man.

Shannon, however, is not...and doesn't like me to be that way. *See 'Alone in the Bathroom'. Although, if honesty prevails there are those moments when I look at myself in the mirror, and in my best Fernando Lamos voice say, "You look mahvelous." Because, when I rock the tux - I look like a ~~scrawny~~ sexy James Bond without the cool gadgets.

So, if you invite us to a wedding, bar mitzvah, christening, baptism, BBQ, graduation, funeral or just a gathering of any sort, I promise to look half presentable. That is the best I can do.

Bill's big night on the town.

Thanks everyone. SHARE this and LIKE us and LOVE me.

SLOPPY BILL

Cleveland Rocks?

2012-01-18T20:38:00.003-05:00

Years ago and fresh out of high school, two single guys decided to go on an adventure. Fighting monsters and villains. Battling the harsh elements. Destroying anything that came in their way. It was a road trip, almost too grand to be written. It was epic. And here is that story.

Jim and I went to Cleveland, Ohio. (and Kentucky)

Yeah, okay...I know what you're thinking and you're right...Cleveland sucks. There I said it, so you wouldn't have to. You see, it wasn't so much of an adventure as it was a nightmare. So, if you have ever had a bad vacation or road trip or bad day, maybe you can relate.

We started out, just two troublemakers looking to do a little rabble-rousing, so we thought what better place to cause a little ruckus than good ol' Ohio. Because, Cleveland is one of the greatest cities in the world? (yes, there is suppose to be a question mark at the end of that last sentence) Let's take a look at all the wonderful things Cleveland has to offer.

Exhibit 1 - The Indians. A major league baseball team. The last time they won the world series Truman was battling Dewey for the presidential election. 1948, kids. The only time in recent history, Charlie Sheen was "acting" crazy as the Wild Thing in the movie Major League. (A great movie, might I add)

Exhibit 2 - ~~The Browns~~. The National Football team. Cleveland is so bad they left.

Exhibit 3 - The Browns. Yeah, they came back. But, they are awful. Players and coaches can't wait to get out, as quick as they can. Ask Bill Belichick if he likes New England better than Cleveland and see what he says.

Exhibit 4 - Drew Carey. I miss Bob Barker. Thanks for taking the only thing I looked forward to while being sick away from me, Drew. The Price is no longer Right.

Exhibit 5 - ~~Lebron James~~. (See Exhibit 2.)

Exhibit 6 - Even The Cleveland Show isn't any good.

And finally...Exhibit 7...and why we decided to go.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Because when you think of Rock and Roll, what city comes to mind? If you said, Cleveland then you know absolutely nothing about music. Even when the bands do their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction concert, they go to New York City. No one wants to be in Cleveland. No one.

But, we did. We got into the ultimate babe magnet, a 1990 dark blue Ford Escort, and hit the road, traveling from New Jersey. Traveling to Rock and Roll Mecca, the Hall of Fame. We would see things that icons wrote and used to make some of the greatest music ever recorded.

It was 1995 and I felt like the President at the time in a room full of chubby interns. (that is a real old joke, but when else am I going to be able to make Bill Clinton jokes? Give me a break.) We were two cool guys and what do cool guys do? Arrive late at night in Cleveland and don't bother to make reservations for hotel rooms. So...Drove around Blah Blah Blah boring details No rooms Blah Blah Blah more driving Blah Blah Blah. There were no rooms to be found in the Cleveland area! None! So, we slept outside the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in that Ford Escort.

Let me tell you, you have not lived till you have spent the night in a Ford Escort. It is a little like sleeping in shopping cart, only without the handlebar. I however, slept like a newborn - waking up every couple of hours - there was some crying - and I couldn't roll over because of the radical bucket seat.

I awoke the next morning, the sun directly in my face. The other seat was empty. Jim was gone. I looked everywhere. He was nowhere to be found. I found a couple quarters in my tight jeans and was planning on finding the nearest payphone to page him on his beeper. (That is right, this story is that old) And then there was Jim, coffee in hand, and finishing up a danish.
"Hey, they got a great continental breakfast," he said.
"Isn't that for people staying there?" I asked.
"They didn't check."
I wanted danish.
I like danish.
My belly was hungry and danish would stop that.
But, I knew I would be the one to get caught. My life would be over. I would end up in some Cleveland prison. I would bang a cup along the bars, singing some Johnny Cash tune, while trying to fend off the likes of Bogs Diamond and Heywood . There would be no "Red" to help me...and there would be no danish. I couldn't bring myself to do go in a get a danish.

We walked around Cleveland for a little while, looking for a place to eat before our journey into the Hall of Fame. But, Cleveland turns out is a ghost town. It was like walking through Zombieland, without all the fun of the zombies. No place was open and the city was dead. I had almost given up hope, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, a jolly fat man eating sloppily out of a wrapper.

FOOD!

There it was - yippee ki yay. Roy Rogers! No, not the one with Trigger or Dale Evans. No, the one that served something that kinda tasted like food. I rushed in there and greedily ate that slop. It was heavenly awful. You understand, the greatest worst meal I had ever eaten. Now, I was ready to be rocked!
Bring on the Hall of Fame!

I guess I should have known, because I know how rock and roll is, but let me explain the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 1995...it belonged in Cleveland. They opened up the roof and dump all the stuff in. There was crap everywhere. Nothing made any sense. It was more disappointing than reading a blog about a road trip to Cleveland. I couldn't find anything I wanted to see. It was worthless. I felt betrayed. These Rock and Roll hoodlums had pulled a bait and switch.
"Come see Rock and Roll history."
"Sucka, we already fooled you into coming to Cleveland, now enjoy this mockery of a Hall."

