Memory Lane Cringe

I was in my mother’s kitchen a few days ago deep in the heart of Mississippi on a trip home. As is tradition, I help her prepare dinner and clean up afterwards until she can’t take how awful my pan washing techniques are and takes over while I provide commentary. We were catching up on everything that had been going on when she suddenly remembered something she had found buried in a box of books.

“I found your journal you had to keep for your Sr English class.”

“I need it, where is it?”

Now, to preface, everyone changes quite a bit from the person they were in high school to the person they are as an adult, at least I’m glad I did. I can admit I thought I was the coolest thing that southern Mississippi public school had ever seen, with my long stupid frat hair, hemp/sea shell necklace and Clark Wallabees. Although currently I’m no pillar of modern fashion, I roll my eyes and cringe at how ridiculous I must have looked. 

As I flipped through the pages of the tattered composition notebook, I felt like I was reading a stranger’s words. The only thing that confirmed this notebook belonged to me was the atrocious penmanship. I felt like Indiana Jones whenever he’s slowly, then more commandingly reading hieroglyphics to decipher an ancient message, although instead of some great civilization encoding the whereabouts of a secret treasure, it was “how sick homecoming is going to be, and “that girl is so hot.” I cringed as I read.

“What is it?”

“I can’t believe I made it this far, alive."

The journal was from my Senior English class, and each morning there would be a prompt that we were to write a response to. They were usually very generic questions and being the first class in the morning, most of my writing was practically incoherent. One of the responses I read made me laugh out loud. For your reading pleasure, I humbly present the deep thoughts of Nate Anderson at 18 years old.

The prompt: 

Do you think today’s television programs and movies contain too much violence? Why? Why not?

The response:(Read in the voice of a teenager of the description above, in a tone much louder than necessary, with an idiot southern accent.) This is exactly how it is written on the page.

“Yes, like, how about that Texas Chainsaw Massacre? How about a mean dude with no face cutting people up with a friggin chainsaw? Then, if they’re not dead, he’ll take them to his little basement and chop them up more? Friggin scary, and there wasn’t even a plot, it was just a bunch of people running around screaming and cursing and crying and for the love of God, why did I pay $7.50 to go watch that? It’s Christmas! Why didn’t we go see Elf? Will Ferrel in yellow tights as an elf. That is a movie I would like to go see, because it’s funny, and I don’t think he would chase me with a chainsaw.”

Although I have come a long way since high school, I can say at least two things haven’t changed. I don’t like scary movies and I love the movie Elf. 

Whether you’re with family for the holidays or just to see them, take a trip down memory lane and see where you’ve come from. Even if the your awesome and stylish Wallabees and hemp necklace didn’t give you much traction on the journey. 

Fashion.

Food on the Run

Marathon Shmarathon.

It wasn’t even a week ago when I saw the ad for the Charleston Marathon. I remembered how a friend and I were going to run the Marine Corps Mud Run but for some reason, it fell through and we didn’t get our team together in time. I always see pictures of people running 5k’s and I always think, I should sign up for those, but I usually see the registration fee and make up some excuse. While scrolling through the participant info page for the Charleston Marathon, I called my friend up and told him the news.

“We’re going to run a half marathon in January.”

“I don’t know man, I haven’t run that far in a long time."

“Ah you can do it, you’ve got over two months to get ready. You’re signed up.”

Neither of us were, in fact, signed up, but I wanted him to run it with me so he agreed and I further inspected the course route, what the t-shirts looked like, and at what intervals the race would offer water. Little did I know that after you pass the half mark of the full marathon (13.1 miles) they hand out bananas and handfuls of jelly beans for a quick energy boost to get you through the NEXT 13.1 miles. 

The arrogant Nate on my left shoulder popped up. 

“You can do a whole marathon, you run almost a half every time you run the bridge from downtown and back. Just run slow, it’s not hard”

Right? I though. I mean I run a lot, I’m in pretty good shape, maybe not marathon shape but it’s not like I’m trying to win it, anyone can finish it. 

Click.

Debit card.

Chase reward points. 

Tshirt size Med.

And like an idiot, I registered, for a marathon. 

That was the hardest part right? Paying around $100 to run from downtown to like, Atlanta, or whatever. I figured I should talk to someone who know’s a little more about this whole "running far” thing so I called my brother in law. He’s a guy who could run a marathon for kicks and giggles. I’ve tried to run with him and it’s always the same story. He starts out at what I think is a sarcastically fast pace only to realize as I immediately start to fall behind, this is his jogging pace. He’s usually home and showered by the time I hobble up to where we started. Needless to say, he knows what he’s talking about. 

“When’s the marathon?’

“A little over two months.”

"How far are you running now?”

“My long runs are pushing a half’s distance.”

“Yeesh…..ok, well, you, uh, you may be able to be ready in time, 26.2 is a long way man, the reason they hand out bananas and jelly beans is because your body has used up every bit of it’s energy by that time. It’s no joke. You need to have at least one long run a week, and each week after, tack on an additional mile until you’re near race distance.”

So that was that, I needed to see how far I could go to get my bearings for this whole training thing, and yesterday was the day I chose to do that. 

I packed it in early at work and headed home to start what I was sure to be at least a 20 mile run. I downloaded a few new albums of angry rap to get me through, stretched a little and started off. Colonial lake was first up and to warm up I glazed over and lapped it for a few miles. Down Broad St to King, a left on Tradd to East Bay and then all the way around the Battery back to Colonial Lake. A left at Lockwood took me to, and then past the marina and on to the Citadel. 

 As I started to feel that all too familiar “I’m tired, this sucks” feeling, I was sure I would be at least near the 10 or 12 mile mark but oh no, I had only gone a mere 7 miles. "Wow, I am in deep trouble” I thought. Not only was I in way over my head physically but as I looked around I saw a lot of graffiti and abandoned houses. A look up revealed I was directly behind the old cigar factory so I picked up the pace and headed for the bridge. 

It’s amazing what upbeat, angry rap music can do for making you forget you can’t feel your legs anymore. After a loop around the submarine in the grass at Patriots Point and back across the bridge I began to feel a serious hunger. By the time I reached the benches on the downtown side of the Cooper River Bridge I couldn’t take it anymore. I promptly stopped, took a seat and made a call.

“Popa John’s, Wesley Drive, how may I help you?”

I got a strange look from both women walking by my bench as I held the mic on my ear phone cord and replied:

“Yes I need to make an order for delivery, two large original crusts with extra cheese and mushrooms.”

“Will that be all?’

‘Nope, throw in a two liter of mountain dew please.”

"Would you like to try one of our Papa John’s cookies for $5.99?"

“Haha, no that’s ok, I’m trying to watch my weight.”

The lady at the store either didn’t catch it or was too busy for idiots trying to be funny. It was probably hard to hear what I was saying because of all the cars driving by, because I was on a bench, outside, on a bridge.

“45 min to an hour.”

Perfect, now I can leisurely finish this hell of a run, and just as I’m getting home, a delicious melty cheesy dinner will arrive and I’ll justify it as being healthy because Michael Phelps eats pizza and he’s an olympian. I shot off a tweet and slowly began running again. 

Then things got a little out of control.

At Church St and Market, I received a call from a Greenwood number and my heart sank. It was the pizza guy. I was less than a mile from home but after 17+ miles, I might as well have been in Summerville. I told him I was right around the corner and that I would hook him up if he didn’t leave. My brain told my legs to pick up the pace but 2 strides in the reply was simple. 

No way in hell.

I phoned my roommates. No answer.

 Must run faster. Must have pizza. 

