Stories of Mikistory

I'm that guy now. Tales from an Android

2012-01-26T10:04:00.000-08:00

I got my first cell phone when I was 16. Although, it was a bag phone that was left in the car from a previous owner. He never really deactivated it, so I was able to use it for a little while.

I didn't get an official one for another 6 years. Didn't see the point. But I was living in Nashville at the time, and figured it may be a little easier to get in contact with me. It was a Cricket phone. Which meant, the coverage was very local. Which was all I needed it for.

When I moved back from Nashville, my parents put me on their family plan, as it was cheaper to pay an extra 10 dollars a month, then use up their minutes calling me or whatever. I stayed on that plan until the beginning of January, as it was free, and I didn't need a new phone.

Kell and I got married, and my phone was starting to get rough. As in the front didn't display anything anymore, and some of the keys stopped working. Being a grown man, and married with a shitty phone, I decided it was time to get off my parents' phone plan. I decided to get an Android phone. I got the Samsung Stratosphere. And I love it.

I didn't think I would mess with it that much. Check email. Get directions. that sort of thing. I was wrong.

I'm updating Twitter, checking face book, playing Words & Hanging with friends all the time. Constantly downloading unnecessary apps. Its replaced my iPod, which I never thought would happen.

I check the weather, play Angry Birds, stream my music, scan prices, do all sorts of inane shit that I wouldn't normally do, just because its there, and hell...its actually kind of fun.

If I want to see who is online playing on the PSN network...instead of turning on the PS3, i turn on my PSN friends app, and see who is on, and what they're playing. Then, fire up the PS3.

Texting is sooooo freakin easy now, with SWYPE. I'll never go back to one key at a time.

I've become that guy. I love my Android.

Can't I just donate?

2012-01-18T14:39:00.000-08:00

Why is it every time that I want to be charitable, some organization needs to give me something in return. Its like the person that can't have the last word.
Its always something that should give you incentive to donate, whether it be your time, money or unwanted goods.
With people asking money for wounded veterans, its some pin for you to wear on your shirt.
The Salvation Army wants to give me receipts for donating things.
United Way wants to give me discount cards or something.
Its nice that they want to do something in return, but I don't find it necessary. Why can't people just know in their heart of hearts that they did something good with out having to show for it, or get some type of kickback?
Like the ASPCA ads. For donating, they give you a shirt or visor or something that you'll most likely end up donating to the Salvation Army.
THEN, if you tell them you don't want it, then you're the asshole for not showing off your pin or whatever.
Like those ribbon magnets for cancer. I understand that they're supposed to make people aware of cancer, but isn't EVERYONE aware of cancer now? The only folks that aren't, probably live in a village somewhere who have never seen a car, or a car magnet.
This goes for those magnets that say something about being against "Domestic Violence". Is anyone for domestic violence? I mean, save for most of the arrests on COPS.
I dunno...it seems like so much of this shit just seems so unnecessary.

Goodbye sir.

2011-12-29T09:22:00.000-08:00

You used to let me sit on the floor of your living room, and watch Braves games, or WCW. You would make jokes, and play your fiddle. You could play any tune by ear. I would try to get you to play Guns N' Roses to test the theory.

Since I lost all my grandfathers at a young age, you became my stand in. And you did the job well.

I figured you would be around for ever. But I got the call yesterday.

May you have no more pain.

I'm sorry that I didn't go see you one last time.

Making Margaritas out of a Hurricane

2011-11-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

I wake up at three in the morning with out the help of my phone alarm. I check it, as it was supposed to go off right before 3. Stupid. I set it for PM. I take my shower, and then Kell has hers. We leave the Motel 6 in Madison to go across the street to the Huntsville airport.
Everything checked in and ready to go, we begin our adventure. Then we get to Atlanta, where we have to wait for 2.5 hours to get on our next plane. Which we do, and begin our adventure again.
I notice a couple of things while flying. One is that people are eager to stand in a line. When boarding begins people jump up, just to wait like they're gonna get a premier seat. But they're not. They're getting the one that's on the ticket. No better, no worse. Same when getting off a plane. They jump up, only to wait for 10 minutes. We sit in our chair and wait patiently, comfortably.
I also notice the lady across the isle that on a 2.5 hour flight, she Mary Poppins a giant roast beef sandwich out of her purse. I chuckle at first, and then become jealous as I look at my peanuts vs her sammich.
We arrived in Cozumel at approx 1 pm, local time. It took a good 30 minutes to go through customs and dodge time share salesmen. I got my first beer of the week at the Margaritaville on the sidewalk outside the airport. That and a Margarita for kell cost $14.00.
We got on the van and were transported through downtown towards our resort, Sabor. Except that our driver took us to Aura. After some discussion, we discovered that we were upgraded to a much nicer resort, and a suite.

The room number was 1022, our wedding date.

In the fridge was an unlimited supply of Dos Equis, Coke, Diet Coke and Water.

The balcony had one of those huge out door bed/couch things.

Our view was a pool and the ocean. Sand came right up to the wall.
I decided to take a shower, as I had the funk of three different time zones, as well as two different airplanes. When I got out, Kell was standing with the room telephone, saying "its your mother". I answered "hello".
She immediately said "I don't mean to call you on your honeymoon, but why is your cell phone off?"
"I meant not to be called on it whilst I am in paradise. Plus, roaming."
She nervously told me of an impending hurricane that was going to sit on my head and wreck our honeymoon. I told her that I had checked the weather, and I suspect nothing more than thunderstorms. I said that I would keep my phone on, and a close watch on the weather. We immediately went to the bar.
There were two drunk chaps that were hard to peg down where in the States they were from. From what I could gather, they were in on a cruise ship. Their wives had gotten to the puking stage of drunk, so they went back to the boat, while these guys decided to stay and drink some more. They were talking to an older guy, maybe in his mid 50s. I heard him say something about Arkansas Football, and I recognized my in with him to have a conversation as well.
When the cruise ship drunks stumbled away, I said "did I hear you say you are a fan of Arkansas?" A nice compliment about his team, and a few drinks later, we were friends.
Kell and I had a nice dinner, and turned in semi early, as the early morning traveling had finally caught up with us.
I awoke before 5 the next morning. Grabbed the iPad and checked the weather. Storm headed our way, but looked like it could be a hurricane, still wasn't convinced. I talked to my mother, and she suggested leaving the island before it got to us on Wednesday. By 10 that morning I was frustrated with the possible weather scenario and rapid fire texts, I proposed we see if we could go somewhere else. New Orleans, Denver & Baltimore all became options. We finally said "lets just go home." My mom changed our flight to be out on Thursday, which seemed odd, as that was when the hurricane was supposed to be there. We opted to do our best to make the most of it, which was admittedly difficult when you're uncertain if you are making the best decision. We went for drinks, and saw our new friends throughout the day. I checked the weather a few more times, the word "Hurricane" disappeared from weather.com's forecast. Now, only storms, like I had said. We continued to have drinks, and eat through the day. Its pretty easy to do, when there are multiple bars and restaurants within 30 seconds of your door. We got kind of hammered that night at a swank little bar downstairs. They had some really good booze.
I awoke again Wednesday morning, and walked over to grab the iPad to check the weather. I caught a glimpse of the sunlight peaking through the curtains. I stepped outside, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Which was odd for what was supposed to be hurricane style weather that evening. Kell and I went through the same routine as the day before. Drink, eat, repeat.
We came back up to the room, to change clothes, or to shit. I don't remember which one. The phone rang. I expected it to be my mother. Instead, was a mexican guy on the other end, letting me know of the impending ocean weather of doom that was to descend upon us, and we had the option of staying with the possibility of evacuation, or evacuate now. We chose the "fuck it, lets stay, and ride this thing out" option. We figured the walls are 1.5 feet thick, we've got water & Dos Equis. WE ARE GOOD.
So, Kell and I headed downstairs to continue our day, and told the front desk that we had decided that we were not only staying, that we were gonna surf that storm when it rolled in. Actually, we just told them the first part. We ran into our friends, and they said they had decided to do the same. We got a few margaritas and enjoyed a meal. We ran back into our friends who had their luggage by the front counter. They said they were going to a hotel in the city. I got a little nervous, as I liked it when there was a pack of us that could be shuffled around, but wasn't too hot on just Kell and I having to move from place to place.
We talked to the travel guy, and he suggested that he book us the same place, and we not check out of our current room, that way if nothing happens, we come back with ease.
He booked the room, and we all four got a taxi into downtown Cozumel.
I've been to the bad parts of town before. And this looked like the bad part of town. But its hard to tell, as from what I've been told that some of the nicer parts of Mexico all look like the bad part of town. The hotel was nice enough, and had a grocery store and other shops nearby. Plus there was always a cop at the corner. At least he looked like a cop...but he was riding a dirt bike.
Steve, and his wife walked with Kell and I to the grocery store to pick up some hurricane survival items, like cold beers, a flashlight and stuff to make ham sandwiches. When we finished shopping we opted to find a local restaurant to have some late afternoon lunch at. The lady at the front counter suggested this place pretty close to the town center. It was a pretty cool open air joint. They had cold beer and hot fajitas. And both were awesome.
After our meal, we walked and shopped for a bit. I noticed only light cloud coverage.
The salesmen in the shops were getting too aggressive for my tastes, so we decided to walk back to the room. I noticed the wireless router attached to the wall right outside the room, and asked for the password at the front desk. I immediately got online, and checked the weather. Still headed right for us, still looking like a storm.
As the sun went down, people started boarding up their windows on their shops. Maybe they knew something that I or weather.com were unaware of.
We sat in our room for most of the evening, wondering what would become of the storm. I began to question my decisions. Should we have tried to fly out on Tuesday? I got an email that said our flight had been delayed to Saturday. We weren't for sure if that was a good thing, or bad.
That night, all of the people from our resort that had decided to come into town were in the lobby. Everyone was playing cards, drinking wine and beer, and generally having fun. I went back to the room to get Kell and a couple of beers. We hung out for a while, and then decided to go to bed. I slept in my shorts with my passport and my wallet in my zipped pocket.
The next morning was really just kind of cloudy. We tried to see if we could get back into our resort, and they said that they were not letting anyone back in, until the storm passed. I was upset that we were going to be there for another day. As the day progressed, rain begun to fall. Then more and more. But no high winds, until maybe 6 or 7. I walked out front to see what the weather looked like through the front door, and saw that the street was beginning to flood. I got nervous and began to think about what would happen if the government decided to evacuate the island. The storm sat on top of us for a while, but while it was there, it dropped a metric ton of rain. So much so, that it had completely covered the street, and was coming over the sidewalk. I quickly noted how high the first floor was above the sidewalk and felt a little more calm about the situation. As the storm finally passed over us, the water quickly flowed away. The street was visible within an hour.
The next morning I woke up early and texted my mother to have her call the resort to see if we could come back. We got the word that yes, we could. I alerted our friends. We checked out so fast there were us shaped holes in the front door.
It felt good to get back to our resort. It felt like we survived some sort of rich American nightmare. We're not rich, but compared to what I saw, I certainly felt like it.
We got our arm bands back, and got our luggage upstairs. They had taken the televisions down, and put the mattress against the balcony windows in case they couldn't take the winds. When we came back down, the people at the front desk told us that not all the restaurants are open yet, but we could go over to this one that overlooked a pool. We jumped on it.
Its as if they knew that we had gone through some sort of ordeal, as the bar was already open at 10am. I got a round of screwdrivers. I think they used some sort of half and half or something. They were so delicious, I drank them for a few hours later throughout the entire day.
I was sad that we were having fun again, and the weather looked so awesome. I let my mother know that everything was ok. She got our flight moved back to Sunday, and got us comped two extra nights at the resort. So, we decided to full on relax. Or get drunk. Maybe both.
After eating lunch, we got dressed in some swimming gear and went to the fun pool where there were waterslides built into the landscaping. I went down probably 50 times, having drinks in between each trip. Then, I went up the waterslide. Which may be against the rules, but who cares. I got straight chocolate wasted at that poolside bar. That night, Kell and I went to dinner, at one of the nicer restaurants. I was completely wasted, and don't remember what I had to eat. She said that I compose myself pretty well, as she couldn't tell that I was schockered.
Saturday morning came, and I finally was able to sleep till about 8 that morning. Which was nice. We had breakfast at the same place we had been going, I think Kell probably ordered the steak and eggs again, as that was probably her favorite thing that she had eaten.
We hung out just on the beach all day. Much to my surprise when a waiter came out to our chairs and asked if we would like more Margaritas. He was correct then, and about ten times more while we were out there.
We went to the roof and met back up with our evac buddies, and hung out at the bar, and admired the sunset.

