Nurse the Hate: 4th of July

I feel a bit melancholy this July 4th. This is the first year in a very long time when I have not been armed to the teeth with powerful explosives. Isn't being buzzed up on domestic beer and lighting Chinese made fireworks what celebrating our nation's independence is all about? Didn't I read something in History of Civilization 2 about Ben Franklin inventing the roman candle? Was that him? No? George Washington maybe? Feeling a bit adrift this summer, I didn't plan ahead and now I find myself sitting on my deck considering exactly what I am to do today.

Looking around my homestead, I don't see any kids running around lighting stuff on fire. What the hell happened to this country? When I was 13, we blew up everything we could get away with from about mid June until the fireworks ran out. The explosions would start around the neighborhood slowly weeks before, and build to hearing firecrackers go off about every 14 seconds by the time you hit the 4th. It wasn't just me that was a pyromaniac. All my friends were. We would tire of lighting the fireworks as intended, and quickly "modified" them into even more impressive (and dangerous) versions. We used to have bottle rocket fights that reminded me of the opening scenes of "Saving Private Ryan".

These kids that live in my neighborhood? Pussies. They put on their little plastic helmets to ride their bikes. By the way, when did that start? In my entire childhood, I don't remember one kid getting seriously hurt on their bike. Hell, I saw some pretty damn good wipeouts over the years. Not one kid cracked his melon open and left their brains on the pavement. Scraped knee or two and back on the saddle was the rule. Yet, here are these little pansies with their bike helmets on while motorcycles thunder by with helmet-less riders. Gotta keep Junior safe...

Our fathers used to give us the fireworks, or we'd make someone's Dad drive us across to the Ohio border and buy for our buddies that had a Mom that ruled the roost. (All men like fireworks. Those that don't, I view with great suspicion.) Yet, these fathers of the kids living around me don't have the same sense of values that their fathers did. They have failed as men. Maybe it's up to me to reinstill the core values that made America great. Maybe it's up to me to blow up some mailboxes tonight, burn my fingers on a short wick, and tie multiple fireworks together into one spectacular dangerous fireball. Maybe it up to me to dress up like Uncle Sam and tilt a mortar so it drops it's payload onto a neighborhood bar-b-que leaving screams and sulfer smoke in its wake. I'll look for something that gives no clue to the actual payload. Something called "Golden Flower of Dragon" or "Lightning Sunshine America Explosion". That shit usually lights up good.

Look, I know what I'm doing. I'm the guy that thought it was a good idea to light an M-200 that had been inserted into a pinanta filled with cigarettes. Oh yeah, it was in a packed nightclub while we were playing when I lit it off. I'm also the guy that blew up a giant tub of peanut butter with an explosive so powerful that birds filled the trees the next morning gorging themselves on peanut butter smeared leaves. I'm a pro. I know what I am doing.

Maybe it's time for me to reclaim America.

Update: A whistler just passed dangerously close to my head. God Bless America!

Nurse the Hate: The Barf Story

Everybody has a good barf story. These stories usually involve things like "Drink N Drown" nights at a college bar, your first experience with ouzo, or grain alcohol. This is not one of those run of the mill tales. My friend Jeff has the all time #1 greatest barf story of all time, and it goes a little like this...

In Erie PA, high school kids go to Peak N Peak to ski on the massive slopes of Western NY. These hills would be openly laughed at in Colorado, but for this region of the country, they're pretty big. (It's flat here, what do you want?) Our high school had something called "the Ski Club", which was a bus that was rented out on Wednesday nights that took kids who payed for lift tickets and gas to the ski resort. A teacher, who in retrospect had saint-like tolerence for asshole 15-17 year olds, was the official chaperone. Within the first two weeks of Ski Club my friend Jeff had been kicked off the bus for smoking weed and/or drinking. He was 15 years old, and very anxious to appeal to the much older and cooler 16 year old guys that seemed very worldly at the time. He also liked getting fucked up, so this was a pretty good club for him. For example, you couldn't hide beers in winter clothes at Yearbook I'll bet.