At this point I was grunting out loud, like one of those obnoxious weight lifters that deems it necessary to let everyone around them know how heavy the weight they’re lifting is. My phone lights up, it’s the roommate. Through gasps and grunts I blurt out:

“Are you home?!”

“No what’s up.”

I’m having something, err, delivered.”

“Nate, did you order pizza WHILE you were running?!” That is THE, fattest thing I have ever..”

“I DON’T (Gasp) WANT TO HEAR (gasp) IT!”

Queen St never seemed so long. Every car I passed I was sure was the pizza man had given up and was leaving with my cheesy treats. I rounded the corner and scared the crap out of the poor pizza man on my front porch as I yelled a mixture of a greeting and profanity, out of breath and much louder than necessary (due the my angry rap music that was still playing) and that I would be right back.

I came back to the door to a bewildered pizza man who kindly delivered my two large pizzas and drink and as I fumbled through the contents of my wallet that I had just dropped all over the floor at his feet, he asked in choppy English:

“Are you exercising?”

“Ha, I guess you could say that man, sorry I made you wait.”

“Hey, who say running has no reward, have a good night.”

I may or may not have laid on the floor of my entry way, in a sweaty pile of what used to be my neatly organized wallet, next to a family sized portion of unhealthy greasy pizza, laughing hysterically at not only what the pizza man said but at myself and how much of an idiot I was. Literally running as hard as I could so I wouldn’t miss my pizza delivery. That’s right. I’m an adult. Might as well go for broke.

I sat up, kicked my shoes off, taco styled two pieces of Papa John’s at one time and killed a solid 1/4th of that 2 liter like it was a water bottle. 

This marathon is going to be a piece of, uh, pizza.

No Need to Shave November

What's all this hype about No Shave November about? I understand that it’s for prostate cancer awareness and though it holds no candle to the amount of pink we saw last month, its a great idea to grow your beards out to show that you support the people currently dealing with such a nasty thing as cancer and the hope for a cure to come quickly. However, what about those of us who can’t grow a beard?

I have nothing to blame but my genetics, but it doesn’t make me feel any better that even after a few anniversaries of my, err, 25th birthday, I still cannot grow a beard, or even come to anything close. I see all of these magnificent hipster beards that were started long before the month of November rolled around and it makes me a little jealous, not that I would ever grow one, but I’d like to at least have the option.

Like, what if I go on a camping trip somewhere deep into the mountains and my small plane goes down hundreds of miles from the nearest civilization and I have to survive the wilderness like Alec Baldwin and Robert De Niro did in “The Edge” for weeks and weeks. They had 5 o'clock shadows before they even got on their plane. No outpost trapper is going to believe that I’ve been foraging for roots and berries and fighting off grizzly bears for over a month when I came out of the tree line with the face of a 7 yr old. I’ll just look like a really young, really dirty, ill prepared hiker. 

It’s not fair either. I have friends from high school that three days without a razor looked like Brett Keisel, when they were TEENAGERS!

The only way you could tell if I had shaved or not until well into my 20’s was when the sun reflected on the line where my peach fuzz unevenly ended on my cheek. I had a friend ask me why I wasn’t growing my beard out for No Shave November and I laughed because no one has ever used the word "beard" in a sentence directed towards me. I’ve had the same electric razor since 2006, if that tells you anything. Although Braun is a great brand, any electric razor will last a long time if it's only turned on for 45 seconds every other Tuesday.

 I guess it’s not always a bad thing. Getting my ID checked every time I even walk near the beer aisle makes me feel young.

So for all of you who can grow your full, thick, beautiful beards, let it go just a little longer for those of us who can’t. It’s not that I’m unsupportive of prostate cancer awareness and the search for a cure, it’s just that my attempt to show it with MY facial hair wouldn’t be obvious until well after the month of November has passed. 

Babes to babies.

I remember when Facebook first came to campus, it spread like wildfire and made that semester's grades considerably lower because instead of studying we were sending friend requests, changing our profile picture and "poking" people. Now, even my parents, who have yet to learn how to text, still have hotmail accounts and refer to anything online as "the internets" have Facebook accounts. Times have most definitely changed, but the more I scroll down my timeline, the older I feel, especially during this, most, awesome time to be young and on Facebook, Halloween.

Halloween for anyone from ages 18 - 25 is one of the best times of the year. There are costume parties and funny pranks, and costume parties, and pumpkin shi@ everywhere and costume parties. Honestly, it's really all about dressing up like an idiot and going to places filled with other people dressed up as idiots. I remember watching a 6'2 Elmo and Jack Sparrow wrestle outside a bar for a solid 10 minutes until Elmo ran out of gas and either passed out or decided the curb outside of Hal and Mal's was a good place to take a nap.

Not only do guys get their once a year chance to not only be belligerently drunk, and do it in ridiculous costumes, but young ladies get to dress up, or "down" as it usually is, That was one of the best parts of scrolling through Facebook during and immediately after Halloween, the girl's costumes. There was the naughty bumblebee, the naughty nurse, the naughty whatever, with enough clever tailor work, you can make anything into a "naughty" costume. You really got to see the "creativity" of some of the girls out there. Today is no different. Although the characters emulated have gone from Jack Sparrow to Walter White in yellow hazmat coveralls, the naughty bees and nurses are all still there, just not on my newsfeed.

On my newsfeed there are pictures of babies.

Babies and babies and babies with a few wedding sprinkled in there just for giggles. As I grow older so does my Facebook account and all my friends therein. I didn't know I was Facebook friends with so many babies. Being from the South, there is this instinctual need to get married as young as possible and then immediately start a family. Not that this is wrong by any means, it just makes my Facebook experience pretty boring, especially around Halloween. I want to see Elmo drop the people's elbow again. I want to see how many things can be turned "naughty." I want to see a gorilla holding a martini glass talking to Where's Waldo.

As I push all the babies and weddings on my newsfeed to the back of my head and get my tutu, combat boots and hair gel ready for my appearance as Ace Venture, Pet Detective,

 I remember, my best friend, is a doctor. He saved a guys life the other day. In a hospital.

Now the tutu really does look stupid. Maybe I have to accept the fact that I'm getting older and people my age don't really go as crazy as they used to for Halloween because they're married and are all having kids. I see Facebook picture-happy girls who are married driving Tahoes full of car seats that only a few years ago could have made a sailor blush with not only their Halloween costume but with the fact that they could drink that sailor under the table. I guess until I join the ranks of the married, I'll be that guy who still goes really, really, hard on Halloween.

Wyatt Earp is a jerk.

On a recent trip to New Orleans, I was reminded again firsthand why it pays to always be nice to people in customer service. 

I was running late to the airport as it was, and even though I was just going for a quick trip, I decided to drive my car and park. There was some sort of construction going on in the parking lot and the closest parking spot I could find was almost all the way across the entire lot so I had a quite a hike. My roller suitcase was acting like a spoiled child on one of those kid leashes ridiculous parents harness up their young in. It was a good thing I hurried because there was a line all the way across the width of the terminal in front of the ticket desk. 

I wasn't checking a bag so I weaved my way through the people who, printed tickets in hand, were just standing there apparently waiting to check theirs. I thought, "Look at all these people, checking bags. Look at them waiting and look how smart I am skipping that step. I'm a genius." Once to the little electronic kiosk however, I was taken down a notch.

"Flight something something has been delayed. Please see a reservation specialist or call 1-800-whatever for more information."

Apparently I had a very recognizable look of confusion and disappointment as I looked up because the first lady behind the desk I made eye contact with pointed to the line that spanned the width of the terminal. 