We left with our heads hung low and all our hopes and dreams of our Rock and Roll fantasy had been flushed. My time in Cleveland felt endless, minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days, days felt like an aeon. I could not wait to get back to my home.

Now, to help you understand how awful Cleveland really is, here is a list of seven things that you would think would be awesome, but really just plain suck.

Seven Things

1.) Cleveland and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

(Were you not paying attention?)

2.) Taking candy from a stranger.

3.) Eating a McRib

4.) Going on the Tilt-A-Whirl as an adult

5.) White guys shaving their heads

6.) Waxing your chest

7.) The You Could Be Outside Instead blog

There are still more stories about my time in Cleveland, but they will have to wait for another day. My doctor says that too much stress isn't good for me at one time. So, until next time avoid Cleveland at all costs.

Consider this your warning.

The Always Wandering,

Bill

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From MLK to WJM

2012-01-16T09:29:00.001-05:00

Since it's Martin Luther King Day, I figured I had to give him a little shout out. This is a man that stood up, when most people sat down. He spoke of equal rights and freedom for all men. He helped change America, for the better.

The other day, I saw a sign that read: Closed for January 16th for MLK day.
MLK? You were too lazy to print a sign that read: Martin Luther King. Don't you think that we over use initials? Why are we so hung up on the three-letter acronym?
It's a holiday and so, we'll play a game. Okay?
Can you get them all? (Let's do this like an episode of Dora the Explorer)
Let's start out easy, first. Can you get all the acronyms? Can you? Come on, vámonos.

MLK - JFK - LBJ - FBI - CIA - FDR - NFL - USA

Good Job. I knew you could. Boots knew you could do it too. Let's kick it up a notch and try some harder ones. Are you ready? (pause) I'm ready. Are you ready for the harder ones?

BBC - UAE - RPG - IBM - LAX

Good. I'm just happy that you are trying. Just a couple more and we'll reach the end. You can do it. How many did you get, right? (pause) Good job. I think you are awesome.
Here's a couple tougher ones, yet. Swiper no swiping. Ready?

NSA - NEC - LSD

How did you do? Wow! Did you even go to school? Maybe, this just wasn't your day. I'm disappointed in you. Okay, I'll give you one more chance...

WFM - WJM

Did you get the last two right?

In 1999, Shannon could not get the last two. Why? Because, I'm a cheap dope. I know you are shaking your head in agreement with the last sentence and whispering, "he is cheap and he is a dope, but what does that have to do with the last two acronyms?"

Where is Bill going with this? Crazy. Where is Bill going? Crazy.

Enough Dora, back to life, back to reality. Well, here's a quick back story. Shannon and I were engaged to be married December 4, 1999. We had it all planned out. We did all the stuff engaged couples are suppose to do before the wedding, and by that, I mean she did all the stuff. I was the groom. I pick a couple guys, rent a tux, and wait for my beautiful bride to meet me at the end of the aisle. Meanwhile, she does everything else. And sure, I added my two cents in, because that is just the kind of guy I am...and those are the things we would change today if we were doing it all over. (See above - cheap, dope)
Okay, so you get the picture...right? Bill (cheap, dope, groom) Shannon (Beautiful, does everything, bride)

Let's rewind back farther, shall we?

My father was a bad man. Not the kind of man like Shaft. My father was in fact, a down-right terrible human being. (Come on, Bill, get funny, you are losing us) I'll try. His name is Frederick. And it just so happens when I was born, I would be given a middle name, and I'll give you one guess what it was. It was Frederick. If you said anything else you should be embarrassed. That's a bad job on your part.

(Note: This is Not Bill) - I was much more adorable than this ugly little thing.

Now, Shannon knew my disdain for my father, and also knew that I always said, in my high pitched voice, "When I turn 18, I'm changing my name to William James Merkh." I said this numberous times. So, I turned 18 and decided to change my name and heard, "Mr. Merkh, you can change your middle name for fifty dollars."

$50 to change my name?

I'm not paying that. Who cares what my name is, for fifty big ones? I can barely afford this acne cream. (Remember I was young) I am not changing it. But, I forgot to tell Shannon.

Fast forward to just before the wedding. Shannon sends out the invitations and there it was:

Shannon Lynn Briles is set to marry William JAMES Merkh.

"Who is William James Merkh?" My family wondered. I am...sorta.
It didn't matter what name I was, it was who I was. So, if you have a bad middle name or first name or both...just make up whatever name you want. Then start using that name. Pretty soon it will stick and other people will start using it with you. (Just a note: You can't use it for legal stuff) It's fun, and when you do it- who can stop you?
Because as we sit back, relaxing, watching basketball, on MLK day, we think...
Martin Luther King
MLK
Oh yeah, his real name was Michael King. He never legally changed it. He decided to go by Martin Luther King and it stuck. People started using it and here we are today with MLK day. And you can do it too. And if you don't believe me check it out, I dare you.
Enjoy MK (Michael King) day, everyone!

Enjoy the time off,
WJM

Behind the Mascot

2012-01-13T09:11:00.000-05:00

I have done some interesting stuff in life. I have been given the privilege to do things that others can not say. I have walked out of the dugout before a Major League Baseball game and helped throw out the first pitch. I have skated between periods of National Hockey games. I have run onto the court at half-time, and during time-outs at NBA games. I have done all of them...

while wearing a large cow suit.