We promised some folks that we would go to the karaoke bar, but never made it.
That night we went out to dinner again, and I remembered the steak this time. Super thick and super rare. Also, the fried cheese thing. Pure, unadulterated awesomeness.
We got up the next morning, and got our gear together for our trip home. I was not looking forward to it, as i could have stayed at the resort for a whole other week or month. Maybe the rest of my life.
We decided to go have one last breakfast. We were fortunate to see the friends that we had made one last time, and after our respective meals, wished each other well in our future endeavors, and safe trips home.
Kell and I checked out and headed towards the airport. We made it through security with little to problem, save the Mexicali soldier that was eyefucking the shit out of me. There was a really awesome souvenir shop in the airport where we got some Mexican swag. Then we sat and waited for the plane to get ready.
When on the plane, I noticed a couple bickering about who got to sit next to the window on the way down. When the argument was finished, the husband reached over his wife and shut the blind on the window. I laughed to myself. We took off from Cozumel International Airport, and headed to Atlanta.
Two and a half to three hours and two timezones later, we touched down in Atlanta. With little more than an hour to go through customs and find something to eat, we settled on Popeyes chicken. With some Henderson charm, I was able to earn us some extra chicken at no extra price.
We left Atlanta to Huntsville at 7:45. I had never flown at night, well starting out at night. I have a bit of a problem with heights, but never with flying. We were sitting right on the wing. As we went higher, and the lights got smaller, I freaked out a little. Then part of the wing went into another part of the wing. And I freaked out some more. I thought "THERE ARE TOO MANY MOVING PARTS! WHY ARE WE FLYING AT NIGHT, NO ONE CAN SEE WHERE THEY ARE GOING!!!! WE ARE GOING TO DIE!" And that's where I had a 45 minute long, but silent panic attack. I squeezed my fingers' impressions into the metal armrest, and Kelly's hand, as she reassured me that it was going to be OK. I just kept thinking "I want off this gotdamned thing...why didn't we just drive from Atlanta to Huntsville..." Then, everytime some fatass got up to go to the restroom, I could feel the vibrations through the plane, thinkin "SIT THE FUCK DOWN! YOU AND YOUR BOWELS ARE GOING TO TAKE THIS FUCKER DOWN!"
Needless to say, we safely landed in Huntsville, and much to my surprise, I wasn't escorted off by air marshals.
When we got back to Florence, we went to go eat at On the Rocks, and for the first time in existence that I've been there after 5pm, I order a water to drink instead of a beer.
That night as I lay in my bed, with Kell squarely taking up half, June and Angus taking 20% each, and I laying on my 10%, I think to myself that despite there not being a free bar and or restaurant next door, it sure is good to be back home.

Tuesday Morning Jolt...on Friday

2011-09-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

Because I forgot to do this on Tuesday.
Today's track is Man of the Hour by Pearl Jam from the "Big Fish" soundtrack.

I waited through the whole movie to hear the song where it would get played. Didn't happen until the credits.
The song didn't have a huge impact on me until my friend died. Then it was like I couldn't not play it. It seemed to be on rotate for about a week straight.

Now its taking on a new meaning. Come October 22nd, I'll be walking that isle to a Cello/Violin duet version. It took Kell quite some time convincing me that I could use this song for something other than remembering my friend's death. I'm glad she did.

The "I've never been able to actually write this" Blog.

2011-08-26T13:29:00.000-07:00

I've started to write this blog about 10 times now, but continually back out. I'm not entirely for sure why. Maybe I'm not enjoying the beats its taking, or it feels pretentious or something. Well, today...I'm writing it.

I keep reading "30 is the new 25" or "40 is the new 30" Thank Christ, because I'm taking my sweet ass time in age.

I've taken a while longer to grow up than most people I know. When I say "grow up", I'm not talking mature. I've felt since a young age that I was fairly mature. I mean, I still make dick and fart jokes. But taking care of business...that sort of thing. The growing up I'm talking about is more along the lines of getting married, having kids, buying a house. But do those things even really constitute being a grown up? I see television shows where people are getting married, and having kids while in High School. They seem to be about as mature as middle school child.

And its not like I'm against marriage or having kids...or buying a house even. I'm getting married in October. Its just that...I didn't see the point of rushing in, like 99% of my fellow graduating class did. I feel like I've been able to experience so much more, that if I had gotten married, or saddled with children at an early age. Would have I been able to go to Mardi Gras for the first time? What about bar hopping in downtown Nashville? Going out of town on a whim? Meeting people that I consider life long friends?

Now, I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with getting married, or having children right out of High School. A lot of people seem to be perfectly happy in those decisions. But I also see quite a few folks who are miserable, or have since divorced.

All this makes me believe, that despite what my mother has told me, that maybe...just maybe...I was on the right track. She used to tell me "if you are single now, then all your friends (from HS) who are getting married and having kids will be more free when its time to retire to do fun things while, you'll be behind them."
Which made no sense. Why would I want to wait to retirement to enjoy my youth?

Does getting married make me feel like I won't be able to still do all the awesome things I did when I was single? Absolutely not. I'll have someone to do those things with. I'm absolutely happy that I waited to become a grown up.

Tuesday Morning Jolt

2011-08-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

The morning almost got away from me...

This morning's video is AC/DC's Who Made Who

Why this song? Well, this is from the first rock and roll album I ever bought, the "Who Made Who" album, which doubled as a soundtrack to Maximum Overdrive.
I was raised on Country, a little southern rock, and easy listening. I made friends with a kid who listened to Ozzy, Metallica, AC/DC and others. I spent the night at his house, and listened to Hard Rock/Metal all night. I changed right there. The next day, I got my mom to take me to the mall, and I bought "Who Made Who" on cassette. There was no significance behind why I chose this album. I loved the way AC/DC sounded, and this one was on sale, I want to say like five dollars.
I never looked back.

Tuesday Morning Jolt

2011-08-16T06:23:00.000-07:00

Every Tuesday, I'm going to start posting a video of a song, and discuss what that track means to me. Not necessarily what the song means, but what it makes me feel, and what memories it may bring back. Today's inaugural post is Pearl Jam covering Mother Love Bone's Crown of Thorns.

This song gets me two fold. 1. Its being played by my favorite band. 2. I've loved this song every since I first heard it back in 91-92, just pulls me right back to playing it on repeat over and over again. Its one of those, that no matter how many times I hear it, I'm constantly surprised at how good it is. .
It was on the Singles soundtrack, where I first heard it. I knew who Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Hendrix & a few others were, but there was this one song called Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns by Mother Love Bone, that I fell in love with. Then, come to find out a couple of members of Pearl Jam had come from MLB, well that was just icing on the cake.
That was a great period for me, as I was figuring out who I was, and who I wanted to be. That movie, its soundtrack, the music of the period...I guess it opened up a whole new world to me, that was outside of the small Alabama community that I was growing up in. I guess you can say that about any area that provides a great deal of good musicians, like New York or L.A. But my attention was laser focused on Seattle and what was coming out of that city. I wanted to live there. I mean, really live there. I wanted to live in the same apartment complex, go to the same coffee shops. There's an alternate universe where at the age of 18, I packed my car, drove out there, and probably never came back.
Hope you enjoy it. If not, well then I'm sad for you.

Waking up Cheap

2011-07-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

My brother said something the other day that I've been thinking quite a bit about lately. "Damn, you're cheap"
It was in reference to that I very rarely update car tags. I don't generally care to stand in line and pay 50 dollars for that nonsense. I once drove a car with tags that were four years and one state out of date.
But it really made me look at other things, and wonder "am I really cheap?"
I buy bottom shelf whiskey that comes in a green label. When I buy beers, they're usually Natural Light or Miller High Life. Not for hipster or ironic reasons, but because I think they taste good, and are inexpensive.
I shop for clothes in the clearance section at Target. Sometimes the gap.
I turn off lights and shut off rooms that don't need air conditioning.
I wear clothes and shoes until they're destroyed.
I bought my bicycle from a pawn shop.
I've started to cut my own hair.
I buy sunglasses from the gas station or a street vendor.
I've got a non smart cell phone. The outside is messed up, so I put a van's sticker on it.
I never pay full price for video games. As i trade in, and get great deals (L.A. Noire for $8 dollars)
So, am I cheap, or just thrifty?

