You Know, It's Kinda Funny

It's been a year since my last post and I'm 100% certain that nobody has been to check this site in 9 months, best case scenario. Yet, tonight, I find myself back here. Not telling stories of my past, not really planning on doing much of anything with this blog. Things have changed, I have a beautiful daughter, my wife is the most amazing mom I could ever imagine, and I guess I've grown up. I don't know, it was just kind of a strange evening tonight that brought me back here. I don't have a myspace, that's sounds like too much work, but my brother texted me the other day about a friend of mine from high school that is becoming very successful in the real world. He learned of this success through myspace, so I was a little bored tonight and looked at my brother's myspace. I was scrolling through his friends list, looking for my old high school chum, and noticed that a lot of our cousins that I haven't seen in at least 5 years and my brother converse via this medium. It was nice to see their pictures and read about them and all, but the thing that I found myself reading most intently was their lists of favorites. Favorite movies, books, TV, hobbies, etc. A couple of things dawned on me while I was doing this. First you can learn a lot about a person just learning their favorites. Secondly, I didn't know some of these things about my cousins, mainly because we haven't spoken in awhile. It's kind of sad, actually. Had I known some of my cousins share my interests in books, TV, movies and the like, I think we probably could have formed a stronger bond in our past. Maybe we'd be closer to each other now. That would make me happy. I really miss those guys and I love them, but we don't talk. They live all over the US so it makes it difficult to see them, but if I could, I would just want them to know that I miss them and that I love them and that I wish I would be able to see them other than when I know will be the soonest, and more than likely, last time we will all ever meet. That will be a sad occassion and I wish that it would be under happier terms, but I know it won't be. I don't know. Something brought me back here tonight, and I don't know if I'll be posting again soon, or at all. Just something I felt like getting off my chest.

The Time I Almost Went to Jail Part 2: The Crosstown Incident, or, How I'm Like the Dukes of Hazzard

Okay, this will officially be part two in the Almost Arrested Series. The title assumes that you know that the Dukes of Hazzard actually had a job besides driving Boss Hogg and Roscoe P. Coltrane crazy. Beau and Luke delivered the moonshine that Uncle Jesse brewed on the farm. So, the following is the account of the second time I almost got arrested, this is The Crosstown Incident, or, How I'm Like the Dukes of Hazzard.

Senior year and May, there are no two things that an 18 year old looks forward to more. My friends and I had been celebrating a lot lately in apprehension of our upcoming commencement ceremony. That weekend was somewhat different. While in preparation for most celebrations, most high school students were left to fend for themselves, in-so-much as acquiring the cocktails needed for the night's activities.

[This party was to be thrown by a new character in the series, The Crooked Politician].

The way in which this weekend was different than all the others was that The Crooked Politician was fitting the bill for the whole soiree', not only was he to be our benefactor, but he was also providing the location for the grand ball, his parents' pool house.

This was the perfect location for a celebration of this caliber, the main house was to be locked up, but right next to that residence was a fabulous swimming pool and the pool house was adjacent. The Crooked Politician's parents not only knew about the events that would unfold, but also aided in the monetary costs of the celebration. This is interesting because the father of The Crooked Politician was the president of the ABLE commission of Oklahoma. The ABLE commission is the commission that prevents the illegal sale of alcoholic beverages to minors. It is obvious, in retrospect, that this is where The Crooked Politician got his genes.

The Buck was made head of the alcohol gathering committee, which was a glove that fit him just fine. The Buck's mother was the head of purchase at a hotel in our small hamlet, so she simply put in an order for an extra keg of beer for the bar. We got the beer at cost, and also bypassed the red tape that is involved in buying alcohol at the age of 18. The Buck's uncle was another aide in the process, as the date of the celebration drew nearer, word of the party spread around the hallowed halls of our educational establishment. It became obvious by midweek that the keg of beer would not be enough to feed the hungry masses that would gather come Friday evening. The Buck approached his uncle and asked, if we paid for the alcohol, could he possibly stop by a liquor establishment and purchase some of the requisite materials for the weekend. Also, we may need more beer, and it would be of great help if he could perhaps pick up some more of the brewed stuff. The Buck's uncle, in his infinite wisdom (or drunkenness) agreed with at smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Friday afternoon finally came, it was my job to accompany The Buck in the transportation of the goods to The Crooked Politician's place of residence. The Buck drove in his tattered, old, blue van. The smell of it still brings a smile to my face. It was two years earlier, in that van that on the first day that The Buck had his driver's license, he and I were headed over to the Rialto to take in a film and were rear-ended by another car. He had his license for less than 6 hours and had already been in an accident. That could only happen to The Buck.

