1.26.2012

Yeah, I went to a club once...

I have gone on "Spring Break" exactly one time in my life.
That's me in the back upper left.
Okay, okay... that's a lie.
In 2007, my college roommate, Liz, and I spent a week in Florida sponging off assorted family members. Specifically, my aunt and grandma. God bless them.

And while it was not a tequila-fueled, Mexico meets MTV, sexfest of loose clothing and looser morals, we still had a blast. The most memorable moments of which consisted of going to a *real* club in Orlando and being violently sick for three days. However, not (surprisingly) in that order.
Although I must say, after three days of non-stop puking and sucking down ice chips, I rocked that bikini.

Rocked it like a hurricane.
Slight dramatization.
For the record, us being sick was not drug or alcohol related. Our best guess is that we picked up a bug on the flight down, or that the Florida oranges we ate immediately upon arrival were poisoned.

Seriously ya'll. Watch out for tainted fruit.
Anyway, once Liz and I completed our yak-extravaganza, we found ourselves desperate to make up for lost time.

So we drove to Kissimmee, played around in Universal Studios, and made friends with a caricaturist and some ride operator that Liz swore bore a strong resemblance to Johnny Knoxville.
Eh. Maybe if I squint?
It was from these guys that we learned that the real party scene was thirty minutes away in downtown Orlando.

Being young, single, and on spring break, exchanging phone numbers with strangers and getting sketchy directions to a club in an unfamiliar city was clearly the best decision we could have possibly made.

Yet we never saw Le Caricaturist or Pseudo Knoxville again. 

Just faces in a crowd...
But we did make it downtown to the club our newfound friends had recommended.
It looked like this:
Not the place I want to spend my once-in-a-lifetime vacation.
So, naturally we immediately turned that car around and went up the road to a place that looked more like this:
Jager bombs!
After securing a cheap hotel room within walking distance, we followed the crowd to worship at the shrine of dollar shots, house music, and general excess.

It was my first and only true club experience, (somehow I don't feel like Detroit counts). So, though my experience may seem tame to other people, it was pretty damn foreign to me.
And I have never learned so much in such a short period of time.

For starters...

4. Best check yourself at the door.

Apparently sunny Orlando is consistently ranked among the most dangerous cities in the U.S.
So, although it seemed a little ridiculous to go through airport-esque security just to get to the booze, it was reassuring to know that my chances of getting stabbed were significantly decreased due to the bouncer's insistence on searching everyone before they walked through the door.
This man has no problem looking you in the eye while patting down your junk.
Once we were checked out and allowed to go in, it became very apparent that weapons were the only thing security cared about finding.

Which brings me to my next point...

3. White girls can get all the drugs.

I feel like I should provide a brief description of this particular club: It was the largest, loudest, and most ridiculous party I have ever been to.
And, well... ever play that game, "which one of these is not like the others"?
I think you get the idea.
Also, weed was everywhere. I'm still not sure if contact high is a real thing, but I did feel lightheaded at times, so...maybe?
Seriously though, there was just copious amounts of ganja.
The first time I went up for drinks, the guy next to me asked if I'd like to partake. But being a criminal justice major who wanted to be employed eventually, I had to say no thanks.
My former D.A.R.E instructor would have been proud.
Maybe.
This same conversation was replayed several times over the course of the night, albeit with different guys. A little later, we were offered ecstasy, then cocaine.
I tried to be funny by saying I only liked cocaine in my morning coffee. To which the guy asked if we wanted to have morning coffee with him. I believe it's #31 on the list of dirty pickup lines.

Yup, walked right into that one.
I am an idiot.
But hey, it's a club. We kind of expect things like that.

I can't say the same for...

2. Making it Rain.

Imagine taking a portion of your paycheck and just lighting it on fire.
Simply because you can.
We saw regular dudes "making it rain," by casually tossing money out over the crowd, and the girls were eagerly getting down to snatch it up. No camera crews for a rap video or anything.
Apparently throwing money away just ain't no thang.
"Hundred dolla bills, ya'll!"
Don't get me wrong, I've definitely been irresponsible with money at times. We're talking about a girl who decided to buy a cheap pack of Hanes because I was too lazy to go to the laundromat.
But it was a "no ride-up" guarantee, so I felt justified.
And sure, I think the "make it rain" guys were only throwing single bills, but still. Something about it doesn't seem right.