Now getting kicked off the bus wasn't the end of the line at Ski Club. You had purchased your lift tickets from Peak N Peak, and they didn't give a fuck if you had been kicked out of your school bus. If you had a lift ticket, you could come ski on Ski Club night. Since Jeff and every one of his friends had been kicked off the bus by Week 3, this resulted in them driving up together on Wednesday nights, smoking weed/drinking beer, and listening to AC/DC on the way. Actually, getting booted off the bus might have made "Ski Club" even more fun.

One particular Ski Club night they headed up armed with the secret weapon of all high school parties, Mad Dog 20/20. I assume most of you have had Mad Dog at one time or another. It's a mistake one seldom makes twice. If you haven't enjoyed Mad Dog, imagine Kool Aid making wine with a skull crushing level of alcohol. In the wine trade it's known as "fortified synthetic wine", but to almost everyone else on the planet it's a "cheap buzz". The plan was to enjoy this exotic beverage in addition to the usual beers/weed, and chase girls. What could be better than to enjoy a cup of greasy french fries from the always gourmet "Sugar Shack" snack bar washed down with thick grapey Mad Dog? Yummy!

As the night wore on, a large snow storm moved into the area and began to blanket everything under a thick white coat. A decision was made to stay over at "Colby's" family getaway house. Colby was one of the five super hot and popular girls in the most powerful clique in the grade above Jeff. This was huge. He would not only spend time with these unobtainable girls, but this time would be spent in the completely adult free confines of Colby's family cabin near the resort. It was like if Jennifer Aniston invited you and your friends over in a snow storm. Oh yeah, her friends Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie, and Heidi Klum would be there too. Awesome.

Jeff and four of the older guys climbed into their buddy Rob's Camaro to make the slippery drive to the cabin. AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" blasted at window shattering volume as they made the trip to the Promised Land. Jeff was seated in the middle of the back seat between two other guys. It was about ten minutes into the ride that the combination of marijuana, Stroh's, Mad Dog, and fries began to swirl uncomfortably in his stomach. He knew this feeling. He was going to be sick. And soon.

Jeff tried to get Rob's attention for him to pull the car over so he could get sick outside, but the music was just too loud. Now, what he should have done was thrown up directly onto the floor. It would have been bad. Really bad. But it would have been manageable. However, he decided to try and stop the vomit by placing his hand over his mouth. This proved to be a critical error in judgement. His hand served like a thumb over a garden hose, spraying the back of the heads of the passengers in front of him with dizzying force. The second burst had even more power, vomit reaching the inside of the windshield and side windows while the screams of the victims overtook the screams of AC/DC. The horror...the horror...

The car slid to a stop and everyone but Jeff leaped out like it was full of angry bees. Jeff sat in place, covered in the remnants of french fries and grape Mad Dog. D-Day vets from Omaha Beach would have cringed at the sight. They tried to get the situation as under control as possible with glove box napkins before resuming the drive. They would need much more than a leftover McDonald's napkin to deal with this. It was a total disaster. The snow was falling even harder now, and there was no choice but to head to Colby's house and the clique of Dream Girls.

When they pulled into the driveway, the girls walked outside to greet them only to find their worst nightmare. All of Jeff's "cool" older friends were drenched in his vomit. They had no change of clothes, and were stuck reeking in what should have been their moment of greatest triumph. The pissed off guys conferred with the girls. As Jeff wobbled out of the car, one of the clearly shaken girls said "Let's put him upstairs in the small bedroom. And get a bucket."

Things were never quite the same with Jeff and the Cool Guys and Dream Girls.

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Track

I am going to the track today to lose my ass on the Belmont. I don't know anything about horse racing. I know even less about horses in general. But I will not let those two little inconveniences get in my way today. No Sir. Look, here's the way I see it. My commission sales job has made it almost impossible to support myself in the way in which I have become accustomed. Therefore it is time to make the final step and become a professional gambler. (Or become Art Schliester, but I guess time will tell.)