Defeated, I picked my way back through the people I had just laughed at in my head. They were waiting to speak to a "reservation specialist" as well. 

A few miles away, at the back of the line, I watched as one by one, or couple after couple, approached the desk and lit into the poor women behind it about how they were going to miss their connection or how long ago they had booked their flight and how ridiculous all this was. The ladies were obviously stressed out as collectively there were around 65 people waiting.

As I got closer, I noticed the older man in front of me was especially unhappy. He was on his phone with the airline and was being very rude. 

"I'm gonna to miss my connection! You need to fix this. (pause) I don't care if the repair part is coming from China, you give me another connection! 

I turned behind me to exchange an eyebrow raise with the mother and daughter behind me who were looking at each other in disbelief. There was a muffled mixture of profanity and mumbles as he hung up on whoever he was talking to and put his cell phone back on his belt. If I didn't like him before, the cell phone holster on the belt took the cake. 

WHY do people, mostly middle aged and older men, consider it necessary to have a holster for their cell phone on their belt? Is it so they can "quick-draw" their phone old west gunslinger style to get on that call? Is it because there isn't enough room in their, count em' FOUR pockets, for your ONE cell phone?  They're stupid and I hate them.

This guy was chomping at the bit to get to the desk, huffing extra loudly and shaking his head in disgust to anyone that would notice. When it was finally his turn he made his three step approach as theatrical as he possibly could by dropping his bag just hard enough to make a loud thud and slapping his ticket info on the desk.

I turned again to the two ladies behind me to make a "buckle up, here we go" face.

The poor lady behind the desk, Barbara, was obviously stressed. Her hair was a little messed up and her forehead was glistening with sweat from busting her ass with the luggage. He didn't waste any time letting her have it. You could see her shrink a little with the first barrage of "This is the most unprofessional something something" he hit her with, take a breath, gather herself and settle in to take yet another pissed off traveller's horrible attitude right on the chin. 

After she had checked every airline that flew out of Charleston for available options and rearranged connections with a typing speed of what seemed like 900 words a min, something with the computer system put him on hold. She asked him as sweet as she could if he would step aside for just a minute so I could step up. He let out an annoyed sigh and Wyatt Earp'd his phone out of his belt holster as he sauntered off. 

As I stepped up, I saw her again, look down, take a deep breath and armor up for just another livid, delayed passenger to give her hell. 

"Hello sir, how may I help you?"

"Hey there, I think I might need to switch flights."

As she looked up my itinerary, she started talking through the options.

"I have a 4:30 out of Charlotte, that'll put you at your destination about 2 hours later."

"I hate to be that guy, but is there anything earlier?"

She began to look, as she had for the gunslinger in front of me, at every available airline. The times were either way too late or the flights were full. With an almost fearful expression she looked up and said "It's a friday afternoon, most flights are full so…"

"Hey no worries, if that 4:30 is all you can find that'll work just fine."

As she started back with her court reporter typing speed to switch my flights, I leaned a little closer and jokingly said in a hushed voice, "Do they send you to some kind of special psychological boot camp to deal with days like these?'

She looked up with a spark in her eyes that made me laugh.

"I've been doing this for over 20 years, and people don't realize we're just as upset about it as they are."

She laughed and shook her head as she looked down, as if to shake off the day thus far.

"Does that make working in baggage claim like punishment?'

She gave me a look that only a memory full of baggage claim nightmares could produce.

"Ohhh, baggage claim is not somewhere you want to work for very long. It'll change you."

"I bet, especially dealing with guys like that guy," as I nodded towards gunslinger who was waving his hands in the air mid conversation with whoever else he was chewing out. She smiled and shook her head again, "It's not like I broke the plane! It's in Houston! I don't even know how to set my radio in my car, I'm sorry I can't fix an airplane that broke down in Texas! My lord!"

I was laughing out loud at this point. She probably had an entire soap box worthy speech ready after years of dealing with angry people.

"I know a little how you feel. It like that saying, don't screw with people who handle your food. I bet you could make or break some people's day with that little keyboard there."

She laughed again as though that was not the first time she had those thoughts and replied as though to another person with "I'm sorry sir, the only flight I can find for you is through Antarctica." She had me rolling in laughter as she acted out a sarcastic "I'm sorry" face and dramatically hit one key on the keyboard as if to make that connection through Antarctica official. 

"You're being very easy, it makes it so much easier to work with people when they're understanding. How's and upgrade to 1st class sound on your second connection? These little planes out of here don't have 1st class but your connection is almost two hours long, how would you like that?"

"Really? That's awesome! Thank you so much!"

"Like you said, be sweet to the lady behind the desk, and the drinks are free."

She handed me my tickets and smiled. 

"Have a good flight, and drink one for Barbara, here at the US Airways desk."

I laughed and took my boarding passes like Charlie finding his golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory. I wanted to hug that sweet lady, but the desk was too high and gunslinger was hovering behind me, impatiently waiting to speak to her again. I shook her hand and held it just a second longer as I leaned in again, eyeing behind me towards gunslinger and said with a hush and a smile,

 "Good luck."

I turned and smiled to the angry man who was about to climb over my now obedient child of a roller bag to get back to Barbara. I wanted to ask him if he liked apples in a Bostonian accent like that scene from Good Will Hunting and then slap my upgraded ticket onto his forehead like "How bout' them apples?" but I didn't. I just went on my way to gate B2, thinking about Barbara in the trenches, taking grenade after grenade.

Lesson learned, as if I wasn't already fully aware. Don't be rude to people in the customer service industry, no matter what the situation. Treat people with common courtesy and a smile and it's amazing how willing they'll be to help you. Hopefully all of this makes sense, as I am writing it 2 vodka tonics into my 1st class flight. 

Petting dogs with bare feet.

I love live music, and although there are plenty of places to go see it here in Charleston, my favorite place is The Pour House. The Pour House is in West Ashley and has live music either on the outside deck, on the main stage or both, every night of the week. I've been there countless times and have seen my all time favorite musician, Martin Sexton there, so it has a special place in my heart.

Upon hearing a band from my neck of the woods would be playing there called The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, I immediately made plans for a trip to The Pour House. I called up a friend and we made our way down Maybank HWY, parked and made our way to the front door. The guy who was apparently working there let me give the door a solid two tries before he informed us the doors would be open in around 5 minutes and that there was music on the back deck playing until then.

Half a PBR tallboy in, my friend looked around and proclaimed, "I feel like I'm a MLB scout at a Wando JV game." I surveyed the scene. The ratio was about 1 girl to 7 bearded guys. Normally, big guys with full sleeve tattoos and solid 6 month beards would make me nervous but with hipsters being as popular are they are here in Charleston, they usually just make me Chai Tea Lattes. If anything did go down, I'm pretty sure jeans that tight aren't easy to run in. I felt pretty safe but I wasn't there to start any trouble, I'm sure they were all fans of The Pour House WAY before it was cool and just wanted some good tunes like I did.

The band playing finished up and the crowd started building up on the outside deck. My friend and I got another round and met a middle aged woman and her husband playing that ring on a string game thats to the right of the bar. We tried to explain the point of the game was to try and swing the ring and hook it on the opposing post, for whatever point system or drinking game your incorporate it with but she wasn't having it.

"It's not possible to hook it, the ring is rotating. It's physics."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I've been trying for like..fifth...five minutes!"

As she was explaining how she read "in a book" that the physics pertaining to this game made it impossible, my friend had taken the ring and was on his 3rd try when we both heard the clang of the ring successfully hooking onto the post.

 I tapped her beer bottle with my PBR can and whispered "physics."