You see, in a previous life, I was a mascot for Chick-fil-A. Something every kid has dreamed about. Right? Stepping onto the baseball diamond wearing a seven foot cow suit. Lacing up the skates and stepping out onto the ice in front of 20,000 screaming Flyers fans, showing off the utters. This is what life is all about. Yao Ming almost stepped on me as I wandered aimlessly around the court, trying to exit. I was built for the thrill of looking like a big heifer. MOO!

I wasn't your everyday, side of the road, wave the sign...asking you to Eat Mor Chikin. I was a somebody. I only played the big stage. I lived for the sporting events. Plus, it was a little extra cash, and after I was done, doing my thing, I could watch the game. Sometimes, from the suite. Oh yeah, baby.

But, being the mascot had it's downsides too. I'm sure at sometime we will delve into this deeper, but this session we'll deal with a the darker side of mascots. A behind the scenes look at the underbelly of the mascot world.

I grew up a fan of the Philadelphia Phillies. I still am to this day. I bleed red. (Well, I guess, we all bleed red, but, mine have little white P's. I don't know what I'm trying to say.) I'm a Phillies fan. Managers have come and gone. Players have left. The stadium has been replaced. But, every since I have been little there has been one constant. His name: The Phillie Phanatic.

That lovable creature, that appears during every home game. He has big white eyes, a long red tongue, and he is covered in green fur. His long green snout is thrust in the faces of many children and women...and let's not forget his dancing. He rides a quad and pokes fun at the umpires and the opposing teams. He shakes his belly, moonwalks, and he poses for picture upon picture. He is almost perfect in every way.

I was going to be the cow one night. Down below, in the stadium's innards, I was placed in the dressing room directly next to the Phanatic's dressing room. There was even a star on the door with his name on it. "Would you like to meet the Phanatic?" I was asked.

YES SIR!

I knocked and heard a voice say, "Come on in," through the door. I opened the door and to my horror sat a man in green suit. The Phanatic head lay in the corner. The green fur came up waist high and the rest was a skinny white guy. Like some psychedelic centaur. But, my vision of the Phanatic was gone. In three seconds, I now knew the truth. My childhood memories would never be the same. I could never look at him the same way again. He was just a normal guy wearing a big, green suit. I had always knew there was a man inside, but now I knew who that man was. The curtain had been pulled back and there was Oz. It's like finding out that Santa was your dad. You knew it before - but now you know. *side note: He was a great guy and super nice.

A few weeks later, I was introduced to Phlex. Phlex was the Philadelphia Phantoms, the minor league hockey team, mascot. Phlex and the cow "worked" together a few times and shared a locker room. He would always run out, waving a flag, pumping his fists in the air - trying to rally the Phantom fans.

Phlex, the guy behind the mask, was a snarly, angry individual. His face was shaped like a dinner plate, and he had a speckling of whiskers. His voice had a thick Philly accent, and he sounded like he had just tried to smoke the tailpipe of a Zamboni. Late into one game, we sat in the locker room watching the game on the TV. The Phantom was down by one and two minutes were left on the clock. We were both packing up and he was going on and on about wanting to go home.

Meanwhile, on the ice, the Phantom's player broke down the ice - took the shot and scored! The alarm rang and the lights flashed! The Phantoms had tied the game! The crowd roared with excitement. There was Phlex, standing across from me, mask in hand, inside the locker room. He held the mask above his hand, swearing, and slammed the mask to the floor. "Unbelievable!" he yelled. Picking up the mask and his flag. "Well, here we go. I'm gonna be here all night."

He put the mask on, ran down the tunnel, waving the flag and I could hear him pumping up the crowd. I walked down and peeked. He was running through the audience. High-fiving, waving and getting the crowd all into a frenzy. They had no idea what he was thinking behind the mask.

Phlex made his way back to the locker room. The mask got removed. "Overtime! This is unbelievable."
I smiled, knowing the truth.

This post is in honor of my son's 10th birthday. One of the world's biggest Phillie's fans, and a huge Phanatic fan.

Thanks,

MOO

Doggie Day Afternoons

2012-01-09T00:36:00.001-05:00

"What is Bill grilling, Michael?"

"Is that hamburgers?"

"Oh, Michael, I love hamburgers too. Especially, grilled ones."

That is my neighbor. Peering over the fence talking to her best friend one afternoon. And there have been many other similar conversations. However, Michael isn't like you and me. He shouts loudly when she comes home. He craps in the backyard. And oh yeah, Michael has a tail.

That's right Michael is a dog. A collie of some sort and he can't speak. Why? He's a dog. He barks.

We however, don't have any pets. My family is all pro-pet. And let me tell you, they love all kinds of pets. Doggies. Kitties. Bunnies. Hamsters. The Pet list goes on and on and on. Pets are cool. It is something extra to love and that alone is great. But, due to allergies and cost, I don't see a pet in our future.

"But, pets don't cost that much, Bill."

We tried it. But let's be honest, pets will get sick or worse yet if they get hurt a vet visit will be a must...and for some odd reason my health insurance doesn't cover animals. Plus, the allergies, Shannon and my son turn into sounding like Darth Vader when they are exposed to animals for too long. They also get rashes and puffy eyes making me feel like I'm walking through Walter Reed. They look up at me through squinted eyes, with red faces and hands, and gasping for breath and ask, "You sure we *gasp* can't get one *gasp*, please."

I feel bad that we can't get one, but not that bad...

You see, I am not a pet person. I don't care for them. I understand why you might like pets, but not me. I understand all the upsides for having a pet. When I was younger, I basically lived in a zoo. We were the Living Noah's Ark. Two by two we had them. Pets galore. We had all kinds and each one received lots of love and kindness throughout their lives...but I'm through with them.

"But, Bill, what about the kids? Kids need pets."