After doing some recon on line, I have discovered a few facts about this race that are unquestionable. 1) Everybody is getting on Mine That Bird because they love that crazy hillbilly jockey. 2) Everyone think Chocolate Candy is a live dog. 3) No one knows what they are talking about either.

Based on that, I am going to play a Superfecta box of Mine That Bird/Chocolate Candy/Charitable Man/Summer Bird. I will also do an exacta box of Charitable Man/Mine That Bird. With my past history at the track, I will go home a loser. With the exception of one glorious KY Derby (hit the trifecta) and one afternoon at the Dog Track in Daytona (won enough to pay for gas to go home at Spring Break), I always lose. Everyone does. That's why no one goes to the track anymore.

Random Notes: I see that some American Olympic snowboarding woman died mountain climbing in France. People are shocked. Why? Life isn't like a Mountain Dew commercial. Climbing around on high places without ropes is dangerous. That's what you get for being "extreme Dude". Just the other day I was flipping around the channels and saw a program about some guy that was horribly injured doing flips on his motorcycle off of giant dirt mounds. What, this was a surprising end? You tell me you are surprised you fucked your neck up doing back flips on a motorcycle 100 feet in the air? Who didn't see that coming? Let's just say it. There is no bigger waste of time than the X Games. An endless parade of guys do the same basic trick over and over while a mall punk rock soundtrack plays underneath it. That whole thing is to sell soda and shoes. Hate it... Make a bet against the Cardinals on Sunday. Joel Pineiro, the Cards starter, is going to "try his best" to pitch through back spasms because St Louis is out of options. They just put their #2 starter on the 15 day DL, and Pineiro fees like he has to make his start. Maybe take the over on that one too depending on the number... I busted out a 1998 Chateau La Grave a Pomerol last week, and that wine is Very Nice... One of the worst songs anyone can do in karaoke is "Honky Tonk Woman". People think it's really easy because they all sing the first line while they are by themselves in the car. However, when they go for the chorus, hold the kids tightly, because it's not pretty. I almost was reduced to tears when I heard some dude in a backwards ball cap sing that on stage at a Rock Fantasy Camp event I stumbled into last night. Grim.

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Inevitable

There are three things that are inevitable...Death, taxes, and Cleveland sports teams flaming out after raising the hopes of the community. I was so confident that the Cavs would lose that game yesterday I put an ungodly amount of money on Orlando (in fact, the third largest wager I have ever made in my life). I was so confident the Cavs would lose, I didn't even watch the game. I was so confident I didn't even check the score after halftime. In fact, I went to sleep without even checking the score, and slept deeply with pleasant dreams. Hell, I went to the Indians game to watch them get destroyed by the Yankees instead of watching and monitoring my wager. That is how confident I was the Cleveland Cavaliers would lose that game.

Maybe the city of Cleveland was built on a cursed Indian burial ground. All I know is that things always go wrong here. Economy bad in your town? Hey, this city is built on domestic auto manufacturing. You may have missed that in the paper, but apparently that business sector isn't doing too well right now. What's it like here? Fat guys with mullets and bad mustaches drive around in dented and rusted cars. The downtown is deserted on Saturday night because all the businesses that are gone. However, plenty of shifty looking black guys sit on the sidewalks smoking cigarettes and look around out of the corners of their eyes. You can get a nice house for about $20,000 as long as your family doesn't mind sleeping in shifts with someone on sentry with a shotgun at all times. Media outlets vainly try to put a positive spin on the region with feel good articles about some lost soul that moved to the region. See! People want to be here! It's great here! (I don't ever recall seeing that sort of article in any San Francisco media for example. I think if you have to tell people it's great somewhere, it's probably not that great.)

