tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7904287599182607042024-03-05T20:56:26.389-08:00Dave to the GrindDave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-64179031517270792522013-02-23T07:55:00.000-08:002013-02-23T07:57:17.412-08:002013 MLB PREDICTIONS: NATIONAL LEAGUE<b>2013 MLB Team by Team predictions:</b><br />
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<b><u>NL EAST</u></b><br />
<b>Nationals:</b> In a continuing effort to keep P Stephen Strasburg healthy they will once again limit how much he pitches. This year they will not let him exceed 1000 2/3 innings pitched.<br />
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<b>Braves:</b> As political correctness continues to spiral out of control in the United States, the Braves will finally be forced to change their name. After holding a contest for a new mascot they become the Atlanta Grand Wizards. The entire franchise is ultimately traded to Japan for the Hiroshima Carp.<br />
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<b>Phillies: </b> After starting the season 1 - 3 Philadelphia fans, sick of their team losing, burn down Citizens Bank Park. After a cursory investigation, the chief of police tells the press he has "no suspects and no reason to believe the Phillies should have ever re-signed that horseshit Chase Utley".<br />
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<b>Mets: </b> They quit baseball as a team and become the top rated women's volleyball squad in Providence, Rhode Island.<br />
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<b>Marlins:</b> Work hard until the end of June learning the names of the players left after trading away all but one of the talented ones. They are finally able to trade Giancarlo Stanton to the Dolphins for season tickets and an autographed picture of Larry Csonka.<br />
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<b><u>NL CENTRAL</u></b><br />
<b>Reds:</b> Joey Votto, who suffers from depression, signs to do a reality series for MLB Network titled "When Reds Get The Blues". It's cancelled after three episodes forcing Votto to double his Zoloft dosage. <br />
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<b>Cardinals:</b> Matt Holiday is mistakenly chosen as the next Pope. Though he explains he's not that kind of Cardinal, he is unable to get out of it and becomes Pope Stan The Man The II. <br />
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<b>Brewers:</b> 36% of their fan base dies from heart disease before the All Star break, causing them to raise prices on concessions like Bacon Wrapped Hot Dogs and Cheese Curds to over $17 making them unaffordable to the masses thus saving the lives of thousands of guys named Bud. <br />
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<b>Pirates:</b> Having not had a winning season since 1992 they spend 1.6 million dollars in attempt re-animate Roberto Clemente and Dave Parker. Upon realizing Parker is not dead, they sign him to a 3 year contract and finish 80 - 82.<br />
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<b>Cubs:</b> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!<br />
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<u><b>NL WEST</b> </u><br />
<b>Giants:</b> Holding an 11 game lead with 15 to play, 74% of California sinks to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean after a magnitude 13 earthquake. The Dodgers are still unable to catch them.<br />
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<b>Diamondbacks:</b> In an ill-conceived cross promotion with the Arizona Reptile Habitat, the entire starting infield is killed.<br />
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<b>Padres: </b> The entire major league roster is suspended for most of the season after testing positive for marijuana. Pete Flaherty, an .800 hitter for a local softball team signs for $40 a game and sets a new NL record for strike outs with 1404.<br />
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<b>Rockies:</b> Decide to rename the team the Colorado Rockys and hire Sly Stallone as manager. Ivan Drago Bobblehead night is a huge success.<br />
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<b>Dodgers: </b> See "Giants".Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-50029233857251875392012-08-29T11:57:00.000-07:002012-08-29T11:59:23.420-07:00Comedy My WayI've been doing stand up comedy for 13 years. In that time I've pursued it with varying degrees of effort.<br>
<br>In the beginning I didn't really have a goal. I performed at one or two open mics almost every week for a year. I liked the attention it got me among my family and friends and the occasional "audience" members that took a moment to slur "Duuuude that was funny shit" between swigs of Bud Light. It was good for my unbridled low self esteem.<br>
<br>A few years in I started to get some paid work. It was a little bit because I was funny, but a lot because I was nice. Being one of the nicest people in a group of open mic "comics" is relatively easy. Don't bitch about the STATE OF COMEDY, don't try screw your buddy's girlfriend, and don't run down your fellow open mic'ers behind their backs (you should have the courage to do it to their faces, because it's probably warranted). I went on the road to fabulous comedy meccas like Winnemucca, NV. and Salem, OR. I met working comics, kept in touch with them, and got MORE work. Getting more work made me more serious about the craft. Yes. It's a craft. For a time this work paid off by giving me new material, making me a better performer and giving me a more polished persona.<br>
<br>But I got lazy. And scared. And arrogant. All qualities that retard your progression. I never gave up my day job, so I worked in comedy when I wanted to. I was comfortable thinking I was one of the best Reno comedians. I went through periods where I'd do a lot of shows and come to loathe my act. Then after I'd go months without performing, I'd get up somewhere and enjoy it again because the material seemed fresh. I'd quit comedy for short periods but I could never stay gone because, when you tend bar at a chain restaurant and spend your days making "RUTTI TUTTI SUPER FRUIT-A-RITAS" and prying four month old gum from the bottom of tables, you've got to have something that gives you a sense of accomplishment. I realized I had come sort of full circle. I wasn't doing it because I loved it, or even liked it, really. I was doing it for the attention and the self esteem boost. I loved the locker room aspect of it. The being on the road with another comic and suffering through same LOOOOOONG drive to a place that advertised the gig with finger paint on butcher paper. The 2 a.m. dinners spent talking about the show. The motel room that's mini-fridge came pre-stocked with the previous guests dentures (yes, for real).<br>
<br>I didn't love IT, though.<br>
