I'll Take A Hot Cup Of Kharma, With Skim And Light Foam...

Honestly, when your business charges 4.00 USD for a cup of fucking coffee, no matter how fancy your despondent 19 year old employee behind the counter makes it, you're business is in line to get whacked.

Earlier last week, the (vastly inferrior, in my humblest of opinions) coffee chain Starbucks announced that for the first time in the company's history, it was going to close some of it's locations, six hundred to be exact. These closings mean that now Manhattanites will be forced to wait in line for a double mocha vanilla latte for approximately two minutes longer.

If you couldn't tell yet, I have zero fucking sympathy for the Seattle-based coffee chain. With the on-set of a recession, gas prices hovering around what some snobbish prick would pay for a cup of hi-test coffee, and the country continuing to spin around the bottom of the toilet bowl, any one could plainly see that Starbucks was fucking itself in it's Colombian-imported asshole.

According to NYT Business editor Brad Stone, alot of Starbucks' trouble stemmed from piss poor real estate decisions. Apparently, the folks at the helm of the good ship Starbucks thought it'd be a good idea to put locations within spitting distance of each other. You know, just in case the five minute waiting line was too long at one store, you could literally walk across the street to the other location, and wait five minutes over there.

I know this for a fact because I used to go to school in Manhattan's Clinton district, what used to be known as Hell's Kitchen. I would get off the subway at 57th and 7th (Q, R, N, W lines), and hoof it three blocks west and two blocks north. In that span of time, which was usually a fifteen minute walk, I would see no less than five fucking Starbucks. Two more if you counted the two inside the Time Warner building (one actual store on the ground level, another inside the Barnes and Nobles on the third floor.)

Coincidently, this is the trend that Starbucks' Board of Directors wanted to take across the country. According to Stone's article, Starbucks planned to have 1000 unit locations in the state of Florida alone. One thousand fucking Starbucks. Are you serious?!

I'm from a small town in Southern Maine, population hovering around 20K annually. I can think of three Starbucks within five minutes of each other back home. Christ.

So The New York Times' Stone thinks it's the location that drove Starbucks to kill 600 of it's own stores. It's not, though it could be seen as circumstantial evidence that would lead one to believe so. No, it's the fact that people, even the ridiculous Upper East Siders, in their lavish 39th floor 9000.00 USD a month apartments in Manhattan can no longer reasonably spend the amount of money they once were on something as frivilous as coffee. Not when you can go to any deli or sandwich shop or little cart parked on the sidewalk next to a newsstand, and get a cup of regular-ass coffee for a dollar.

All you're paying for at Starbucks is the status symbol. The ability to walk around with a cup in your hand, in a little gay sleeve, that says "hey, I can afford to drop 5 dollars on this cup of bland, watery coffee with some fucking milk foam on it." That's all. In the heirarchy of fucking coffee chains, Starbucks is the fucking lowest. It really is, as far as taste, price, employees, everything; if I had a score card for every commercial chain coffee joint I'd ever frequented, Starbucks would be dead last in all catagories.

You know, Starbucks does serve just a regular cup of coffee for about a dollar, maybe a little more. It sucks. And when you order it, as in "can I just have a plain-ass cup of coffee please?" You get a funny look from the cunt behind the register, a completely filled cup of black shit, and a finger pointing to where the cream and sugar is.

How the fuck am I supposed to work with this shit, Gretchen? You do realize that if I try to add creamer to this ... giant cup of hot blackness, I'm going to spill it all over the place, right?

And it's a horrible, terrible, burnt-to-shit French Roast.

I was subject to Starbucks for the three years I lived in NYC. For some reason, they have about a million Starbucks (also, strangely - just about a third of the people I met while living in NYC worked, or had worked for a Starbucks... weird) in the city, but only four Dunkin Donuts. So when I was pressed for coffee (and I drank a lot more of it then than I do now for some reason) and I coudn't find a small diner or deli, I had to go to Starbucks.