Anyway, The Buck and I first headed over to his mother's place of business to pick up the keg. Everything had gone to plan and we paid the bartender the money that we owed. We then headed over to The Buck's uncles' house to drive him to the places we needed to obtain the goods required. First we went to the liquor store and the uncle purchased three quarts each of the following: rum, tequila, whiskey, and vodka. Then, we traveled to a place of business that sold the masterpiece of the monks that we desired so. While in the van still, the uncle asked us how much beer we wanted.

"However much this will buy us," The Buck replied, handing him a wad of money.

"This is like two-hundred dollars," his uncle stated.

"(The Crooked Politician) said to buy as much as we could with what he gave us," was The Buck's explanation.

The Buck's uncle returned a few minutes later carrying four thirty-pack cases of beer. "I'll be right back," he told us. He re-entered the store and came back with four more cases, "Just one more trip," he then said. At this, The Buck and I smiled at each other. Finally, the uncle came back with his last load, four more cases. We then drove The Buck's uncle back to his house and he told us to be careful, we told him we know what we were doing. Or at least we thought we did.

It was about a four mile drive back to The Crooked Politician's house and The Buck and I were carrying a van-load of alcohol. All told we had: 1 keg of beer, 12 bottles of liquor, and 12 thirty-pack cases of beer; we were 18 years old.

On the way to the site of the gathering I made an observation, "You know, if we get pulled over, we're going to jail."

"Yeah, I know," replied The Buck.

It was then that our plan took a turn that we hadn't expected. A police officer pulled in behind us. The Buck began to panic. "Just drive the speed limit and use your blinkers," I told him. "They can't pull you over if you're not breaking the law."

"We are breaking the law!" he exclaimed.

The police car's lights then popped on and it's siren began to wail.

"What do I do now?!," The Buck wanted to know.

"What do you mean, what do you do? You pull over!" I yelled.

"If I pull over we're going to jail, we're only like 2 miles from (The Crooked Politician's) house!"

"You are not going to try and outrun a cop!" I shouted, "He might not even think to look in the back if you just pull over! If you try and outrun him we're going to jail, for sure!"

"We've got 500lbs of alcohol in this van!" The Buck exclaimed, "I'm pretty sure we're riding a little bit low to the ground, he knows we're hauling something!"

"Just pull over to the side of the road!" I pleaded.

The Buck then made his decision, he pulled over. As we both watched the police vehicle in the rear-view mirrors we held our breath. The car pulled out and around us and sped down the street on his way to another crime being committed.

We sat in complete silence for at least three minutes, The Buck then put the car in gear and drove to The Crooked Politician's house, the entire time we were doing our best mime impressions.

When we arrived at the place of celebration we got out of the van and unloaded the goods, we then decided that it would be best if we just washed our hands of the whole experience. We were going home, we didn't want anything more to do with this process.

The Time I Almost Went to Jail Part 1: The Subway Incident, or, How I'm Like the Detainees at Guantanamo Bay

Okay, here's the deal, I'm a master of illusion. Most people think I'm just this totally normal, n'er do well type person who has coasted through life on his coattails, and if I had coattails I'd tell you that's the perception I've been trained my whole life to give off. My family, in my hometown, is very much like the Kennedy's - respected, looked up too, idolized, even. We already had the fuck up (Ted) covered in the family by the time I was grown, so I just fell in line and acted the way I was supposed to in social situations, and I come off looking like John John. But here's the deal, I'm a little bit of a rebel at heart. I've done some things that I'm not particularly proud of and some of them have gotten the heat put on me. Looking back on these things I can say that they weren't the high points of my youth, but they were probably the funniest, when I remember them in hindsight. So, the following is my account of the first time I almost got arrested, (and just like any good Kennedy I stress the word ALMOST) unfortunately I do have to say the first time because the times have been numerous and I'll post about them all at a date to be determined. So, without further ado, I bring to you part one in my Almost Arrested Series: The Subway Incident, or, How I'm Like the Detainees at Guantanamo Bay.