Diet Frustration. Tastes more like Regular Frustration

2011-06-23T13:44:00.000-07:00

I. Love. Diet. Dr. Pepper. Love it. In a can, bottle or preferably from a fountain. I love it mixed with whiskey or rum. I love it when my throat feels clogged in the morning.
What I do not love, are businesses that sell regular Dr. Pepper, and not its superior Diet counterpart.
Walmart is the latest to fall to the "regular only" businesses. My only pleasure in going to Walmart, was at the end of shopping, there were ice cold Diet Dr. Peppers waiting to be purchased and then drank by me. Now, they're gone. Seemingly replaced by Fanta. WHAT THE FUCK IS A FANTA?
I run into this at every restaurant that is not Chic-Fil-A or McDonalds. "Do you guys have Diet Dr. Pepper?"
And they will always give one of three responses. 1. No, we have Diet. Coke (which is an ok substitute in a pinch.) 2. No, we have Diet Pepsi. I would rather get punched in the head of my dick, than drink Diet Pepsi. Then, 3. No, but we have regular Dr. Pepper. Which is the worst response. Because I clearly wanted Diet. They clearly are able to order Dr. Pepper products, but purposefully chose not to. Oh, they'll carry Fanta's, and whatever the Pepsi knock off of Sprite is. Or fucking Root Beer. But in their myriad of choices that include Dr. Pepper, its Diet alternative is left off. Why? I would be willing to wager that more people drink Diet Dr. Pepper than Fanta. Or Diet Fucking Pepsi.

Sweet Sweet Justice

2011-05-06T14:11:00.000-07:00

Its hard to sit back, and know that you want to take the highroad, when you're constantly getting run down for no reason. Whenever you're not around, stories get twisted, comments made, lies told. You decide not to lower yourself, saying their time will come. Something will happen to bring them down. Down to a level you've never sunk to before. Something that will open eyes. See where the truth lies.

This dear readers has been a long frustrating road. One that's seen tears, and anger. But stayed anger with fake smiles.

The mighty have fallen. They have been exposed. And I didn't have to do anything. I took the high road. They destroyed themselves.

Finally, I know that the lies, the twisted stories, the forked tongue comments have been silenced, as there's no way in hell they'll be believed ever again.

Its a great day for me.

Stream of Consciousness for 4/29/11

2011-04-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

No post this week, as I had a full one, and just managed to close the window before posting. So, fuck it.

PS3 vs Xbox 360, and why I'm gravitating more towards my PS3

2011-04-26T09:54:00.000-07:00

I own both systems. I usually split the time playing between the both of them. But as of late, I've been buying more and more games for my PS3. And it all started when my Xbox Live Gold account ran out.

I've always been a budget gamer. I've only paid full price for a new game once or twice in this current generation of game systems. I usually trade in my games after I'm done, waiting for the perfect deal, to get an extra 25% here, or bonus deal there. So when my Live account ran out, and I saw that Microsoft had raised the price of their subscription service, I've decided not to re up.

I've decided that most of my game play will be on the PS3. Its free to play online. There are so few 360 exclusives anymore to make me want to pay to play online. When Mass Effect 3 comes out, I'll get it for the 360. There's no online play, and I want to continue my story from previous saves. I'll probably do the same with Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim when it comes out.

Plus, unless I just really get into a multiplayer like DC Universe Online, or Call of Duty, I won't play online that much. Take Crysis 2 for example. I originally pre-ordered it on the 360. Gold account ran out before it shipped, so I changed the pre-order to PS3. Otherwise to check out the online play I would have had to pay at least an additional 9 dollars for a one month code to play on Xbox Live. Which I'm glad I didn't as I couldn't get into the online play almost at all. I think I got up to rank 6 or 7 and just got bored with it. The single player I loved, and will probably play through a little bit more again before trading in.

LA Noir is a game that I originally had a pre-order scheduled for the 360, but changed to PS3, as there is more content coming to the PS3 version.

Here's the other thing. Storage space, and adding more to the systems. Microsoft opted to go with their own hard drives, that you can switch out with ease for a larger one, but the cost is a little ridiculous for the amount of storage that is available on the drives. Where as the PS3 has an easy to slide out hard drive that you can pick up at almost any store for a reasonable price, as they're essentially laptop hard drives.

I guess what it boils down to, is be looking for me more on the Playstation Network under the gamertag jamofpearls

Currently playing Just Cause 2 & DC Universe Online.

I should add that the current debacle surrounding the hacking of the PSN, and its customers' info could happen to any company. However, the lack of forthcoming information from Sony on the matter has proven less than satisfactory.

Stream of Consciousness for 4/22/11

2011-04-22T13:01:00.000-07:00

I believe this will be a new feature, every Friday.

Its 8:43 a.m., and Duhbbs has already disappeared from sight twice. Note to self; may need to get her a collar with a bell on it.

Seeing as how Pandora and Last.FM have not pleased me with their music choices for me, I've had to bring in a ringer, my iPod.

Why is it OK for men to be shirtless and have nipples about, but not women? Balls and Vagajiz, I get, but someone can get away with the whole boob exposed, save for the nipple. That's just dumb.

What is it about superglue that anytime I use it, I get about 1/2 the tube on my hands? Its like I have an extra layer of skin that I could grab a hot iron with right now. I had to use the superglue, because my new bicycle mount for my iPod has a design flaw in it. When i hit the first major bump on my way to work, both the mount and the iPod went sailing. Not sure why it was designed like this. Its built so the mount is secure to the bike, but you can clip part of it off to carry this cumbersome ass piece around. That just doesn't make the least bit of sense. Hopefully the superglue is working its magic.

Forgot that I was listening to a Nerdist podcast on my way to work this morning. If I stop it now, I'll have to restart it later. Fuck it, I'll go back to you Pandora...for now.

Superglue is starting to peel off my hands. I feel like a leper.

Its now Friday, and no mention from my parents about Church on Sunday. And I've talked to them multiple times this week...have I succeeded in my mission?

Thank Christ the lady who was supposed to be off today, decided to come on in. I don't know how I would have handled working with Duhbbs all day long by myself. I probably would have to call the ABC store for a delivery.

Decided to do a character sketch of Duhbbs. I'll post it later.

I think I'm gonna buy a Jug O Rum from the ABC store tonight. The weather's getting nice. Means its time to stray from the Whiskey a little bit. Maybe I'll carry it with me kayaking, and I can feel like a pirate.

I'm so very pleased with myself for mowing the grass yesterday. Now I can do no chores this weekend. Save for cleaning the house.

That's what I deal with 5 days out of my week. Pure, unbridled Hell on two legs.

Pandora's got their shit together today. You get a second chance then, music program.

The weather is awesome today. I think I may just drink on the front porch after work. Listen to some podcasts, and drunk Twitter. Drunk Twittering is awesome, as its like a ongoing report of how drunk you are. (which, you can follow me @jamofpearls). And don't message me about how its called "Tweeting" I refuse to call it that.

I had someone get...I don't want to say mad, necessarily...frustrated may be a better word for it. The reason: I didn't want to start a weekly poker night. (It probably didn't help that last week, I told his wife that I didn't want to go to a drive-in movie, as I'm kind of a movie snob. Not in the type of movies that I like to watch, mind you, just how I watch them. As in Dolby Digital Surround, Played on DLP Screens. Not on some sheet, strung up in someone's backyard, while music plays through the speakers of your car.) I don't care for card games, or most board games. I don't like remembering all the rules, and it usually gets in the way of my getting drunk on a Friday or Saturday night. Also, I don't understand why you need a reason to get together to hang out. Why can't we hang out and talk? I think some people have an idea of what married, couples or people over thirty are supposed to do together.

I feel like I've never really fit into those predetermined molds. While everyone else I grew up with was getting married, and having kids, I was moving to Nashville, meeting new people, and going out to bars. Even now, while those kids are older, and these folks have completely settled into their lives, I feel like I'm still exploring. Not new girl options, mind you, as I'm with Kell fohevahs. I'm not saying that I'm immature, by any stretch of the imagination. I pay my bills on time. I don't do anything really wrong. But I do like to do things when I want to.

Enough of that for now.

I love internet shopping. I think its because I love getting packages in the mail. Or tracking them. Something about it is def more fun that physically going to the store. Maybe its the gamble of whether it will be like you saw it online.

I wish I were friends with Bill Murray. I feel like we would get along. Not in a creepy fan way, but in a for real, just talking, joking, hanging around type of way. Note to self; do not stalk Bill Murray.

Pandora LOVES Bush, like really loves them. I swear Pandora's played Bush tracks like 15 times already.

I need Blues Brothers to be released on Blu Ray.

I also need to buy Ghostbusters on Blu Ray.

Why can't it be socially accepted to pick your nose? I feel this needs to be changed. If you eat your buggers, then you need to be sent to the electric chair.

Lunch Time.

2:11 What about Johnny Cash makes him feel like he's my Grandfather. I don't know what it is, but I look at a picture of him, or listen to a song of his, and I immediately feel like this guy has taken me fishing or given me a pocket knife. Grandfather type stuff.

Just look at him. Wouldn't you love to get life lessons from that guy?

Showed my above illustration to a co-worker. He loved it.

Pandora, you've lost your job. iPod, you're up.

Ice cream was a bad idea. Its called a Jihad against the taco soup I had for lunch.

Starting to get sleepy. I think its the temp. I could straight up nap for an hour right now.

What is it about certain bands that just feel like a certain season. Counting Crows sound like late fall, early winter. The Grateful Dead sound like late spring, early summer. AC/DC feels like summer. Pearl Jam is the only one I don't really get a season bead on. Its like some of their stuff feels like fall, some like summer, some like fall & of course some like winter. Pretty much any punk band feels like summer to me. Maybe it has something to do with when their albums were released. Weird.

I hate everyone that has a four door wrangler. They are literally the only people on the planet that I'm jealous of.