There was a chocolate lab named Charlie we had become friends with during our tenure out on the deck and he was making his way around our little area getting pats on the head from whoever would oblige. He was there with two girls in their mid 20's and would occasionally circle back to check in or take a little rest at their feet. If they had brought Charlie with them to be their wingman, it quickly backfired as a man well into his late 50's approached them with tight high wadder jeans, a tucked-in yet unbuttoned hawaiian shirt and no shoes or socks on. As he leaned on the African Safari arcade game to get about 4 inches from the now very worried girl's face for a little chat, he started to stroke Charlie's back with his foot. His bare foot.

"Hey there darlin, is this pup here yours?"
"Uh, er, yes sir, I mean yea."

I turned to my friend and made a face as he sighed and shook his head.

"Let's go inside."
"Damn Wando JV game."

Inside the main floor was starting to fill up as the opening band was setting up. They were pretty solid bluesy rock and a few of their songs had their moments but I was ready for The Dirty Dozen Brass Band to go on. This band is originally from New Orleans, one of my favorite cities, and they play a mixture of zydeco, cajun marching music and funk covers. I've seen them play multiple times and wasn't going to miss a chance to hear some music from home.

As the main show began to start, my friend, and another that had joined us, moved down from that upper bar area to the main floor to get a better view of the stage. The band was amazing. The main guy could play two trumpets and the same time. It's ridiculous. It's also great music for semi-dancing without spilling your drink or moving your feet from where they are, or as I like to call it, "white people dancing." Consistent beat. Not too fast. Very easy to follow.

Some people like to take things up a notch from the safe haven of "white people dancing," especially when the band really gets things going. In comes Encino Man from the outside deck completely hammered, cargo shorts, no shoes, a ripped up Quicksilver sleeveless shirt and a bandana tied to cover up his mid back long blonde hair. And not a bandana tied Rambo style, but Cinderella scrubbing the floors while little mice sing to her style. Also, I say Encino man, the caveman unearthed in Samwise Gamgee's backyard in one of my favorite early 90's movies, because he was dancing like Brendan Fraser, or, Encino Man, did in one of the last scenes of the movie where an entire high school not only had no idea he spoke no english throughout the entire movie but elected him prom king after he led a school wide dance.

I use this comparison only partly in jest, because my comrade at The Pour House used the little kick to the side move at least 2 dozen times. He even did a spinny twirl move that knocked two drinks and a purse to the ground and although the mixed drink was KIA the PBR can he saved from completely emptying out had at least a sip or two left in it. He was a little shocked but too drunk to be embarrassed and as he looked up at my now empty hand I just smiled and said:

"You earned that."

I'd like to say Encino Man had as much fun at the show as I did but after closing out and heading to the parking lot, we heard the distinctive sound of someone's stomach refusing to "party on." I went over to see if he needed any help but he was already snuggled up in the bed of a pickup and ready for the ride home.

If there's any lesson here, it would be support local live music venues, don't be afraid to dance to what you think is your full potential, and don't ever, under any circumstance, pet a dog with your bare feet, in a bar.

Mmmbop makes me run faster

 I love Charleston. People come from not only all over the Lower 48, but the world to see our Colonial styled houses and cobble stone side streets by way of one of our carriages drawn by our very weak boweled horses. For any readers not familiar with the downtown area, the main shopping strip is King St. between Calhoun St. and Queen St. It's a little over half a mile of clothing stores, cool places to eat and an Apple Store. Year round, the foot traffic is heavy and the street itself is hardly wide enough for the two lanes it bolsters, making a wait at every light. The sidewalks are made of large, uneven flat stones that look like they were placed in the same fashion you waste time flicking a deck of cards at a cup. Watching the girls who decided to keep their heels on try to walk home after a night out on these stones is perhaps one of my favorite pastimes. Wobbling like a newborn fawn, trying to keep up with "Alexis" or "Madison" they look like they're walking on chopsticks.

"She's got it, she's got it! Wait....wait.... DOWN GOES FRAZIER!"

Why then, would this stretch be one of the most popular places to jog? Without fail, if you stand anywhere on this part of King St you will see runner after runner jog by in their brand new, neon color coordinated outfits and matching shoes. There's a part of me that wants to give anyone respect who can run in July at 4PM. In South Carolina. But, the other part of me, the part that likes to make fun of everything that moves, finds it ironic that these runners find it necessary to run here.

As a runner myself, this idea sounds like a nightmare. When I run, or attempt to, the last thing I want is to be around people who are going to judge me on everything they see, kinda like I do. Top that off with a narrow street full of drivers from Ohio and Texas who are only used to sharing the road with white tail deer and the occasional opossum and uneven, chopped up stones for a running surface and it's starting to sound like something out of Dante's Inferno.

My only conclusion is that runners who choose to brave all of these perils have one, non-fitness oriented goal in mind; to be seen. Why else would you run down King St? There are miles and miles of smooth streets with little to no traffic that provide the exact same opportunity to fight off dad's genetic gift of heart disease or sweat out last night's bad decision to mix a copious amount of PBR and "Ok just one more fireball shot." Just ask me, I know all the good side streets to run on that are as far away from people as possible that could see my stride and what looks like someone getting shot with a taser gun and stumping their toe at the same time. Plus, I'm usually singing word for word some upbeat song that keeps my mind off how much I want to quit, like......Hanson's "Mmmbop."

Say what you will, once you get past the embarrassment of the fact that you know every single word, that song will shave at least 45 seconds off your mile time.

Ok, maybe not for this guy.


I guess if I spent $80 on a pair of shorts at Lululemon then I would want to show them off too, and, as ridiculous as it may seem to run down King St. at least these people are running. They could be in a coffee shop, hipster watching and writing in a blog while housing cup after cup of iced tea, so kudos, or whatever.

The Jane Goodall of Hipsters

I have found the hipster nest.

In the process of moving earlier this month, I've yet to get my ridiculously overpriced cable and internet hooked up, which has forced me to frequent the variety of small coffee shops and cafes located on almost every corner here in downtown Charleston. Typically, I'm a slave to my brands, therefore 9 times out of 10 I go to Starbucks on lower King, however, today I chose a more local spot. I'll refrain from using names, but a clue might say it's on a street that rhymes with Shmarket.

I love nature. I was raised practically in the middle of the woods, off a county road, down a quarter-mile dirt "driveway." I have always enjoyed the perks of living so far away from civilization, such as hunting, fishing, camping, but probably most of all, I enjoy being around wildlife you can only see once you're out there. Just taking a quiet walk into a thicket, and being silent will provide you opportunities to see local wildlife in their natural habitat, doing whatever "wildlife" does. Now I live in the middle of one of America's oldest cities, and a pure bread pedigree dog being taken for a "walk" in a stroller is about all the wildlife I get to see.

 Then there were Hipsters.

Hipsters are my new wildlife. I like to watch them in their natural habitat. I like to watch them do whatever hipsters do. I like to see the crazy outfits they come up with, and how each one of them expresses how unique they are, exactly like each of their friends do. Sometimes I go places where they congregate and,  like today, instead of doing whatever I originally planned to do, I watch them like I'm Jane Goodall in the Congo. I am by no way passing judgement on the way anyone dresses or lives their life. Yes I am. This is my blog.

Let me see if I can paint a picture here.

