Bailing on a Friend

I don’t normally take requests for blog posts, because, well, frankly no one has ever asked me to! But a good friend recently asked for a recounting of the time another good friend got arrested at a concert, and while I don’t think she meant for me to do so in this forum, I figured, what the hell? The main character (and boy was he a character!) is no longer with us, and the statute of limitations has long since expired, so what’s the harm in sharing a funny story with the world?

The specific details are cloudy for a variety of valid reasons, but I’m pretty sure the show we went to see that night at the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, New York, was New Potato Caboose, a Grateful Dead inspired jam band.  But it could have been Blues Traveler. Or Max Creek. Or any number of hippie bands. Point is, we were there to have a good time.

And we started having that good time right away, courtesy of some substances that shall remain nameless. And colorless. And odorless…

But before that kicked in, we set out looking for some beer. Oh, and by we, there were five of us; all who shall remain equally nameless. Well, except for Kevin, since he’s now dead. And me, since, well, my picture is sort of up there in the top right corner.

We wandered the mostly Spanish-speaking town of Port Chester looking for someone to sell us beer. I can’t remember if we were underage, underfunded, or just under the influence, but for some reason, the task proved to be difficult.

At one point, we circled back toward the theater, hoping to score a ticket for Kevin’s cousin. But the show was sold out, and no one was scalping, so we began plotting Plan B. Not that there was that much to plot, as Plan B was ALWAYS simply identifying which exit door one of us would kick open from inside to let the ticketless masses in once the show started.

We found the door, and Kevin pressed his hear up against it to hear the opening band – I think it was the Spin Doctors (who would soon become the biggest band in the world…for about a week. But we had no interest in seeing them.) Just as Kevin was stepping away from the door, it flew open and sent him sprawling to the sidewalk. I saw his cousin eye the door for a moment, clearly thinking, this is my chance. But he chose to help Kevin up instead. Plus, we still had that beer to find.

"That was NOT a good sign," someone said, as we continued down the sidewalk, Kevin slightly more dazed and confused than the rest of us.

"No, but that is," Kevin said, pointing to Bud sign in the window of a bodega that soon sold us a six-pack of Busch Light for $10.  We popped our cans and toasted our success on the sidewalk, just as a police car was driving by.

The cops got out and hassled us a bit about drinking in public, but they seemed willing to let us go, so long as Kevin, since he admitted to buying the beer, could show proof of age. We watched as Kevin confidently pulled out his wallet and handed it to the cop. The cop eyed the license, but his eyes got even wider at something else. He motioned to his partner and they stepped over to the car. After a brief conference, and some radio communication, they came back and said, “I’m sorry son, but you’re going to have to come with us.”

Next thing we know, Kevin is handcuffed and stuffed in the backseat.

“We were just drinking a beer,” one of us called out. “Can’t you just give him a ticket? Or a fine?”

“This goes beyond beer,” the cop said, through the open window. “And speaking of which, you better dump the rest of that out before you DO get a ticket.”

We watched as they drove off, stunned into silence by the sudden turn in events.

“Now what?” one of us asked. “What do you think they found?”

“I have no idea,” Kevin’s cousin said. “I was just thinking maybe there was a warrant for his arrest of something, but they got all suspicious before they called anything in…”

“I guess we should go to the police station and see what’s up,” I suggested.

“Okay,” someone said, “But I can’t drive. This shit is starting to kick in…”

“You had one beer,” I started to say. Then I remembered. “Holy shit, I almost forgot about that! Now that you mention it, my stomach is starting to feel a little tingly.”

“I’ll drive,” Kevin’s cousin offered. He had driven down by himself in his pickup truck. “We can all squeeze.”

And squeeze we did. I couldn’t help but stare at the strange way that dude drove. He leaned way over the wheel, his nose almost touching the windshield, as his body bobbed and weaved into every turn like some sort of crazed Jack-in-the-Box. By the time we found the police station, I couldn’t tell if I was tripping or just plain dizzy.