Meh, whatever. 

1. Dirty, dirty dancing

Most of us are familiar with the kind of "dance moves" that go on these days. And I use that term loosely. No doubt Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly are spinning in their graves, but the ol' bump and grind, drop it like it's hot, and variations thereof are here to stay.
Sorry Mr. Kelly.
Maybe your high school had a "face to face with a little bit of space" rule at dances. You know, to stem the fear that students would otherwise take things to extremes and just start having sex on the dance floor. If you were like me, you laughed at the absurdity of such a notion.
Pffft! Haha! Yeah right. People in real life wouldn't do that!
But in retrospect, I suppose it's not such a large step to go from "freaking" to, well... you know.
Especially since I have seen it.

Yup.

Four people. Two couples. Having sex, in public, on the dance floor.

Take a moment to let that sink in.

Liz and I were getting our groove on when I saw her glance over my shoulder. Her expression quickly changed from "party girl having fun" to "completely horrified". She motioned for me to turn and look, I did, and found myself doing a Scooby-Doo double take.
OMG.   WTF?!   IKR!
Two girls appeared to be dancing face to face with each other, with a guy immediately behind each of them. But their skirts were hiked up abnormally high, and apparently my timing really sucks because as I turned to look I also got an eyeful of...
Rooster.
A whole flock of 'em.
And then the two dudes just walked off.

Gross.

To this day I wonder if a kid resulted from that public sex scene. They would be almost four by now.

So. There's that.

1.14.2012

Mama, warn your children.

The job I have requires me to carry a gun and a badge.

I'm not a cop, or a badass, but I work with some who are.

Sometimes we go out and serve warrants.

And most of the time, things are pretty calm.

The warrants are generally for felons I know personally. They've either committed a new crime or have absconded from supervision.

To be honest, it's not very dramatic stuff. We're systematic and careful. Reality T.V would find us boring.

The other day my partner and I were pulling up to a house when I saw a young man standing in the next door vacant lot.

I recognized him as one of the people I had a warrant for.

We parked the car, and the young man started walking away, toward a group of other young men hanging out less than a block away.

Moving toward him, I called his name. He turned and we asked him to come back with us to the car.
He did.

All the usual stuff happened then, hands on the car, fast search, handcuffs.
We were done and driving away in less than a minute.

We found this on him.
It's just a BB gun. You can get them at any Wal-Mart. This one wasn't even loaded.

But from a distance it looks exactly like the real thing.

This young man had it stuffed down the front of his pants.

Thankfully.

Had it been in his hand, we would have drawn our weapons. Real ones.

Any threatening movement, and he would have been shot.

The distance was less than ten feet. There's a strong possibility he would have died.

Because of something as stupid as a pellet gun.

I am extremely grateful things worked out the way they did.

People make mistakes, it's part of the learning experience.

But some don't need to happen. Ever.

1.12.2012

Don't be that person

The subject matter here is in no way original. These are concerns that have been addressed before by other, possibly more talented, people.
But because of the gravity of the issue, I'm going to bring it up again.

Ladies and gentlemen, there appears to be a spike in social retardation amongst adults in the U.S.
Yes, I was shocked too.
No, we are not speaking of people with down syndrome. They use the term "intellectual disabilities" now, and all are way cooler than the jackasses I'm referring to.
For example.
Social retardation is generally caused by not thinking before speaking, being oblivious, or just being an idiot. But it can be stopped.
We must combat this negative trend and ban together against the "That's just who I am/Calls it like I sees it" assholes, as well as the jack-wagons who falsely claim to have Asperger's. Unless they have talents and skills on par with fictional doctor's Brennan or House, no free passes shall be given!
^These are your only options Asperger fakers.^
And while the following examples are just the tip of the iceburg, it's a good start toward helping identify and then control the social retardation epidemic. 

5. "This is my friend Gary. He's gay. We're just like Will & Grace!"

Yes, I'm sure your friend appreciates you advertising his sexuality in such a flippant manner. Almost as much as he loves being pigeonholed into a particular personality type.
Also, if this is seriously how you introduce your friend, it's kind of hard for the conversation to progress...