Because of this, I think this city has a much greater passion for their sports teams than most anywhere else. You live in Miami, how concerned are you about the Marlins middle relief? In Miami it's 85 degrees and sunny. In Miami, it's "Let's go call a couple girls in bikinis and catch a tuna off my cigarette boat" everyday. Here the sports teams are pretty much all people have to get their minds off of the terrible abyss of their everyday lives. Why talk about how your job just cut your benefits when you can focus on that pass LeBron made in the 2nd Qtr? That's what makes it so much more painful when the teams tease you into thinking that maybe, just maybe, this is the year. Maybe this is the one time we can be the champs. Maybe this is the time We Win.

But no. It never is.

It's really unbelievable how Cleveland never wins. You would think one of the teams would stumble into a championship just once by accident. But, I just don't think it is part of the Grand Design. I think that this is just the way it is. You have to accept it, and learn to profit by it. Make that bet against any Cleveland team on The Big Game. You know they are not going to win. They haven't since 1964. Why will they now? While the rest of these losers mutter their "We'll get 'em next years", and I am going to count my winnings and start betting against the Browns.

Side Note: I just got back from the 16 show Euro Tour 2009 and will be posting the Tour Diary on the Whiskey Daredevils site ASAP. I will have it posted as I enter it, so it'll probably be an entry or two every few days... Love the Indians as underdogs vs the Yankees today as Pavano is pitching well... I think the Lakers beat Orlando in six. They have big men to deal with Howard, and Kobe is a nightmare for any team to defend... The new Cracker CD "In the Land of Milk and Honey" is really good. I would also recommend the new Bob Dylan, the Gourds "Hallelujah!", and the Hellacopters "Cream of the Crap Vol 1 and 2" to anyone looking for something to listen to instead of whatever crap the radio is playing right now.

Nurse the Hate: Hate Swine Flu

You would think the fucking bubonic plague has set across the world in a blanket of grim death with the coverage this swine flu has received. Open up the paper and it's almost complete coverage on how you can hope to minimize your risk of immediate and certain death from the flu. I have been able to absorb such winning tips as "wash your hands" and "don't cough with your mouth open". No shit? Next thing you know I'll have to wash my hands after taking a dump.

You know how many people have died in Mexico from swine flu? 159. You know what the population of Mexico is in 2009? 109,955,000 and change. You know how many people died by murder in Mexico last year? 13,829. So, what are you more concerned about? Me? I don't want to get gunned down when I'm walking the streets of Tijuana looking for cheap prescription drugs and donkey shows. I'm going to leave my paper breathing mask at home.

Once again the media has whipped everyone into a frenzy with a scary unconfrontable adversary. Terrorism is so blase. Why be afraid of unshaven guys in turbans when you can instill fear of microbes? Here's the deal with the flu. You're either going to get sick or you're not. If you get it and you are 2 or 82, you're pretty much fucked. But even then, don't lose all hope. In Mexico you can die from a bad headache or a sprained wrist. In the USA we can keep you alive even if you lose your torso and half your skull in an accident. Granted, you won't be prom king, but you won't be dead. Mexico is a little dicey. Good people down there, but medical care is not exactly like you see on TV shows. It's more like, "Bite this stick while we chop that infected finger off."

In the last week at work I have received five (5) emails with lengthy attachments detailing the company's efforts in combating this disease. Like most companies these days, I am pleasantly surprised when we deal with such problems as making payroll. I don't feel like I need some dope at "corporate" to send me a memo to remind me not to cough into anyone's mouth. I have that covered. Also, since there is one (1) case of swine flu in Ohio from a kid that traveled to Mexico, I'm not that concerned. If they could work on the shitbags that try to mug us while we walk to our cars, that might be much more beneficial to my overall health. But, hey, it's cool as long as we make payroll. I'll keep my head on a swivel and cough into a Kleenex.

P.S. If I die from swine flu, somebody delete this entry of Nurse the Hate. This post would be embarrassing at my funeral.