Senior year of high school, spring semester, we were almost through. This was cause for a celebration. We tended to celebrate alot in those days and they all involved great amounts of underage drinking and sometimes driving afterward. It was a Friday, which meant that we would, of course, be celebrating that very evening. That evening's plans involved 200 or so beers, a few of the fellas, and a campout. It was going to be a blast, everything was planned, the beer, the beef and the location (sorry, I couldn't come up with a "B" there to complete the alliteration). That day, at lunch, five of us went to lunch at the local Subway.

The five in attendance were 1. Me (The Count), 2. The Buck, 3. The Hick, 4. The One-liner, 5. The Twin (names have been changed to protect the innocent, which we all were). So, we all decide to go eat at Subway on this day, The Buck took his motorcycle, the other three rode with me. The Buck got there about a minute or so before we did so we met up inside.

This eating establishment was on Main Street in our home town, so parking in the front was limited, we opted to park in the back of the restaraunt, where space was ample. When you park in the back of Subway, you have to walk down a hallway until you reach the main dining area, so we all walked into the main area, which is where we met The Buck.

We each ordered our respective sandwiches and proceeded to devour them with much fury, in between chewing our food we traded quips about the plans for that eve and our excitment built. Soon after we began eating a number of uniformed police officers enterred the establishment. This didn't concern us much, as we knew that the police station was just around the corner. We did, however, decide not to speak of the events that would unfold in 8 hours time, on the off chance that one of the purveyor's of the peace would overhear us. Shortly after the officers had started standing in the line to order their sandwhiches one of them approached us.

He walked directly up to me and said, "You need to come with me outside right now." My stomach dropped, as he turned around, I noticed a K-9 Unit band on his arm. Oh, great, I thought, somebody planted something in my vehicle and his canine partner has discovered me. As I followed him outside I prepared for the worst, my family name would be demolished and I would be a social outcast for the remainder of that academic term.

Once outside the conversation proceeded thusly: "You think it's funny vandalizing other people's property?" the officer asked.

"No," I replied.

"Then why is it that the manager tells me he's got you on tape breaking down ceiling tiles in the back hallway?" he inquired.

[Okay, story break here, it should be known if you, the reader, have never come into my acquaintance that I'm only 5'8" tall, breaking ceiling tiles for me is a job that requires much jumping and stretching.]

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about, I didn't break any ceiling tiles in the back hallway."

"Well, maybe it wasn't you, but it was one of your buddies in there."

"Sir, we all rode together, none of us broke down any ceiling tiles."

"Is that a fact? Well, I don't believe you. I'll tell you what I'm gonna do right now. I'm gonna go in there and watch the tape and if I see you or any of your buddies breaking ceiling tiles down, we're all gonna take a walk around the corner and call your parents."

At this point in time I followed the officer back into the establishment. My mates asked me what had happened and I told them the tale of horror I had just been victim of. It was then that one of them rememberred, The Buck had driven himself. We asked The Buck if he had broken the tiles to which he replied that he most assuredly had not.

Time passed by and the hour at which we were supposed to return to school drew nearer, my friends began to worry that they would be late, if their parents received a phone call from the school informing them of their child's tardiness, they would not be allowed to attend the night's festivities. It was decided, then, that they would all receive different rides back to school from students who had also attended said eating establishment and I would stay behind, because it was I who was on trial during this situation.

We all stood to empty our trays in the trash receptical and as we did this, the other police officers stood as well.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked one brutish officer as he placed his hand on his gun.

"They were all going to get rides back to school from other people here, they're going to be late," I replied.

"Nobody's going anywhere until we get this mess straightened up," was the response I received.
We all returned to our table and sat in solemness for a bit before The Hick started to get perturbed.

"This is ridiculous," he said, "they can't just keep us here without proof that we did anything."

"That's what they're looking for," I claimed.

"Seriously, if I'm late, I'm gonna be pissed," he replied. It was then that he decided to ask in a very clear, very loud voice the entire restaraunt the question, "Hey, who else in here is being illegally held for something they didn't do?"

At this, we snickered, but the police officers frowned. This question did lighten the mood at the table a bit, however, and we began joking. "Hey, we're not planning on doing anything illegal for at least 7, 8 hours," the twin said, under his breath. We were all laughing at this statement when the K-9 officer returned to the table.

"Well, what we've got here is a case of mistaken identity," he explained. "I watched the tape and I saw you fellas and it wasn't you, it was the group of boys who came in before you. You can go ahead and claim responsibility for it though. We'll give you three hots and a cot over in county. You boys like beans?"