And while waiting in line, I'd sooner be driving a rusty nail through my cheek, to pin my tongue to my opposite cheek.

And you have these people, with their ridiculously long orders to the robot-like kid behind the counter. Some trendy bitch in a fur coat and gloves sounding off what seems like a grocery list than a coffee order:

"I'll take a decaff, skim-only, double foamed, chocolate and vanilla latte with a twist of lemon and a little bit of cinnamon. Oh, a little whip creme too!"

I understand now, why NYC has such heavy restrictions on firearms.

Back to the point at hand though, Starbucks shot itself in the foot by trying too hard. Literally like Britany Spears, Starbucks pushed itself to the point of actual implosion, caving under the weight of it's own celebrity. One could see the backlash from a mile away. How long did you think stupid Americans were going to continue to try to impress each other with cardboard cups?

How long were we going to pretend the emperor wasn't really naked and the coffee really didn't suck?

God Is My Co-Pilot (He Rides On My License Plate!)

For the life of me I couldn't tell you why I was watching FOX News last night when a story about how Florida wanted to sell to it's drivers, a religious license plate that can be registered to your car.

The show featured some obnoxious ultra-conservative spawn of Anne Coulter-twat who was (of course) in favor of the license plate, and a Reverend of the Humanists Church, who was against. As hard as he tried, the reverend was constantly cut off by the show's host, who kept repeating "c'mon, is it that bad, really Rev.?"

I could easily launch into a tirade about how ridiculous FOX News is, but I won't. Instead, I'll talk about the need for seperation between Church and State.

And to answer the blonde Nazi's question, yeah, it's really that bad. I mean, look:

Real subtle Florida.

I mean, my problem is two-fold; on one hand you have this whole, exclusivity to the license plate itself. It's one thing to be religious, but there are hundreds of religions out there, practiced by millions of people. I'm sure there's plenty of dumb-fuck Christian Floridians who would love to add this to their rotting Dodge Daytonas and Chevy Cameros, to show off to all their neighbors that they peel rubber for Jesus, but what about Jews, Muslims, or whatever the hell Chinese people worship?

I mean, not everyone in the world is a fan of NASCAR, you know?

Part two of my rant is that this is in blantant disregard for Church/State seperation. The woman on the show, who I believe to be a robot fueled by Bill O'Rielly's sweat, was like "I think the framers of the Constitution wouldn't mind this at all, I think they'd be for it!"

Bitch, have you ever taken a Con-Law class? Highly doubtful. Why? Because it is against the Constitution of the United States for any state or government enitity to endorse one sole (soul?) religion. And by the looks of things, Florida is all but short of putting "He Died For You!" on the bottom of the plate.

And what about the Aetheist? Are we going to subject these heathens to being stuck in traffic behind some asshole with this plate, silently cursing under his breath as he loads rounds into the magazine of his 9mm?

What about the Witches?! You may become cursed by some sort of Earth Spell should you drive your beat up scratched to hell VW around town with a Jesus plate.

You know, there's a rich Hatian culture in Florida... where's the Voodoo plate?

And the Nihilists! They don't even believe the license plate exists!

Do you know why states put out these speciality plates? It's so the state can earn funds from the people who are buying that particular plate. As far as I know, the State of Maine has like, 8 different plates you can choose from, from Yellow Ribbon plates to University of Maine plates to Abnaki Tribe plates, and so on. Every one of those plates is a certain dollar extra amount every time you register your vehicle for the year. And that money goes to the state.

So basically, The State of Florida is cashing in on Religion. I don't know who I'm more disgusted in; The State of Florida for cashing in on people's beliefs, or the people themselves, who'd go out of their way to spend their money on religion outside of church collections, red cans manned by a bell ringing Santa or Oakie-Fare Tent Revivalists.

Goddamnit.

An Ode To Living Recklessly

I'm a shitbird.

A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.

I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.

I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.

I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.

I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.

I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.

I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.

I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.