Random Notes: I implore you to take the rent money and put it on Manny Pacquiao. Ricky Hatton showed in that fight with Floyd Mayweather he does not have the quickness to deal with Pac Man. Manny is bad news. He is fast, effective, and a dead on puncher. Hatton may hang in there, but look for a long beating and easy Pacquiao win. At -240, it's a terrific value. The only way he loses this fight is if he gets the swine flu...

Nurse the Hate: All Fans Are Not Created Equal

I watch a lot of baseball on TV. So what? It's not like I'm going to relax at night by betting on Dancing with the Stars (although I could if I wanted to, but that's not the point). Here I am watching the Indians (at +135) vs the Red Sox when I notice the people in the field suite. You know the one I am talking about? It's the super special field box that is right behind the plate, and is in about 85% of the telecast.

The issue tonight is that the Rubes sitting in there have gone beyond the normal "talking on cell phones and waving" distraction. For the past three innings they have held up different hand made signs saying "Hi Mary" and "Hi John" while talking and waving in a very animated fashion on their cell phone. What the fuck is there to talk about? They are in the entire left side of the screen. It's not like you can miss them. "OK! OK! Do you see me? I'm waving! Yes! I have a white hat on! Yes! That's me! Hi! Hi! H! Do you see me? You do? Isn't this great?". Now, instead of relaxing and watching the game, I am now trying to figure out how to flamethrower that field box like a German pillbox on Normandy Beach. All because of three or four Rubes... Every pitch to the plate, you can see them. Every pitch.

Why do they have to contact their friends at all? It's not like they don't know what each other looks like, right? "Holy Shit! I just saw Jane on TV at the game. She looks nothing like she does here at the office. It's incredible!" Is telling someone you went to a major league baseball game so unbelievable that the only way to corroborate the story is to have visual proof on a live broadcast? "Yes, I know we saw Jim at the game on the TV, but they're doing all kinds of things with special effects nowadays. I refuse to believe that he actually attended that Indians v Red Sox game in late April. It's just too tall of a tale for a man to believe."

Look, if you are going to sit in those seats, you have to act like you have been there before. What makes sitting there great is the casual indifference you have while watching the game. "Yes. I am sitting practically on the catcher. If I wanted to, I could take a few cuts next inning. I am also slightly bored because this is a regular thing with me. You will never know this experience because you are too insignificant to even imagine how wonderful this seating truly is. By the way, is the dessert cart here yet? ".

Act like you have been there before. If you ever had the chance to have sex with, let's say, Jessica Alba, it's probably not a good idea to yell out "OMIGOD! I can't believe I am fucking Jessica Alba!" while you are fucking Jessica Alba. Play it cool. You want Jessica Alba to think, "I don't know if I am pleasing Greg. Perhaps I should perform a sexual act that doesn't even have a name yet." Now, you've got something. You think Jessica Alba wants you waving and filming it on your cell phone saying, "It's almost in there. Yep...Yep...I've got it in there. Can you guys see this?". (Well, maybe she does. I don't know Ms. Alba personally, so I am making an educated guess.)

The problem all stems from the belief in the magic of television. The general population believes that if they can somehow get on TV, their lives will be magically transformed into something amazing. That is the only explanation for those crowds of overfed Midwestern housewives waiting in the cold of New York to try and appear on the background of a Today Show weather segment. For God's sake, you are in one of the most incredible cities on the planet, and you are going to spend a half day trying to get on camera for 3.7 seconds.

"How was New York Doris?"

"Oh! It was great! We got up at 4:00 in the morning to go stand in the 24 degree morning air so we could get our handmade sign saying 'Ridgeville Band Rules!' on the Today Show and wave excitedly into the camera! After that, it was lunch at TGI Fridays in Times Square, and over to the M&M World gift shop! What a city!"

Why all the effort to get on TV? It's just 4 seconds on one of 600 channels are churning out "content". It's no big deal. Relax. Enjoy what you are actually doing. OK...I am going to try to ignore the Rubes and their God Damn signs. Fuck... Now one of them is holding one up that says "James Rocks". That is the straw that has broken the camel's back. Unless that guy is close personal friends with James Hetfield, I am going to have to drive downtown and "take care of" this situation. I gotta go.