<br>Earlier this year I reached another comedy crossroads. I realized that I wasn't good at anything else - food service, call center, sales, etc. - and maybe I should give comedy a shot full time. Not because I love IT, because I'd run out of other options. Through some lucky breaks and due somewhat to being a nice guy through the years, I've landed a pretty good gig. I get to perform nightly in a great club, and I can go on the road when I WANT to, not because I HAVE to. But lazy, scared and arrogant don't just go away without some effort on your part. I still suffer from those things. I haven't used this opportunity to improve, to write new stuff, to write BETTER stuff.<br>
<br>Then I had an inspired epiphany. If that's even a thing.<br>
<br>I had lunch with a fellow comic. His name's Kermet Apio. You should check him out: www.ikerm.com. He's fabulous. As a comic and as a human. I learned so much in 2 and a half hours sitting across the table from him. I wish I'd have recorded it, because I'm sure I don't remember all the quality advice, encouragement and knowledge that came my way. I remember some though. On the craft side he talked about a comic's "comedy machine" and how it was important to get that working properly, so that everything that went into it, came out with uniformity and personal truth. On the business side he talked about adjusting your reaction to things you had no control over and finding the silver lining. He talked intelligently about every aspect of comedy. It was like a free comedy seminar - TOTALLY free because Kermet even paid for lunch.<br>
<br>That night I had the immense pleasure of watching him perform. He opened for the GREAT Brian Regan. It's no small accomplishment to be asked to open for Brian since you not only have to be GREAT yourself, you have to have "all ages" appeal. Kermet fit the bill in both those categories and THEN SOME. He did 25 minutes that had the 1200 or so people in the room wiping away tears. Their raucous applause when he was finished lasted a good solid 2 minutes. His material was all true, all clean, and all hysterically funny.<br>
<br>And I realized, I do love IT.<br>
<br>In my entire "career" I've rarely watched very much of other comics, because when I see a great one, I'm usually discouraged in my own ability rather than inspired by theirs. Not this time. After watching Kermet (and Brian Regan too) I'm finally inspired. Inspired to ATTEMPT to write and do comedy the way I've always wanted to. Comedy that has a message. Comedy that doesn't insult. Comedy I'd be proud to do in front of ANYONE. Comedy that's true to me. Comedy that's funny.<br>
<br>So that's the journey I embark on as I write this. I'm going through my act and looking at places to clean it up and freshen it up. I'm making a list of NEW topics to talk about that mean something to me. I'm really THINKING about what I do on stage for the first time in years. I'm comfortable with the knowledge that I can't continue to do stand up if I can't do it the way I want to. I don't know if I'll succeed, but I do know that if I don't, I'll feel good for having tried.<br>
<br>And if I don't? Well I can still make a pretty good "RUTTI TUTTI SUPER FRUIT-A-RITA".Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-10931032934216554672012-07-09T14:11:00.000-07:002012-07-09T14:11:22.686-07:00Do The Right Thing!Running a comedy club is fun. Mostly. I get to hang out with comics, perform every night, and the hours are tough to beat. It's probably the best job I've ever had, but there are still things about it that get under my skin. Hecklers, drunks, and people who are easily offended bother me, but besides my Mom (who is sometimes all three at once), most of them are easy enough to handle. I don't enjoy the administrative duties - I never know how many paper clips to order or how to make a kick ass facebook cover photo - but they're a small part of the gig.<br>
<br>One of the things I love the most is giving the local comics opportunities to do "guest sets". I got A LOT of breaks from good people when I was starting and I'm thrilled to be in a position to return the favor. What I don't love is that there's not much thought put into the etiquette of doing some time in a comedy club.<br>
<br>THERE'S ETIQUETTE INVOLVED IN DOING COMEDY?!? you ask.<br>
<br>Yes.<br>
<br>The following is my own personal list of dos and don'ts for your guest set. I'm a crotchety old guy who took tickets, ran the sound, and cleaned up bodily fluids I wasn't even aware existed to get my first stage time in a real comedy club, so keep that in mind. I may seem harsh here, and it is actually my intention.<br>
<br><b> DO: </b> Show up at least a half an hour before the show starts. I wanna know you're ready to go. It's not my responsibility to get in touch with you to see if you're still coming.<br>
<br> <b> DON'T: </b> Grab yourself 3 or 4 of the bottled waters from the green room. The club pays for those. I don't mind if you have one or two, but AT LEAST ask first<br>
<br><b> DO: </b> Dress appropriately. The audience has paid to get in, they don't deserve to see you in an Amerian Eagle T-shirt, ripped jeans and flip flops. NO ONE deserves to see that, come to think of it.<br>
<br> <b> DON'T: </b> Do jokes that people who don't live in Reno won't understand. Your Sun Valley material probably kills at open mic, but people from Ohio don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You're in a comedy club in Reno, where most nights more than half of the audience is from somewhere else.<br>
<br><b> DO:</b> Your time. If we agree on 5 minutes, that doesn't mean 2 minutes of "Thanks for coming out nice to be here how many locals blah blah blah" and THEN 5 minutes. The one sure-fire way to NEVER get on in the club again is to go over your time.<br>
<br><b> DON'T:</b> Ask me for time every week. A comedy club with a paid audience isn't the place to work out your newest rape joke. When I give you a guest set, I wanna see if you can handle the room in case I need someone to work someday.<br>
<br><b> DO: </b> Well. Give me your best 5 or 10 minutes. Don't engage the crowd or try to riff. Again, I wanna see if I can pay you to work the club when I need someone.<br>
<br><b>DON'T:</b> Only come around when you're doing your guest set. If you stop by the club to see if you can help out in some way (at the door, flyers, etc.) I'm much more likely to give you stage time. Not to be a dick, but I don't NEED you.<br>
<br><b> DO:</b> Promote your guest set on facebook, twitter, etc. and let your friends and followers know about any discounts the club offers.<br>
<br><b> DON'T:</b> Ask me how many people you can comp in. I'm running a business and the biggest part of that is selling tickets. When you get to the level of working the club officially, you get to have a guest list. Not before.<br>
<br> Keep in mind, this is just my PERSONAL list. Other clubs may have more stringent or less asshole-y requirements. Less asshole-y would be my guess. I know some comics (of the few who'll even take the time to read it) will find this insulting. Those aren't the ones I wanna help anyway. They can work their rape / pedophilia / sex with livestock jokes out at Toastmasters or in a bar "filled" with other comics. For those that already do the right thing, thanks, and I'll see you at the club.<br>