They don't. I need a 72 inch flat screen LCD TV, but that ain't happening either. They will adjust just fine without it, just like I struggle not watching Dexter on my living room wall. Yet, I'm still surviving.
Not that we didn't try the pet route. We have had a rabbit, dwarf frogs, and a scattering of fish. They were cute, but now we just don't need the hassle that comes with being the owner of a proud pet. (Remember Darth Vader at a war hospital.)

"You need a dog."

Big dog? I would always be protecting my groin from the dog's baseball like tail or when it jumps up to snuggle with me and it feels like being hit by a linebacker. It's tongue is the size of tennis racket - and drooling like an old man in a nursing home. Plus, let us be reminded that we have to clean up after these beasts. "Oh, Michael, we are going to need two bags for that one. Were you eating Play-Doh again? It shouldn't be teal."

Small dog? Yap. Yap. Yap. Yap. Race all over the place and jump onto my lap when I am at the peek of comfort. Tell me when there is another dog within a mile radius and constantly hound me to go outside, because you need to poop and it's two in the morning and it just started raining...and now would be the perfect time. And, now that you drug me outside let's poop every three feet, run around in circles and sniff at every tree, branch, telephone pole, hydrant and rock we find on our middle of the night journey. And hopefully, we will find that annoying squirrel that loves to play tag.

Dogs. No, thank you.

"How about cats. They are independent."

Are they? So, if I don't clean the liter box, they will? They don't really want to be there, but hey you are feeding them. They really want to claw you to death and show you their backsides as it leaves you scratched and in search of bandages. They are cuddly kittens and then two weeks go by, and like a magician doing a trick, Wah-La, you got yourself a mean, old, independent cat. He just wants to be left alone, so he can stalk the mice and birds. He is also on the prowl to destroy any other cats he senses in the area. They are nasty, nasty creatures.

Cats. You can keep them.

Gerbils, Birds, Ferrets, Mice, Snakes, Spiders, Iguanas, Monkeys (Okay, we'll have to talk about that one). Pets are just not for me. I see how having a pet would be great. The best reason, is that they are the perfect excuse. Were you over the in-laws a bit too long? Gotta feed and let out the dog. That party not as fun as you thought it would be? The dog is in the dark. Who can say 'no' to that?

And as a public service announcement: If you are a pet owner, talk to it like it's a pet. You can speak in that Minnie Mouse voice trying to convince the puppy that the thunder can't get him, but they aren't human. He doesn't care what I'm making on the grill? Unless, I am making it for him. He doesn't care what I reading by the chiminea. "Michael, is Bill reading the new Dan Brown novel? I heard it's pretty interesting."

Because, when I start responding to the flowers, don't act like I'm the crazy one.

"Purple Hydrangea, I'm making some BBQ Chicken.

Hey, Red Rose Bush, this Dan Brown novel is exciting.

Much better than his last one."

Finally, Michael is a Person name. Pet's need pet names. Fluffy. Tiger. Spotty. Sir-Barks-A-Lot. Because we all know that when you get behind closed doors he goes by his full name: Michael McSnausagepaws.

Now go take the dog out, I hear some bad weather is a brewing,

Michael's neighbor,
Bill

Handy Man or Handi-Man?

2012-01-08T21:35:00.001-05:00

I don't know the difference between a converter valve and an electrical outlet. I can barely change a light bulb. I don't know how to rewire the house, put up drywall or change the alternator in my car. I know that my house has studs, and to find one, I look in the mirror...but the wooden ones I bang around on the wall trying to look like I know what I'm talking about.

I do know that my house has walls, a ceiling and a floor. When I turn on the faucets, hopefully water comes out and every time I move the light switch I pray that the lights go on or off. If there is a problem, I can't fix it. I get out my trusty phone, expecting it to work but I don't know how, and call someone to make my problem go away.

And every single handyman, bar none, will tell me how to fix the problem. They will go through step by step on how they will fix the broken item. They will tell me in great detail about every nuance, every step no matter how insignificant.

"You see, Bill, you got the rotor...right there...it's shaped like a pear and a cup of coffee...which reminds, I'm gonna need my coffee, now if you put the 1/4 inch steel..."

And I'm out. You already lost me and now you are adding math words to the equation. That is not fair. Just fix it. I don't care. I'm NOT fixing things for a reason. My brain doesn't work that way.

Does it make me less of a man? Probably. But, when I tell you a story. I just tell it. I don't start it out with, "You see, Sal, in the story I am the protagonist and the antagonist is the spider cricket. I will be doing it in the first person...now you see first person..." You don't care. You just listen to the story, right? I have a beginning, an end and hopefully a decent payoff.

That was just the intro. The next part of the story will be the content. I will try to use sarcasm, it's a tool I use to poke fun at myself or others. I will also be using a lot of exaggerations to drive home my points. I will use adjectives, nouns, and verbs to put the story together. This story is how I broke something and shockingly fixed it. It kinda works now. Well, at least it serves its purpose.

The family and I like to play games. Board games. Video games. All kinds of Games. One fine night, Shannon asked the kids, "which game do you guys want to play tonight?" The answer came back with an excited, "HIDE AND SEEK!"

And Hide and Seek we played. We have some major rules when playing it.

1.) No outside.

2.) No basement.

3.) No attic crawlspaces.

4.) No behind the toilets.

Oh yeah! No hiding at the top of Mommy and Daddy's closet. We have a large closet with wire metal shelves. The shelves bend a little when we put towels on them, so when our son tries to hide up there - disaster is moments away. So, the top of the closet is OFF LIMITS!