Nurse the Hate: Hate Indiana

One thing I consistently forget is how dull most of America is on an everyday basis. Take Indiana for example. Sure, you may get the occasional twister that blows the fuck out of a small town perched on God's forgotten tundra. Then you'll see the malnourished trailer park denizens breathlessly recount their harrowing escape from death for the camera men for hire out to shoot the made-for-TV calamity. That's real action out there. But other than that, it's mostly jacking off, watching IU basketball, and smoking discount cigarettes.

We played a couple shows in Illinois this weekend, which meant the mind numbing drive across Indiana. The highlight of I-70 is when you hit Indianapolis, because you know you've killed half the drive. It's a brutal drive with almost nothing to kill the tedium of flat land and billboards advertising RVs and discount candles. (Side note: Since when did the sheer expense of candles become such an issue that people had to drive to rural candle outlet centers? Are there Indiana birthday cakes with no candles because, "Godammit, that stock market collapse has made it impossible for us to afford NaNa's candles for her 75th birthday cake! I'll see you in Hell Wall Street elite!".)

We pulled into an exit for the all important gas/piss/snack stop when I overheard a twenty something girl say to her friend "I look soooo funny in these red socks! I look sooooo funny in these red socks." Let me be the one to point out, she looked indistinguishable from any other plain 23 year old girl except she had these red anklet socks slightly emerging from her white tennis shoes. I would never have noticed them. You wouldn't have either. Despite this, she once again said "I look soooo funny in these socks." (OK honey. I get it. The socks are kinda wacky. I didn't notice them, but for you, you're out there "getting after it". Fine.)

I don't know why these things irritate me, but they do. I stood there pumping gas for a few minutes thinking about why this was irritating me, and wondering if I had an anger management issue. (I do.) Over my shoulder I hear the same voice saying, "I look sooo funny." I felt like pulling out the gas nozzle, spraying her with 89 test, and flicking a lit match. "Hahahahaha!!!!! Now you look FUNNY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Clearly Indiana was getting the best of me.

Can you imagine living in that town, driving around in a pathetic Pontiac Sunfire with your best friend who discusses the only issue that has captured her fancy, the color of her socks? It's not like the town is big enough where you just have to go to the right party and meet a new pal that is down with Proust, Rolling Stones bootlegs, and the undeniable glory of 1989 Bordeaux and Pacific Coast IPA. Nope. That's it right there. Talking about red socks. As the great Indiana resident John (Cougar) Mellencamp said, "Ain't that America, for you and me.".

Side note: I am becoming increasingly convinced that Al Davis is running the Raiders in a direct imitation of the way Idi Amin ruled Uganda. But with less brutal killings. That would be a real tough sell if you were in corporate sales there. "We feel terrific about the kid we drafted #1 that everyone else had in the third round in their draft board. Mister Davis feels that he's the second coming of Cliff Branch. It will all make sense when his manifesto comes out. Now...Can we renew your luxury suite for $250,000?"... Would you buy a used car from Mel Kiper? I wouldn't... Roy Halladay continues to be "The Canadian ATM machine". Until he proves otherwise, I am staying on board with Roy until he loses a few in a row. That guy is a witch... A really great reissue is Nick Lowe's "Jesus of Cool". I loved that record when I was introduced to it in the mid 80s, and I love it now. The Yep Roc reissue has an extra ten tracks from the era on it that show how great Lowe was at that Elvis Costello and the Attractions hyper smart pub rock. If I could ever understand what Costello was singing, I might be praising a "Armed Forces" reissue, but I can't, so it' "Jesus of Cool". ...If I were you, I'd get the new Gourds record "Haymaker", "The Best of Charlie Picket and the Eggs" on Bloodshot, and the book "The Devil's Teeth" by Susan Casey...The NBA Playoffs will never end.