When I walk in, the guy behind the counter has an extra small t-shirt on with some band name I've never heard of and an extra large conductor hat. Yes. A conductor hat, like the pin striped, small billed hat old coal-burning locomotive conductors wore. He hasn't shaved in at least a few months. Everything on the menu is organic and extremely overpriced. I order "Uh, regular tea? On ice? Do ya'll have that?" He tries to upsell my order with all kinds or organic goat milk and some other weird sugar extract I've never heard of. When I decline and pay he thanks me with "Thank you brother." I pick a safe spot in the corner next to what looks to be one of "my people," a guy, we'll name Jo, in a polo that's a brand I recognize, shorts that fit and weather appropriate footwear.

As I survey the room, I notice a long table in the center of the shop filled with 7 or 8 mid 20's having a serious, almost heated conversation. I open my computer and put in my headphones and like in most coffee shops, instantly become invisible. I usually play some music to tune out any distracting noise, but not today. Today I'm hipster watching.

There's one hipster, I'll call....Asher. Probably 5'9, maybe 135 lbs, clean cut haircut and a 5 month beard, he has a white button up that is at least 2 sizes too small, sleeves rolled up and tail tucked into khaki pants his legs are screaming to get out of. They are rolled up to the knee. He has heavy wool socks on and what appear to be full ankle coverage hiking boots. In mid July. In Charleston, South Carolina. Elevation above sea level. 18 inches. Accessories are minimum but he does have Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses.

To his right is a young lady who we'll name Harmony, who has bleached denim shorts that are higher on her torso than they are long on her legs. She has tucked into them a denim button up short sleeve, buttoned to the top button and bright red suspenders. Her dreadlocks are somewhat tucked into a round, flat brimmed straw hat gentlemen in the 1920's used to wear. She has a piercing in her lip, nose, eyebrow, and from what I could count, thirteen between both ears and Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses. Something red and flashy catches my eye from outside. It's a motorcycle. No. It's a motorcycle with a damn sidecar. Like, a real motorcycle with a sidecar, that you see in old movies and where else...I don't know, the circus? Off hops what has to be the most extreme type of hipster. The lion of the hipster world. The head honcho..... The Well Funded Hipster.

He, let's say....Blaze, takes off his matching red helmet to show hair to his shoulders and of course, a solid 6 month beard. The helmet is one of those full coverage ones, because safety and good health are very important to hipsters, save the cowboy killer Marlboro Red he lights up outside to prepare his pallet for the delectable organic tea journey he's about to embark on. After "brother" thanks him at the counter, he proceeds to give each and every patron apparently waiting for him at the table at least a 10 second hug.

Stop right now and count to ten.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

That's how long each and every hug was. If I wasn't creeped out by that, the cheek and forehead kisses he gave both male and female friends alike pretty much did it. He had a v-neck t-shirt on and I swear the V went to his belly button, painted on skinny jeans and you guessed it, heavy thick socks and hiking boots. Unlaced. If you drive a motorcycle with a damn sidecar you're not going to stop being hip whenever you get dressed, and from the looks of it, that happened last weekend.

I can't help but watch them. I'm so excited that I've happened upon this "pot-o' hipster" so close to my apartment. I can't keep my discovery to myself.

 The conversation is heating up. There are printed up handouts being passed around. I can't help but listen in, though it wouldn't necessarily be called ease dropping as this shop is small and they're getting loud. I was expecting them to be talking about some political issue, rejecting the mainstream materialism Wal-mart is destroying America with or some dope new poetry reading lounge. I was wrong and had to look down to hide my ear to ear smile when I heard why.

"Meat is the enemy! All living, breathing beings have a spirit and we have to stop the senseless slaughter of these spirits. If you eat meat, you're a murderer. Seriously guys." -Harmony

That happened. Those words were actually spoken with a deep conviction, and received with slow nods and twists of mustaches as though it were a holy text being read in some sacred temple. They were having some sort of anti all-animal products meeting, to spread awareness and strengthen the movement. I had to admire their passion. They were serious about their cause and were exploring ways to demonstrate their disdain for the consumption of animal products. Picketing Harris Teeter, Crosbys Seafood and even taking a field trip out to some beef farm in upstate SC were put up for discussion. No real plans were nailed down, because the conversation quickly moved from how horrible meat is for your digestive system and then to Asher, Blaze and Harmony each "one-upping" each other with recycling techniques and the dedication to a world free of commercial materialism.

I couldn't take much more so I turned my music up and continued with my work. All that talk about how horrible meat was made me want to eat something , something full of commercial grade beef. And cheese. I immediately walked home, got in my gas guzzling SUV and drove to Wendy's. Did you know they will put as many patties on a cheeseburger as you want? Seriously, if you say, "Give me a #3 (which has 3 all American beef patties) and put 7 extra patties on there" they'll do it! I believe my spirit animal is an Angus beef cow. The 2178 calories (actual count) were quite delicious and I thought about my hipster friends back at the coffee shop. Who am I to say what is an acceptable style of dress  or length of facial hair? Who am I to say the uneven sidewalks of downtown Charleston don't deserve hiking boots. Who am I to say all animals don't really have spirits? My cheeseburger with 10 beef patties had something a little extra in it that made me feel pretty special. Maybe it was a spirit, maybe it was just the MSG, either way, I was glad I could enjoy it as freely and as passionately as my friends could refuse it.

 I hope I cross paths with my hipster friends again soon. I love a good iced tea while I observe the species interact in their natural habitat. Maybe I'll get to experience another sighting. Maybe, like Jane, I'll gain their trust and be accepted into the group. Guess I'll be in the market for some new shoes and reading up on how to be a hipster.

Splenda

Splenda.

Even though working in the food and beverage (industry), a churched up way of saying "I wait tables" requires no formal education, it probably has the highest percentage of formally educated people. And even though a majority of the people who wait tables are formally educated, it doesn't always mean they are cut out for the type of work. Customer service requires a smooth tongue and a level of tact that can only be learned from multiple trials by fire. Trials by fire like the Winston Salem witch trials by fire.  Not everyone can handle multiple tables of hungry, cranky, demanding people who demand a million different things and need you to run in a million different directions all while you stay cool, calm and collected and smiling like bringing them more Splenda for their unsweet tea that has 3 lemon wedges, not two, is the ONLY thing you would rather be doing.

Billy went to Clemson. He was a biological science major and wanted to work with the South Carolina Aquarium. He landed an internship there, which is what brought him to Charleston. He's as sharp as a tac and one of the nicest guys I know, one of those genuinely nice guys that when they ask how you're doing, they actually want to hear about it. He always has a word of encouragement and a helping hand to offer. He started at our pseudo-posh restaurant as a bac-wait, which is a glorified bus boy, and quickly made it to the big show of splitting checks in Aloha and hunting down those damn yellow packets of Splenda. The thing is, when dealing with "people" you have to have pretty tough skin. In reality, there are some people who just refuse to be happy. They are miserable and in turn, make everyone around them miserable. You have to know how to wrangle these people like the late Steve Irwin used to handle a cobra, because, if you aren't careful, a 4-top can go from bad to the 7th realm of Dante's Inferno, fast.

Billy was in a great mood at the beginning of the shift. He tossed me a Red Bull as he walked in and showed me a picture of his big date he had later that week that he had met on the Clemson Alumni booze cruise in the harbor. He asked where he should take her, and was wondering about Cyprus.

Billy: "Have you ever been there? I hear it's really good."
Me: "Take her to The Belle."
Billy: "What's that?"
Me: "Never mind. Get some Splenda when you come back upstairs."

Obviously my suggestion was in jest, however it paints a picture of Billy's baby bunny like naivety. He came back with some Splenda and at the gun, we were off. Our hosts, all young beautiful college girls, have the job of escorting each guest to their table, handing them menus and hopefully, spreading the arrivals throughout the sections to give us, the pit crew, time to respond accordingly. However, if you could somehow militarize the collective intellect of our hostesses, all enemies of the State would...probably.....do whatever they wanted.