I vote Republican in the 21st century.

I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.

I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.

I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.

I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.

I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.

I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.

I throw things.

I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.

I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.

I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.

I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.

I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.

I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.

I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.

I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.

I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.

I'm inside the bar smoking.

I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.

I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.

I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.

I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.

I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"

I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.

I'm You.

Finding The Balance

I've never had an easy time balancing best friends and girlfriends. I want to say that I've always been the "bros before hoes" kinda guy, but in reality, it's always been the girl over the guys, and luckily for me the guys that are still my friends understand that and accept/respect it.

But the situation I find myself in lately is that between me and The Lady, there's the RM. Normally this wouldn't be such a big deal, only the RM has ... no one else to hang out with. All his other friends are the guys we work with, and he's not of age to go hang out at a bar or anything. Basically it kinda becomes baby sitting.

...it's kinda sad when The Lady and I retreat back into my bedroom to have some private time together that he kinda follows us. And I feel like a total heel closing the door on him. IAt the age of 26 and 23 it's like we've become the parents to a fully grown 19 year old.

I realize I'm under no obligation to hang out with him or even be nice to him, but the poor bastard is pretty much my best friend here on the Hook. We laugh our asses off at stupid shit and he's a genuine kinda guy. This all adds up to me feeling like an asshole for wanting to blow him off to spend time with the girlfriend.

I present this case to the court: The RM wants to go to Fenway tomorrow afternoon to get some Military-only Sox tix to see them play the Brewers at 1905. Normally this would be a no brainer, and we'd go. Only thing is, that A) I'm pretty burnt out from this week. B) I have barely spent any time with The Lady, who's stressing out over "life shit" and really could use my physical support right now. 3) I can only stand the RM for maybe a handful of hours before I want to slowly choke him or hold him under water in a porcelain tub until the bubbles and thrashing stops. 4) It's going to make for a long day (in hindsight, this should've been "C"), The RM wants to get to The Fens at like 1300 and get a bite to eat and walk around Boston for a bit, where we'd do nothing but WALK, because he can't get into a bar. And by the time the game's over and we're back on The Hook, it's going to be probably after midnight, providing the game runs it's usual 9 innings and nothing spectacular like extra innings goes down.

Plus I have a doctor's appointment here in town, AND, I want to do some work on my bike and maybe try to get in a ride before the weather turns to shit this weekend, as it's being forcasted to do.

So what do I do? If I take my RM up on his plans, I shirk The Lady and my own physical/mental well being. If I pass, I look like a douche to the RM and to Red Sox Nation.

Argh, I'm building a fort in my bedroom and never coming back out.

The Bigger Picture

No one likes feel good stories, except for when they're depressed - and even then there can only be a certain level of "feel good" in the story, or it becomes sappy...

Or it becomes "The Pursuit of Happiness" starring Will Smith.

Anyway, this story has a little, small, four-minute-half-life of feel good to it, so I hope you enjoy.

I was feeling pretty shitty all day, (see post below) and the RM picked up on it. He's somewhat intuitive like that, like a puppy. A puppy will know when something's bothering it's master, and my RM is no different than a beleagured puppy.

It started off when I was on watch earlier today and he wandered in to the Comm Center and looked at me behind all the monitors. He kinda cocks his head to the side and goes,

"What's wrong dude?"

"Nothing," I say dismissively. He presses me.

"Dude, something's bothering you,"

"Nothing's bothering me, I'm fine, leave me alone."

"No dude, you got that look on your face... like the fucking... your eyebrows are all pushed together in the middle of your face and it looks like you have a long dook stain across your face," This gets a small smile out of me.

"Get out of my watch room, RM"

"You need to open up more, bro, you'll die from a heart attack if you don't." And he leaves. He's right, I do need to open up more, but not to him, not to no one, not any time soon.

So fast forward to later in the day. The RM is out raking up some crap from in front of the building and he's cursing. I'm listening to my ipod and standing over him, supervising his raking and nit-picking it like a prick. He looks up at me, stops working and pulls out a cigarette.