Apparently I was tripping, as the police station scene was surreal. We found ourselves in this tiny room with a single sliding-glass window.  A dispatcher could clearly be seen talking on the phone, and gave us the “one minute” finger, but Kevin’s cousin knocked on the window anyway. Loudly.

I panicked and turned to leave, but couldn’t find the door. There were all these “WANTED” posters and “55 Saves Lives” signs on the wall, but I could not find the door.

“Who designed this place, Willy Wonka?” I asked out loud, as I ran my hands along the walls.

“Dude! Chill!” someone commanded. “You’re going to get us all busted.”

The cousin knocked again, this time getting the attention of a cop.

“Can I help you?” he asked, through the still closed window. A speaker amplified his voice to Wizard of Oz like levels.

“Uh, yeah,” Kevin’s cousin said, leaning into the speaker. “We’re here about my cousin? He was just arrested? We wanted to know if there’s anything we can do, to like, help him out?”

“What’s his name?” the cop asked. We told him and he said he’d be right back.

Fifteen long minutes later, he was.

“Okay, so listen,” his voice boomed through the speaker. “Your friend…he’s, uh, gonna be here awhile…”

“For drinking a beer?” someone said. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I’m not at liberty to go into detail,” the cop said, seeming to ignore the outburst, “but your friend was found in possession of some stolen property. It’s pretty serious stuff. There’s nothing you can do to help him tonight, so you might as well head on home.  And from the looks of your friend over there…” (I’m pretty sure he meant me!) “I should probably come out there and search all of ya’s. I’m sure I’d find something interesting…”

“Hang on,” Kevin’s cousin pressed. “You’re sure there’s no way he’s getting out tonight?”

“That’s right,” the cop said. “He’s got to be processed, transported, arraigned…”

“And there’s nothing we can do for him?”

The cop shook his head. “Not unless you’re going to bail him out in the morning.”

“Then I have just one last thing,” Kevin’s cousin asked. “Is there anyway you can go back there and get me his ticket? The show’s sold out and I…”

“Get the hell out of here,” the cop bellowed.

We didn’t wait to be asked twice.

Back at the theater, we immediately began to take up a collection from the hippies hanging outside during the break. I found a large popcorn tub and wrote, “Kevin’s Bail $$$” on the side and passed it around the crowd while his cousin slinked and snuck his way inside.

After collecting about twenty bucks, word came back that the band was about to take the stage. We handed over our ticket and went in to find our seats.

The audience was already restless from an apparently long delay, and booed as the stage manager came on for apparently the third time that night.

“Okay, okay, okay!” he said. “We got all the technical issues worked out, and we can finally start the show. But before I bring out the band, I need Mike Wood to go to the concession stand. You have a phone call.”

“Did you hear that?” I said to my friend. “It sounded like he said I had a phone call…”

“That IS what he said,” my friend said. “But it can’t be you. Who would be calling you here?”

“Beats me. I didn’t even know I was going to be here until a couple of hours ago!”

Our other friend came down the aisle, balancing three overflowing cups of beer.

“Dude, did they just say you had a phone call?” he asked.

“I think so,” I answered. “Should I go check?”

Apparently the people around us misunderstood the announcement, and thought the band was not coming out UNTIL I took my phone call, and they all began chanting, “Answer the fucking phone! Answer the fucking phone! Answer the fucking phone!”

So I answered the fucking phone. And it was Kevin! He used his one phone call to call me at the theater. He said they caught him with stolen credit cards and bail was set for $10,000.

“$10,000?” I repeated, thinking of the $17.50 we had managed to collect. “That's pretty harsh. But I’ll see what we can do.”

“You don’t need all of it, “Kevin said. “A cop gave me some numbers for bondsman, and it sounds like we just have to come up with 10% of it.”

“Oh. So like a hundred bucks? That’s no big deal…”

“Try $1000.”

“Oh…”

A loud cheer from the crowd let me know the band was finally coming on.

“Okay, well, hang tight,” I said. “There’s a lot of people here and we already started up a collection. All we need is for everyone to give us a dollar and we’ll be good. Don’t worry.”