Poor Billy got quadruple sat, a deuce, two 4-tops and a 5-top. He wasn't just in the weeds, he was in Vietnam 1969 surrounded by Charlie weeds. I wasn't aware of the disaster unfolding with his tables, as we were short a bartender and I was busy with my tables and working on the long list of top shelf mixed drinks, and martinis with "just a touch of vermouth, not too much, but not too dry either, do you understand?"

"Absolutely I understand, you're going to get a cup full of vodka because thats pretty much what a martini is and the addition of vermouth is just to make it look more pretentious, you can't taste it, it's just for show, that'll be $17.00."

I was behind the bar when the wheels came off. Billy was stumbling through all of the modifications on his orders when a walking, chrome domed version of Dr. Xavier stormed up to the computer. (Get it? Because Dr. Xavier, from X-Men, is in a wheelchair. I'm not gonna spoon feed ya here.) He didn't hold back.

"BILLY!"

Picture the dead, awkward silence of the Cantina right after Obi Wan cuts that thug's arm off to rescue Luke in A New Hope. Every employee stopped and looked up. Billy looked like he had shrunk about 3 inches, his eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"It's been 15 minutes and you haven't even gotten our drink order. We've been here many times and this is BY FAR the worst service I have EVER had. You need to get over here and get our order. If you want any semblance of a tip you're going to need to step it up. Now get over here and get our order!"

I was in mid stride to intervene when Xavier turned on his heel and sauntered back to his table. Had I had a light saber, I probably would have carved him up. Billy was shellshocked. The wheels had stopped turning. He was done. I asked him if he was ok and momentarily he regained his composure. I tried to take some of the heat from his other tables for him, to give him a fighting chance of escaping the night with at least part of his soul.

"I've got table 28 and 32, what do you need for Stalin over there? A pistol?"
Billy: "He wants some Splenda for his tea and a Goose martini up, olives, no, a twist, shi@ I don't remember!"
Me: "Deep breaths bud, I've got you. He's getting olives. Get your orders in and we'll go from there."

You could sense evil around the table when you walked by, like the stench from a bog or the cold chill from a haunted house and Billy had that "Please don't make me go over there" look of terror in his eyes every time they needed something.

"Can you run their food to them?"
"Should I drop the check off now or wait?"
"Damn, I didn't ask if they wanted coffee or desserts!"

His confidence was shattered and he was second guessing himself at every turn. At this point we were simply attempting damage control and trying to get the hexed table out of our lives as quickly as possible. We comped a round of drinks for their troubles and I really wanted to play mind games with the them. I wanted to tell Billy to go hide and with presenting the check I would simply explain to them that Billy was in his first week of serving here and "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience but he just found out his entire family died in a house fire, his dog ran away and oh yeah, just yesterday he was just diagnosed with every type of cancer there is, ever, but we took care of your stupid martini because we are SO sorry you had to wait 15 minutes for it," but I didn't do that, because that's not very nice.

The night went on pretty much without incident, but poor Billy was KIA. I could see how upset that guy had made him, and it really got to me. I would like to say that we got our revenge on Dr. Xavier with some devious plan like that scene(watch this video!) from Waiting by destroying his food or putting Visine in his stupid martini, but we didn't, because that's not very nice. We went out to our favorite watering hole after work and I bought him a few cold ones to take the edge off. I went through some of my worst stories of dealing with people like Dr. Xavier and told him thats the name of the game. You win some and you lose some and that night, Scotty chalked one up under a loss but that doesn't mean for the requirements, it can't be a great, lucrative, in between job where you can meet a lot of great people.

As for Dr. Xavier, I hope he doesn't try to pull a stunt like that somewhere that where some maverick server WILL go rogue and violate a dozen health codes on his mashed potatoes. Billy? I'm not worried about Billy. He's already had a few interviews with different aquatic affiliated organizations, and is building up volunteer and intern hours for his resume. He's going to be ok. He's graduated from a bunny to, I don't know, at least a house cat. If nothing else, this in-between job that so many college-plus grads endure to fund their journey to the next step, and hopefully a career will make them capable and confident in dealing with every type of person. I know it will.

Splenda.

The Guys

It was 3:45 pm on a Friday afternoon when I met them. Spoleto, a local, city-wide artsy festival had been pillaging downtown for the better part of a week, keeping the bar busy with ridiculously difficult drink-ordering artistic types. The kind of people that ask what type of wood the muddler is made of or where the olives used to garnish drinks are grown and if we have a good relationship with the grower of said olives. "They come in a jar and I don't know what a muddler is" usually lets them know that if a drink requires more than two ingredients, I don't know how to make it or my ace in the hole, "We're out of that."

They were 3 middle aged, well dressed guys who came in to do business. They were thirsty and had the mentality of a few fraternity bros pre-gaming before a function.

Guy 1: "We don't need menus, what do you have on tap."
Guy 2: "Let me get a Basil Hayden on the rocks."
Guy 3: "Can I have your house savignon blanc?"

Insert the sound of a record scratching the music to a halt as Guy 1 and Guy 2 turn and look at Guy 3 as though he had just shot a bald eagle or said he didn't like the movie Rudy while admitting he liked soccer.

Guy 3: "What!? I like white wine. Get over it."

After Guys 1 and 2 finished berating him with questions of his sexual orientation and true gender I stepped in and offered the consolation: "I'll pour you a man-sized glass, how about that."

It was a breath of fresh air from the types of people I had been dealing with all day. I found out they were all in the higher echelon of a massive marketing and advertising company out of Atlanta, and were in Charleston for business/pleasure. They cracked jokes and laughed at the movie quotes I implemented in the conversation.

Me: "What trouble are you guys getting into tonight?"
Guy 3: "Ah some old lady's house for some dinner thing. We didn't know if there would be booze there so we snuck away from the wives to fuel up."
Me: "Sounds fancy. Another glass of wine?"
Guy 2: "Yea, another glass of wine?"
Guy 1: "Cool drink Guy 3, does it come in hetero?"

He looked at me, laughing at the antics and trying not to spill his wine, for some sort support.

Me: "Poor guy's in the trenches takin' grenades over here. Wine actually has more kick per capita than beer."
Guy 3: "OHHHHHH suck it!"

After discussing the male to female ratio of Charleston, Tim Duncan's future with San Antonio and how the Wildcat offense had run its course and was no longer a viable offensive option in the NFL, Guy 2 received a phone call.

Guy 2: "Hey honey. Yea we're at a bar. A BAR. What? I know what time it is. Huh? I'll be ready. My clothes are already laid out. We'll be ready! Honey it's just a few drinks, Guy 3's drinking WINE, that like, doesn't even count. Ok. Ok. Huh? OK OK!"

He looked at his phone and sighed with childlike disappointment.

Guy 2: "Guys, they're coming in hot."
Guy 1: "There goes the fun."
Guy 3: "Let's chug and meet just meet them at the room."

Me: "Man I can't wait to get married."

Guy 3: "Hey real quick, what are some good bars we can go out to after this shindig, the girls will be down like Frasier by 11:15 and we brought our drinking hats."
Me: "I've got you bro. Here's a list."

Me: "These are my favorite spots, all within walking distance. Don't let me see yall's faces in the paper tomorrow, this isn't Vegas.....or is it? Shots?"

They left with two bottles of white wine, five bourbons and six shots of Fireball whiskey obliterating their upper-middle class livers. I didn't see them in the paper the next morning, but that's probably because it's a dead form of media and I get 90% of my news from Twitter, but here's hoping Guys 1, 2 and 3 had a good night out in the Holy City.