"You know what I can't stand?" He says as he lights.

"What's that?"

"Hypocrits,"

"Hypocrits?" I repeat. He looks over my shoulder back towards the main building.

"Like certain people tell you one thing, and then they themselves go and do what they just told you what you couldn't do,"

"I know what being hypocritical means," I tell him. He goes on to tell me that he's been told he can only smoke twice a day for intervals that last roughly fifteen minutes. This was told to him by my chain smoking twenty-one year old dickheaded boss. "Welcome to the military," I tell him again. He gets frustrated and slams his rake to the ground.

"It's bullshit,"

"Dude, seriously, given everything in life, if being told when you can and can't smoke is the biggest thing eating you, you've got shit pretty well under control. Cuz ..." and I trail off for a second and he reads my face like a book in big type. "Cuz," I continue, "There's a bigger picture, people all around you can be dealing with shit that makes what you've got eating you seem rather insignificant. You gotta try to see everything," and as I'm speaking these words, I actually listen to myself talk and take some of my own goddamn advice for once.

There's a lot more going on out there than my own little petrie dish of an exsistance. And my problems are somewhat minor considering the state of the world we live in. I have my legs, I have my health, I can still get up most mornings next to a beautiful woman who simply adores me, there's a lot of things going good for me. I have no real excuse to get down on myself for anything.

I tell my roommate all the time that he needs to find something he can take confidence in; to think about when he's being challenged, that would give him a pyschological advantage over his advisary.

For instance, when I'm feeling like I'm being pinned down, I think of the times I've had sex with two women at the same time. Not many people can boast that, and I look the other guy in the face and know that he hasn't. It's not a "well maybe he has" because well, maybe he has, it's a "no he hasn't," that I focus on, and I ended up crushing my enemy. I think about being a cop, because not too many people can say they were a fully sworn police officer at the age of twenty-one. I just find things that make me unique and use them to my advantage.

An example of this went down the other day: The Lady took me to her favorite coffee place a few towns over, where her former paramour frequents. We're outside, enjoying the Spring Cape Cod afternoon weather and cigarettes when this blue Honda CRX650 rolls up. It's her last guy she fucked, a total douchetard with big hands and a bigger head. He walks over, and it's very awkward scene for everyone. Awkward for me not because this guy was once sticking it to my girlfriend, but because the last time they were together he got grabby with her... and I wanted to take his head off. We stood there, face to face very briefly sizing each other up, sharing one of those weird awkward handshakes where neither one of you gets a decent grip on the other guys hand and it comes out all gay. And the whole time in my mind (aside from the fact that in a flash I would export him to a beyond mortal existance) was that she, The Lady, was with me now, and I was a harder, better, faster, stronger version of what she wanted in him. And beneath his steady exterior I could hear him seethe.

Yeah motherfucker, seethe all night.

I get word about a day later from The Lady where she ran into the guy again about a day later. He was allegedly scared that I'd fuck with his bike. I don't blame him, it's a nice bike and I look like a bad enough motherfucker to do something that stupid, but I won't.

I have the pyschological advantage. I see the bigger picture.

Seriously, write your own joke....

This story, taken from (I think Reuters?), is probably the most articulate description of a New York Yankees fan, ever published. Go Sox.

BOOSH.

The Roommate and The Prostitute from Friendly's

"You eat like a soldier," The Lady says as she sits next to me at the counter of a homey diner in Orleans while I'm digging into a stack of pancakes. I keep my head down as I eat, shoveling food thoughtlessly into my gullet, chewing, sipping coffee, intent on my next delicious morsale, not taking the time to enjoy the one that's currently in my mouth.



I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.

So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.

A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....

It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.

So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.

So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.

"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.

"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.

"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.

"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.

"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.

So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.

...So I think....

Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.

"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."

She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.

Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?

Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.

Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.

If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.

Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?

So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.