But, as you may know, I am too cool for rules. They weren't my rules anyway...Shannon made them up. I know of some great spots to hide in the crawlspaces, down in the basement and outside. Plus, what is so wrong with burying my head and body behind a toilet? I don't make the rules. I break them. I'm Daddy James Dean, baby. A rebel, if there ever was one.

It was Shannon's turn to count, and my daughter decided to count with her. That was okay, it was the boys turn to hide. My son went and hid in the living room. I chose my bedroom. The closet. The top of the closet. I tore down the warning sign and ignored the no trespassing notice. I started my climb. I was nimble. I was agile. I was stupid.

Towels and extra blankets went tumbling below as I made my way to the top. I could hear them counting and like a monkey I swung up to the forbidden land of hiding places. Their counting continued.

I adjusted my position among the spare blankets and pillow cases.

Then from the other room: "Ready, or not, here we come!" Their voices bellowed through the quiet house. My heart was pounding in my chest. They stormed the living room and quickly found my son. "Where is Daddy?" my daughter said, beginning the interrogation of my son. He would crack under the pressure, I knew it. He would fold and I would be scolded.

"I don't know," he pleaded. "I was too busy hiding."

Now, the three of them began to look for me. My heart was racing and I was doing my best to hold my breath. It was just me and Anne Frank, up there. I was not going to found.

Shannon and the kids heard the scream, the crashing and the too quick response of "I'm in the closet!" being yelled from the bottom of the closet. My fat butt had done some quick work of taking down the shelf in the closet, along with the shirts, pants, towels, blankets, pillowcases, shoes and the ironing board. I had also done a project of opening up my back. They opened the door, to see my handy work and me sprawled out among the closet's items.

They were looking at me in horror. I tried my best to act natural, like it had been something that I had been planning on doing, but it was to no avail. I made my way to the bathroom, the gash on back hurt a little and my pride hurt more. I was wearing my Phillies shirt and the tear in it hurt the worst.

"You're going to fix it!" I heard.

I was not going to be allowed to make any calls. I was going to have to put my big boy Macho Mr. Fixit pants on and do it myself.

That night as I hung up the shelf, alone. I had a new respect for the Handy Man. I went out and told Shannon how I had fixed it. Leaving no rock unturned. I told how I hammered the metal back in place and how I had screwed it back into the wall.

Thank you Mr. Fixits. Now, I have some projects that need tackling, can you tell me how to lay some piping? I need details.

Your Handy Man Bill?

Murk Merkh Searches for a Church

2012-01-05T21:19:00.001-05:00

We as a family go to church. Sunday morning has always and will always be a "church morning". Right now, we attend Immanuel Baptist Church, but we didn't always. We had to find it and so here is part of our journey to find it.

We left our last church and ventured out to find another. We didn't have any children at the time and we wanted to find one that felt like home. You see, for us, church had to be somewhere where we felt comfortable. Somewhere that we felt safe. We needed good preaching and nice people.

We wanted to start fresh. Somewhere new. So, we began looking.

We hit the yellow pages and decided to go top to bottom, a dart would have been a better idea, but we tried it this way. Why? I don't know. It really isn't important, so don't get hung up on it. Let's move on.

We tried a few. Nothing impressive. Nothing jumped out.

Now, since we didn't have too much dough, and Shannon's job needed her to work one Sunday a month. Sometimes, she would allow me to venture on my own, like an errant dog, in hopes of finding a church that we could both attend.

So, there I was, riding solo...without Tonto. (But if truth be told...I'm more of the Tonto.) Okay, so we'll scratch that last part. There I was, Tonto, riding solo. Sunday morning came and she went to work, I headed to a random church. Gotta admit, a little intimating. I walked through the double doors of this unnamed church. People seemed friendly enough with their plastic smiles and their 'howdoyados'. I smiled back, keeping my distance. I was reserved, like I get with crowds. (Sure, I can speak behind a computer screen...but when I go face to face with a stranger I instantly become an inept jellyfish. I slur my speech. I mumble my words. And most people assume that I am mentally challenged.)

"Hi, thanks for joining us today."

"I like ice cream."

But, I continue to play the part of acting like a mature adult. I sat down, four pews from the back. I sat on the end and placed a hymnal next to me. I needed space. They had a picture of Jesus in the front, kinda looked like graffiti and Jesus himself bore an odd resemblance to Walter Matthau. The preacher got up and lifted his hands, high into the air, and said that we were going to pray. "Let us all link hands."

Link hands?

This was new. This was uncomfortable. I am a stranger. You are strangers. I don't want to link hands, thank you. I want to close my eyes and pray. But, I did it. A balding man, wearing a blue blazer and looking like Patrick Stewart, grabbed my wrist and closed his eyes. We were linked like sausages. "This will be over soon," I told myself. Sit tight.

The prayer was a mega-prayer. And when it finally ended I learned that Mr. Stewart wasn't done yet. He would not let go. He had quite the grip. I shook my arm, and he held on. I was flailing around like a drowning swimmer...and strong hands wouldn't let go. I was a drowning swimmer and Jaws here, had sunk his teeth into my wrist. I raised my arm above my head and quickly snapped it down, breaking myself free and that is when I quickly exited the church...brushing past anyone that was in my way. I could not leave fast enough.

One of the greeters, a man with a large mustache, began to follow me, and now I was in full sprint. "Sir, is there a problem?" he called, chasing me.

There was. I ducked behind a car and then in full sprint made it to my car. I even drove fast, checking my rearview as I drove. I was home. Safe and sound.