"So, Gary, nice to meet you. Um, how long have you liked dick?"


In no way can this end well.

If "Gary" is really your friend, why wouldn't you reference his hobbies, work, or interests instead?
Surely I can't be too out of line with this way of thinking?

And yet it's not just the girls being socially retarded...

4. "Hey girl, you like to party?"

Most females are not idiots. Your thinly veiled suggestion to do drugs/have sex is unbelievable disgusting. And in our eyes you have just morphed into Slimer.
Not something anyone wants to go home with.
Also, idiot, we're at a bar/club/house party and shaking it to "Get Low". (That's still a thing, right?) Clearly we enjoy participating in festive events.
Say that line to a female while trying to get your dance on from behind and see how fast she turns to her friends with the "Help Me" face.

3. "Wow, you're all grown up now aren't you?"

Since we're on the subject of slimy men, granted this one may be more of a niche issue, yet it deserves to be addressed.
Gentlemen, I understand you may be recently divorced. So you want to go out and do what you think single guys do. Well, when you're at the bar trying out your Most Interesting Man in the World Act, and realize that your pretty cocktail waitress is the little girl from your old neighborhood/a former student/whatever, keep in mind that you're probably old enough to be her father.
If you have trouble grasping that concept here's a visual aide:
Perception vs. Reality
You are not Don Draper.
And under no circumstances should you do the following:

"Well heeeeyy, Katy. I didn't know you worked here! Wow, you sure have grown!"
Oh my God, who drove grandpa to the bar?
Ew, ew, ew.
"Uh, yeah. I guess so. Here's your fuzzy navel. (Creep.)"

But this is not just a gender issue.

2. When addressing a black man:
"You look just like Sean Combs/Will Smith/Denzel Washington/Other famous black dude!"
-OR-
"You play basketball, right?"
Racist much?
I mean, by that logic I look like Jennifer Garner and make an awesome point guard.
The similarities are obvious, right?
Look at our skin tones!
Maybe you're just trying to make a good impression or find some common ground, but damn, not like that. Especially if you're with a group of other white people. Now you're just making us all look bad.
Although, this guy does look eerily Will Smithish.
1.Girl: "All my friends are guys"

Over the years I've had a lot of females make this statement when talking to me. Females that I had considered good friends. Not only is it kind of awkward, but I get an overwhelming urge to find a reflective surface.
Dammit! It's just as I suspected.
Their reasoning generally goes along the same lines...

"Guys are more fun and less drama. Girls are all superficial and will talk behind your back."
Ohmigawd! This show is like my life!
Please. If all your "best friends" are guys, I've got news for you. On some level they all want to bang you. If you enjoy the idea of that, then congratulations, you're an attention whore.
Also, the sweeping generalization thing has got to stop (ha!). Saying that all girls are superficial is akin to stating that all men are sports junkies. Neither is the case.
Sorry Charlie, men and women just can't be best buds. Unless one of them is gay. And even then, someone is probably harboring some unrequited love.
Do I have male friends? Sure. But we don't call each other all the time and have "movie nights" because I know what's up and it would be weird.
"So, how about those Red Wings?"
Maybe the "all my friends are guys" statement shouldn't irk me as much as it does. But I have to wonder why a person would have such distaste for their own gender. Or what's wrong with them that other females won't be their friend. And trust me, it's not because they're "too pretty".

Here's a secret...
The pretty girls are the best ones to be friends with,
because you can leave them by themselves at a bar/party/church social for a few minutes
and when you return, without fail, there will be a flock of guys hovering around them.
And then you just pick off the strays...
But I digress. So now we know the symptoms of social retardation. But what do we do to combat it?


Flawless? Yes I think so too.

1.11.2012

School Time Conspiracy

When you're little, your parents are omnipotent fountains of knowledge. Every word, every action, is the gospel.
Not only did my parents know everything, they were also pretty creative, especially my mother.
Which is why I wholeheartedly believed in Santa Claus until the 5th grade.

Now I believe in a different kind of Santa.
However, my mom didn't always use her powers for good.

The year was 1994. I remember that because I was eagerly anticipating the release of The Lion King...
But who wasn't?
...and my release from the confines of the classroom.