<br>Oh! I almost forgot. I have a new bit I wanted to try:<br>
<br>Two pedophiles walk into a pet store looking for a new kitten...<br>
<br> Nevermind.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-41155929205704470972011-05-04T15:37:00.000-07:002011-05-04T15:50:42.880-07:00Who the Hell do You Think You Are?Be yourself. <br /><br />You hear it all the time, right?<br /><br />Going on a first date? Be yourself.<br /><br />Job interview? Just be yourself!<br /><br />Meeting the in-laws for the first time? Be mostly yourself, but throw in a little Anderson Cooper, like the sophisticated part (advice from my wife).<br /><br />Seems like a pretty simple thing to do, this being yourself. Get out of bed and, BANG! <br /><br />Yourself.<br /><br />Who the fuck would wear this shirt? Oh yeah. Me. I was myself when I bought it, and when I put it on today, I was just being myself. The myself that is one of the few men in his 40’s who would wear a Rick Springfield t-shirt. Besides Rick Springfield. Who’s in his 60’s, so that doesn’t count anyway.<br /><br />But it’s actually pretty hard to be yourself.<br /><br />I thought about this after my last show. I realized in all the time I’ve been doing stand-up, I might have been myself for about 35 minutes. Give or take. I have rarely been the REAL me on stage. I don’t mean those few awful years where I went by Dave Lorayne at gigs from here to Bend, OR. HEY. No one could pronounce Mencarelli, alright? Hell some Bendites (Bendonians?) had trouble with Dave. I’m talking about doing material that I wrote hoping it would appeal to a broad range of people, from 8 drunk guys in a bar, to 300 people at the Improv, or even a bunch of Wal Mart employees at a corporate event. And it does work, to some degree, in most places (bite me Mammoth). But it’s not true to ME. It’s based on truth, sure, but it has no point of view, no passion and no edge. It’s not the Dave that my family and a few close friends know. It’s not the Dave that hates Burning Man, “Twilight”, and those assholes at mall kiosks trying to sell you skin cream. It’s a Dave that would’ve worked in the Catskills or Vaudeville. Silly, unsubstantial and bland.<br /><br />When I realized this, I also realized that, I spend very little of my life off stage being myself. Work Dave isn’t really me. In fact, Work Dave is different from job to job. There’s Radio Dave, Chain Restaurant Dave, Intuit Dave (that guy was a disaster), etc. Facebook Dave is certainly not the real me, though Facebook ANYBODY probably isn’t telling the whole truth. If your life really is all “loookitmeandmycoolfamilyatDisneylandandmyhusbandcookeddinner-AGAINtonightblahfuckingblahblah” then I not only hate you, I‘m also jealous. Customer Dave aint even CLOSE to the real me. If I stopped pretending to be so understanding when the nitwits at Taco Bell put lettuce on my Enchirito, the things I’d say to them would probably get my ass kicked by said nitwits. Motorcycle Dave is so not the real me, he even has a different name. I’d appreciate it if, when you see me, you’d use it. It’s Spyder. Thanks.<br /><br />All this not being myself is pretty tiring. It’s frustrating too. There’s things I want to say on stage and in real life that need to come out. I was chatting with another comic before a show recently and the subject of stage fright came up. I explained how over the last few years my fear of getting up there had gotten almost debilitating. I told him that I was sick to my stomach the entire day of the show, and sometimes longer. I told him how I sometimes felt like I was going to pass out on stage. I told him how difficult it was when I tried to tell people this and their response was always “Oh, you’ll be fine. You’re funny.” Because I sure don’t feel like I’m gonna be fine. I’m petrified that even one joke won’t work. Or that a line will offend even ONE person. I’m over thinking it so much, that it’s just me reciting lines, like a bad beat poet. Or a good one for that matter. Both suck.<br /><br />It’s the same in real life. I’m scared that even ONE person won’t like me. Or think I’m smart. Or think I’m culturally, politically or spiritually unaware. I pretend to agree with things I don’t (Balzac was a genius), know about things I don’t (who the fuck is Balzac?), or understand things I don’t (19th Century French Realism). I feel like I have to be so careful about what I say that I’d rather not even interact with another human being. It’s a constant filtering process and it‘s exhausting. <br /><br />So I’m not gonna do it anymore.<br /><br />I won’t be tactless. If you’re reading OK! Magazine, I won’t question your right to be a vapid idiot unless you open that door. If you’re over 25 years old or 160 lbs I won’t excoriate you for wearing skinny jeans. And I won’t laugh out loud at you if you’re sitting in a Starbucks wearing a Bluetooth headset and talking to your friend about the new Ke$ha single. But I also won’t censor my own opinions or views. I won’t worry so much about what strangers think about me or how an audience reacts to me.<br /><br />I’m going to REALLY be myself, warts and all. That’s a figure of speech. I don’t have warts. What it means is you’re gonna get the good (I’m anti-murder), the bad (“Don’t Talk To Strangers” is my ringback tone), and the ugly (I cry during “Grey’s Anatomy”).<br /><br />I guess what I’m saying is that if I wanna sit in a Starbucks wearing my skinny jeans, reading OK! Magazine and rambling on about Ke$ha on my cell phone, I’ll do it and I won’t give a shit what YOU think.<br /><br />Spyder. Out.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-40522935082389298472011-03-22T00:23:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:30:59.863-07:00Ride Like a ManThere are a lot of things that define a man. Not all of them are accurate or fair, but even some of those things are generally accepted in society’s definition of A MAN. I’m not referring to the anatomical definition of course. That’s easy. Except in the case of Chas Bono. That’s a mind bender. I’m talking about things like the following:<br /><br />How much money does he make? (inaccurate and unfair).<br /><br />What kind of music does he like? (inaccurate but possibly fair).<br /><br />Is he a good husband? Or Father? (accurate and fair).<br /><br />Can he grow a cool goatee (totally fair).<br /><br />There are probably hundreds of other things that people take into cursory consideration when they subconsciously decide if a male is A MAN. And, like deciding if Ben Affleck is a quality actor, or French-Canadians are rude and arrogant, or if the ugly girl should marry the vampire or the werewolf, opinions will, invariably, vary (He is, they are, and who cares).<br /><br />I’m sure there are people out there who don’t think John Mayer is a “real” man. How can I be sure? I’m one of them. On the flip side, I’m sure there people who think John Mayer is the epitome of A MAN. He does have “manly” qualities. He’s apparently a commitment-phobe and he has some slick tattoos. You see? Those two things I just mentioned are stereotypical “man” qualities. You don’t ever hear a chick say “You know Becky is a REAL woman, with all her one night stands and that Grim Reaper tattoo on her chest!”