Then general concensous was that, no, we did not like beans, and no we didn't want to claim responsibility for the crime. We were allowed to go on our way and made it back to the school and into our classes just as the bell sounded.

My Redneck Past Keeps Nipping At My Heels

Truer words have ne'er been spoken about me at this point in time of my life. Truth - I was born in a small southern Oklahoma town; Truth - in small southern Oklahoma towns things get boring from time to time; Truth - I did some things in my younger and more vulnerable years that may seem a little back woodsy to some people in the world. In my attempt to open myself up and share some of my inner-most secrets, this is the story of one of my redneck moments.

When I was 16 my dad came to me with an ultimatum: Either I get a job, or I get a place of my own. As appealing as a place of my own was, I only knew how to cook toast, pop-tarts, and a wonderful three cheese lasagna that my aunt taught me to make; needless to say, I decided on to test the job market. After being turned down from many of the finer establishments in town (Hardees, Taco Mayo, Wendy's) I was feeling dejected and driving around some of the back roads that my town had plenty of. It was then that I got a flat tire, great, a flat tire is the only thing that could make that day better. I knew of a farmhouse about a half a mile up the road, so I decided to walk there to call for help (this was the pre-cell phone age). When I turned the corner to the farmhouse, however, my entire life was changed.

The man who owned the place was Tito Sanchez and was a small-time cat-fight promoter. This doesn't mean that he was like the dude in Million Dollar Baby, it means that he made two felines very angry and placed them in a battle against another feline to the death. I asked to use his phone and he obliged, he then told me that I could stay at his place until my friend could come pick me up. He asked me what I had been doing driving around aimlessly in the back roads of Ada, OK and I recounted my miserable day to him. He then made me an offer I couldn't refuse, he said that he would pay me a handsome wage if I would clean up after the cats a few days a week. All I had to do was empty the litter boxes, sweep out the barn, and clean up all the blood after the fights. Who could pass that up!?

I started working for Tito and we became fast friends. He started gaining more and more popularity, because this was around the time that Oklahoma was banning cock-fighting, and all the masochistic gamblers needed a way to get their jollies. Tito started making money and he promoted me to his assistant. We worked close together for awhile and trained many frisky felines, but none quite so frisky as a beast of a cat that went by the name of Socks. Socks had fought 12 times and each fight was over within 5 minutes. Other cats became scared of Socks, they were ducking him, they wanted no part of El Gato Loco (as was his fighting name). It was then that we heard about a small up-incoming fighter that went by the name of Mr. Nibbles. Tito spoke to Mr. Nibbles' trainer, some broad who went by the name Unequivocal Prowess, and they began negotiations on a fight. We didn't want our prize-fighter to be unprepared so Tito sent me to some small freak-ass town in Tennessee to check him out.

When I got to Murphreesboro (you've probably never heard of it, but that's the town in Tennessee where Mr. Nibbles was) I began asking around, looking for our opponent. A nice woman who identified herself as Genderist (yeah, I know, weird name) directed me to some on campus housing where many cats congregated, maybe I'd find my point there. I decided to grab a bite to eat, and then check it out. I was totally unprepared for what I saw when I got there.

I saw a man walking with a woman around the cats. Now, as an experienced cat-fight trainer, I knew, when a bunch of cats are nosing around a garbage bin, searching for food, you leave them alone. This guy, however, seemed to not only be approaching the cats, he was provoking them, saying things about their "Mama's," generally Hating on them. He continued on like this for a full 3 minutes, and then he made his fatal flaw, he made to grab one of them. Bad idea, whoever you are. I recognized our fighter immediately, this cat leapt up and scratched the Hater guy so bad that I saw a gash that was at least a quarter-inch wide open up immediately on this guy's hand. The Hater guy screamed and cursed and then he and his lady friend turned abruptly and went into the apartment building.

I scheduled my return trip home shortly thereafter. I had seen what this cat could do to an opponent who provoked him. I reported to Tito that we probably shouldn't get Socks into this fight, it might give him a loss that he would never recover from, both mentally and physically. He asked if I had conversed with Mr. Nibbles' trainer, to which I replied I hadn't. I'd hate to come face to face with the crazy bitch who could train a cat that vicious.

My Confession

Uhhhh, yeah, so one time I tried to pull the dog's nipple off with a pair of tweezers.