Optimus Prime beats hairy spiders.

No I don't like scary movies. Why is that such a shock to you? Why don't you like Transformers? Why are you giving me a hard time about not liking horror movies? Let me tell you why I don't like horrifying terror films little hipster documentary watching, self-proclaimed film critic.

I don't like watching horror films because when I go pay $10 for entertainment, I don't want to want to sit for over two hours with high blood pressure and be sweating with anxious stress. I like to laugh when I go to the movies. I like to see 18 wheelers turn into robots that have the ability to turn their arms into guns and missile launchers, but choose to use hand to hand combat instead, preferably karate kicks. I like to see movies like Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Wedding Crashers. I do NOT like to watch people trapped in houses while murderers sneak around invisibly with butcher knives and hunt them down one by one just for kicks and giggles. I do NOT like to watch some huge half-wit with a ski mask and a chainsaw run around a farm that apparently has no cell service, and slaughter one attractive teenager after another. Why would I want to watch that? If I wanted to watch something unrealistic, I would go watch a multi-billionaire who lives in a fictional city and spends all night dressed as a ninja/bat to confuse the criminals he beats the lights out of and NOT some twisted, faceless little asian girl crawling out of a black and white analog TV. Really? Analog? If something supernatural were to happen out of a TV,

 it would be out of a flat screen.

LCD.

The reason I have an unmanly fear of spiders is because of the movie Arachnophobia. I watched that movie when I was around 10. The plot, in short, is a scientist goes to the jungles of South America for research and somehow the spider from hell hitches a ride back to midwestern suburbia. It then begins to reproduce and of course, they are all those 12 inch, hairy spiders that can take down a small dog. They take over a house and eventually the entire town. I don't remember how the movie ended, my nightmares usually end before that part, and I'm sitting up in my bed with a cold sweat and all the lights on because "I thought I saw something." To this day I have a serious fear of spiders. I can take care of one if I have to but instead of a shoe, I'll grab an old 800 page textbook and after slamming it on top of the demon spawn, I'll leave it there for at least a day for good measure.

Scary movies aren't even realistic. Pretty much every horror movie that's hit it big in the last 30 years could have been thwarted in real life with one well placed slug from a 12 gauge shotgun. Texas Chainsaw Massacre? One shell. All those Saw movies? One shell. If I want excitement then I'll watch Rudy. If I want my hear rate to elevated for 2 hours then I'll watch Boondock Saints. If I want some unrealistic entertainment then I'll watch Optimus Prime crow hop some Decepticons into next week.

Get em' Optimus.

No bro.

Oh pardon me Mr. Muscle Man, I apologize for getting in your way. I can tell you're concentrating on your circuit training here at the local gym, and I'm sorry for taking your attention away from adjusting your fingerless mittens because, God forbid you have 60 inch biceps and hands that aren't as soft as a little lamb's wool. I have some questions for you and your identical twin that's also dressed in matching blue "Ladder 49" firefighter T-shirt and shorts combo. Does the firehouse make you wear matching outfits when you leave? Are there other physical appearance criteria that have to be met? Does the captain make you all quaff your hair exactly the same, with not too much product to make it look greasy, but just enough to get those bangs standing straight up? Does he make you tan? Are the barbed wire and tribal tattoos a requirement? Do all of the guys of Ladder 49 shave their legs or is that so in case you're running to escape the fire you can lose the pants so you can run faster like Jack Black's character in Orange County "Joe..John...JoeJohn" did so he could "run faster out of the flames" that ended up being "totally electrical?" What about your little fireman belt that have your handheld radio but also a connecting microphone with button like a trucker uses because you wouldn't want to talk directly into your walky talky? Is it fireman protocol to make sure you place that belt, with fireman chatter on full volume, in the most visible, unnecessary place possible, or is that up to individual consent? Isn't your firehouse on the same block as the gym? Couldn't the captain just walk down the sidewalk and stick his head in the door of the 1100 square foot gym and with a very moderately raised voice say, "Hey guys, the tanning bed caught fire, come back to the firehouse" and as you grab your muscle milk, notebook for writing down rep counts and max weights and, of course, your fireman belt with radio WITH attached microphone the captain says "I would have called you on the radio but it was upstairs and, well, this was quicker." I hate to keep asking you so many questions because I know you just got new bulbs in that bed but is it possible for either of you to complete a sentence or finish a set with out the use of "bro?"

And then I ask myself "why am I here?"

Maybe deep down I'm jealous of how many "curls for the girls" these guys can crank out. Maybe I want to pack on twice what I weight in pure, hypodermically injected muscle and scare small children when I walk down the street. Maybe I like the smell of sweat and ladies shaving cream because God only knows what it must take to get legs on a man of that stature, that, smooth.

Or,

Maybe its because in the last 24 hours, I've single handedly eaten one and one half 14 inch, two topping, deep crust Papa John's pizzas. Maybe it's because I've got three generations of heart disease on deck and I don't like the fact that on my walk to the gym I sweat out pure garlic butter dipping sauce and a whole pepperoni. Maybe its because instead of pouring into a glass some of the Mountain Dew I ordered with my two pizzas, I grab it like a beer bottle and drink it straight, because, well, I'm an adult. Maybe I'm at the gym because even after my first "feeding" of eight slices, I stopped only because I wanted to have some for later and NOT because I was full, or, maybe I'm just there because I want to continue with my mature eating habits, and in some demented mathematical formula I've created in my head, I figure that as long as I go the gym, not necessarily do anything, but just go, then I can eat whatever I want without any consequences. "Add ten thousand, carry the two, yea, that sounds about right."

I guess in the case of a fire that started because I left my pizza box in the oven for too long, I would want someone who could pick me up and carry me outside, but let's be honest, do you actually think I take the time to heat it up?

No bro. No.

Look both ways.

I just walked full stride, face first into a mini van making a slow left turn in my neighborhood. It didn't hit me, I walked into it, and hard enough to make the driver stop and roll down his window to ask me if I was ok. It was at the corner of King St and Tradd St, and as I left the curb with van to my right, I looked to my left at a group of people reading a sign giving the historical significance of the house it was nailed to. One of the ladies then enthusiastically pointed to a word on the plaque and I continued to cross the street, still fixed on where she was pointing. Then, all of a sudden, my face became intimately acquainted with the driver-side back window. My hands filled with phone and keys brought the meeting to fruition with a loud metal to metal "tink" and the deep thud accompanied with the momentum of my entire bodyweight slamming into the back door.

What made it worse was the driver immediately stopped and rolled down not only his window, but the passenger side window as well to ask me if I was ok. I was hoping the older couple from New Hampshire in their mid to late 2000's Dodge Grand Caravan wouldn't notice getting t-boned by a mid 80's white male, but that would have been a hit and run, and those are illegal. As I tried to play it off as a pick and roll to the other side of the vehicle, I went up to the now completely rolled down passenger side window filled with two, very concerned senior citizens to give them an embarrassed smile and a thumbs up. I explained to them that I just wasn't looking where I was going and was sorry for ruining their experience at the intersection of King and Tradd. They laughed, probably at my face and its likeness to a beet and as I walked away, I gave a laughter-filled "Welcome to Charleston."

Other than a red wrist, the only other injury sustained was to my pride. Say what you will about a mini van, they win in the battle of Nate vs Dodge.

Remember what mom said on this Mother's Day and look both ways before you cross the street.

Boom! Gigli 2!