<br /><br />When I got my motorcycle recently, several people asked me if it made me feel like A MAN. Some mockingly (my guy friends - including the guy who sold it to me), some with genuine curiosity (BOTH of my shrinks), and some because I’d asked them to call me “Spyder”.<br /><br />As a guy who has struggled with his image of what a man should be, and constantly questioned whether or not he has those qualities, the question “does having a motorcycle make you feel man” intrigued me. The answer is yes. <br /><br />This ain’t my first motorbike, you see. I’ve had three other motorcycles that I barely rode on the real streets because I was scared. The last one I had, I was determined, would see the open road. Or at least McCarran. I enlisted the help of my pal Trey to teach me to ride. The first time out, I laid the bike down 20 feet out of his driveway. “Well, got that out of the way” I told myself. No major damage, and though I could tell Trey was having second, and probably as many as <br />26th thoughts, we continued. When I made a left turn and used my right foot to stop myself from side swiping the curb, we pulled over.<br /><br />“Where are we going next?” I asked Trey, trying to convince him, and myself, that going anywhere else was a good idea. He wasn’t buying it.<br /><br />“We’re gonna make a right off this street, head back to my house, and put your bike up for sale on craigslist.” He said, more than matter of factly.<br /><br />I sold the bike, To a chick. That hit me smack in the manhood. If I said she was a lesbian, would that make it better? She was and it doesn’t.<br /><br />Fast forward to last summer. I was hanging around Jim McClain (I’ll let you decide if this was an upgrade in companions from Trey) and he’s a biker to the core. I got the bug again and I got myself in the Riders Edge Safety Course at Reno Harley. In a nutshell, I learned to feel safe on a motorcycle. I got some good tips and encouragement from the guys at Harley (yeah, even Kerr) and eventually got motorcycle number 4. And yes, as I said, it does make me feel like a man. <br /><br />Let me explain.<br /><br />Some of the things that make me feel like a man are: I’m an adequate and sometimes even good husband. I think I’m a pretty good dad. I’ve learned to not apologize for who I am, and I almost always admit when I’m mistaken, and try to make amends. And now, I've overcome my fear of riding a motorcycle. Every time I get on it and go from my house near McQueen High School to the Sparks Marina, or from work to Idlewild Park, I feel like a man. I’m conquering something that I struggled with for years. I assume that when I get the balls to ride it on the freeway and faster than 60 mph, that feeling will grow even more.<br /><br />See, it’s a good lesson. If I can beat that fear, what other fears might I be able to overcome? Could I get on an airplane and fly to Florida for Spring Training? Could I take a real stab at being a full time comic? Could I put my hand in my daughter’s gecko tank to feed it? The answers are maybe, maybe and not a fucking chance. <br /><br />You get my point.<br /><br />And if you don’t, here it is. Overcoming your fear can make you feel like a man. Even if you’re a woman. Or Chas Bono. Tattoos and fistfights and a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs don’t make you a man. <br /><br />I probably wouldn’t tell a guy with tattoos, a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs he wasn’t a man. But I did ride my Harley on Sparks Blvd the other day… so someday I might.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-38266408704348913892010-12-14T20:37:00.000-08:002010-12-14T21:27:13.115-08:00StreakingBrett Favre's incredible streak of 297 straight starts as an NFL quarterback ended this past Sunday. His streak of getting away with sending pictures of his frank and beans to hot girls is intact at 1.<br /><br />That we know of.<br /><br />297 straight times of suiting up for an NFL game is an impressive streak, given the brutality that takes place every Sunday on the field. But there are some other, less glamorous, and certainly less publicized streaks that are equally as impressive.<br /><br />For example:<br /><br />Jimmy Lee Dykes of Bowlegs, OK delivered the local newspaper every day for 43 years. From the time he was nine years old until his parents mysteriously disappeared and he was forced to move from their home to his Aunt Frassy's basement. Jimmy Lee currently makes $75 to $80 a month mowing lawns in the summer, rides the same Huffy bicycle he started with, and hopes one day to see "a real live girl totally nekkid... without payin'". <br /><br />Mitch Broiles who hails from Jacksonville, FL. hasn't missed a slow pitch softball game for his team, The AristoBats, since he began playing in 1987. Despite a dislocated elbow, a ruptured umbilical hernia, and six DUI's, ol' number 69 (what else?) has played every game at first base on Tuesday nights for 23 years. Not surprisingly Mitch can tell you that his career batting average is .567 (It would be higher, he claims, but that year with the DUI's was tough, as Mitch hits better "with a bunch a beers in me..."). Of the 6 Mrs. Broiles' who've attended Mitch's games over that time, the current one holds the longest "married to Mitch" streak at 7 months. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Broiles and their 3 children!<br /><br />And lastly...<br /><br />Reno's own Dave Mencarelli is the owner of a streak of dubious nature. He has NEVER won a single game of Madden football online against a live opponent on the Playstation Network. Not one game. He's never as much as led at halftime. In several games, he hasn't even gained positive yardage. Most of his opponents have been children in their early to late teens, some of which have been interrupted by cries of "IS YOUR HOMEWORK DONE?!" and still beaten him soundly. Dave hopes to one day have a lead at halftime and disconnect, refer to himself in the third person on a blog site where he has less than 5 followers (CHECK!), and get an xBox 360 so he can actually pay to get his ass kicked in online games by kids without armpit hair.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-50318182888585975002010-12-07T20:26:00.001-08:002010-12-07T21:28:23.094-08:00A Preemptive Release of Some Of My Private Documents (or "Screw You, Julian").Technology can be a cruel mistress. The internet was originally invented to bring the world and it's varied peoples closer together. As long as those varied peoples could afford a computer and AOL. <br /><br />But that was a long time ago. The internet has evolved. It's become more useful than an "information superhighway". It now allows us to reconnect with our 3rd grade girlfriends, know exactly what Kim Kardashian is up to 24 / 7, and find out what the temperature is in Cayenne, French Guiana, with just a few keystrokes (86 as of this writing). Any of that "information" seem "super" to you? I didn't think so.