My Mom and Her Self Defense Class, Part 2, Plus Other Happenings in the Last 24 Hours

So imagine to my surprise when I get this email on my Blackberry yesterday:

"Jim,

I broke my wrist Saturday during the practical excerise [sic] :( I'm home from work for a few days. Call me.

Love,
Mom"

So, the partially chewed cracker spills from my mouth-ajar and I call her instantly. I put her on speaker phone because I'm a massively lazy dick.

"What the hell happened!" I say into the phone. There's a pause on the other end.

"Hello?" Jesus.

"Mom? What happened!"

"Don't yell at me!" She says.

"I'm not yelling, you're just on speaker, mum"

"Why am I on speaker?"

"Because I'm lazy, now tell me what happened to you on Saturday..." There's another long pause followed by a slow drawn out sigh.

"Well we were doing the practical and... you know they're really good, right? Well, they were putting us through all these scenarios... whether we were being cornered at a bar or at an ATM or whatever. And I was so nervous James. On the video, I'm standing there in line, waiting for my turn, swinging my arms and...

...so anyway, I get up and we're dressed in all this stuff, like hockey gloves and catcher's masks and so on, and well, I hit this guy in the face. And when I hit him he went down and was like 'whoooaaa' but at the same time I felt my wrist kinda ... pop. It didn't start bothering me until I got back from the ice capades and my wrist was all swollen."

Leave it to my mother, to go from whooping some dude's ass to the ice capades. Awesome.

In other news the roommate and I went to go see "Street Kings" last night. We sat in a virtually empty theatre rows and seats apart. We decided that we really didn't need to sit right next to each other because well... that'd be kinda gay, even though everyone at the station, including The Lady, thinks we're gay for each other.

What else, what else. I can't really concentrate right now because The Lady is over here, on my bed wearing an ironic Transformer's t shirt and yoga pants. Upon her entry into my apt I commented:

"Cool shirt, but I was more of a Megatron fan growing up. Actually cancel that - I was a Sound Wave fan, because I liked how we talked... all synthesizer-y." She comments back that she actually hates the Transformers. I don't hold it against her, considering she's a chick and... probably played with Barbies while I was playing with a tractor trailer truck that would morph into a red and blue robot with a few quick snaps of plastic.

At the mall today, again the roommate mentioned he was still in some sort of limited contact with his whale of a lay from a week or so ago. He's been ignoring everyone's advice to sever ties, and though he claims he directly called her "fat" via a text message, she still talks to him.

"Dude, she's a stalker with dependency issues, you need to full-out stop talking to her, she's dangerous," I say as I'm browsing for a plain brown belt at Pacific Sunwear (they only make belts for skinny hipster kids, apparently, size 34? c'mon...)

"I can't... what if I stop talking to her and like a month from now she comes back at me with 'oh hey, I'm pregnant...'" He says with a hint of anxiety. I roll my eyes. He's been playing out this scenario of the last two weeks it would seem.

"That's beyond likely, because you wore a condom, right?"

"Yeah."

"So why are you stressing out over stupid shit like that?"

"Dude, I dunno, it's just like, I don't want it to happen..."

"Then why do you still talk to her. If that's what you're worried about, getting the hell away from her would seem the likely thing to do. If a little while goes by and she's like 'oh I'm pregnant' and you've still been in touch with her, she's going to stick you with a baby that may or may not be yours, oppose to if you cut ties with her, and a year from now she comes back at you with some screaming hellspawn, you can be like 'bitch I don't even know who you are, we've never met.'" It doesn't exactly sink in.

"But, what if she IS pregnant!"

"What makes you think she is? And a bitch saying she's pregnant is likely trying to get you to stick around, when she's not even knocked up! It's the same thing with the hundred dollar Lacoste cologne she bought you. She's setting a trap. You don't owe that bitch anything, so why are you acting like you do? You know what," and this is where I start to get angry. "I'm actually going to order you to stop talking to her. That's a serious order."