Need to relocate my Verucca Salt 8 arms to hold you album, see if it still holds up from college days.

Looking over the blog.

Yep, that looks good for now. Maybe some more later.

And now is later. Mom asked about Easter, but eating...not Church going...Shit then she totally asked about church going. I mumbled something about folks coming in from out of town fused with a kayak trip. I think it worked. She did manage to trick me in to asking Kell to bring a cheesecake. She's a crafty one, that mom.
This rum is tasting gooooooood.
I may need to sober up a lil bit. Maybe eat a sammich.

Loosing weight the Michael Henderson way. A comical approach to dropping pounds.

2011-04-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

I used to be pretty damned skinny all through High School, college, post college and being single years. I ate horrible food, and drank All. The. Time.

When Kell and I started dating, I weighed in right at 180. Which really isn't bad for my height. And I kept that weight for the most part, but then Kell got laid off, and during this period, starting watching Food Network. And we moved from our downtown place, to a regular house, which meant no more stairs, or walking to work. Which meant, the weight I was keeping off began to pack on my ass. I ballooned right on up to about 240.

I finally decided enough was enough, and decided to start loosing weight. But not by actually going to a gym, consulting anybody, or watching videos or any smart way. I pretty much winged it.

I drank beer non stop when I drank, always Natural Light. Its cheap, and tastes awesome. I love carbonation. If it were a drinking night, I could pound beers non stop. Cause they're so delicious, and go down with ease. But them mutherfuckers have calories out the ass. So, my first step was to stop drinking (beers all the time).

But quiting alcohol wasn't going to happen, because I'm actually pretty good at drinking. People tell me that they have a hard time telling when I'm drunk. The key is if I ask the same question over and over again.

So I decided to start drinking whiskey and diets. "But Michael, whiskey has sugar and calories, and blah blah blah" Shut it. This is why its different. I don't slam whiskey drinks like Hulk Hogan slams Iraqi Sympathizers. I sip whiskey drinks. For every three whiskey drinks, I would have knocked out at least 6 beers. Also, don't eat on friday nights, just start drinking as soon as you get home.

Then weigh your self on saturday morning. You'll be surprised what the scale says.

So, I immediately started dropping pounds that way. Which got me down to about 225-220.

I shaved off my super thick beard which was probably good for a pound or two.

For the next part, I started lifting a few weights. Once again, my way. I didn't go and buy expensive weight sets. I found the bar, and some weights when we moved in, and used those. And was given a few more. I maybe spent 15 dollars on fitness equipment. Then, I started drinking more water, like lots of water. That got me down to around 200.

We also bought Kayaks, which probably helps too. Not the actual buying them, but using them on the weekend.

My next component to loosing weight was to start riding a bike to and from work. But i didn't have a bike. And those fuckers be exspansive. So I went to a pawn shop. Bought one for 30 dollars.

You may say "Why not run everyday?" Because fuck running, that's why. But now i'm down to 195.

I also suggest intense video game sessions, you won't believe how much you sweat when shit gets real playing online.

So I'm only 15 pounds away from my goal of 180. Which isn't too bad, considering I haven't listened to any professional, or done anything crazy strenuous.

Which brings me to my next point. If you would like to loose weight, but are having a hard time, send me a check for $100.00, and I'll put you on a program of beard shaving, video games, whiskey drinking, kayaking, and riding a bike to work. Its worked for me, and it will work for you.*

*Disclaimer - Most likely will not work for you.

Just Gonna Go Out For a Little While....

2011-04-19T14:04:00.000-07:00

Always turns out to be ALLLL NIGHT.

Here's how Saturday ran down for me.
6:30 in the morning, my dad calls "Hey, breakfast at 7:30, that OK?"
We go and meet dad, one of my brothers, and one of my sisters for breakfast. Then, afterwards go to Mom and Dad's house for a little while. Leave. Run errands. Come back to the house. Sleep till about 2. Get up. Drink a beer. Then another. Get texts back and forth from April about what to do. Finally call her. Meet at On The Rocks at about nine. Kell and I agree that we won't go out that long, just hang at OTR for a bit, and then come home. Well, April and Kim are running a few minutes behind. I power down a few more beers. They arrive. I drink a few more beers.
They suggest we go to DP's. We agree. Kell and I get in April's car, and we head across the river.
I move on to whiskey and diets, as Nan makes them pretty killer, and they're dirt cheap.
I start to get drunk, and text/tweet Sarah Colonna like we're friends.
I suggest we go to a country bar to ride the mechanical bull, and maybe just hit up this other bar for Karaoke. The mechanical bull bar costs extra at the door, so we choose the karaoke dive also known as Mr. Norm's.
They sell Natural Light. Which I love.
and then this happens...

I bust out "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC, and kick all sorts of ass.

And the night continues on, and we get some of these pics going...

And I'm really beginning to forget my own name.

Someone suggests we go to the all night diner known as Tourway. Sure I ate dinner already, but fuck it.

This is the last known photo of me from that evening, before I woke up in my bed on Sunday morning wearing about 1/2 of what I went out in. Which would be a pic of me with a flower from the table.

Had an awesome time though, for what I remember. No one parties like thirtysomethings party.

Stream of Consciousness

2011-04-15T12:18:00.000-07:00

Its 12:24 on Friday. Pandora is playing grunge, or at least its supposed to, but for some reason Blink 182 is playing. I click on the "thumbs down", pandora apologizes, and tells me it will find something else that I will like. It plays Incubus. Fuck. "thumbs down." Blind Melon. I won't "thumbs up", but I won't fast forward either.

I keep trying to write a new blog, but keep deleting it. I think it comes off as pretentious. And that's not the way I'm wanting it to sound.

The rain won't quit today.

Due to slow business, we're cutting back on some employees hours. Marvin will no longer come in on Fridays. And Marie is taking off next Friday. Which means I'll be stuck with Duhbbs all day long. I'll have to do my best not to murder her. She makes it difficult not to do sometimes. Maybe I'll just slug her. I can't go to jail for that, right?

I'm digging this new gray polo from the gap. Fits well. Don't mind shopping there when I can get polos for 8 dollars. It works well with my jeans, and vans. Which I need more of. Vans that is. I can never have enough. I would have had a nice collection, had my dog not eaten three pair of them.

That damned printer keeps making noise. I swear after the last lightning strike, it started cleaning itself. Presumably because it shit itself. I imagine if lighting is mildly frightening to us, it must be pants shitting scary for electronics.

Pandora plays Hootie and the Blowfish. Is there a "fuck no" option? Damn. "thumbs down"

Goo Goo Dolls? Honestly Pandora. Get it right. Or I'll cancel yer ass.

My friend Nicole messages me to ask about another friend that we haven't seen in years. I can't remember the last time I've seen her. Heard rumors a few years back of her being in an asylum, or something to that effect. Doesn't every class have someone like that, who just disappears?

Kell will be here soon, and we can eat lunch. Which is good, because I'm eye fucking that Snickers bar on my desk right now. Don't need to be caught with a candybar on my dick though. Not again.

I hear that when you dream of a house, its represents your brain, then why is mine a rundown downtown place, populated with college age folks that I don't know?

12:39. Take a break.

Pandora, you've obviously forgotten what 90s grunge is.

1:19. Still Raining. My yard is probably a swamp right now. No front porch drinking after work. It will have to be on the couch. Hopefully I've got enough whiskey to make it through the night, as I don't care to hit up the liquor store for more Evan Williams Green Label.

I don't care how cheap it is. Its tasty when mixed with Diet Dr. Pepper.

Posted a bunch of pics on facebook that most are well over 10 years old. Not really feeling nastalgic or anything. Just thought it would be fun to tag and see who responds. They also make a nice trace of years from about the age of 15-22. I titled it Old Friends, New Friends and Even a Bear, after the Cleveland Show theme song. Funny thing is, the "Even a Bear" technically works in one pic.

Its too bad that Gavin Rossdale couldn't actually write songs that made any sense, as they had a rockin sound.

Gross, STAIND? What the hell. Great, fuck. I can't fast forward. Hopefully a wandering ear doesn't hear this shit, and think that I'm a fan. Could really ruin my music reputation. God damn it. Oasis. I can't click "thumbs down" fast enough, my hand may have broke the sound barrier.

Fred's Department Store always smells like someone took a Wild Irish Rose infused shit on every isle.

I guess I can finish reading "A Zombie's History of the United States of America" and that David Sedaris book this weekend.

I need some new websites to visit. There's like a grand total of 5 that I frequent. I need a good comedy blog to read.

I wish I could have a mohawk here at my office. I think I could still rock that at 32.

The Snickers and left over Mexican food are starting to argue. Could be violent.

Shortlist of Celebrities I would like to hang out with. The cast of Mythbusters, & American Pickers. Sarah Colonna, Whitney Cummings, Jon Stewart, Stone Cold Steve Austin. I think that would make for a fun party.

I want to do a late night Kayak Run. Think that would be really fun by moon light. Must be mindful of creek ghosts.

What is it about stickers? I'm like a little girl with them. Bands, Vans and Outdoor brands are my favorite. I put them on everything. My Jeep. Kell's Jeep. My Kayak, my cell phone, my office window. Don't know why. Its free advertising for someone else. Its not like pearl jam has a sticker on their cars with my face on it. Although, that would fun. Maybe I should send Eddie a sticker with me on it, giving thumbs up. I wonder what's the creepy factor there.

So far, so good. I haven't been told about Church on Easter Sunday, yet. Which means I can claim "plausible deniability" to Mom and Dad come Sunday afternoon. "OOOOOOHHHH, that was this Sunday?" Which they won't buy for a second. Makes me feel better though.

Tomorrow is the third saturday of the month, which means I go eat with dad for a few minutes at breakfast. I like to do it, as its the only thing I really get to do with him. Downside is that I have to get up at like 6 to go. Which can be hard to do after drinking all night.

And at 2:18 I think that's a good place to quit for now. Probably pick back up later after I've had a few glasses of Whiskey & Diet.

Surviving Mardi Gras...kind of.

2011-04-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

Its been a while since we got back from our Mardi Gras trip. I think I can still recount much of what happened.