But Kevin had good reason to worry. After I hung up the phone, I got sort of got caught up in all the music and moving and grooving, and what little money we did manage to collect went to buy more beer. And McDonald’s on the way home.  Needless to say, Kevin wound up spending the night in jail, and wasn't released until his dad drove down and bailed him out the next day. 

But in my heart, I know Kevin would do the same thing for me!

RIP

Kevin Dalton

Oct. 4, 1972 - April 16, 2006 

"You didn't just live in the moment, you created it."

Trash Talk

As I sit here, sipping my second cup of tea (brewed from the same tea bag as the first) and eating toast off of a “plate” that is really just a Bed, Bath, & Beyond 20% Off coupon, I realize what a great recycler I am. Even the steak knife that I buttered my toast with was one I used to cut Eli’s strawberries earlier (which I’m pretty sure is also the same one I used the night before to open a package.) And just because those strawberry tops and eventually thrice used tea bags do not go into the compost pile (since we don’t have one. Icky!) I still think I’m doing my part to help the environment.

Turns out, you don’t have to be a crusading tree hugger to help the planet; you just have to be lazy and a little disgusting. Or, in other words, the typical American male! Seriously guys, we should ALL be Recycling Kings (Note to self: set up meeting with History Channel to pitch new show, Recy-Kings).  Basically we were born to reduce, reuse, and recycle. So what’s holding us back?   One word: Women!

Women REDUCE us to “disgusting” husbands and boyfriends just because we wear the same shirt three or four times before washing it. We’re not gross. We’re stewards of the environment.  We know that each load of laundry uses up to 40 gallons of precious water, requires 4.5 kWh’s of expensive energy, and releases lots of harmful chemicals into the ground.  So the next time you see, or smell, a guy in a dirty shirt, don’t judge him. Thank him.

And ladies, every time you complain about an unflushed toilet, what you’re really saying is, I hate the environment. Guys know that it takes an average of 2.5 gallons of water to flush, which is why we reserve them for “burying” dead fish and disposing used motor oil. So the next time your guy “forgets” to flush, or decides to pee outside, don’t berate him. Embrace him. Your children’s children will appreciate it.

Speaking of appreciation, guys also know that people appreciate the gift, not the bag, so let us reuse the giant “It’s a Boy!” gift bag to wrap Grandma’s anniversary gift. What else are you saving it for?  Same goes for actual gifts. Regifting unwanted items isn’t tacky. It’s recycling.  And it’s the right thing to do. Think of all the money, fuel, and pollution you girls could save by one less trip to the mall.  

Guys are great at combining trips to save energy. But instead of getting praised, we get grief. Sure, we could go to the store when you run out of tampons, then drive all the way home to drop them off, and then go back out to the bar. But that would be wasteful, which is why every trip out combines a stop at the bar or package store.  I’m sure you can wait until halftime for your feminine hygiene products (which are bad for the environment, by the way!) Plus, watching the game together saves energy. Twenty guys at 20 homes watching 20 TVs is just plain wasteful. 20 guys at one bar watching 20 TVs makes much more sense.

I supposed that’s enough gloating for now. Seems to me like you ladies have a lot of catching up to do.  

'Snot My Problem

This month marks my fifth “Facebook Free in February” stunt, and so far, so good. While I have wanted to share with the world how much I like Jimmy Cliff’s new album, I’ve been able to content myself with simply playing it around others, which actually makes more sense. Problem is, most people are like, “Dude, it’s winter. What’s with the reggae?”

I’ve also been tempted to comment on the A-Rod/deer horn controversy, but instead have had to settle for listening to others do so on WFAN. And frankly, Ira from Staten Island is much more knowledgeable on the subject than I am.

The only real problem is birthdays. It’s just so much easier to post “Happy Birthday” on someone’s wall (after facebook reminds you, of course!)  rather than send an actual card or, god forbid, call them.  But I’ve made my list of worthy friends, and will make every effort to acknowledge their birthdays in some way. And if you didn’t make the list, or if I find myself busy that day, consider THIS my sincere “Happy Birthday!”