<br /><br />And now, Wikileaks. <br /><br />Releasing sensitive government documents in the midst of all the tweets, youtube videos with cute kids or cats, and soccer scores. MUCKING UP the REAL things the interenet is intended for.<br /><br />Personal attacks from Wikileaks can't be far behind. So I've decided to do what spin doctors call "getting out in front of it". Before they get me, I'm going to begin exposing my OWN private documents. Right here. On the internet. Beginning with a few years worth of letters to Santa Claus. I've corrected the spelling errors to spare myself and my teachers the embarrassment.<br /><br />December 11th, 1975 (age 8)<br /><br />Dear Santa,<br /><br />Well here we are. Two years since I asked for the Big Wheel, and still no Big Wheel. While I appreciate the Tinker Toys and the Fisher Price Action Garage, I really kinda wanted the Big Wheel, which is why I'll ask for it once again. You brought one for Stevie McMann, a fact which he never lets me forget, and you even gave one to Violet - and she's only THREE. I don't know if there is some kind of Big Wheel lottery that you and the elves do, but I feel like outside of a few incidents (Mrs. Cahill's dog was NOT my fault), I've been "nice". Being good for a Big Wheel is a lot more incentive than doing it for goodness sake. The rest of my list is as follows:<br /><br />Electric Football<br /><br />J.J. from Good Times doll (that would be dyno-mite!)<br /><br />Shrinky Dinks<br /><br />Easy Bake Oven (I don't care what my dad says)<br /><br />Steve Austin Six Million Dollar Man action figure (the one where you can look thru the back of his head and use his bionic eye)<br /><br />That's it for this year, along with of course, the Big Wheel. My dad says I'll be too old for it next year (but he also says only girls and sissies want an Easy Bake Oven, but I don't think knowing how to bake is gender specific).<br /><br />Mom says she'll skip the cookies and leave you the Pall Mall's and that funny smelling juice you like.<br /><br />Merry Christmas and say hi to Missus Claus for me!<br /><br />December 9th 1985 (age 17)<strong><em></em></strong><br /><br />Hey Clausmeister,<br /><br />I know I haven't asked for 6 or 7 years but I'm ready to try one more time for the Big Wheel and if it'll help, I'm also ready to admit Mrs. Cahill's dog WAS my fault. I wish I'd have had the chance to apologize before she croaked. Hope things are rad at the North Pole! This year has been pretty bodacious for me. The acne has started to clear up and Missy Higgenbotham actually made eye contact with me at the Homecoming game. Dennis says it's becuase I spilled my Jolt on her, but I think it's because my new haircut makes me look exactly like Sonny Crockett.<br /><br />Anyway, this year's list should be pretty easy to fill, so here goes:<br /><br />The new Stryper cassette; Soldiers Under Command. It's supposed to be gnarly.<br /><br />A bass guitar, like the one Nikki Sixx plays in the "Shout at the Devil" video (is there some contradiction in asking for that on Jesus' birthday? If there is I'll take one like Mike Anthony has in "Jump". Van Halen FOR EVER!)<br /><br />Some Le Tigre shirts in assorted pastel colors<br /><br />Some of those cool Rags pants<br /><br />a chain steering wheel for the ol' pinto - I think some bitchen' accesories will make it totally rad<br /><br />That's it for this year. As always I'll leave the smokes and the screwdriver, though I guess I won't put the muffins out since you don't eat them and the easy bake oven is pretty much dead anyway.<br /><br />Say hello to Mrs. Claus for me.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-37979937731522665642009-07-27T09:29:00.000-07:002009-07-27T10:07:49.025-07:00The not so Great OutdoorsI spent the weekend out among strangers and after being exposed to them for more than 10 minutes or so, I'm beginning to understand why on-line gaming is so popular. If you're playing Warcraft or Halo 2 and the white trashiness begins to bubble to the surface, you can escape with the flick of a switch. If only it were so easy in the real world. It's not. So I beg of you, if you know anyone who is guilty of the offenses I'm about to discuss - slap them. Hard. Then tell them to read this (or as will be neccessary in many cases, read it to them). Thanks.<br /><br />1. Keep your mutt on a leash. For chrissakes, at least WATCH it. If it gets near my dogs (who ARE tied to the trailer) or my kid, I'm gonna throw rocks at it. I'm willing to bet lots of trips to the vet or the emergency begin with the words "Oh, don't worry he's harmless". Looking at the empty beer bottles lying around your Dale Earnhardt Jr. blanket and the tribal armband tattoo, I'm not willing to trust your judgement about your dog. Just keep it under control. I'm sure too that it's incessant yelping doesn't bother you while you're out on your boat, but if I wanted to hear that, I'd still be dating my last girlfriend. And how the FUCK do YOU afford a boat? Are marijuana sales not affected by the economy?<br /><br />2. It's a safe bet that everyone within 200 yards doesn't enjoy Lynard Skynard or Disturbed as much as you. Please turn it down. Or off.<br /><br />3. It's none of my business if you want to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">yell</span> things like "Fuckin' shit ass motherfucker" in front of your kids, but I don't really wanna hear it and I don't want my kid hearing it either. She spends enough time in the car with me to know more curse words than most marines, and I don't need her to hear it from you.<br /><br />4. I'm sure you think you look BAD ASS riding your stand up jet ski 50 mph in the cove, but the speed limit is 10. TEN. It's ten because kids are swimming in the cove. It's ten because no one wants to hear the whine of your engine (though I'd take that over the Lynard Skynard). It's ten because that's as high as a lot of you can count. Bottom line is - it's ten.<br /><br />5. Don't lollygag at the boat launch. Be ready when it's your turn. Don't back your trailer down there and then stop to change into your bitchen swim trunks with the skull and flames (how old ARE you?). Don't make us wait while you chit chat with your pals about the "fuckin' shit ass motherfucker who told you to tie up your dog and turn down your music". Just put the boat in the water and MOVE.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQhyTRYrliiA9PzMFEifYOexTTb_9SSx9Y3B7zJAZA53lYLuUQ3M3bfPKwgCpCvuczrU881p9EsvcqgD2BiezS7JjZU6Ijx0LWNtBZ4J9bGMLjRHE6ZOTsto3Dun7W9ymz1eJdJW0v4ax/s1600-h/camping+Boca+july+09+258.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQhyTRYrliiA9PzMFEifYOexTTb_9SSx9Y3B7zJAZA53lYLuUQ3M3bfPKwgCpCvuczrU881p9EsvcqgD2BiezS7JjZU6Ijx0LWNtBZ4J9bGMLjRHE6ZOTsto3Dun7W9ymz1eJdJW0v4ax/s320/camping+Boca+july+09+258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363186841803082706" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I know this seems bitter and judgemental. It is. After spending my saturday next to what amounted to a travelling carnival with no rides (that picture is a CHICK), I'm pissed. Cigarette butts flicked into the water and washing up in front of my spot. Potato chip bags being blown all over the beach and into the lake. And the double negatives? Don't get me started.