He looks at me blankly.

"You can't do that," he says.

"The fuck I can! I out rank you by one grade. You take orders from me. And you're now ordered not to speak to that fat bitch." He looks at me for a long time and says nothing. "This mall needs an Orange Julius," I say after a prolonged silence.

We're on our way out the door to the truck when I spot this hot little number walking into the Marshal's.

"Go talk to her, go get her, catch up to her," I nudge my roommate. He half steps.

"You go get her," he comes back with.

"I can't. I'm kinda... you know, caught up in something. Just go up to her, say 'hey, I saw you from back there, I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, but I want to change that. Give me your number and let me take you out to dinner this weekend'. Just be fucking direct. Girls love a guy with balls who'll just ask them out. If she says she has a boyfriend, tell her you don't care, it's just dinner. If she says 'no thank you' tell you won't take no for an answer. Don't come across aggressive or... fucking... crazy, just be your sweet self, be assertive, take control. Who's in control here?"

"...I dunno, bro..." His posture starts to melt.

"WHO'S IN CONTROL HERE!" I yell. People are now staring at us. I look around and make direct eye contact with a few of the weird goths out in the midday sun at the mall. "Fuck it, you lost her, massive fail." She's no longer in eye sight and I start for the door.

"I'm sorry, bro" he says from behind me.

Yeah, me too.

My Mom and Her Self-Defense Class

I got an email from my mom a few days ago letting me know she enrolled in a Women's Self-Defense Course being offered through Portland PD. She gets to take it for free since her ... blah blah blah... insurance or work-related-thing... covers it.

I find this very interesting because my mother is probably the least confrontational person I've ever met in my life, aside from Hokie. For years (and personal reasons) I've been pushing her to get a pistol permit so she can carry a firearm in her bag or in her car or something, and she's deflected that whole idea. So I went and got her a can of pepper spray after she was acosted by some random dickhole in the Hannafords in Biddeford a while back, but when I showed her how to use it, she seemed hardly interested.

So I give her a call at the house tonight just to touch base (because, according to the email, we hadn't "spoken in days!!!!!" ...for the record, it was like, four days...) and see what this whole class is about. Here's a fairly accurate paraphrasing of the conversation.

Me: So tell me about this ... uh, self defense class you're taking...
Mom: Oh! Oh Jim, it's such a work out, me and a few girls from the office, we get out of work and head over, you know, as a little group, and the class is about 15 women, and I think I'm the oldest. And it's taught by this female policewoman (she seriously said that) who's a very good instructor and she's very cute and very single. I told her all about you and what you do and what you went through with the whole "police-thing" and she said she totally understands what you've been going through and how it's all screwed up that Portland PD has to get rid of 15 officers for budget cuts and-
Me: Mom, get back to the class...
Mom: Oh, well, anyway, I told her you were single and that if she was interested I'd give her your number.
Me: Mom! Don't.... fucking pimp me out to ... lady cops, Jesus...
Mom:...Anyway, so they teach us all these moves and the reasons behind them: Like how to get out of when someone grabs your wrists or tries to choke you from behind or grabs your bag, or something like that. We're all so.... scared, you know? But the instructors are really great and take their time teaching and critiqing our techniques. They even video tape us and we get to watch it afterwards to see how we look.
Me: So I mean, mom, would you have a problem, and I'm being serious, grabbing some guy's dick and trying to rip it off?
Mom: GASP! James Charles Nason! Don't you speak to your mother like that!
Me: I'm being serious! ...cuz that's what it's going to take. That's the cold reality of it. Because no one's going to want to rape you with their penis barely hanging on to their body, you know?
Mom: ...yes... and that was brought up in the class too. But it's more than just...grabbing a man... down there. There's a lot more.
Me: Like eye gouging and knee thrusts and throat punches, right?
Mom: Yes. I don't like the throat punches though.
Me: Why not?
Mom: Because... you have to like, push your... fingers, like two fingers there, push them down into their... throat. Ew, it's gross just thinking about it.
Me: It's not gross, it's survival; everything you're being taught is considered "less than lethal," for that reason. Jabbing your fingers down into a guy's throat isn't going to kill him, just back him off. These techniques are designed so that you can utilize them when the times comes and not feel hesitant that you're going to kill the poor son of a bitch. No man's ever died, that I know of, from getting kicked in the groin, you know? Or eyes gouged or whatever.
Mom: Yeah.
Me: I mean... if you WANT to learn how to kill someone with your bare hands, I can show you a thing or two...
Mom: No, no, that's... uh ok, I'm fine with that.
Me: You sure?
Mom: Yes James.
Me: .... Fine. Is dad around?

