In which I leap to absolutely ridiculous conclusions not once but twice.

When I was a freshman I lived in a sober housing dorm. This meant no controlled substances in the building even if you were legally allowed to have them, also you weren't allowed to be under the influence. So what this meant to me was that I had to get inebriated off the grounds of my residence hall and then sneak back in. This was relatively easy since my room was right next to the back door. However, always having to ingest whichever poison I wanted outside of my home meant that I often had to make my way home while intoxicated.

A quick note: I was still fairly new to the whole "getting absolutely shitfaced" thing so I wasn't quite used to the fact that your perception was not always what was really going on. As a result of this I always believed that what I thought I saw was what I was actually seeing, which led to 2 separate, equally stupid calls to 911. Here they both are for my own self-deprecating purposes.

1. I lived by the football stadium. One of the things that people liked to do partially because it was incredibly easy at the time, was to sneak in to Arizona Stadium and do whatever. I imagine some sweet guy taking his sweetheart for a picnic on the 50 yard line, while a bunch of hippies are sitting smoking weed in the student section and some other couple is boning in endzone. Who knows, breaking and entering was never really my thing.

One day, whomever had broken in that day had decided it was a good idea to vandalize (read: destroy) they carts that sold sodas and fruit punches and what have you. So here I am, stumbling home after a long night out, and I see red fruit punch cascading down the columns of the stadium. Now, this is strange, but 99.99% of people who saw it, if they even noticed, continued right past. I, however, decide in my slightly off state that this is not fruit punch. This is blood. Somebody has executed enough people in my beloved stadium, the home of my favorite football team pro or college, the place I spent tons of Saturdays over 5 years, to let their blood literally run down the walls. This cannot stand. One murder is unacceptable, but enough to flood the stadium with blood? An atrocity. So, this was 1999 and it was before the prevalence of cell phones we see now. I am no Zach Morris after all. So I run to the nearest pay phone and dial 911, ranting and raving about so much blood and there needs to be tons of police, even suggesting helicopters. I then realized that I am drunk as hell and only 18 so I run as soon as I hang up the phone, not taking in to account that if there had actually been a mass murder, that my underage drinking would probably be a moot point. Anyways, lots of police show up and investigate. I am watching this all from my room. The next day, no story of murder in the paper, but the story of vandalized school property and an anonymous tipster they thought might have been a confused homeless man.

2. There was a jackass in another dorm that had outdoor corridors spraying the fire extinguisher around, I thought it was a chemical leak and called the fire department. Not as funny or fleshed out as the first one because I don't remember a goddam thing besides the previous sentence.

This week is........... UA Dorms Week

So I decided I am just gonna stick with theme weeks from now on and not pick people to single out for an entire week because it felt a bit mean and like picking on people. So, this week is attributed to my tenure at the beautiful University of Arizona. Specifically my first two years, during which I resided in the dorms.

I lived in two different dorms before retreating in to the land of independent housing in my Junior year.

The first year I lived in the substance free dorm. This is pretty stupid to anyone who knows me. However I lived there because I turned my housing package in far too late and that was the lone dorm that allowed freshman still available. As a happy coincidence I was not alone in befalling this fate and save for the RAs and a handful of people who were hardcore straight edge the dorm was comprised entirely of either people who didn't turn in their housing applications in time or had been kicked out of other dorms and accepted the rules of this dorm over being forced to find off campus housing. This will make sense when I tell you about a certain pro-athlete later in the week (A promise I will once again keep)

The second year I lived in a campus run apartment complex. This doesn't need much of an explanation as it makes far more sense than any the previous one.

Stay Tuned, Kiddos.

Your Restroom Hummer Emporium

I have been to said bar, my guess would be, at least a 1,000 times. Over the times I have attended the bar in question, I have been present for only one bathroom related oral sex story. I don't know why I am so surprised to know that this is the only one, but knowing the vibe this place used to put it out it is.

There is a stupid occasion in NYC called Santa-Con. During this celebration people dress up as Santa Claus or other Christmas-related regalia. I have yet to see anyone dressed as a Menorah or Dreidel. Which leads me to the conclusion that drunk preppies are a bunch of Anti-Semites (Note: I don't believe this I just thought it was funny to type.) So this takes place at Santa-Con, and this is important because it would be a bajillion times weirder, which is not to say it's not crazy as is.

So I am there and having a few drinks as I am wont to do. As is likely to happen when one is imbibing copious amounts of liquor, I need to use the restroom. Stirring narrative, I know, stay tuned it's going to get really interesting next sentence. So, I walk to the bathroom at the back of the bar. Okay, not that sentence. I try to open the door to the men's room and it's not opening. I push hard still no movement. I know this door doesn't have a lock, because I have been in this bathroom no fewer than 200 times. So I drop my shoulder and the door comes open, I look up to see a dude stumbling backwards. The man is dressed as Santa, also his penis is out. I then look down to see a girl dressed as an elf on her knees. In summation: You may have caught mommy kissing Santa Claus but I totally walked in on an elf blowing him.