<br /><br />Just try to have some common courtesy and think about your surroundings. We're all in this together whether I like it or not.<br /><br />And I can't get a tan in World of Warcraft.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-8220846340295244412009-04-18T08:49:00.000-07:002009-04-18T08:50:42.681-07:00Smmmmmokin!There’s an old, albeit graphic, proverb that says “you don’t shit where you eat”. It refers to carrying on a romantic relationship at your place of employment. I guess it means that the unpleasantness that could result from screwing around romantically with a co-worker is tantamount to defecating in your breakfast nook. I could see that, considering I met my first ex-wife at work.<br /><br />A more appropriate saying might be “you don’t smoke where you, or anyone else eats”. I quit smoking two years ago. I enjoyed a post-meal cigarette more than I’d like to admit, but I never had a problem waiting until I got outside to have one. I never smoked inside my own home. I didn’t think my addiction should affect my daughter or the other diners at a restaurant for that matter. Even before smoking sections were eliminated from most places, I didn’t sit in them.<br /><br />I also spent years working in bars and restaurants where patrons smoked. I felt bad for my co-workers that didn’t smoke and were forced to suffer second hand smoke, which is a proven health hazard. I felt worse that we were subjected to piped in music which featured the likes of Pink, James Blunt and The Pussycat Dolls, but the adverse effects of that, though obvious, have not been scientifically born out. <br /><br />Nevada lawmakers took the health hazards of second hand smoke into account when they introduced the Clean Indoor Air Act. So did the people who voted it into reality in 2006.<br /><br />Now, almost three years later, the same lawmakers have decided that those health hazards aren’t nearly as important as kowtowing to businesses that claim to be drastically injured financially by the anti-smoking law. In December, when 36 months have passed and changes can be made to the law, businesses will be able to allow smoking inside as long as no minors are present or a wall is put up to separate a designated smoking area. I’d be more inclined to be excited about a wall being erected to separate me from any minors, but again, no confirmed health hazard in being exposed to pants worn low enough to show parts of the anatomy no one wants to be privy to. <br /><br />There’s a reason the law doesn’t allow changes to be made to the act until three years have passed. Before that, no one can clearly see what the positive and negative effects are. The positive results of this one are that employees are no longer subjected to the dangers of second hand smoke, people who want to eat dinner at a sports bar don’t have to get a babysitter, and I don’t come home from a night of shooting pool smelling like stale Pall Malls. <br /><br />The negative results? I don’t know. I haven’t done any research but I can’t think of any businesses off the top of my head that were forced to close up because the anti-smoking bill cost them too many customers. The last restaurant I worked at eliminated the smoking section before they were required to, and business increased. <br /><br />Non-smokers and smokers are used to things they way they are. It’s been long enough for everyone to adapt. Changing things now would be like getting back together with your ex-girlfriend that your friends hated just when you were finally, really over her.<br /><br />They say it only takes twenty one days to break a habit. Smokers have had over two years to get used to not smoking indoors in public. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.<br /><br /> It doesn’t seem fair to ruin all that hard work.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-3738945617529884522009-03-05T07:07:00.001-08:002009-03-05T07:11:37.699-08:00Jesus on the Mound<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">(read in the style of "Casey at the Bat")</span><br /><br />Things weren’t looking good for the local hometown nine<br />Jesus wasn’t happy, he’d spent the season riding pine<br />The skipper wouldn’t use him, he said Jesus had a ‘tude<br />He couldn’t understand it, he’d heard the lord was a mellow dude<br /><br />When he pitched batting practice, Jesus wasn’t nice<br />Every hacker stepping in would fan - not once, but twice<br />His fastball whistled in too fast, his slider bent like wire<br />He threw a nasty change up and his arm would never tire<br /><br />No one could get the bat around, no one could quite connect<br />Jesus grinned and said aloud “What did you expect”?<br />Sportsmanship was lost on him, this one so pure and clean<br />When he hit the baseball field, the son of God was mean<br /><br />The other men were angry when Jesus took the mound<br />Like Kelly Leak he made the plays, no ball would touch the ground<br />Though Jesus had knuckleball and vast amounts of nerve<br />One thing had plagued him dauntingly, he couldn’t throw a curve<br /><br />At every vital juncture, when a game was still in doubt<br />Jesus tried the bender and rarely got an out<br />He’d kick the dirt dejectedly while tears began to swell<br />“You’re no Sandy Koufax” some atheist would yell<br /><br />Now the score was much to close and the bullpen had been lame<br />The skipper called to Jesus “You’re going in the game!”<br />Jesus needed no warm up, he was already loose<br />The skipper begged him “Jesus, please don’t throw the deuce”.<br /><br />The visitors had a man on third, the clean up hitter at the plate<br />Jesus needed just one out, to seal their losing fate<br />He quickly got to two strikes, throwing nothing but the heat<br />The batter standing in the box, staring at his feet<br /><br />Jesus toed the rubber and heard the skipper call<br />“Jesus, please don’t do it! Not the breaking ball!”<br />Jesus had been stubborn, yes, all season long<br />Sticking with that curveball, had turned out to be wrong<br /><br />Jesus reared and tossed the ball, it had an easy pace<br />The batter waited patiently, a smile grew on his face<br />But then the ball, it did a thing, to this grinning hitter<br />He lunged and missed mightily Jesus had thrown a splitter!<br /><br />The crowd was going wild, they screamed and whooped and yelled<br />Jesus swallowed his foolish pride and the enemy had been felled<br />A lesson had been learned that day, a change in some behavior<br />Jesus got the final out and became a real savior.<br /><br />Amen.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-27198230370158030002009-02-26T22:39:00.000-08:002009-02-26T22:40:46.476-08:00Fly RightI’m no orator. I’m certainly not qualified, officially, to teach anything. I do, though, have some useful “real-world” knowledge, and I don’t mean I know where Puck is now or what the Las Vegas cast did on their summer vacation. I mean I’ve learned stuff. Stuff that I think could help some of the kids I go to community college with. Kids that aren’t old enough to do tequila shots legally, have to keep the TV in their room turned down after 10 because their parents are sleeping, and think My Chemical Romance has something intellectual and important to say. <br /><br />Typical, dumb-ass, American kids.