A Memory From 2006

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Thanksgiving Weekend and Security Bob

Current mood: thoughtful

Category: Life

We drank. We put our glasses down and then we drank some more. Everyone drank in merriment and of course for me to say that the evening was not about intoxication would be ridiculous, however the evening was more about spending time with family, friends from far away, friends from around the block, and friends who are so close it hurts. Thanksgiving came and went as quickly as the turkey did and all the while a sense of inevitability lingered. The inevitability that lingered was a sense of Sunday evening disappearing into the Philly skyline and Monday morning rolling back around, hence inevitability forcing me to return to school and work. Be that as it may, that sense of disparity was only creeping in the back corners of my mind.

My roommate vested in me the power to make the evening a great deal more enjoyable for everyone than I would have been able to on my own. I wanted the night to possess memories that everyone could recall and reiterate once they got back to wherever they came from. Trae was in Philly spending the Thanksgiving holiday with my family this year. Andy took a much needed break from his somewhat unsatisfying job in real estate down in Virginia. Wunder separated himself from superfluous amounts of work that have piled on top of him, while finishing his college education at West Chester University. My brother, in from Virginia himself, brought out my sister-in-law to spend some much needed quality time for all of us. Kimmy, from around the block, brought her sister and her friend Brianna. My good friend Jimmy came, once he got out of work. Friends and family, united together, all the while intoxicated, we played games throughout the evening with game cards my bartending roommate gave me.

Yeah, we were planning on only starting the evening at this original location, but enough drinks in us we didn’t ever make it to the club we had intended on frequenting afterwards. But let me explain that the bars in South Philadelphia don’t really close at the hours the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board says they are supposed to. And really, it doesn’t make sense for them to. When the bartender has money coming in because people want to drink….why close? So we decided to go to this little Irish bar, somewhere in my neighborhood. Let’s just say the evening from this point on is little more than a wafting blur.

Pass out and wake back up the next afternoon. Well, I guess it’s still the same day but, whatever we woke back up at like 3 in the afternoon on Saturday now. Trae and I go out and have dinner at Manny Browns, have a few 22_oz. Franzkhaner Dunkel’s, and make our way to Tiki Bob’s. Joke that was so we went next door to McFadden’s after having spent $5 for a cover at Tiki Bob’s which paid our way for the 15 minutes we were there. Whatever, McFadden’s is fucking slammed and we make our way to the back bar which we were politely asked to leave because there was a private party occurring inside the back room. It was “Lauren’s Birthday” whoever the fuck Lauren was. Trae and I killed a shot of Jagermeister and went back out into the madness below. Every time we wanted a beer, myself or Trae had to fight our way through the sea of intoxicated individuals all lowering their inhibitions in order to fuck someone, fuck anyone. I can’t lie I wasn’t any better than the rest of them.

There came a point, and Trae can recognize it, when the glaze comes over my eyes and I’m in no position to drink any longer. I’m no longer exuberant. I’m no longer loud and obnoxious and I just can’t lower my inhibitions any more. My intelligence is at about the level of a moth and its time to go. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make it sound depressing, it’s not. There just comes a time where I have to go, and when the bass beat just keeps thumping in my brain and heart and soul, I can’t think clearly any more, so I have to go somewhere else. So left we did, and we came back to McKenna’s where Kimmy was DeeJaying for the evening. Steve, from work, showed up along with Patrick, my highly intellectual friend whom I share a great deal of engaging conversations, and his friend Chad. We drank. We put our glasses down and then we drank some more. I made conversation with my ex when I certainly should not have, but you know……you get all wasted and it seems like a good deal at the time. You forget about all the reasons why you ended things to begin with and you make yourself believe that if you can hang out again tonight, on this particular night, you can work things back out. Bad idea, it’s over and done with. Forget about it!