So I watched Iron Man 3 the other day.... and that's all I have to say about that. The credits began to roll and I had to jerk myself back into the world of awareness wondering, "where did the last 128 minutes of my life just go?" As if I walked into the theater expecting something not as outlandish as Pepper, Tony Stark's girlfriend, having red hair AND a tan. Ridiculous, I tell you, just awful. However it did make me wish I could be a fly on the wall in some of those meetings in LA where agents pitch the next big hit. You can just see it now. A young, well dressed, perfectly quaffed hot shot with his poster displays in front of a few halfway interested Hollywood fat cats. He has his laser pointer as he sets up the next multimillion dollar blockbuster.

"Toretto and the gang have disbursed to each of their million dollar estates all over the world after Rio. They are living their dreams of freedom. But wait! A group of highly skilled drivers take down a military convoy and steal its cargo. Now The Rock, (whatever that wrestler/not a very good actor's name is) must turn to the ones he once hunted for help. Picture Mad Max meets Terminator Salvation meets Rocky 2 meets Transformers! BOOM! I give you Fast and Furious 12!" (or whatever number they're on now)

And the thing is, they buy it! I can just hear the slow clap begin from the senior most fat cat's gaudy gold-ring clad fat hands. Then, slowly, methodically, the rest join in, until the conference room at Columbia Studios is filled with an eruption of applause and mixed chants of "Fast and Furious 12, Fast and Furious 12" and "USA, USA, USA!!" I know this is all exactly how it happens because....

See! How many times can you remake a movie? Rocky wins, then he loses, he trains hard, then he  wins again! They drive fast cars, the become heroes. They rob a casino, then they do it again, and then again. When does Oceans 14 come out? This means, at some point, there is a pitch man who convinces other men to spend millions of dollars on the exact same movie, "but this time is way better dude."
Why haven't I quaffed my hair and moved to LA? Unless I start seeing trailers for Gigli 2 soon, you better believe it's about to happen.

Seriously.

Gigli 2.

I want that.

You need a shower.

Everyone should shower. There is no excuse. Period.

This being said, I understand that here in America, we are a melting pot of different backgrounds and cultures. We originally all come from different places, that is, unless you're an American Indian. In that case you can do pretty much whatever you want because you were here first. For the most part, however, our perfect American culture usually doesn't like to step on any toes. We try not to offend the senses. Dress in your own unique style, just like everybody else, use your "inside voice" and for crying out loud, take a little pride in your personal hygiene. If I have to learn how to say "im muy triste" or "je deteste cet endriot" when I visit Spain or France then you should not be the Ike Turner to my sense of smell.

(For those of you not as fluent in typing in sentence fragments into online translators that's "I'm very sorry" in European Spanish (thay it with a lithsp) and "I hate this place" in French). 1944. Normandy Beach. You're welcome.

Few cultures let the hygiene ship sail but those who do seem to have an extraordinarily strong "musk" that stings the nostrils and does NOT "60% of the time, work every time." This is not ok. You may come from a place or upbringing that places no value in regulating the strength of your body odor but I do, as do most Americans. There should be a tool that visitors or those new to our culture can use that would assist in this regulation. If only there were a tool.

Richie Rich Smell Master

Although I am beyond creeped out that someone bootleg-style filmed BOTH scenes that had this ridiculous, fictional device in it, I do wish it existed, and was included as a complementary gift at customs. On a side note, remember Macaulay Culkin? What happened to the little man who bested Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern as "The Wet Bandits" in his home alone? The little guy who's work makes my mother laugh that laugh where she can only inhale and makes everyone else laugh even harder because she can't breathe, who's movies are among the holiday greats of National Lampoons Christmas Vacation and, well, Home Alone 2.

That's what happened.

That...

probably didn't help the situation. Wow. That is disturbing. What was I saying? Shower....I need to take a shower and wash this image out of my memory. Forever.

All this to say that I don't like being berated with your body odor from 7 feet away and you should use Richie Rich's Smell Master or maybe just some deodorant to try to contain Atilla the Hun and Genghis Khan otherwise known as, your armpits. Now I'm going to go pray for Macaulay Culkin. Poor little guy.

Ann Taylor and Skipper

By working in the food and beverage industry, a "churched up" way of saying waiting tables, you come to learn quite an array of social skills. Dealing with one customer after another, all of which have different personalities and needs, makes one quick on their feet, like a cat, jumping nimbly bimbly from limb to limb. M'yow.

Joining the ranks of the educated who are earning their way to the next step one gratuity at a time, I've come to see myself hone many of these social skills. You have to look at each table or seat filled at your bar as a challenge. You have a clean slate with each person to present yourself however you'd like, and can formulate your demeanor accordingly. Unfortunately, this entire process is basically diluted prostitution. The dynamic of the relationship formed between eater and greeter is short-lived and superficial at best. The goal is to meet their needs as quickly as possible while making yourself seem as awesome as possible. This also means you're most likely willing to tell them anything they want to hear so they'll give you more money.

An example of just such a dialogue from the other day; a middle aged couple join me at the bar. They have tourist written all over them from the map of downtown Charleston folded under a "Best of Charleston" book to the sawgrass basket they undoubtedly paid entirely too much for in a bag beside them. He had one of those "CV-124" or whatever, Navy hats on from whatever ship he served on in his prior service and she was dressed stylishly enough for me to deduce she has enough time and money to make that her priority. As we settled into our journey of a few drinks and an appetizer, I begin to probe for my angle of attack.

Me: "So where's home?"
Skipper: "Just outside of Richmond VA."
Me: "Oh thats nice, are we here for just the weekend?"

I like to talk in the third person because its less direct and subsequently less aggressive sounding. Anything to keep from spooking the herd.

Skipper: "We're actually here until Tuesday."
Me: "Nice! You should check out (insert whatever was going on that weekend)"
Ann Taylor Loft: "Oooh Skip, that sounds fun we should do that."
Me: "You might want to check out the USS Yorktown, it has some great military displays."

As I walk away to make a drink for a server, I hum the Navy's anthem Anchors Away. Ann sees her shopping opportunities slipping away and tries to regain control.

Ann Taylor Loft: "Is this the main shopping area or are there more shops somewhere else?"
Me: "The majority of the shops are right here, but there are a few near the Charleston Museum, which has a replica of the Hunley and some really interesting Civil War exhibits."
Skipper: "Where's that!?"

The rest of the night consisted of Skip and I swapping stories about History Channel specials we liked about World War 2 and family members who served. It's not the best representation of this so called watered down streetwalkin' but it just goes to show how with each person you meet, you can find a way inside, and tell them what they want to hear.

I need to get out of here.

Pack Horses

I love seeing the mostly middle aged men come into the bar, late afternoon, usually carrying the heaviest of the shopping bags that the Mrs. couldn't handle due to her own collection, looking for a place to sit and drink to drink in any form or fashion they can find. They have that glazed over, shell shocked look soldiers get after spending a few winters in WW1 trenches taking too many grenades and gas attacks. They usually lock on to ESPN like a heat seeking missile or give me that pleading look over the rim of whatever drink they're inhaling that begs "please talk to me about anything but shopping".

You have to give it to these guys. They're troopers for roaming the minefields of one boutique and woman's shoe store after another. They sometimes come in multiple times. I almost feel bad when their phone rings or the wife comes by with a few dozen more bags and I get that shot of terror look that not only means the beer fest must end but its back to Thunderdome for more credit card swipes.

To all the soldiers out there on the front lines, I pour out a little for you. Maybe one day it'll be me conducting recon on the bars I pass as I'm the family pack animal for our mini vaca's shopping spree.