The following week, we both attended a quite large church building. Beautiful interiors. So far, so good. It seemed pleasant enough. Everyone smiled as we entered and we took a seat near the front left of the pulpit. No Grumpy Old Man Jesus here. The first few songs were nice and seemed quite enjoyable. There were about one hundred or so people standing and singing. The preacher, who reminded me of Don Johnson circa Miami Vice, then got up and made a few quick announcements and mentioned that he saw some visitors. He then looked at us. Directly at us.

"Well, newcomers, stand up and tell us your names," he said.

What? This can't be happening. All eyes were on us.

"Go ahead, stand up and say your names."

Give fake names.

My brain was shouting. We needed Detectives Crockett and Tubbs to get us out of this mess.

But, they didn't...and I couldn't give a fake name. We both stood and I said, in my best mumble..."Bill Merkh and Shannon."

The preacher seemed satisfied. "Okay, everyone. While, this next song play through, go up and say 'hello' to Murk and Shannon."

Wouldn't you know. The music started. And they all got in a single file line down the center aisle and began to greet us. "Hello Murk," they'd say as they shook my hand. "Nice to meet you Murk." I shook their hands and said 'hello' never correcting them, while Shannon kept repeating "his is name is Bill." Less people greeted us at our wedding.

We left as soon as the final whistle had blown, we were out the doors. "Goodbye, Murk."

"Murk, it was a pleasure to meet you."

We are happy at our church now. We have found one that we love. There are no wrist locks or chases and nobody makes a scene about us.

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. Remember to follow me. And LIKE our facebook fan page too.

You all are the best.

Your friend,

MURK

Super Freaks

2012-01-03T21:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes we all look like freaks, whether we want to admit or not.
Do you sing with the radio blaring TLC's No Scrubs, when you feel the elderly couple's eyes from the car next to you gawking at you?
Do you talk to yourself, when you are trying to remember something important?

"Don't forget the Cheerios. Don't forget the Cheerios."

Do you start mowing the lawn, but as your half way done, the sky opens and you have to make the decision:

A.) Do I look like a freak now, a continue to mow it while it's pouring.

B.) Do I look like a freak for the rest of the week because I have a lawn that half mowed, because I'll be busy till next Thursday.

Sometimes just doing stuff that is out of context makes us look like a freak.

Wearing a bathrobe = Not a freak.

Wearing a bathrobe to church = Freak.

Dancing at a wedding = Not a freak.

Dancing at a funeral = Freak.

Playing miniature golf = Not a freak.

Playing miniature golf alone = Freak.

Going to the movies alone = Freak?

I don't know. I would say, "Nope, not a freak." While, some of you reading would label that as 'freakish.'

Why?

You are going into a big dark room. You are going there to watch whatever it is in front of you. You are not talking. You are trying to pay attention to the film you just spent this weeks paycheck to go see. (And right after you just took out that second mortgage to go see Transformers 5: Attack of the Wallet.) There are no conversations, so there is no need for another human being to be present to make your experience any better. In fact, most of the time the other person is just a distraction from the screen.

Popcorn?

What did he say?

I missed that line too, because I just said 'What did he say."

Who is she?

What else was she in?

Oh! yeah, I remember, Planet of the Apes.

Not the Tim Burton one.

Did you see that one?

Yeah, Mark Wahlberg. You know Marky Mark.

Remember singing along with the Funky Bunch. "You got the right stuff, baby."

Oh, that was New Kids. Yeah, I'm thinking of his brother, Donnie.

I don't know why this movie has to be black and white.

Wait! She wasn't in Planet of Apes. I'm thinking of someone else. Forget it.

So, is Schindler guy ever gonna finish this list?

But, with all that to say: I enjoy going to the theater alone. In fact, I prefer it. I can be engulfed in the action, drama or comedy without having the nuisance of someone bothering me. I can simply watch without the distractions.

It was Die Hard 4. It came out somewhere near the fourth of July. I was alone. I took an early showing, wearing my baggiest clothes, so I could enjoy the snacks from Wal-Mart. I arrived early to make sure I had the ultimate viewing position. It was showing on their biggest screen and with the stadium seating I was going to find the perfect seat. There were thousands of seats, everyone was mine for the choosing. It was empty. Not another soul within my theater mile. I went up the forty flights and took DEAD CENTER. I sat there a few minutes trying to answer questions like, "Who starred in Saving Private Ryan? _OM H_NKS"

When a few faces started making their way into the empty theater. Now, we had about fifteen small clusters scattered throughout the massive stadium.

That is when a clean shaven man, came in slurping from his monster sized cup, carrying a drum of popcorn and laughing loudly to no one began to walk down my row. With thirty seats on either side of me, and fifteen hundred surrounding me...he choose the seat next to mine. He plopped himself down, as if I were expecting him. I wanted to get up or tell him to get up. But, I didn't have any courage. I sat there, contemplating my next move.

"Tom Hanks!" he shouted. Boy, was he proud of that one.

"You want any popcorn?" he asked me.

"I-I-I-I'm sorry, what?" I asked. Was he really talking to me.

"Popcorn." he held out the large tub, letting kernels fall into my lap.

"No, thank you," I meekly replied. Putting my head down. What was I going to do?

The previews came on. Let, me tell you. This fellow loved him some previews. He talked through everyone. He shouted at the screen. He laughed. He commented. I was so close to getting up and just moving, but I had picked that seat, and some schmuck was not about ruin it for me.

Then the movie started. He couldn't have been more quiet. I had check to see if he was still there a couple of times. Near, the end I was checking for a pulse. He said nothing, just watched the movie. Was I on Candid Camera? I continued to watch the movie and he was as quiet as a church mouse. I needed to know what was he doing.

"Mind if I have some popcorn?" I asked. He put out the popcorn, not saying a word.