The one thing I really miss is the instant interaction. I can post a picture, pose a question, or make a statement, and get real-time feedback. And some of it is even helpful! For example, my wife and I have been struggling to teach our 3-year old son how to blow his nose, and we really could use some advice. He’s great at sniffing, but when it comes to blowing, he, well, blows!

He’s pretty good at sneezing, and wiping up the aftermath. And he’s a champ at coughing into his elbow. But he just can’t figure out how to use a tissue preventively. I’ll hold one over his face and tell him to pretend he’s blowing out birthday candles with his nose. He sniffs. I’ll gently pinch his nose with it and tell him to blow out. He sniffs. I stuff a sock in his mouth and tell him to breath out his nose, he sniffs. Then calls the police!

It’s crazy. The kid can figure out how to download games from the App Store, but he can’t blow his own nose.  And believe me, he’s had LOTS of opportunities. Being in daycare for the past three years, he’s had a perpetual runny nose. We’re talking a real Boogie Monster. He could single handedly (nosedly?) provide Nickelodeon with all the slime they need. His nose is snottier than a French waiter….

Okay, I’ll stop. I think you get the picture. So, my loyal 79 followers, will you provide the counsel I can no longer seek from my 379 “friends?” Do you have any suggestions for how one teaches a three year old to blow his nose? If so, please respond below (Get it?  Below? Blow? Ha, I kill me!) But DO please respond. I crave the interaction, and I really could use the advice. And I REALLY don’t want to turn to Pinterest!

Please...

You all need to STOP! And yes, I mean YOU. Whether you’re my wife, my family, my friend, my neighbor, my coworker, or my fellow American, you need to stop! You need to stop watching the news, listening to the radio, reading the paper, and going on-line to find out more about the shootings in Newtown. What MORE do you need to know? After learning that 26 innocent people were gunned down, 20 of them children, what MORE could you possibly need to know? Other than finding out if anyone you knew personally was involved, there is NOTHING else you need to know.

Everything else you WANT to know. And that’s pretty fucking sick if you ask me.

But lucky for you, the media will be happy to fulfill your desires. Want to know what the last thing one of the victims had for breakfast? Keep watching. Curious as to what’s inside all those Christmas gifts that will never be opened? Keep reading.  Want to hear an exclusive interview with a 9-year old survivor? Stay tuned.

And right now many of you are offended, gasping indignantly that YOU don’t want to know that, and YOU think it’s terrible.  Yet you keep watching.  You sit on your couch complaining how insensitive the reporters are for questioning survivors and families of the victims at a time like this, yet you don’t change the channel. You “like” your friend’s comment that the state medical examiner should never have released such gory details about the deaths, and then you Google the report to find out just how gory and insensitive it was. You claim to dread the inevitable release of the class photos of the 20 smiling young children doomed to die, yet you’ll buy the goddamned paper.

Then you’ll gather and talk and ask yourselves HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED? You’ll point fingers at bad parents, weak gun control laws, poor security in the schools, and issues with how mental illness is treated. You’ll blame violent video games, gory movies, and heavy metal music.

But guess what? As abhorrent as some of those lyrics and images can be, they can not POSSIBLY be worse than the version of “Heaven” I heard on the radio yesterday that was remixed with actual sound bites from the survivors and first responders. I know it was meant as a tribute, but it’s fucking deranged. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if ends up at #1 on iTunes, because people like YOU are going to buy it. 

The weird part is YOU are the good people. You love your kids.  You support your community. You value human life and have compassion for others. You donate to worthy causes, help out when you can, and cry yourselves to sleep at night over things like this. And I love and respect you ALL for it. I just don’t get this addiction to violence. You claim to hate it, yet refuse to look away. And will actually seek it out.

So much so that we’ve even had to create words to describe such actions. Rubbernecking is an actual term that refers the traffic caused on the CLEAR side of the highway by those slowing down to look back at the carnage on the OTHER side. Why? What are you hoping to see when what you NEED to see is the road in front of you? What do you WANT to see so badly that you’re putting your own safety at risk?