Kell and I arrived in town earlier than what I thought, and was greeted by a flat out awesome smell of coffee. We parked the Jeep at the nearby parking deck, and proceeded to try to find the Hotel to check in. Which we should have done before unloading said Jeep, and walking down the street with suitcases, four bottles of liquor and other items in tow. But no problem, as the hotel was right down the block. Checked in, and admired the size of our room. Like really admired it, especially seeing as how large it was for the price I paid during the Mardi Gras period. Hotels.com FTW!

We jumped right into having fun, as Kell had brought our Fat Tuesdays drink holders from our last trip two Halloweens ago. I filled mine with Rum and Diet Dr. Pepper, and Kell did her's with Rum and Coke Zero. Hit the streets and began to have fun. We opted first to head up to Bourbon, just to see how far we would be, for walking distance. Turned out, not to far at all, only about three blocks.

There were people already out and about having fun. Which I began to grin from ear to ear, as I knew it was fuckin on.

We got 190 Octanes, walked around some more, and eventually decided to go get some dinner. We stopped in at this pizza place that we loved the last time we were in town. And thankfully it was still open. French Quarter Pizzaria & Bar I believe its called.

After dinner, went back out into the quarter for some drankin and celebration. My memory is a little hazy, but I do know my hip was hurting real bad from driving all day, so we had to walk back to the room around 11.

At some point, I passed out.

At some point later, I got up to go to the restroom.

At some point again later, I woke Kell up trying to get back into the room, explaining that I was trying to find the restroom. Here's where things get interesting. Kell was out cold. And I don't remember a gotdamned thing. So as far as both of us know, on one end of the spectrum, I could have opened the door to the hotel room, and turned around, and got myself back in, all in the span of a minute. Or...I could have opened the door, pissed in the hallway, elevator, lobby...anywhere but my toilet, and made my way back to the room. Or worst case scenario, where I normally operate in, I got up, went to locate the restroom, walked out of the hotel room instead, decided "fuck it" went down to the lobby, out to the street, and partied some more before wandering back. Either one of those could have happened.

The next day we woke up, and Kell recounted to me waking her up in the middle of the night trying to get back into the room.

We walked down to Cafe Beignet's to get some breahfus. Everything they served came with fuckin eggs. I hate eggs. But they were nice enough to give me extra grits and bacon.

Kell and I ate and walked around some more. I began to debate on just how early is too early to start drinking on a saturday.

We had planned on eating at this place called Johnny PoBoys' for lunch, but it was uber packed, so we opted to go to Pierre Masperos. I got a crawfish poboy and a gigantor beer. Kell got a roast beef poboy and a beer as well.

We both decided a nap was in order, as I'm a punk bitch, and love my naps. I woke up, and started in on drinking again. More rum and diets. We got dressed, and got some more 190s. Did a bit of shopping, and came back to the room to drop our stuff off.

Drank some more.

Then went to the front of our place to see the parade. Which was really fun, as Kell and I caught a metric ton of beads. We caught so much shit, we were passing it on to other people. We both didn't feel like trying to find some new place to eat, so we went back to the French Quarter pizza place, and knocked out a meal there.

We had decided early on that we were determined to sing Karaoke while we were in town, so we went to find the Cat's Meow, which is not a stripper karaoke bar, like the name suggests.

I sang, she sang, I nearly punched a guy.

We left, and got some more 190s.

Then walked a little further, stopped for Kell to get some lipgloss, and she then realized all the zippers on her purse was open, and her wallet was no longer there.

After a mild freak out, we walked back to the daiquiri bar, and they hadn't seen the wallet, which was unfortunate, because it was the last place it had been used.

We knew that it had been stolen. We started walking back towards the room, and I spotted two cops, and we told them what went down.

Then it began to hit us. I let out a growl and punched a marble wall. My knuckles are still hurting from that bad decision. We knew that our trip was going to be cut short.

Got back to the room, and Kell spent the better part of two hours calling banks and credit card companies.

The next morning, we got up and checked out. Then it dawned on us that we had our parking ticket for the parking deck in her wallet. Which really sucked when we saw the sign that said "MISSING TICKETS - $20"

FAAAAAAAAAHHHHQ!

I explained to the lady working the toll both what had happened, hoping that we would just get the charge of 30 dollars a night for both the nights we were there, and not the additional 20. She talked to someone on her radio and then waved us on, saying don't worry about it. We thanked her, and drove on.

Down at the exit was a plain clothes police officer who stopped to talk to us, and said "so you guys got picked?" We told him yeah, and what happened. He apologized, and we drove on home.

I sucked really bad having to deal with the stolen wallet, and cutting our trip short, but I would go back in a hot minute. I really love hanging out down there.

10 things that I can just not stand.

2011-04-08T13:34:00.000-07:00

1. Beach pictures where everyone is dressed the same. Especially white tops with khaki shorts.
Everyone seems to do this for some reason. I'm not even clear why. Its like it started as some virus that just spread uncontrollably, and everyone thinks they're the ones who did it first. I'll purposely not bring khaki or white to the beach to ensure this doesn't go down.

2. Mothers who call their daughters "sis"
I don't know why this makes my skin crawl. My own mother is guilty of this, (and the above). Something about it is just gross. Its like the word Nog.

3. Running into people that I haven't seen since High School.
I'm just fucking awkward to begin with. Not to mention having to think about what's gone down in 10 - 14 years since we've last hung out that I can get across in 5 minutes time. That's what facebook and email, or getting a drink sometime is for.

4. People that say "God Bless You"
Not that I'm against people saying it, necessarily. I'm all for God blessing me. But how do you respond to that? They've already topped you, they've won. There's nothing you can say in response to equal that. You can't say "God bless you, too" Cause you know they know that you've just copied exactly what they said, and that they're thinking "unoriginal." Or "Thank You" because they'll come back with "you're welcome" and your're right back where you started. I believe I'm just gonna start saying "no habla ingles" Save my self the run around.

5. Microsoft Word.
Everyone's got a kid who they think is an artist who set up their print job in Microsoft Word, that ends up looking like dog shit, because they took it beyond the "Word" and decided it needs to be a design program.

6. Places that serve regular Dr. Pepper but not Diet Dr. Pepper.
This makes absolutely no sense to me. The fountain has Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Mt Dew, Diet Mt. Dew, Exxxtreeeme Yellow Mt. Dew, Pink Lemonade, Diet Pink Lemonade, the fake Sprite, the fake Diet Sprite & Dr. Pepper.

7. The thought of having to play cutesy games.
Like Bachelor and/or Bachelorette party shit. Oh look, someone's got dick shaped pasta! Yay.

8. Having to go to church on Easter Sunday.
This one's coming up fast, unless I come up with an escape plan. If you go to church, that's awesome for you. But I NEVER go. Therefore when I (have to) go on Easter, I've got everyone and their cousin running up to me and asking A: "So, you're down from Nashville this weekend? (Besides the fact that I've lived back in Florence for something like 8 years now)" or B: "You gonna come back next Sunday?" Which is a bear trap and they know it. You can't lie in church (despite the fact that I've had preachers look me right in the eyes and tell me that there's no such thing as dinosaurs) and say "Yes", lest you be struck down on the way out. And you can't flat out say "NO" as then there's the convo with Mom and Dad afterwards about why you refuse to go, despite that "Church is really different now, and really laid back"

9. How God Rock bands get off so easy.
Want to be in a successful band that gets to tour, and put out albums, and never get a bad review? Become a Christian Rock Band. It doesn't matter how horrible your band is, as long as there's something about "The Lord" in there, people are unallowed to say anything nasty about how bad it sounds, because "you're glorifying God" or something.

10. People who update Facebook and/or Twitter with the full on intent of people feeling sorry for them and commenting back in a positive manner.
Its cheap, and you need to be drowned for it.

I Hate You

2011-04-07T09:55:00.000-07:00

Your face looks like you took make up advice from a drunk chimp.
Your speech patterns are akin to if someone cut out your tongue and replaced it with play-doh.
You constantly look like you're pregnant, even though it should be against the law for you to procreate.
You dress like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo on accident.
Your monosyllabic grunts travel through time, to even where cavemen say "what the fuck is she talking about?"
Your thighs are too big for your corduroy pants you insist on wearing every day, which allows me to hear you coming from a mile away.
Your hair dye job screams accident, but its been the same for 3 years now.
You butcher the English language so well, you should open up a shop, and sell slabs of vowels.
You stare blankly at a copier as if it holds the answers to the universe.
Your pronunciation of your daughter's name "CHRIYUSTEENUH" makes me want to permanently remove my ears by bashing them on the concrete.
You just really deserve to be launched into space, but I don't want advanced life forms to think that there is a planet of you.
You should be locked in a closet with a sexually aggressive panther, but that would be mean to the panther.
Your laugh sounds like a turkey's mating call. But if the turkey has severe head trauma.

I just hate you.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 11

2011-02-16T06:23:00.000-08:00

This is a bit of cheating, as I wrote this on another blog a couple of years ago, but reposting it here.

A story so impossible, if it happened to anyone else, you know they would be lying.

Yesterday afternoon I was asked to run some letters up to the post office by one of my bosses. So, I did as he asked. On my way back, I was about to cross the street, I noticed that I had the right of way, and that April Koonce was at one of the red lights. I waved, and she waved, and said hi. As i was saying hi back, all of the sudden...BOP! A chevrolet avalanche popped me in the hip. From what april said, she had stopped, and then decided to go again. I spun around and shouted "WHAT THE HELL?!" I've seen scared faces before, but never have i ever seen someone w/ the fear of god in their eyes. This woman was scared white. I turned back to April and said, "I JUST GOT HIT BY A FUCKING TRUCK!"
Then walked back to my office. April tailed her, and got her license plate. So if i suddenly feel bad, i've got someone to sue.

Getting lost at Mardi Gras

2011-02-16T06:10:00.001-08:00

Seven years ago. That's how long its been since I was last at Mardi Gras. I wouldn't call it a seven year hangover, but I would definitely say "Mardi Gras kicked my ass." When my friends and I first arrived at our hotel, we hit speed bump number one at check in. The room was booked for approximately 1/2 the people who ended up showing up. Thanks to one Mrs. Mitchell and some cash flashing, everyone got in. In to one hotel room. Which was fine, we weren't there for comfort, we were there for three days of unbridled binging. Which we did. The first thing we did when we got in our room was unpack. Not clothes. Vodka. Bottles and bottles of vodka. The counter looked like a well stocked vodka isle in the ABC store. We all made heavy handed drinks and went out to the parade. Which was awesome. We caught beads, and Lord of the Rings rings. Frodo was the grandmaster of the parade or something. After the parade was over, we went back to the room and made more drinks, and headed out to Bourbon Street.