A little more time passed and Steve, Trae, and I returned to my apartment which is ever so conveniently located on top of McKenna’s, the bar we were just at. I grabbed another beer for each of us from my fridge and stepped out onto my patio to smoke a cigarette. I watch this older gentleman step outside of the bar and run into a car. He finishes the last sip of his beer from an elongated Budweiser can and throws it on the ground. He takes a few steps to his left and falls down on the concrete sidewalk. I’m watching this from my patio about 30 feet above him, and as disgraceful as it was, I found humor in it so I called Steve outside. Now, the best part about it was as he fell on the ground I read the word “Security” printed on the back of his yellow parka. Steve and I are cracking up, but I decide that we must help in some way. Not before I took a couple pictures of him, but I come to find out the man’s name is Bob and he tells me where he lives. I run back upstairs and tell Trae that we need to help “Security Bob” get home. We mapquest his address and go back down to help him. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea, but I wanted to at least drag him into my hallway and get him off the sidewalk. I do drag him over and he shakes me off and faceplants into my stairs. His glasses bent up and falling off the side of his head, he groans in pain.

“Ohhhhhhh….ohhhhhh…..that one hurt guys,” Bob utters. Steve and I are again laughing but very quietly. We decide this is not a good idea and pull him back outside the door and lock it behind us. Trae is an E.M.T. and volunteer firefighter in Pittsburgh, so we run back upstairs and tell him about “Security Bob”. He is rather confused and somewhat indifferent, but he comes out on the patio to see Bob face down on the concrete.

Giggling hesitantly Trae says, “That’s fucked up man”.

Steve says to me, “Man as you closed the door, Bob just told you to fuck off!“ I guess this is the reason for what ensued. We tried to give him help and he disrespected us. I believe it was Steve that started it, but suddenly the words were belted out “Put your hands on your head, Sir!”

Security Bob responds, “I didn’t do anything, I’m sorry!”

Again Steve yells down, “We have you surrounded, Sir! We need to know if your sober, Sir! Put your fucking hands on your head!”

Again Bob says, “I didn’t do anything!”

Trae chimes in, “We don’t want to take you to jail, Sir! Stay on the ground, Sir! Put your fucking hands on your head!” Security Bob does as he’s told and puts his hands on his head. As he does this, his cigarettes fall out of his pocket and the cigarette in his hand is visible.

Smoke wafting over Bob’s head, Steve yells down “Throw away your cigarettes Sir!” and he does so. “Throw your cigarettes up here, SIR!” Bob picks them up and launches them behind himself. Of course they raise about two feet in the air and fall back on top of him, but Steve runs down the stairs, out the door, steals Bob’s cigarettes, and runs back up to my patio.

Trae screams back down at Bob, “Get on your feet, Sir!” With a great deal of effort, bob stands up, swaying a great deal.

Again Trae screams, “Put your back against the wall Sir!” and Bob does so. Let me say now that it might sound like it’s redundant for us to have continually kept yelling down “Sir” but it’s how the dialogue went. All the while, I can’t say anything because I’m laughing so hard and trying to cover up the sound so this extravaganza doesn’t end.

Steve yells down at Bob, “Put your hands to your sides”. Bob instead puts his hands in front of him. “No Sir! Put your hands to your sides!” Again Bob puts them in front of himself. Steve repeats himself and Security bob complies. This is where Steve might have taken it a step to far but it was hilarious nonetheless.

Steve screams down, “Sir! Pick your nose!”

Bob replies, “I will not do that sir!”.

Trae joins in, “We need to know if your sober, Sir! We do not want to shoot you!”

Bob cries out, “Please, don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything wrong”.

Steve again reiterates his command about Bob picking his nose, to which Bob replies, “Which one?”

Steve says, “Both”. Bob removes his hands from the wall and picks both of his nostrils. Just a second later he falls back down onto the concrete. As he is laying there on the cold November cement, we begin to see a puddle of urine inch out from him in all directions, starting from his bladder area. The puddle proceeded to extend about a foot and a half away from him, which is to say that he obviously had a lot to drink.

Needless to say, we’re all going to hell but it’s not like I wasn’t going there anyway with the shit I’ve done in my lifetime. The story doesn’t end like that. I eventually called 911 and informed them that a gentleman was passed out on the sidewalk outside of my building. The E.M.T.’s came, as did the police, and soon enough Security Bob was on a gurney in an ambulance headed off to a much better place. He probably slept it off and who knows we might have saved him from alcohol poisoning. Either way it was a funny situation.