So yeah hear this criminals: if you're stalking around Portland or Biddeford or anywhere in between, you better watch out... my fifty-something year old mother will fuck up your whole day.

Best Of: August 2007

Another myspace.com throw-back. Not "throw-back" in the sense that it wasn't well written and I threw it back like an undersized Carp, but "throw-back" like an reproduced Magic Johnson jersey a black guy would wear.

Anyway, this originally ran August 18th, 2007. I hope you enjoy my laziness.

I can't lie for shit.

And while many of you reading this might think that's perfectly fine; a trait no one should be proud of having, I must tell you that it sucks not being able to be a good liar.

I've come across instances where lying would've either saved my butt, or furthered me in some sort of career. It would've at least made my life easier by being able to look some one directly into their eyes and not told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god.

I just can't do it! And by it, I mean really lying, not just telling a slight "mistruth" or "inaccuracy" or "white lie." And example of one of these would be not telling your sister that her new boyfriend is a total dickhead because you went to high school with him, or that .... see, I can't even come up with another example of a little lie! That's how bad I have it.

But before I go any further, I'd like to create a distinction between "lying" and just not giving enough information. A lie is telling something completely false, whereas not giving any or enough information is technically not lying. If someone asks you directly if you ate the last slice of pizza and drank the last beer too, and you certainly did, but tell them you didn't, that's a lie. Same scenario, but they ask "do you know who..." blah blah blah pizza and beer, and you say "I do not know" I don't think that's technically a lie. You're just withholding information that would incriminate yourself. There's an actual aspect of the Bill of Rights that protects you from doing that very thing! ...So if our fore fathers thought that was ok, then it must be fine to do.

But back to actual lying and the fact that I can't do it. This has plagued me most of my adult life. I can't look someone in the face and tell them a falsehood and I don't know why. When I do, or try to, I feel very transparent; I feel as if they know they're being lied to, and I feel like a snake for doing it. I feel like I'm insulting their intelligence, and they know it. It's like if you ask me something directly, I can't avoid telling you the truth of the matter. And I don't mean that I'm brutally honest with people:

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

"No, your face makes you look fat."

That's not the case at all. I just feel compelled to tell the truth.

This has followed me since I was with NYPD and that whole mess, it's haunting me where ever I go. I've blown polygraphs because of it, because I was too afraid of the truth, so I denied it and failed. I was so anxious at MEPS earlier in the week because I was afraid of some falsehood surfacing in my paper work that when they took my blood pressure I was 165/90. The tech taking it had to take it twice more because he thought his equipment was malfunctioning.

"Holy shit, is your BP normally that high?" he says to me.

"No... I don't know what's up..." I say.

"Must be white coat syndrome," and it takes me a good two minutes to get the joke, but I chuckled anyway.

And that brings to mind something else when it comes to people and lying: Most people out there want to be lied to. Whether it's in their jobs, or just the simple aspects of life, people do not want to know the awful truths that are out there.

A woman does not want to know her boyfriend is cheating on her, she'd rather go on suspecting for the rest of the relationship, than to know the truth.