So there you go, don't say I don't deliver what I promise. I told you I would tie this story back to the theme and I did it. Also, I want to say, that is pretty gross. If that's all you take away from this blog in the entirety of it's existence it's that.

Signed,

J. Ro: Man of his word, disapprover of public restroom, holiday-themed, fellatio.

I typed your symptoms in to the computer and it says you may have "Network Connectivity Issues"

Sorry guys, had some internet issues. I will make up for the posts asap.

My Sister Tells off a Gold Glove Boxer*

*FYI: I use that term in it's most literal sense. This is a man who boxed in the Gold Gloves 3 seperate times each time suffering humiliating first round defeats. None the less he boxed in the Gold Gloves so the title holds true.

Many of you who know me and all of you who do not know me are usually surprised to learn about my Sister. They are surprised that my parents, who were already up there in age when they conceived and later bore me to the world, had another child a whopping 5 years and change after my birth. They are also surprised when they see pictures of her because we look quite literally nothing alike. My sister is a small, pretty blonde young lady with blue/hazel eyes. I think she might weight 115 at most. They are finally surprised because almost none of them have met her. I think of my current group of friends in NYC, maybe 4 or 5 have ever met her. We lead dramatically different lives. Also, in a nice little bit of symbolic reflection we not only live on different mental and emotional plains, bu also literally on opposite coasts. However, there are many stories I have of her that will never grace this blog since they aren't entertaining and/or are extremely depressing. However here is one I will share. The day (or night to be more exact) that my 19 year old sister verbally smacked down the bouncer at BJ's who was 10 years her elder and at least double her weight.

Back in the day when BJ's was a bit less of a preppy bar where people ironically drink beer out of coozies and watch Duke games because they enjoy rooting for their fellow douchebags, and more of the Wild West, there was a particular doorman who we will call Larry. Larry was notorious amongst the patronage for his wild mood swings and tough demeanor. He once refused to say hi to me for a month because I walked in drunk off my ass at 3 am and forgot to shake his hand. He could have cared less about my intoxication or hour of arrival, but it was unforgivable that I failed to remember to give him his handshake. He even admits that I said hello to him. He just couldn't get over the handshake. He also once tried to have my friend Fox 86'd from the bar for saying it was funny that Larry was a NASCAR fan, which if you ever met the guy, you would admit is pretty damned funny. (Fox would later get 86'd from the bar but for a different reason which I am debating when to share.) At the time I was 23 and my sister was 18. Being that my sister never really went to college and I went to a big time athletics school she became a fan of my Alma Mater. If a game was gonna be on that we wanted to watch at the bar I would always clear it with the manager, bartender and the bouncer. A level of decorum seldom seen when it comes to sneak underage kids in to a bar.

One summer night my sister was in the city with her high-school sweetheart. I was at the bar, which I know is a shocking revelation. At this point I had been a regular to the degree where I got to stay and drink after the bar had shut down to the general public. Basically as they were tallying registers and counting tips, they were also sliding me beers. My phone rings and it's my sister. She and her beau were staying on my couch that night and were asking if I could meet them to let them in. I don't know where they had been that night. I don't really care and it has no baring on this story. I tell them to come and meet me in front of the bar and we would all walk home together. So come to ten minutes later and Larry grabs me by the collar of my track jacket and pulls me aside and starts yelling at me. This is an artists re-enactment of how this conversation went down.

Larry: We had a fucking deal man!

Me: I am pretty sure I have no idea what you are talking about.

L: If you wanted to get her in here you should have asked first off and secondly have her come during normal business hours

M: Oh shit, my sister is outside? Sweet! I was about to leave without her.

L: Don't play stupid, you knew what you were trying to do!

M: If you're refering to trying to go home I absolutely was.

L: Fuck you.

He then leads me out the door in a manner befitting someone who had just been caught across enemy lines. He then proceeds to interrogate my sis. Asking how dumb we thought he was, why we were trying to play him for a fool and so on and so forth. He then looks at her BF who is bewildered by whats transpiring before his eyes. He tells him to stop "Eye-fucking" him, or something equally ridiculous. He threatens that he may never let me in the bar again. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Now, many of the exact words of this little episode are general approximations of what was said. HOWEVER, the monologue I am about to present to you has been seared in my mind verbatim for the past 6 years. Every word of what you are about to read, I swear to you is true. Not only is it true but imagine a small thin blonde girl saying this to a large, musclebound, irrational African-American Fellow. Now imagine it being not screamed like most little drunk girls would do if being accosted by a large bar bouncer but being spoken with the relaxed calm of an intervention facilitator.

"Listen man, I see what's going on here. There's no need to take out your frustration on these guys. It's clear as day. You're simply upset because you've never had sex before. I get it, it sucks but listen to me and believe me when I say this. It's gonna happen. Now, I am not saying today, or tomorrow or even next week. But one day, hopefully in the fairly near future, it will happen. One of these days you're gonna find a perfectly lovely fat girl and she'll take your virginity. Trust me."

He fell completely silent and just stared with the rage of a billion suns. And we walked home and laughed about it for about 3 straight hours. I still laugh about it. Whenever we do talk it comes up at least once every 4 or 5 conversations.