There was a bar that had wall to wall daiquiris. And there it was. 190 OCTANE! 13 Dollars of instant drunk in a glass. Of how many of these I had...I can not say, as I don't remember. 190 Octanes in case you didn't know has 190 proof alcohol. After drinking two, you're hauling more Pure Grain Alcohol than the Dukes of Hazard ever have. Also, the drink is orange like the General Lee. *Side note...look into creating new 190 daiquiri called "General Lee", it will get you drunk enough to run from the cops, and feel like you can jump a barn.*

There's bits and pieces I remember through out the evening. Like a restaurant. An argument.
But one bit really stands out. I got separated from my friends very easily, and bourbon street just kind of puked me out of the French Quarter, like the people who were actually puking on Bourbon Street. In my drunken haze, and no knowing how to use my phone properly, I started calling people on my contacts list. Angela came before April. Angela mind you, still lived in Nashville and was most certainly not on this trip. She was a little weirded out why I shouting at her "WHERE ARE YOU....I'M SO FUCKING LOST" Well, I wasn't that lost. Actually, just a block from the hotel. But having never been to New Orleans, and that we were drunk when we left the hotel, I knew general directions. So I set out on my quest that should have taken 5 minutes tops. But ended up taking about two hours.

Earlier that day, as you may remember, unless you've been drinking 190's...you can re read it later...there was a parade. Well, in my quadrouplevision, I thought the barricades were still blocking being able to cross Canal Street. Which they weren't. So I opted to just walk the parade route back to the hotel. Which took forever. I went down dead streets, alleys, you name it. I finally and miraculously found my way back. I'm kind of surprised I didn't end up in Texas.

I got into the room, undressed, and thought...man, it must be 3 in the morning.

It was 8 at night.

If you don't respect the 190 Octanes....they will obliterate you. Which is why the next day April and I got sloshed on them at the mall.

I really can't wait for this year's Mardi Gras. This hotel should be much easier to find, as its right on the parade route.

Me vs WCW (World Championship Wrestling)

2010-04-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

I've decided to branch out this blog. No longer just stories of me getting hurt and or humiliated. I figure I can tell awesome stories of my past.

This...is one of those stories.

When I was in high school during the late 90s, professional wrestling had hit a major high in popularity. I had been a fan for years...so it was pretty awesome to finally be into something that was popular. There was a small group of friends that had started watching wrestling together before this, that had ended up growing to quite the large group. The small group was Josh, Scott, Eric & myself. We called ourselves the Four Horsemen, after the pro wrestling group of Ole Anderson, Tully Blanchard, Arn Anderson & THE Nature Boy, Ric Flair.

Our group would watch weekly shows and Pay-Per-Views together. We wouldn't actually pay for them. This was during the little black box period. Where you could get all your movies and shit for free. The cable companies would always put out their propoganda ads saying you could pay a fine or do time or whatever...but they couldn't track that shit.

So anyways, every PPV we would watch together. We started talking about going to live shows. As we were getting older, and could drive to places outside of the quad-cities that would house big events. Birmingham, Nashville & Atlanta.

One in particular was a Monday Nitro in Birmingham, Alabama. We got awesome seats for the event, they were four rows back from the front. We were so pumped, we got there about three hours early for the show, in hopes of meeting some wrestlers.

The problem was...there was no way into the arena until about an hour before the show. We thought, "no big deal, we'll hang out, and meet some cool folks before the doors open." Except, we were about the only people who got there early.

Boredom and having to pee began to set in. The BJCC didn't have any outdoor bathrooms, and we didn't want to leave lest a crowd showed up, and stole our (pre-paid, ticket owning) places in line. So, we looked for an open door in the arena to take a piss.

We went around to every door. None of them would budge. They were those doors that operated by pushing down a large bar to open. They all had a large chain around them, so as that they were impossible to open.

Except for one.

There was one door that wasn't chained. We automatically figured out how to open the door. I could almost hear the A-Team theme playing in my head. I pulled out a knife, and slipped into the door jam, as my friend Josh pushed down on the door bar. IT OPENED.

Fear actually gripped me, and my other friend Kevin as we saw Josh walk in. Which was odd for me, as Josh wasn't someone who broke the rules. He should have been in my spot telling me to come back. But off he went, as the door shut behind him.

I could only imagine the trouble he was getting into behind those doors. Getting arrested or the shit kicked out of him. I ran back around the front to my friends waiting at the front door. "JOSH IS INSIDE!"

We told them the story, as we began to imagine how we would get back home, as Josh had driven us there. We thought the worst. He was busted by security, and was held down below, waiting for the cops to come. We were soooooooo. SOOOOOOO wrong.

One of us spotted him in the isle, walking directly towards us. As he walked by, he unrolled a signed picture of Ric Flair. The HOLY FUCKING GRAIL.

He then pointed towards the door that he had gotten through.

Kevin and I immediately ran, while the others stood vigilant at the front door.

Almost as soon as we got to the door, Josh popped it open to let us in. He said. "If anyone asks, we're with merchandise and vending, and we're looking for the loading dock."

Josh isn't supposed to be this guy, who thinks of things like this on the spot. This was my job, and he was knocking it out of the park. Truth be told...I didn't care, because we were having a kick ass time.

We went down a winding set of stairs to the basement of the arena. There were some b-c level folks that we said "HI" to.

Then, we found our way to the mecca. We were into the 1996-99 area of 100 grade pure popularity. We were in the same room as Kevin Nash, Scott Hall, Sting & others.

It seemed as soon as we were there, security was there too. I buckled, and stepped backwards into an office...which was held by one Eric Bischoff. I freaked out, and stumbled back into the hallway, just in time to see Doug Dillinger head of security telling us to get the hell out, and how to do it.

We did just what he said, lest we be arrested, but we got to meet some cool wrestlers on our exit, as well as some behind the scenes folks.

It may seem lame to some folks, but this is very much one of the coolest moments I've ever had.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 10

2010-01-28T19:40:00.000-08:00

As I slipped and fell on my ass in the hallway, it occurred to me that I haven't updated this in a lil bit. So, lets get into embarrassment in school shall we?

In Jr and Sr High, I was the Short, Geek, Dweeb, Spaz, Long Hair, Comic Book Nerd, Metal Fan that none of the girls dreamed of. Until I blossomed in to what I am today. Wakka.

So, naturally in the food chain, I was one of the picked on. And unfortunate things happened...that didn't add to my love of high school, but subtracted from it greatly. One day during English class, a troupe of gigantor rednecks put me head first in the trash can. While the teacher watched...or maybe she cheered on. Its Karma I guess that her husband recently got busted for soliciting a male police officer for sex in the park. And they say God works in mysterious ways. Karma's got that shit down.

Sometimes, I feel that even God him/herself got in on the act of picking on me. During one science class the back of my chair gave out. I fell back wards, and it cut my pants from the top of my back pocket to my knee. Exposing my ass. Not too long afterwards, in the same class...my next desk's legs decided to all go in different directions, sending me once again to the floor. I wasn't a fat kid in school. On the contrary, I weighed in at maybe 90-100 lbs. There has to be a force at work here to make me feel humiliated.

Or maybe it was dudes bigger than I was just liked to kick my ass.

As this blog continues on, we draw closer to the two most clumsy people on the planet. Me and April.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 9

2009-12-10T15:26:00.000-08:00

Holidays. They're fun times with friends and families. There's food, celebration, laughter...and in my case injury.

Take Easter Sunday of my senior year. Instead of eating a metric ton of Easter food, I got to go to the emergency room because I wrecked the shit out of my car. Snapped my collar bone in three places. They gave me a hefty dose on pain killers and gave me the orders to take it easy, and stay in bed, to try to let the bone heal. This also being the Easter sunday that started spring break. Of my senior year. yaaaaay.

So, needless to say, holidays and I have a bit of a history. It was Christmas Eve. I want to say that I was 11 or 12. I was giving the marching orders by my mother to take out a bag of trash. It was unusually warm that year, so I was wearing shorts. So, this entry gets credited to God tagteaming with my Mother. I took the trash bag outside, and started swinging it to get some motion to throw over the wall and into the bed of my dad's truck. I felt a tinge on the side of my leg, as on the last powerful swing got it into the truck. I didn't think anything of it, because it didn't hurt...thought maybe the trash bag breezed my leg. As I began to feel warm liquid filling my sock, and knowing full well that I hadn't pissed myself, I looked down to see that the garbage bag hadn't breezed my leg, it full on gashed the ever loving shit out of it. Turns out mom had dumped some broken glass in the bag, and had forgotten to give me that bit of important information.

Having been the first time I've ever seen what the inside of my body looks like, I freaked out just a little bit. I was sure that I would bleed to death, and not be able to open gifts Christmas morning.

We put some ripped fabric on to keep pressure, and then I over heard dad contemplating whether or not he could take me to his Veterinary friend to get me stitched up. I'm not joking and neither was he. For some reason, he decided to take me over to his team roping buddy's house to let him see what he thought of Vet vs. Dr, because in my dad's eyes cattleman's oppinion = doctor's.

He seemed to be disgruntled that Joe told him to take me to the doctor. So, I got the next best thing, MedPlus. AKA Doc-in-a-box. For those who don't know, MedPlus is to Hospital as McDonalds is to Five Star Restaurant.

The doc examined my leg, and asked if I wanted "MERRY XMAS" stitched in my leg. "ARE YOU SHITTING ME?...JUST STITCH." He jammed the syringe into my leg to numb the pain, but what I needed was something to numb the pain for the syringe, because that really really hurt. He stitched me up...I caught a glimpse, and almost passed out. We went home, and I laid on the couch. Then Justin whipped a G.I.Joe at me, and it hit me right in the eye.

More stories to come!

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 8

2009-12-10T15:25:00.000-08:00

Hard facts time people. Some folks are not good at sports. I happen to be one of those people. I know, its hard to swallow. Its not that I didn't try. Its that my hands and feet do not operate together that one playing active sports needs. I can run. I can catch a ball. I can not run and catch a ball.