And that’s exactly what you’re doing while watching the news sensationalize tragedies, for as YOU sit there in scared shock over what you are seeing, some psycho is making mental (and I DO mean mental) notes on what he needs to do to make you feel even worse when it’s his turn.  You’re giving him a blueprint for what he needs to do to top the last guy. 

But instead of turning off the TV, you’ll turn to your friends and say things like, “If that was MY kid, I would have made sure he received the help he needed,” and “If MY son was that troubled, I would NEVER have guns in the house.” You’ll wonder why “somebody” didn’t see or say something sooner. You’ll want to know who was responsible, and why they didn’t do more to stop it.

But YOU need to stop it. You need to stop giving your tacit approval to those providing such information by not consuming it. I’m not saying turn your back and turn it off, I’m just saying turn away after you’ve heard enough. And I think just knowing that 26 innocent people, 20 of them children, were shot and killed in their school is MORE than enough.

Don’t you?

Toasting the Wonder Bread of Wine

I've said pretty much everything there is to say about Thanksgiving in previous blogs and columns (like here, and here) so this year I will focus on the REAL symbol of the holiday: Georges Duboeuf's Beaujolais Nouveau. Sure, it's a crappy wine in a tacky bottle, but similar to cranberry sauce (both in taste and color), it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it.

The gimmick is that the wine is the first of the harvest and vintage. In fact, it's so fresh, in order to have it on store shelves in time for the holiday, the first shipment has to be sent over by plane, which adds a couple bucks to the price. You can get the exact same bottle for $5 less a week later when it arrives on our shores via boat. But where's the fun in that?

Plus, like I said, the wine itself is crap. A glorified fruit juice that just so happens to get you drunk. You don't have to be an oenophile to know that young wine is not a good thing, but that's Beaujolais Nouveau's claim to fame.  "We're first!" they proudly shout, which is much different than, "We're Number 1"  (although it does tastes like it!)

So why do I celebrate the day with bad wine? And how did it become my personal symbol of the holiday? To tell you the truth, I have no freaking clue! Much like how no one really likes fruit cakes or Hickory Farms gift baskets at Christmas, yet they still get them, this fruity wine winds up on my table every year. The only difference is I go out of my way to buy it (well not that far out of my way, as I'll already be at the package store buying lots of real wine and good beer, but you get the point.)

What you still don't get is why. And neither do I. It just somehow became a tradition. And like most good traditions, it defies logic. There's nothing rational about running around the house beating on a pot with a wooden spoon to ring in the new year, but we do. There's no real reason for hiding, and then trying to find, the Christmas Pickle ornament on the tree, but we do. And there's no point in putting out a bowl of mixed nuts still in the shell that no one ever eats, but we do it every year. Because it's tradition. It's what you do. Some are fun, and some are just done. But you have to do them because holidays without traditions are just...days.

Which may be why I mark this particular holiday by drinking a wine that is literally days old. When we toast to the days past, and to the days ahead, and drink to the times we've had and to the time we have, the unaged wine serves as a reminder that while things do get better with time, we need to appreciate the present as well. Even if it is overly sweet and fruity!





BONUS CONTENT:

My favorite Beaujolais Nouveau story comes from Thanksgiving 2008. What happened was, after finding out in July that my wife was pregnant, I voluntarily gave up drinking as a sign of solidarity. At the time, I didn’t consider the calendar, which was a good thing, as I would have noticed that nine months starting in the middle of the summer would take me from the height of picnic season to Oktoberfest, and straight (literally) through the holiday season. But since I loved my wife, and don’t drink alone, it didn’t really seem like that big of a deal.  And it wasn’t. Much.

I made it all the way to Thanksgiving, where I was enviously watching my brother open "his" second bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau when my wife picked up his glass and took a sip.

“What was that?” I asked in disbelief.

“What? It was just a sip…”

“I know, but you’re drinking…”

“No. I took a sip.”

“Yes, but technically, you’re drinking. You just drank wine. And I said I wouldn’t drink until you could.”

“So?”