To bring this whole thing to a close, the weekend was a very enjoyable one. From my standpoint, I spent a lot of time with one of my best friends whom I never get to spend as much time with as I did this holiday vacation. I had the time to reminisce with my friends from home as they took a break from their families, and I got to share quality time with my brother which is so unfortunately few and far between. You live, you love, and you learn. Hopefully, somewhere along the way you can say it was worth it all, because we spend way too much time putting forth effort toward the things we have to do, that it’s mandatory to spend quality time enjoying the things we want to do.

Holey Socks

No I'm not talking about socks blessed by the Pope. I'm talking about socks that have holes in them. What's ridiculous is that once a sock has a hole in it, you should just throw them out or mend them. But who the fuck knows how to mend a sock anymore. That was an art lost with the seamstresses of our past and with homemakers that are no longer. In fact, i don't know if I ever saw my mom mend a sock when I was a child. Either way, they piss me off. Because I can't bring myself to throw them out. At least not until every year on Christmas. Because my mom always adds socks and underwear into my assortment of gifts. Socks are aggravating though. They serve the purpose of providing cushioning and comfort and protection between your foot and the shoe. However, without fail they always end up with holes where your big toe is. So, instead of throwing out holey socks, I rotate them between feet.

When I've worn a sock through the big toe area, then it gains a new spot on the other foot where the hole is down near my pinky toe and the area with fabric is back near the big toe. The problem with this means of recycling socks is that when you wear a sock long enough on one foot the fabric becomes formed to that foot's shape. So the holey part of the sock has extra fabric toward the pinky toe that gets bunched up at the end of the shoe. It pisses me off. Now you would say, "Seriously? If it pisses you off that much...just throw them out and buy new ones. But for some reason I never do that. Instead of just going to Target and purchasing myself new socks, I live in frustration with this issue.

Frankly, I don't think I like socks at all. I don't think I've ever put socks on and thought, "Wow, now that's a good feeling". Sandals are the way to go. The feeling of wearing some comfortable sandals in summertime where the air can naturally aerate my feet. Now that's good stuff. To hell with confining my feet to socks and shoes. That's bullshit. I'd be happy as hell if I could wear a button down dress shirt, a tie, black dress pants and flip flops. But alas, business attire requires all of the preceding plus socks and minus flip flops. My loss.

Non Door Holders

I feel as if it's the simplest gesture one can extend to show courtesy and consideration. It requires nothing of the other person, less than nothing in fact. However, there are still individuals out there that will proceed to enter a doorway, see that someone is behind them and about to enter into that same doorway, and these delinquents let their fingers graze the edge of the door frame and slip out of their grasp, only to have the door abruptly slam in the approaching individual's face. As if to say, "I saw you coming and I don't give a fuck. Go to Hell!".

Or at least that's how I see it. Every time that it happens, I want to flip out. Inside of me a rage that is really quite unparalleled begins to rise and it requires me to settle myself in some way in order to not grab them by the shoulder and say "Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?". Perhaps it's the history with which I've been accustomed to the practice and with common courtesy that makes holding doors for others ever so simple to me. I can recall being a child of no more than seven or eight and going to the mall with my grandmother and my aunt, and probably even younger than that they had taught me that it was polite to hold the door for women of any age and to let them enter before I did. They also told me that it was decent and kind to do so for anyone and that the gesture would be appreciated and seen with respect. Other gestures were explained to me such as, pulling out a chair for a lady, covering my mouth when I coughed, keeping indecent conversation private rather than speaking loudly about such matters in public, as well as excusing one's self when leaving a group of individuals at a table.

What I think I dislike more than anything else is that this lack of holding doors is an indication of where the nature of people is headed. People are so enthralled with themselves and the selfish nature of being consumed with self preservation and centerdness. My life, my job, my things, my car, my house, my problems, my direction, my distractions...always Me, Me, Me...so much so that I don't give a Fuck about You, You, You! And that's why this world we live in has become so caught up in the problems it has; money laundering schemes, the destruction of the environment, bribes and buyouts, homicides, rapes, slandering, corporate greed and corruption and on and on and on. I think it starts with a mentality of looking out for Number 1, always and forever. Taking a step back to a time when our Grandmother's taught us the simplistic nature of considering others and simply put,manners ....may right the track just a little. God help the assholes that can't grasp that concept, Non Door Holders!