My dad really wanted me to play sports though, and I had to make a choice. Football was out of the question, as I didn't want to get the crap kicked out of me anymore than what happened on a non-football basis. Basketball wasn't happening either...walking/running and dribbling a basketball...HA! My only other option was Baseball. Seeing as how I was absolutely horrible, and every kid was guaranteed to play at least one inning, I was sent out to right field. Which suited me fine. The ball never came my way, so I never had to be alert. I just had to pretend I was. Unfortunately, even in the smallest of roles that I played on my team, there was still almost daily practice. I hated practice. So much so, that I would often hide in the nearby woods until it was over. When I did get stuck on the field, my coach insisted on hitting ground balls directly at me.

These things came rolling on the ground like they were shot out of a cannon. Now, I'm not claiming that my coach was a witch, a jedi or the devil, but he always knew where to hit the ball where it would smack me in one or two places. The balls or the face. One practice, he went for broke and nailed both.

Coach yelled "HENDERSON, GROUND BALL"
Dammit...why? When I'm playing outfield, there is never a ball within 100 feet of me. Much less one rocketing a mach 10 in my direction. While thinking about all of this, I should have noticed the rock that was placed on the field in the ball's path. But I didn't. Was it fate? God? Or did Coach place it there in the random hope I would be standing three feet from it? No one really knows for sure. All I know is that Coach working with physics made that ball bounce off the rock, and hit me square in the coin purse.

Down I went, grabbing my crotchial area, grasping for breath, and ease of pain...but I wouldn't find any. When the pain finally subsided, I thought that would be it for the day....surely I would be relived from practice. Dad or Coach would understand...right? Wrong. "Get back up, here come's another!" Almost gleefully sounding the Coach was, as he hit another ground ball my way. This time I thought "I'm placing my glove over my crotch, there's no way that things gonna...." *BING* Right between the eyes.

So yay. On the same day I got a bruised face, crotch & ego.

After a few years of getting annihilated by baseballs, either by random acts of malice, or my coach saying "take one for the team, lean into the next pitch" I opted out of baseball. I thought "there is no way I can get hit anymore if I'm safely behind the dugout. Wrong.

While watching one of my brothers' games, I decided to quench my thirst, and go to the concession stand for a soda. I got my drink and a cheeseburger. I heard the call "POP FLY" which means, "look out, ball is high in the air" Not "look out, ball is high in the air, and has a computer guided attack planned for my face." As soon as I walked out from under the over hang of the concession stand, I looked up into the pretty blue sky, and caught the glimpse of a round object right before it obliterated my face. I woke up a few moments later to people standing around me.

Now, I just don't go near baseball fields at all. I still wake up in the middle of the night, from nightmares about baseballs chasing me down. I wonder what Freud would say about that.

Up next, I asked for video games for Christmas...not stitches.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 7

2009-11-26T09:16:00.000-08:00

I've never liked heights. Never. Ever. When I rode in a cable car that takes you from one side of a theme park to another, I grip the pole, and close my eyes, and pray the cable doesn't snap. When my dad made me go to the top of the faux Eiffel Tower at Kings Dominion in Virgina, I dug my fingers in to the walls of the elevator. I just don't do well with heights. So naturally, I don't like roller coasters either.

I had managed to never get on a roller coaster for many years, dodging them at every turn. That was until a class trip when I was in the 6th grade. Dad was a chaperon for this trip, and he loves to ride roller coasters. My friends that were on the trip loved to ride roller coasters. So, they would ride while I waited. Safely on the ground below.

In what may have been Dad trying to get me into a "man-up" moment, he decided that he was going to goad me into riding one. Seeing as calling me out in front of my friends would probably work, that's what he did. I finally gave in.

I had to sit at the front of the ride. Dad's orders. So, the coaster starts, it goes over a small hill or two, and then starts to chug up the highest point, so as that from there on out, gravity takes over. Chuck chuck chuck chuck chuck the coaster goes up to the high point. I'm already pretty damned scared, at which point...God in his infinite wisdom of loving to play pranks on me decided now would be a good time to throw in a thunderstorm on what was just thirty seconds ago, a very sunny day. The coaster in its very slow motion continues to go until it gets to the top. Then, before gravity can take hold, it stops. Dead. Power had gone down over the park. Folks in the cable cars above us were stuck, nothing was moving.

It would be right here that I freak out. And continued to freak out, as lightning started striking.

Finally, after 30-45 minutes or so, the power came back on, and the coaster shot off like a bat out of hell. I kept my eyes closed for the rest of the trip. I got off, and told my dad "That is exactly why I don't ride those."

As you can see, in a one in a million scenario, on my first and last roller coaster ride why I'll never go on another one again.

Next time, how many times can one face get hit by a baseball?

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 6

2009-11-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

God bless my Dad. He tried so hard to ensure that I could grow up and work with cows and horses. I reckon God had other plans.

As mentioned before, Dad had taken up the hobby of Team Roping. This is a sport that is usually showcased in rodeos. It involves two cowboys, two horses and one steer. (A steer is a male bull that has been castrated...usually at the hands of my dad. Who would then eat the stolen testicles. And would try to fake them off on me by disguising the name to make it sound more like chicken fried steak. Seriously, if you heard "bull fries", would you think they were battered pieces of steak, or battered testicles?) The header or cowboy who ropes the head would nod his head, and let the person controlling the chute that the steer is located in, to release the steer, at which point the team ropers would rope said steer. To keep this going, you had to have a continual stream of steer to come to the chute.

Dad had me run the steer one time. He told me to get the hot shot (which is a device to give a shock to the steer...much like a tazer...but no where near the knock out power) and get the steer to move up to the chute.

I took the hot shot, and climbed into the small area that leads the steer to the chute. I pop the last one on the butt to get it going. As if he went, then he would push the ones in front of him forward. Save for one little hiccup. This steer had no intentions in moving.

"Dad, this steer won't budge"

"Hit him again."

I zapped the steer again.

"Dad, I really don't think he wants to go."

"Hit him again."

I zapped the steer again.

"This just isn't working. Should I go to the next one, or what?"

"Hit him again, and hold it on his ass until he moves.

I placed the end of the hot shot right on the cow's ass per my dad's instructions. Pressed the button, and held it. I'm not entirely for sure for how long, but the equation probably looks like this.
Amount of time + electric shock = pissed off cow.

I still remember the cow's movement, all in slow motion. The cow stood on his front legs, pulled his back legs tight against his stomach. Then kicked the ever loving shit out of my stomach.

I can't remember how far back it knocked me, but what I do remember is laying on the ground, trying to breathe for what seemed like an hour.

My Dad rode over on his horse, and said "What happened? Are you OK."
*GASP* "cow...kicked...me." *GASP* "can't...breathe"
Dad said "Oh, you'll be fine, now get up and walk it off."

How you walk off getting kicked by a cow is beyond me.

In my next story we'll explore my fear of heights, and roller coasters.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 5

2009-11-17T11:04:00.000-08:00

After my family moved from Mississippi to Alabama, we didn't live on a farm anymore, but we did still have some farm animals. Mostly just horses and cows, as Dad had taken up the hobby of Team Roping, which required both animals.

One of my chores around the house was to keep the horses clean and kept up, which meant bathing them, cleaning their hoofs and brushing their hair. I was a pretty short kid, so when brushing the mane, I would either have to climb up on a bucket, or on top of the horse. Normally, I would want to tie the horses off, but it was a huge pain in the ass to get a bridle on.

There was one horse in particular who's name was Scratch. His name was Scratch because he had a penchant for not stopping when running full tilt at a barb wire fence. As per my duties, I had shimmied myself on Scratch's back to comb his mane. Unfortunately for me, Scratch had spotted a female horse in the neighbors' field, and as he is want to do...took off...with me on his back. Oh, and no bridle. No saddle.

At first my small child arms were around his neck, then as the speed increased, the grip began to break. Then my fingers dug into his neck as hard as they could, but couldn't hold. The last bastion of hope was his freshly combed mane. That didn't last long, as he was mid field, and at full speed. I knew that in that moment, I was going to have to fall. It was almost Matrix like, as I tried to recount how stunt men had fallen off horses. I thought, "OK, don't fall off the back, you'll get kicked to shit." So, as my grip finally gave out, I fell to the side. Bad bad bad. The first thing that hit the ground was my nose. Followed by a hoof to the back of the head. At some point, I stopped rolling, stood up, and coughed grass, mud and blood out of my mouth. The grass, mud and blood was still firmly planted in my nose.

My brother who witnessed this fine horseback ride, reported what was going on to my parents. Not in worry mind you, but more what seemed to be elation as it was later reported to me "HES A RIDIN THAT HORSE!"

My parents came from the house to see me walking back through the field in a heap, I looked like exactly what happened to me.

Presumably, if there were a truck around, my Dad would have told me to go get in it.

Next time, I'll continue on why I don't mix well with farm animals. Like at all.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 4

2009-11-13T16:05:00.002-08:00

Growing up with my Dad was an interesting thing. He used to ride Bulls in rodeos. Even did it at Madison Square Garden. When he wasn't doing that he was on a roof in redonkeylous heat, or facing down an aligator while he was drunk duck hunting. In other words, Dad is tough. More tough than I'll ever be. Dude falls off the roof, dislocates his hip, pops it back in, and goes back to work. He's managed to drill a nail in his hand, and fixed it with electrical tape.

So, needless to say, I had a hard time not being tough as a child. Say if I were crawling through a barbed wire fence, and it got caught in my back, and I freaked out a little bit, I wouldn't get "Are you O.K?" I got "Quit being a girl, its only barbed wire." When dad and I were on horse back, tearing through the woods, and he manages to successfully duck a low lying tree, and i can't in time, due to the speed of my horse chasing his, and my face eats it, I didn't get "Are you O.K.?" I got "You had better get that horse back." As the blow from the tree had knocked me completely off the saddle, and onto the ground.

When I asked my Dad over and over again for a tree house, he finally built me one. Well, he used wood, and it was a tree...but house it wasn't. Houses tend to have walls, and a roof. What I got amounted to broken two by fours to climb, and up top, was a piece of ply wood situated in between the two main parts of the tree. Dad not being that great of an engineer managed to build my tree plank in such a way, that when I got to the top, I almost had to dangle myself off the damned thing to get up there. This was when I was 7-8 mind you.