"What did he say?" I asked. He didn't respond.

"I missed that line too, because I just said 'What did he say.'"

"Who is she?" I asked.

And so I tried with all my might, to get him to say something, but he was too busy watching the movie...even though I think he nodded when I talked about Charlton Heston.

The movie ended and as the credits rolled, I said, "goodbye." I think he was annoyed.

So, who was the freak?

I guess sometimes we all are.

Thanks for reading freaks.

BILL

Alone In the Bathroom

2012-01-01T23:48:00.000-05:00

It's a new year! We have made it to 2012, and if the Mayans have anything to say about it, this will be the last. There is even a movie titled it. (Not that I have seen it.)

Why is New Years so important? Is it the whole concept of the turning over a new leaf? A new beginning. A clean slate.

Is it the resolutions? We all make them, whether we announce them to the world or we keep them quietly in our heads. We want to eat healthier, lose weight, stop smoking, fall in love or simply to do more good deeds to our fellow man.

Why do we do we make New Year’s resolutions?

It seems that it the perfect starting point for the changes to the past. We can forget all about last year's disappointments and focus on the personal change that we are going to make. However, most of those resolutions fail.

My resolutions are usually driven by my own vanity...and truthfully, to impress to my wife, Shannon. My resolution a few years ago was to the look better for Shannon. I wanted to really impress her. I wanted to lose those extra pounds and make her want to whistle when she saw me. Instead of her normal gag reflex when I would take off my shirt. Plus, if I continued to eat the way I liked (hamburgers drowned with cheese and bacon, plus a little more bacon and a little more bacon) I was going to have to start shopping for some man bras for the much needed support.

So there I was Alone In the Bathroom. I had just finished shaving my face, and I was looking in the mirror. (I think I might have been flexing my cheese steak induced arms.) When, I looked down at my chest and saw a little tuft of hair making a straggly appearance. I am not sure if I had ever noticed it before, but I was now a man on a mission. I needed Shannon to find me sexy...and this hairball was in no way helping my case. Something needed to be done.

I had just shaved my face, and looking down and there was the razor smiling up at me. I could hack that unwanted hair right off with our friend Bic.

But wait! What was all this stuff I heard about shaving chests? I didn't want to go to bed and in the morning wake up to have a chest five o'clock shadow. I needed another weapon to remove this nest of hair. Through the cabinets I dug...looking for the perfect tool to begin my manscaping needs. I dug deeper than I ever had before. It felt like I was entering a bathroom Narnia, when my hand brushed against the box that was about take me on a journey of sexiness.

WAX STRIPS!

I quickly opened the box, and threw the directions to the floor. No time for those, Shannon was going to start to wonder why it was taking me an hour to shave my face. I grabbed the wax strip and peeled off the back. I stuck the biggest square piece of wax to the target. A perfect hit. It covered the patch of hair and I knew soon that it would gone and forgotten. I pressed against the strip. I pounded the strip. I rubbed it. I kneaded it. I pressed it some more. "Good bye hair." I quietly cackled. I let a good five minutes go by. I gave the wax another quick pound. I grabbed the corners of the strip...and pulled.

PAIN! Hot flashing, numbing pain. There was so much burning and blood. Apparently, Mr. Wax strip is supposed to removed immediately. I screamed till my throat was hoarse. I felt as if I was the man in the Temple of Doom who had his heart ripped out of his chest. Tears rolled down my cheeks and blood rolled down my flabby pecs. Oh, the torture!

After several minutes of toilet paper clean up, I was left with the perfect raw flesh square tattoo. The hair was gone, like I had wanted, but so were several layers of skin. I had failed. My intentions were good, but I had taken the wrong approach. And maybe, that hair wasn't that terrible after all.

I learned some valuable lessons that night, alone in the bathroom.

1.) Leave the waxing to the experts.

2.) Read the instructions before trying anything.

3.) Let others help you with your resolutions.

Shannon wanted me to look better and she could have easily have helped me. All I needed to do was ask. Maybe you just need to ask others to help you. Don’t try to fulfill your resolutions alone.

Don't forget to share this with your friends. And if you enjoyed this...FOLLOW ME.

Thanks,

Bill

Pleased to Meet You...Hope You Guessed My Name

2011-12-29T21:12:00.000-05:00

What are you afraid of? I mean, what really, really scares you?

If you answered 'nothing'. You lied. Maybe you are scared of telling the truth. Go back, and answer the question honestly. Are you afraid of...

Heights? Flying? Death? Bears? Snakes? Intruders? Fire? Love?

Everybody is afraid of something.

I wrote a sketch for church back in the summer time. It was only seven minutes or so and it dealt with fear...because like I began, everybody is afraid of something. The sketch was about a man who was afraid of chocolate. How can someone be afraid of chocolate, you may ask? It's delicious...right? Well, in the sketch, he felt he had a pretty good reason. He knew the fear was silly, but still somewhere in his cranium he associated chocolate with fear. You see, all of his life, his parents told him he that he was deathly allergic to chocolate, because they FEARed that he would grow up fat. The woman he was speaking with thought he was crazy, but she had her own fears she needed to overcome too.

All fears have to stem from something. Fears are about the unknown. The consequences. If you are afraid of heights, it is the aftermath of falling and landing that really scares you. Afraid of fire? The outcome of being burned and the destruction the fire leaves. Do you have a fear of love? Is it because of the rejection that could follow?

Stand up to your fears. Don't be a coward. Don't live your life always worrying.

Now, this is the story of how I came face to face with my fear.