“So? So you drank! That means I can too! Pass that bottle over here!”

Had this loophole not been discovered, I would have dutifully carried out my commitment through April. But once you open Pandora's Box, or bottle, it's hard to put a lid on it. Thus began a several months of me forcing my wife to sip off of things I wanted to drink. Sometimes I’d just dip my finger in a glass and touch it to her lips. So long as she imbibed first, I was in the clear!

Happy Cativersary!

It's been one year since Steve the Cat showed up on our front porch, so in honor of our First Cativersary, I wrote the following poem:

You shed

and shred

and lay upon

my bed

You leave things 

that are dead 

in places you

know I'll tread

You puke up on the rug

and drink from Eli's mug

You give the plants a tug

and sound gross eating a bug

You sit on my knees

and make my wife sneeze

you bring in ticks and fleas

and gave us poison ivy

Your claws are lethal cutters

You're always licking butter

You chase anything that flutters

and ignore all of my mutters

Your nine lives are eight too many

and I've seen better tails on a penny

If it were up to me, we wouldn't have any

When it comes to pets, a goldfish would be plenty

But since my kids love you so much

I'll ignore the scratches on the hutch

But give my leg lamp another touch

and you'll be walking with a crutch!

The Mitts are Coming Off!

I don’t have the voice of Bruce Springsteen. Or the oratory skills of Bill Clinton. Or the money of Bill Gates. Or even the talent of Danny Devito. I’m just a blogger with 76 followers, so unlike them, when I endorse Barack Obama, I know nobody’s listening.

Nor should they, as I know jack shit about politics! I don’t know the difference between the trade deficit and the federal deficit. I couldn’t tell you how a bill becomes a law without singing the Schoolhouse Rock song first. And up until ten minutes ago, I thought Medicaid and Medicare were the same thing.

So clearly I’m no expert on the election. But I need you to listen to me anyway and vote for President Obama.

And here’s why…

Four years ago, I was honesty afraid for our country. Banks were failing. Car companies were going under. Screenwriters were on strike! Not to mention the mortgage crisis and rice prices and all the major companies and institutions that were filing for bankruptcy. It was truly scary. I wanted to hoard food and build a shelter and move to Vermont, which is unusual, as I’m typically a very laid back person.  And even though I didn’t have any money in the market, or a home to buy, nor did I particularly care for rice, I still felt really stressed and anxious and concerned for my well-being.  With so much happening all at once, I couldn’t help but feel in a constant state of panic.

But I don’t feel that way anymore.  And I haven’t in quite awhile. Now, I’m not naïve enough to think that President Obama stepped in and saved the day like some sort of Superman. I know markets correct themselves, things happen in cycles, and pendulums swing both ways – but – I also know that during that terrible time, he gave me hope. I felt confident and comfortable with him in charge…and I use that term loosely, as I also know the president is not really in charge.

I see the role of president as being closer to a figurehead than a dictator. Certainly he (or she) has more executive powers than say Queen Elizabeth or Prince Charles, but when it comes right down to it, the president still needs the approval of Congress (I think) and other legislative bodies in order to make any lasting decisions. So when we elect a president, what we’re really doing is choosing someone to serve as the face of our country and the embodiment of our values.

And while President Obama is much smarter, taller, and blacker than I’ll ever be, he is still the best representative of how I want to be perceived as a person and as an American. He’s real. He’s candid. He’s funny. And he loves his family (and who wouldn’t, with such a hot wife!) Mitt Romney and his little sidekick may have that all-American look, or at least the type popularized by all those 80’s movies about frat boys and jocks, but is that the image we really want to portray? Are they the people you really want representing you? Do you want us to be cast as bullies who look down on others and believe success is measured in dollars? Or do you want to be seen as intelligent, compassionate people who recognize that hard work pays off in more ways than one? 

I hope you see it my way and vote for Obama. I’m sure it’s cooler to obey The Boss, or the Bills, or even Danny Devito; all of whom are risking their reputations and fan bases with their support and endorsement of the president. But for me, the stakes are even higher.