Now, I can understand not wanting to do the walls, and roof. As those would take time and money. We had plenty of one, but not the other. I'll let you figure out which one. But a railing around to keep me from falling 30 feet would have been nice. But beggars can't be choosers. So I got my tree house. Sort of. It should be as no surprise that not only did I fall out of the tree, I managed to hit the tree on the way down. It should also be noted that I screamed a little on the way down.

My mother came running out of the house "WHAT, WHAT'S WRONG?!"
I said cryingly "I FELL OUT OF MY TREE....HOUSE."
She said "Is that all, God with the way you were screaming I thought you got attacked by a bear." So, you see...its not all dad. Mom had some digs in there too.

The next time, I'll tell you why no matter what, never ever climb on a horse unless you have at least a rope around its neck.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 3

2009-11-13T16:05:00.001-08:00

This is my ongoing attempts to make internet folks laugh, by telling them absolutely true stories of things that have happened to me.

If you've read the last two entries, you know by now that I used to live out in the country in Greenwood, Mississippi. At the age of 5.5, we moved to a spot in between the two mega metropolises that are Central and Waterloo, AL. Far enough out not to get cable, but not too far out to have to go to Waterloo. Thank God.

My Dad had continued on his own mission to get me to become a man through killing animals. While, not against hunting, I just don't want any part of it. I like just going to the store, and purchasing the after effects. I assume that maybe Dad was worried that Regonomics would fail, and that we would have to forever live off the land. Or he was trying to get out of the house.

One early saturday morning, he decided to wake me from bed to go quail hunting. As watching saturday morning cartoons were not as high on his to do list as they were mine. Being the winter time, it was naturally really really cold. When it gets cold here, it hurts. I imagine due to the moisture in the air. Now remember this for later. Cold. It hurts.

We went to a field that belonged to a friend of Dad's. Dad shot a bird or two. And then he pulled out his shotgun, and actually shot some birds. Wakka. One of them he hit in the eye with the bird shot. He opted to show me. That was polite of him.

We came to a clearing, and Dad thought it time to wait for more birds. Call it Mike vs Dad destiny, call it dad being bored...call it whatever. But Dad looked around for a minute, and pointed and told me "Sit down there." So I did.

A few seconds go by, and I start to feel painful stings in my feet. Then legs. Then butt. Then groin. Soon, all over. Dad in his infinite child rearing wisdom, opted to sit me directly on a fire ant hill. I freaked out a little bit, and began dancing around to get them off of me. Now, if you don't know about fire ants, they don't just bite once, and then go about their business. They bite over and over again. And then they bite some more.

Do you remember the bit about how cold it was? Yeah. Dad then had me strip down to nothing. In the freezing cold, to get the fire ants off. Oh, but it was only a second right? I could just put my clothes back on? No. There were fire ants still in all my clothes. So, we had to go back to the truck with me bare assed.

This would be the last time that Dad would take me hunting.

Next time, I'll tell you about how Dad the Professional Roofer vs Dad the Tree House Builder, are apparently not the same person.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 2

2009-11-12T16:34:00.001-08:00

This is my ongoing quest to relive some embarrassing stories, in the hopes that somehow, somewhere, someone will get a laugh or two out of them. A long time ago, when I was much younger, my family didn't have a lot of money. By some standards, you may say that we were kind of poor. Or just poor. I don't know if you can be kind of poor...at any rate, we didn't have money. We lived on a cattle farm in Greenwood, Mississippi. We shucked our own corn, and peeled our own peas...that sort of thing. We didn't slaughter our own cows, pigs or chickens, as those were all bought at the store. The one thing that was killed and eaten by us was deer.

OK, so here's the thing. I don't hunt. I'm fine with folks that do hunt. I don't necessarily agree with some of the measures, but if they're eating what they kill, I've got no beef with that (pun intended). Dad would go hunting, kill some deer, and we would eat some and freeze the rest. I knew this. I had never seen this happen, but I had a pretty good idea what went on. Dad would leave at four in the morning, and return in the afternoon, if he was with Buddy Fancher, then beers were most likely involved. What I didn't know was how you got from deer that's alive to deer that's for dinner. This was an early stage in my life, so the not knowing is rather excusable, as I concerned my life more with Scooby-Doo and coloring books.

One day after hunting, Dad called for me. I came out to see what he wanted. He said "I got a deer, I want you to see how I clean it." To a child that's four years old, what would that sound like to you? Does it sound like "I shot a deer, its dead in the bed of my truck, and we're about to string it up." Or does it sound more like "Believe it or not, we caught a deer, and it was dirty, so now we're giving it a bath." If you picked the second one, good. You and me at four years old are on the same page. I had some candy that I was munching on, and brought along a Cadbury Bunny Egg. You know those gross ass candies that look like yolk is in the middle...yeah those. Which now that I think about it, this story may explain my dislike of eggs.

I get in his truck, excited to see this deer, that mise well be my new pet. We drove right down the street, where dad's hunting pals were all standing around. I asked "Where's the deer?" Dad motioned his thumb towards the back of the truck "In the back" I jumped up on the seat so I could see. There was no deer that was anxious to see his new owner, much like a puppy would. No, it was more eyes rolled back in its head, with his tongue hanging out, and lots and lots of blood. I immediately regretted the decision to come but not wanting to be a little girl in front of dad's friends, opted to get out of the truck. Maybe they were going to still just clean the blood off the deer, and take pictures or something. Dad wrapped a rope around the hind legs, and they hoisted the deer up in the air. I unwrapped my Cadbury Bunny Egg, and took a bite. Dad took out his knife, and buried it into the deer's belly, and drug downwards. Guts came out. I threw up my Cadbury Bunny Egg. A lot. Like in Reagan The Exorcist movie a lot. Dad hung his head, and pointed towards the truck "Go get in the truck, son." I wiped the puke from my eyes, and then hit them in my hands. If that was the beginning of what cleaning a deer meant, I sure as shit didn't want to see the end.

We drove back to the house, and mom could see that I had gotten sick, asked what was wrong. Dad replied "Damned chocolate eggs."

Next time, I'll tell another story of quail hunting with my dad, and how I ended up nude in the freezing cold.

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 1

2009-11-11T16:18:00.001-08:00

Its occurred to me that in this particular point in my life, I don't have anything to really complain about. I've got a girl, dog, cat, house, and some whiskey in the freezer. I've grown tired of complaining about shiz I can't change; crappy musicians, politics, bad grammar. As I used to be able to go on these rather entertaining rants about what I was pissed off about at that moment, which you can read right at www.myspace.com/mike_henderson (which I haven't posted to in over a year, and the only reason its kept active, is that's because of where I met my girlfriend six years ago).

So here's the thing, I've had the itch to write about things, but can never really get it going. I've done a few game reviews for a site, and that was fun, but then they stopped publishing said reviews. I thought "what could I write about that would be entertaining?" And it suddenly dawned on me...why not tell the stories that have been making my friends laugh for years? The stories of me in various adventures either getting destroyed or completely downed in front of people. I'll start from the earliest age, or what I can remember and move up through the years. Should be a fun ride.

The year was 1981. I was three years old. We lived on a cattle plantation in a small small small town called Greenwood, Mississippi. We didn't own the plantation, this old guy named Mr. Ben did. I often thought at a young age that he was related to Uncle Ben from the rice box, except...white. At any rate, my dad worked on this plantation, as the main cattle hand. He would make sure the cows had food, water, and so forth. Every once in a while, dad would take me with him to tend to the cattle. This never suited me much, as I would have rather stayed home, and dressed up as batman, or read Sesame Street books. I reckon he wanted me to learn about cows, so he would still take me against my will. What can I say, I was three. Which sometimes going could be exciting, as he would let me sit in his lap, and pretend like I was driving. Only through the fields mind you, not on the actual roads.

Mr. Ben had a bull that had his own barn and pen. As you didn't want him on his own, impregnating all the female cows...for some reason. More cows equals more money I would think. Who knows. So, this bull has his own living quarters, and Dad had to go feed him separately. For some reason, call it Bull vs. Me destiny, Dad decided this was one of the times that I needed to come along for the trip. We pulled up to the gate where the bull stayed. Dad says "I'll be back in just a minute, so stay put." Yes, my dad was leaving a three year old in a truck in the middle of a pasture by himself, but these were simpler times...or it was bad judgment. I'll let you dear reader figure that one out. He got out, and went through the gate, and into the barn. As soon as he left, I began to count. OK, so I know what you're thinking three years old, and counting off minutes...you don't believe it. Well, my mother was a firm believer in teaching me how to read, spell & count from a very early age. I continue counting and get to about two minutes. Which was exactly one minute longer than he said he would be. I climb down out of the truck and go to the gate. I start to call for my dad, but I get no answer. Which had made me a little nervous, as he couldn't have been more than 100 feet away in the barn. I decide to climb through the fence, and walk towards the barn, still calling for my dad. No answer...well, no answer from the mammal I was calling out for. Instead, what I got was over a ton of horned anger walking from behind the barn. Even though I grew up on a cattle farm, my knowledge of what bulls do was limited to Bugs Bunny cartoons. Which meant they'll probably charge, and knock you over the fence. Things to look for in an angry bull, as per Bugs Bunny: 1. Bull, Check. 2. Someone in their way that's not a bull, Check. 3. Digging one hoof into the ground to alert you of a charge...check. All these things added to me running as fast as I could, with a bull hot on my heels. Luckily, I wasn't too far from the gate, and was able to get through before he caught up to me. I got to the truck, slammed the door, and locked it. The bull eventually walked away, at which point Dad came out from behind the barn. Came through the gate, and got in the truck. He asked me "what the hell's wrong with you?" I explained what happened, to which I'm not for sure if he believed it or not, but his response was "Well, I told you to stay in the truck."

To this day, I'm not for sure if Dad and the bull had some sort of agreement, that if the bull took me out, would Dad provide him with some hot cow ass, or if it was just a misunderstanding on the bull's part. But what this does, is kick off a long string of events that leaves me either hurt, humiliated or both at the hands of my dad. Next time, I'll tell the story of why it isn't good to eat a Cadbury Bunny Egg when your dad tells you to watch him clean a deer.