I don't know what ever happened to Larry. A few weeks later he was no longer under they employ of the bar and nobody ever told me why, nor did I really care to find out. Also, one of these days I am going to figure out better ways to end these posts.

Sleeveless Saturdays

When I used to frequent BJ's on a near daily basis there was a particular group of people who still attend these bars in a group to this day. They had a name for their little cabal but due to the lack of a desire to get punched squarely in the face I will refrain from using this name. We will call them "The Pals". Now the Pals were the kind of people who liked to drink, and for that reason I built a somewhat friendly bond with them. However, over time they decided that drinking was no longer fun on it's own and must be accompanied by kitschy, silly theme nights. This was often not an issue because in their minds, this allowed them to get even sloppier which meant more fun for me watching them. However that all changed one particular Memorial Day weekend 4 or so years ago.

It's the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. The clock strikes midnight and all of a sudden one of the Pals runs up to the bar and asks for, nay DEMANDS, a pair of scissors. He then walks up to one of his buddies and begins the cut the sleeves of his shirt off. (Now, I am making an assumption when I guess that this grouping was straight. I know these guys and know that they have a few lady friends who I know, in many cases this is how I know the guys.) I shake it off, no telling what seems like a good idea when you've had a few too many. All of a sudden none of these fellas have sleeves on their shirts and they are now going up to random, equally fratty looking gentlemen and asking to cut their sleeves. This, to my suprise, is not greeted by punches or replies of "Dude that's fucking gay, get out of here" but rather by enthusiastic responses of "YEAH DUDE TOTALLY". It was at this moment I realized that the whole world had lost it's goddam mind. Or at least a particularly visible segment there of. Eventually they get to me, I respectfully decline, and figure well that was a dumb idea for a night.

Fast forward to the next week. Again with the friggin' shearing of sleeves. This continues for the next couple of weeks. It got to the point where I would wear collared shirts with sleeveless undershirts simply to save the sleeves of my shirts I liked because they had decided that since I was friends with them and friends with their friends I was subject to the laws and tenets of Sleeveless Saturday. I would go so far as to say before I came up with the idea of just having a sleeveless shirt available they took my sleeves against my will no less than 4 times. I was sleeve-raped. Oh it must have run it's course, you say? Nope. It evolved. About a month after the inaugural Sleeveless Saturday, these gentlemen begin showing up in themed outfits. I shit you not. One week it was work shirts, one week it was bowling shirts, one week it was cheap hoodies, bad sweaters, sailor shirts, polyester shirts. You name it, this group of dudes each week spent hours, if not days, plotting which theme shirt they would GO TO THE STORE AND BUY, simply to cut the sleeves off at midnight. This to this day strikes me as a tremendous waste of money and fairly latently homo-erotic. Anyways, this continues until Labor Day weekend when these guys, in an effort to give the ridiculous thing they made up a proper send off, they had custom shirts printed up with their own, never-before-uttered catchphrases on the back. These dudes made up witty sayings to have printed on the back of their individual shirt, which they paid to have made, simply so they could then lop the goddam sleeves off of them at midnight. This to them, was a sacred rite and since it was the last one of the year it was a members-only cutting of sleeves. None of us rubes who were not ordained members of the tribe of the Pals were allowed to have our sleeves cut off. This tidbit of information was delivered with the gravity of a high school advisor telling you that since you were failing Spanish you couldn't walk with your classmates nor receive a diploma. I was relieved and also shocked at the level of social importance these dudes assumed we all held for their little stripper party.

For about a year afterwards the bar kept a little shrine to the incredible ridiculousness that was Sleeveless Saturday. They ran some twine along the ceiling and on that twine was one sleeve from each member for each of the theme nights they had there. It may still be there, after a while I just stopped caring enough to look at the ceiling.

Week 1: BJ's Week

After spending the weekend flipping coins and throwing darts trying to figure out who would be the best person to start with I came to a novel idea. Why start with a particular person. Throughout my adventures I have been a member of a variety of associations. Be they organizations, schools attended or bars I just frequented. Each of these hold their own plethora of material to be mined. Therefore I figured the first few weeks I should dedicating my time to writing about these. First off because many of the people who are to have their own weeks dedicated to them in the future are people I know through these conduits. Secondly because there are a lot of stories I know through these and they wouldn't have a proper place to deposit them without these catch all weeks.

With that in mind our first week will be dedicated to stories I have from a bar I affectionately know as BJ's (not due to the frequency of bathroom hummers, but due to their initials, and please don't think I just brought up bathroom hummers for no reason, stay tuned later in the week for stories about them that don't involve me because while I am a big fan of the drink I do have some semblance of decency.) This bar kind of trades on being identified as a "dive" although it's about as far from one as a bar that pretends to be a dive can get. Also, while this bar has several locations throughout the city, almost all of these stories take place at their location north of 86th Street.

Enjoy a week of stories that will have me wiping my brow that none of the people involved have enough esteem for me that they would suspect I am writing about them in code.