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.