Late one night, the kids were tucked soundly in bed. I was busy upstairs (I believe I was watching a rerun of "Sanford and Son" ) and Shannon, my wife, was going downstairs into the basement to put in some laundry when she came racing back upstairs...out of breath...saying "There is a spider down the basement and it's huge!"

Now, I love my wife, but when spider = huge, she means that the spider's body is about the size of a nickel. So, I did what any loving husband would do. I told her kindly that I was very busy. (I think Fred was trying to buy something and Lamont was having no parts of it) She insisted that the spider was huge and I was NEEDED! Well, she is lucky we have a DVR, because I could go be her superman and take care of this spider and go back to doing what I do best. Watching TV on the couch.

Okay, I can admit when I am wrong. I WAS WRONG! This spider was huge. In fact, this was no ordinary spider. Nothing of the likes that I have ever seen. It was a half spider/ half cricket. And it's body was the size of a golf ball. I looked and it and instantly my manly manliness took over. Okay, well, my knees got a little weak. I think my upper lip quivered some, but I stood my ground. I looked down at this spider cricket and thought, "this is why Shannon married you, Bill".

I had a home to protect. My wife and kids needed to be safe. I turned to her, and in the deepest voice that I could muster I said, " Okay, let's go upstairs. We can start taking our clothes to the launder mat. The basement is his now." But, she looked at me, shook her head and that's when I knew, I had to send this spider back to the fire pits from which it came.

I looked at it with my blue eyes. It's red glowing eyes tried to pierce my shaken soul. It's legs hunched and ready for an attack. I think it's lips were curled. I don't think Shannon heard it, but I am pretty positive that the spider was bad mouthing my mother and my children. That's when it jumped. Oh, how I wanted to scream. (Shannon will tell you that I did scream, but trust me...I DID NOT SCREAM!) Okay, I might have screamed. He was now hiding on the side of my grass cutting sneakers. (Yes, he was scary, but also stupid, because I could still see him.) That is when I saw the wooden baseball bat leaning up in the corner. What that spider didn't know was that The Surrender (La resa)" by Ennio Morricone was now playing loudly in my head and I was transforming into Sgt. Donny Donowitz aka "The Bear Jew". I was going to bash this spider's head with that baseball bat. Turning him into nothing more than a splatter of guts, legs and evil.

I grabbed that bat and said a quick prayer. And with every ounce of my being I felt myself swinging like Mike Schmidt.

C R U N C H !

A vapor of spider soul escaped and vanished into the air. I had stood up to the spider cricket and to be safe I gave him the old double tap, just to make sure my family was safe. I could now rejoin the familiar faces of the Sanfords and exit this real life Stephen King novel. It was over.

Thanks again for coming by. Make sure, to please share this blog with all of your friends and subscribe. I hope it didn't disappoint too much.

Unsocial Network

2011-12-27T21:15:00.000-05:00

This is my first ever blog and after I write it I will post it on facebook, telling "friends" to read it. Maybe I'll be lucky and someone, out in cyberland, will repost it so that their "friends" will read it...and then my "friend's friends" will read it and pretty soon all the "friends" on facebook will get a chance to read my blog.

But, my guess is that some of you just happened to stumble upon this blog and gave it a quick glimpse and thought, "Hey, I can do better than that. Who cares what Bill has to say?

Let's be honest. You are probably right. You could write something funnier, wittier and probably more entertaining then anything that I am about to offer, but you are here now...so give a brother a chance.

Facebook. It is how we now view most the people in our lives. We see sides of them that we never knew were there. There is a "friend" of mine, who I use to think was pretty, pretty cool. I turns out this person whines, complains, bad mouths their spouse, and is all around just an absolute miserable human being. Thanks facebook.

I know what some of my "friends" eat for breakfast. I know when their relationships go from being married to single. I know when the kids have diarrhea. When their sons struck out in Little League. When their daughters got a stain on her new dress.

And the pictures. The pictures. We love the pictures. We have proof of everything we just posted about. LOOK! This is what we had for breakfast. "Oh! That is what a bowl of oatmeal and a banana look like. Now, it all makes sense. You had oatmeal and a banana and presto there is a picture of it.

But, let's not forget to tag it. If you happen to go, pretty much anywhere, and the person you are with just tweeted about it, foursquared you as being with them and now is putting up the pictures on facebook. Guaranteed, if you were with that person for ten hours and in that ten hour span, you made one slightly awkward face and maybe your tongue was half out, your eyes were half crossed and your hair is being wind blown straight up. SNAP! That is the picture that is now being uploaded to facebook. And BAM! Now, you are tagged in it. You can remove the tag, but not till after all your "friends" have witnessed it and now are referring to you as "One eyed Willie". Thanks facebook.

So, stop tagging me when I look like Quasimodo. Stop moaning about your little problem child. We just don't care. And we don't care what your new curtains look like. If we really care about the curtains, then we are friends and I will see them the next time I'm over. We don't care about what you will eat, are planning on eating or how it already is affecting your insides. We don't care about your fish tank, farm or if you just scored the highest score anyone has ever scored in Bejeweled Blitz. And if you like song lyrics, share the freakin' song... give the composer their due. We don't need to be calling the suicide hotline...because "I put the bullet in the chamber and the barrel in my mouth." (The Healing Faith) AND NO MORE Cryptic messages or I don't know what you are talking about and now I don't care. I am now officially on a rambling rant.

Sure, we all have bad days. And sure we sometimes need a little encouragement, help, or just a place to vent...but keep it to a minimum. It ain't that bad. We all deal with the everyday crap. And I promise that my next blogs will be joyful, fun and hopefully a lot better.

Thanks for reading.

Your "friend",

Bill