My Namesake

Okay, I know the entire reason for me to have a blog is to express myself and shit, but I ran across a short story today that included my namesake, and is pretty funny too, so I thought, hell, why not, I'll post it. Enjoy.


COOKIE MONSTER SEARCHES DEEP WITHIN HIMSELF AND ASKS: IS ME REALLY MONSTER?

BY ANDY F. BRYAN
- - - -
Me know. Me have problem.

Me love cookies. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn't normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

When me get back to apartment, after cookie binge, me can't stand looking in mirror—fur matted with chocolate-chip smears and infested with crumbs. Me try but me never able to wash all of them out. Me don't think me is monster. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way.

Me was thinking and me just don't get it. Why is me a monster? No one else called monster on Sesame Street. Well, no one who isn't really monster. Two-Headed Monster have two heads, so he real monster. Herry Monster strong and look angry, so he probably real monster, too. But is me really monster?

Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

How can they be so callous? Me know there something wrong with me, but who in Sesame Street doesn't suffer from mental disease or psychological disorder? They don't call the vampire with math fetish monster, and me pretty sure he undead and drinks blood. No one calls Grover monster, despite frequent delusional episodes and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And the obnoxious red Grover—oh, what his name?—Elmo! Yes, Elmo live all day in imaginary world and no one call him monster. No, they think he cute. And Big Bird! Don't get me started on Big Bird! He unnaturally gigantic talking canary! How is that not monster? Snuffleupagus not supposed to exist—woolly mammoths extinct. His very existence monstrous. Me least like monster. Me maybe have unhealthy obsession, but me no monster.

No. Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me like cookies. So what? Cookies delicious. Cookies do not make one monster. Everyone loves cookies.

Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

Who me kidding? Me know me never actually eat cookies. Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can't swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

Me no eat cookies.

Me destroy cookies.

Me crush cookies.

Me mutilate cookies.

Me make it so no one get cookies.

Everyone right. Me really is cookie monster.

History Tends to Repeat Itself

To all of my dedicated readers there are some things about me that you may not know: 1.) I'm a Cancer, my birthday is on July 5th (buy me something); 2.) I tend to laugh at inappropriate times when it makes everyone uncomfortable (like church); 3.) I'm a teacher, I teach history and drama (and then sometimes a little LD debate).

I have a history class that leaves me in hysterics. They are the most neo-conservative 16 year olds I've ever met. The following is an actual transcript of a conversation I overheard in my class right after Hurricane Katrina.

Student 1: Dude, Bush is on TV tonight.

Student 2: Yeah, I know!

(Then, they high five).

There isn't a day that goes by that one or all of them say something that's totally insensitive, racist, an/or just plain stupid. I've explained why the war in Iraq is a bad idea at least 25 times this year. Regardless of the fact that these are the most insensitive group of adolescent assholes in the world, I can't help but leave the class laughing at their small-mindedness.

This has absolutely nothing to do with this post, except for the fact that you needed to know that I teach history.

I was scanning the text book for the class the other day (we were starting our WWII unit) to double check my notes and ran into an interesting bit of information. Throughout the 1930's while Hitler was dictating Germany he preached peace and justice. In fact, Hitler managed to convince everyone in Germany that if people didn't believe in his ideals they were anti-peace. The most evil man in the history of the world thought that anyone who didn't believe in what he believed in was anti-peace. (Just so you know, it was just 3 years after this that he invaded Poland and officially started WWII).

As I was reading this something dawned on me, something that had done nothing but piss me off a few months ago. In February Unequivocal Prowess and I were watching TV and saw some news report that said that people in the Middle East were comparing George W. Bush to Hitler. Somewhere over there there was a ginormous mural of Bush dressed in a Nazi uniform, with his hand in the, "Hail" salute, and with a Hitler mustache.

I really don't like the President, I think he's a blood-thirsty, functioning illiterate; however, I also don't like the fact that we, as a people, are apparantly being compared to the people who elected Hitler. So, in a word, I was pissed.

Two days ago, however, when I read about Hitler saying anyone who opposed his ideals was anti-peace, it got me thinking. Doesn't Bush say that anyone who doesn't subscribe to his way of thinking is anti-freedom? Now, I ask you, you the American public, are the comparisons valid? I look forward to some enlightening answers and maybe even some good old American debate. Just leave a comment and I'll make sure and check and respond.