Pantyhose

Alright so, Pantyhose. Pantyhose? Really? I've never been a fan. What Jeff Doesn't Like are pantyhose. I really want to be able to go into a long rant about why I don't like them but I don't even know if I can. I think it's the lack of sexuality that they have about them. I mean, bras? Yeah! Panties? Check! A corset or teddy? Yeah, without a doubt they have sex appeal. But in all reality, it's what's underneath that's enticing. The lingerie is wrapping paper. It's the garnish for a dish that's been prepared so nicely and it adds style. These garments make you say, yeah I know this is going to be great but let me just savor this for a moment or two.

Pantyhose? No, not so much. Initially, lets start off with the presentation for purchase. They come in a freaking box or a sleeve of cardboard that much resembles the type of container most musical cd singles or cheap e.p. albums are cased in. They're set on shelves in Macy's or J.C. Penny's like old novels in an antique book store, collecting dust. All other womens under garments are affixed to hangers and on fake mahogony display tables in places like Victoria's Secret and Fredericks of Holloywood, as well as those department stores. They just look more appealing to the purchaser, to the confident woman or the interested male looking to buy his lady something he'll find her attractive in.

Secondly, pantyhose are deceiving. The reality is that they take away the imperfections in a woman's legs. They exist as a sort of fuzzy distraction the way a few too many drinks and very dim lighting can at a bar. Through this type of perception, you believe that what you've found is a keeper, until the sun comes out the next morning and your buzz wears off. All of a sudden you paid for what you got and what you got wasn't what you thought you paid for. That metaphor might be a bit excessive, but really pantyhose cover up the lack of tone and definition in the calf area, the possibility that maybe she didn't shave her legs, and depending upon the age of the woman, spiderveins. Give me the option at least, in broad daylight, of deciding what's going on without any deception.

Next, there's too much webbing. Webbing on the feet and webbing where it counts. I didn't even try to find a picture there, but you get the idea. I'll put it this way without getting into too much detail regarding webbing. Something wigs me out about the webbed feet thing, and I guess they created a pair of pantyhose that don't have webbed feet but for opened toed shoes, still retarded though. Anyway, for the men reading this...I don't know if you've ever slept with women who wear pantyhose, and I don't mean, like your wife or girlfriend, but just someone. Either way, women don't get them on very easily and it's not as easy to get them off either. There are already too many barriers in the first place. A web of nylon is one more uneccesary obstacle.

I guess I just feel that only women who are married or women who are over 50 should wear pantyhose. There are a lot of leg guys out there, and even if one isn't particularly a leg guy, it's kind of hard not to appreciate that feature on a woman. Regardless of what the occasion is and what the attire a woman chooses to wear may be, beautifully toned, shaved, smooth legs are more attractive than some semi-transparent fabric. Go get the Jergens!

Misty Rain

Alright, so weather is weather. Que Sera, sera. Whatever will be will be. And to be honest, I like the rain. I like thunder storms and lightning and big heavy rains where the sky and the sun is blotted out by compete darkness. There's sort of a "The Day After Tomorrow" type feel to those type of storms that leave an impending feel of disaster and destruction that, for whatever reason, I enjoy. But this blog isn't about what I like. Someone Else has that covered. It's about what I don't like.

And what I don't like is misty rain. Like when it's still sunny out and there's that light, little kid sprinkler, kind of rain that feels like little pin pricks all over your face. It's got the sort of annoying quality that walking through a spider web, spider web, which I also don't like, has. That kind of rain isn't the type of precipitation that requires an umbrella. It doesn't even really require a jacket. It just requires that wherever your walking to, that you create that squinty eye, uncomfortable look of despair on your face and muster through it. My clothing ends up damp but not entirely wet unless I've been out in it for a good duration of time.

And it's in situations such as this misty rain dilemma that I'm speaking about that there's really no relief. I read the newspaper, but I never have one to shield my skin when I need it. There's no face mask that would keep this forcible damp onslaught off of me. So in turn, what I think I really don't like is the sense of helplessness. There's nothing I can do about it, except go indoors. But if going indoors was an option than I wouldn't be pissed off about walking in this aerated liquid mess. So just like a lot of the things that I don't like, I live with it and press on because there's not a God Damn thing I can do about it.