<br /><br />I could save them years of heartache and embarrassment with what I’ve picked up in 20 plus years of slacking off. I could be the calamine lotion on the pox that is youthful ignorance.<br /><br />What I want to tell them is this: Knockithefuckoff.<br /><br />Trying to get by in life by being a smart-ass, acting coolly disinterested in things you don’t understand, or hoping your tits deflect the fact that you’re a melon-head will only work for so long. About 2 to 3 years at a time, in my experience (though I’ve never tried the tits route).<br /><br />If you don’t get the work done walk right up to the front of the class when it’s time to present your project and say “I did not complete what was required for this assignment”. Don’t go all A Rod and start making lame excuses about the loosey-goosey nature of the class, the vague directions in the handout, or the pressure you’re under from your part time job at a kiosk in the mall. Certainly don’t make asinine commentary about the other student’s stuff. We’re taking it seriously and you’re wasting our time. Your jokes are only funny to you, as evidenced by the fact that you’re the only one laughing at them. Admit your lack of conviction and sit the fuck down. Wiggling around, pushing your breasts together and standing in front of your incomplete project with a “but aren’t I cute” expression on your face isn’t doing anything for you either. Except maybe proving that your ex-boyfriend was right when he said you had a hell of a future in the adult entertainment industry. <br /><br />The only thing all that bullshit will get you if you try to get thru life with it is a seat right back in the same classroom TWENTY YEARS LATER. That’s if you’re lucky enough to straighten out one day. If not - I hope you’ll enjoy cashing in your 401k prematurely every two years when you quit / get fired from your menial job, wondering why no one wants to date you for more than three months and watching daytime television religiously. <br /><br />Community college used to be a punch line for me. The “coolly disinterested, smart-ass” me. Thank God, with the help of an incredible woman and an amazingly supportive family, I’m beginning to straighten out.<br /><br />I don’t think I could watch “LIVE! With Regis and Kelly” for very much longer.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-63427442691322224052009-02-16T16:30:00.000-08:002009-02-16T16:31:35.785-08:00It's not easy being GreenI don’t care about the environment. There. I said it.<br /><br /> I mean it too.<br /><br />I don’t go around looking for ways to pollute it, but I certainly don’t go out of my way to protect it, either. Oh hell, if there’s a garbage can and a recycling bin RIGHT NEXT to each other and I have a plastic bottle to discard, nine times out of ten I’ll chuck it in the bin. Unless the bin has the lid with hole cut into it and I have to carefully place said empty bottle thru the hole. That requires effort. One must only take a cursory look at my life to see that it’s not filled with the rewards of effort. <br /><br />I’m certainly not going to purchase a vehicle based on it’s environmental impact. I want a car that looks cool and is relatively inexpensive. If it comes down to a hybrid vs. a non-hybrid with a six disc changer and fancy wheels - I’ll be mucking up the ozone while listening to 7 straight hours of Motley Crue. If they make a Prius someday that doesn’t look like an isosceles triangle and costs less than twenty four grand - I’m in. Until then I’ll drive my Ford Mustang all over hell and back. If you’re a tree-hugging, edible shoe wearing freak, be glad I’ve lost my hair. The aqua-net I’d use, by itself, could disintegrate Venus. Plastic is better for carrying groceries. Styrofoam soaks up the grease from my Chinese food better than paper. Convenience is a more paramount concern for me than the rainforests of the Amazon. It is for most people, they just won’t admit it.<br /><br />I will.<br /><br />People will sometimes ask me how I can be so cavalier about the future of the world. <br /><br />“Don’t you care about your children’s future?” they’ll say, all indignant. <br /><br />Of course I do. I love my kids. The environment will be fine for at least their lifetime. <br /><br />“What about your children’s children?”<br /><br />Fuck them.<br /><br />I say that with no malice. I don’t even KNOW my children’s children. They might be dicks. Genuine assholes who don’t deserve forests and grass and clean air. It’s very genetically possible that my grandkids will be jerks. I’d hate to think I spent years riding pubic transportation for people who turn out to be mean little shits. <br /><br />When I’m done with the environment in say 30 or 40 years, I’m done. Think of it like an ex-girlfriend. When you break up with her, are you hoping that you’ve left a positive impact and everyone after you will get to enjoy her too? <br /><br />Of course not. You want her ruined. Every last bit of her used up. You want the guys that come after you to say “Sweet Mother of Jesus, you are a wreck.” <br /><br />That’s how I feel about the environment. I may be one of the few people who’ll admit it. I may be one of the few people who’ll admit the ex-girlfriend thing too. Possibly the only one who’s not in 4 times a week therapy.<br /><br />I can only afford to go twice.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-78172999711706302132009-02-16T12:14:00.001-08:002009-02-16T12:15:52.256-08:00OH 9<img alt="" src="http://x.myspace.com/images/spacer.gif" width="30" border="0" height="1" /> <!--- blog subject ---> <div class="blogSubject"><br /> </div> <!--- blog body ---> It's that time of year when I start thinking about making some changes. New year - new Dave. I usually start thinking about what I want to do differently in the coming year during the <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9eW9uMll1WHNzdm8=" target="_self">Heat Miser / Snow Miser number</a> in "Year Without a Santa Claus". This season was no different. While Heat Miser was decrying the cold weather associated with Christmas (he NEVER wants to see a day under 60 degrees…) I was considering how I'd improve myself and my lifestyle in '09. I realized the things I came up with fit into four categories. They are:<br /><br />A) I aint fuckin' doing that.<br /><br />B) I can't do that.<br /><br />C) I might actually do that.<br /><br />And<br /><br />D) I will absolutely do that.<br /><br />So, in the interest of egocentric self-indulgence here are my resolutions followed by the category and a brief explanation for their classification:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Start smoking again. B</span><br /> My wife would be pissed, I'd have to smoke at least two packs before I got over the nausea, and cancer. In that order.