The school year was winding down, only one week lay between me and the freedom of summer vacation.

While driving to school one morning I made an offhand comment to my mom. And like a well-trained improv artist, she took the cue and ran with it.

Nine Year Old Me: "I can't wait 'till summer. These last few weeks take forever."

Mom: "Well you know why that is, don't you?"

Of course I didn't, so I asked what she meant.
Her expression never wavered, staying completely serious as she launched into the long and detailed story of:
THE SCHOOL TIME CONSPIRACY.

According to my mother, the School Time Conspiracy worked like this:

"To adhere to legislative guidelines, there had to be a certain number of hours in a school year. But since school was only in session from late August to mid-June they tended to run short on the amount of hours required. Especially when things like snow days were factored in.

You mean it's not really a "free" day?
So in order to make up for lost time, a few hours were added to the school day during the last few weeks of school in order to meet legislative requirements. It was a more economical way to go because it costs less to have the lights, heat, and air conditioning on for a couple extra hours a day than for whole days at a time."

NYOM: "But how do they change all the clocks? It says 7AM when I go into class, same as here in the car."

My mother's response went something like this:
"In each school there is a master clock hidden somewhere, usually near the boiler room. The master clock is how the principles are able to control the other smaller clocks in each of the individual classrooms.
During recess or lunch when the kids are outside, the principle or a designated teacher will go to the master clock and move the hands as required to add more time to the school day."



In the area where I lived, one of our neighbors was a principle in a nearby school district. So I asked, "What about Mrs. McDonald? Does she control a master clock?"

"Yes. In fact, she was telling me the other day about how their master clock broke and instead of using a remote she has to manually turn the hands now."

"Is that hard to do?"

"It's not easy. Takes a lot of upper body strength."

"How big is the master clock?"

"Taller than you. It's a master clock you know."

I imagined Mrs. McDonald struggling to turn the hands of a massive clock somewhere deep within the school.
Apparently I also imagined her as an 1880's schoolmarm.
Mom's use of logical sounding terms like "economics" and "master clock" had me completely convinced.
Yeah, this sums up my feelings pretty well.
"Well, here we are. Have a good day hunny-bunny!" she chirped as we pulled into the school's parking lot.
Yup. That was me.
I arrived at school overwhelmed by the knowledge that had been bestowed upon me.
An idea began to take shape.
I would inform my fellow classmates. We would keep a close eye on the classroom clocks and catch the time jumps. The deceitful administrators would be caught in the act and somehow we would overthrow our oppressors by exposing the truth!
Indeed, I was like a tiny Karl Marx.
I told a few of my classmates. They were incredulous. Some straight up told me I was crazy.

"Nu-uh! My mom told me. So it has to be true!" I exclaimed defiantly.

One of my girlfriends compromised. She was one of the few kids responsible enough to be wearing a wristwatch.

"I know, we'll keep time with my watch to see if they move the clocks back," she said. Proudly flashing her pink Minnie Mouse timepiece.
Clearly she was one of the cooler kids.
It was a tense day. 
During recess we kept running past the classroom windows to see if we could get a glimpse of the clock hands moving back. The day was halfway over and constant monitoring of both the class clocks and my friend's Minnie Mouse watch revealed nothing suspicious.

At lunch time even my classmates who had believed me were beginning to express serious doubts.

NYOM: "No you guys. This is for real. My mom explained it all to me after I mentioned that the last week of school takes forever."
I was losing them.
NYOM: "Maybe the master clock puts out, like, a radio wave or something that affects watches too!"

And.... they were gone.
I came home to my mom frustrated.

"Mom! I told everyone about the School Time Conspiracy and we watched the clocks all day but nothing changed. Hey, the microwave time here is the same. Is this a worldwide plot?!"

"What are you talking about?"
What a strange child.
"Remember this morning when you told me how they added hours to the school day during the last weeks of class to meet requirements?"

"What? And... and you believed that?"
(Trying not to laugh...)
"Well... yeah."

Cue hysterical laughter.
Oh man, I've raised a gullible idiot.
And as she tried desperately to catch her breath in between laughs, it dawned on me.
There was no such thing as a School Time Conspiracy. I'd been duped! And now my friends thought I was crazy.

I love my mom. But she is an evil woman.