People love to live in little safe bubbles where everything is ok. Take for example these military personnel that work at the MEPS. They do not care if you lie on your paper work. It's actually encouraged! ...But they won't tell you that. They actually make you watch this long Powerpoint presentation about how if you lie on your paper work and are caught you'll go to jail and be dishonorably discharged, etc. But if you read between the lines, their lives, your life, the recruiters, etc, are a lot easier if you just "forget" to mention some things in your paper work.

This was the case with me. I had very minor surgery when I was 15, got hit by a car when I was 22-23 and went to the ER for observations, and saw a shrink one time when I was 23-24 ish. I put all this information down on the sheet provided to me at MEPS and now I'm on hold. My recruiter was slightly pissed, because it's extra paper work for him to sift through, the techs at MEPS left me with the impression that I was wasting their time, and if I had just checked "no" on those above boxes, no one would've bothered to look into it and I'd be cleared to start basic or OCS. Instead, I'm on hold til the 27th. But with the lie hanging over my head, that's how my blood pressure got so high.

As my father put it when I told him I was on hold "Jim, its the federal government...you think they have time to go looking into 'no' answers? They see 'no' checked off, they leave it alone. Jesus Christ you're dumb." And this was largely confirmed by my service member friends who I asked.

So I decided to do some research on lying, and to see if there's some way I can learn to be better at. At least for the sake of my poker game. Because honestly, if I get a good hand, I act like a retard on a farris wheel.

I type "how to lie" into the Google and I get 91 and a half million responses.

The site WikiHow.com had the best tagline disclaimer out of all the other sites listed (most were really sketchy, like "so you wanna learn how to lie, huh" or "make'em believe you anytime, anywhere" I think it's the fact that I read those lines like some shady business men or used car sales man, or ... men hanging around in a back alley waiting their turns for a gummer from a used whore. Basically I felt raped while reading...) which read "by taking this advice you are putting into jeopardy relationships, friendships, and you're good word. Proceed at your own risk." My kinda place it would seem like.

The site gives pointers about how to act and psychologically how to feel. "Believe in the lie, make it the truth to you" it says. It even quotes George Costanza from "Seinfeld" "It's not a lie if you believe it!" Great, I'm totally not feeling like a scumbag right now.

The site goes on to give me tips about my physical appearance, how to smile, to try standing in front of a mirror and lie so I see how I look when I tell the lie, etc. I try this out for a few minutes, with something simple: I make up a lie that I went fly fishing yesterday, simple and painless enough. I stand in front of a bathroom mirror and recite over and over again that I spent my day fly fishing yesterday, making it into a little story.

But I notice something, and it's very subtle. The more I tell of the story, the less I can actually look at my face, I seem to keep focusing on my shoulder. It's as if I'm ashamed at myself even for telling something as innocent as falsely fly fishing friday. Ugh, I'm getting no where with this.

I guess in sumation I'm a horrible liar. Though this should come as shocking news to some of my readers, who have questioned the authenticity of some of my non-fiction articles in the past. I've in fact lead myself on some pretty outlandish adventures and written about them.

...Or have I? Because would you honestly believe someone who told you they were a horrible liar?

I Can't Figure Out If This Gets Filed Under "Kharma" or "Revenge."

Unless you live under a rock and don't receive cable or maybe you're capable of reading, you'd be wholly unaware of the abominal manifestation of materialism and greed that is Mtv's "My Super Sweet 16."

My readers will note that this is not the first time I've made mention of this show in one of my articles. But today I'm writing because of an article in the New York Times which I feel is worthy enough to be brought to the attention of my fans - who I presume find MSS16 the most unholy of televised programmes.

In said article (you'll find it below) the featured teenager gushes (no pun intended) that her daddy is an oil baron in the middle of WhoCares, Ky, and with all the oil he pumps out of the ground, he uses to buy her Louis Vuitton hand bags and BMW coups.

Well, when all of this was going down, someone from the Securities and Exchange Commission took notice and realized that this darling brat's father was scamming people on fake-ass oil company stocks or whatever. You'll read it in the article.

Savor it.