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Have a baby. B </span> <br /> Of course I can't literally conceive and carry a child, so I guess I mean knock somebody up. I love kids and every time I see a baby I remember how good it feels to have a person love you unconditionally and absolutely need you. That ends when they're about 8. Sure I still love my current kids, but I liked 'em better when they were less aware that I was a moron. I'm gonna shoot for a puppy instead. From the pound of course, not through insemination.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Find a good paying, fun job. C </span> <br /> Stranger things have happened. Though the facts remain that I posses no marketable skill, don't relate well to authority, and more people than ever are looking for jobs, I still hold on to the hope that my wit, charm and ability to make a decent first impression will help here. If not, I'm trying to get comfortable with selling off my collection of snack foods shaped like Jesus.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Be more diligent about staying in touch with friends and family. A</span><br /> Mark Twain said "a leopard can't change his spots". I'm not exactly sure what that means or if Mark Twain really said it - but let's be honest, this is not happening. When I don't call or return your calls, emails, or text messages it's not because I don't like and care about you. It's because I'm busy playing Tiger Woods 07, watching Magnum P.I. on DVR, sleeping or just flat out being lazy. Don't take it personally. My mother doesn't. My sister doesn't. My therapist doesn't. You shouldn't either. You, (insert your name here)____________are very important to me!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Learn to play an instrument. A</span><br /> Pure, unadulterated lack of patience prevents this from being a realistic possibility. Along with a just as pure, unadulterated lack of even a sliver of natural talent.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Be less judgmental. D</span><br /> I couldn't possibly be any MORE judgmental. I'm a rotten prick more than I'd like to admit. Who do I think I am? I don't know. Probably the proverbial pot, not only calling the kettle black but also calling it ignorant, insensitive and condescending. If you think you're a funny comic, an interesting conversationalist, a fantastic driver or talented radio personality - who am I to say you aren't?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7. Get something I wrote published. C </span><br /> I don't care if it's the joke I sent to Reader's Digest for "All In A Day's Work", a short story or a letter to the editor - just getting something I wrote in print where others will read and enjoy it will be as rewarding as getting laughs on stage. Worst case scenario I write an exhilarating classified ad for my Jesus shaped frosted flake. Two birds, one stone.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8. Have a positive effect on the world EVERY DAY. D</span><br /> Whether it's picking up a sandwich wrapper on the sidewalk, letting someone merge on the freeway, donating time or money to a homeless shelter or setting fire to a stack of James Blunt CD's, I'm going to do something everyday that makes the world a better place. No altruistic act is insignificant. I'm blessed with a fantastic family, great friends and the most fabulous wife a man could want - the least I can do is give a little back.<br /><br />So wish me luck. Check in from time to time to see how I'm doing. Don't expect me to answer the phone or return your email, but it'll be nice to know you care.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-9144367972109978212009-02-16T12:11:00.000-08:002009-02-16T12:12:24.307-08:00Ignurants is bliss.I often find myself wishing I wasn't so smart. Not that I'm Rhodes Scholar material or anything. No. Not even close. Truth be known, I only recently found out that it wasn't "Road Scholar". Point is - I'm no Alan Einstein. But I think if I were just a little dumber (more dumb?) I'd be a lot happier (more happy?). I bet there's a bunch more depressed folks at a museum than there are at a NASCAR race. I'd bet if you asked 20 people in the infield of the Talladega 500 what their most pressing issue was you'd hear stuff like "My black lab keeps getting his nuts stuck in the doggie door" or "Where am I supposed to take Katiebell for our anniversary now that the goddamn Dairy Queen is closed down?" <br /><br />I don't wanna be vote republican, drive a Prius, Raider fan stupid. Of course not. Just being functionally unintelligent would be great, and so much easier. I can't seem to find a profession I can stick with. The pleasantly stupid can stay in unsatisfying jobs for their entire lives. It's easy for them, not being equipped with enough brain power to question the office politics at the filling station AND keep up with the latest in duck hunting technology (a decoy with SOUND?!?) they're able to go to work everyday with nary a thought about the poor treatment or lack of respect they get from customers and bosses. <br /><br />They can also say anything that pops into their head without a hint of concern for how it'll be perceived. Phrases like these:<br /><br /> "Ol' Marv is a big jew cocksucker…",<br /><br />"Well fuck me with a barb wire fence…", and<br /><br />"I'm hornier 'n' a three peckered billy goat durin' a full moon…"<br /><br />elicit chuckles and snorts of approval rather than shock or disgust among the happily dim-witted. <br /><br />I envy their lack of self awareness. Self awareness leads to introspection. Which leads to deep, black, crushing despair. Which leads to a new pair of Steve Maddens that I don't need and can't afford.<br /><br />I guess that's what I'm most envious of. That complete lack of self awareness which allows someone to proudly own all of Pantera's albums, laugh out loud at Larry the Cable Guy, and discuss the novels of Nicholas Sparks ad nauseam.<br /><br />I'm going to train myself in the ways of the oblivious. People study Zen Buddhism, the principles of Tae Kwon Do, and the voodoo art of Chiropractics, so why not teach yourself to be a little less enlightened? I'm putting on my "I'm with stupid" shirt that has an arrow pointing down, going out to pick up a carton of Camels, flavored of course, a six pack of Old Milwaukee and then back home to watch Season One of "The Hills" on DVD.<br /><br />Maybe by the end of Season Three I'll be so advanced that I can fart at work and not blame it on the girl in the next cubicle wearing the Jeff Gordon leather jacket.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-27952205329497914162009-02-16T12:08:00.000-08:002009-02-16T12:09:23.604-08:00Who cares? Some folks.Concern for a stranger's well being is something that mostly escapes me. Sure, I get misty when I see a kid with a cancer on "20/20". I choke up over a guy who's lost his wife and is left alone to raise their small children. And I certainly pity anyone with a "McCain/Palin 2008" bumper sticker plastered on their Hummer. I'm not without sympathy for the tired, the hungry, the poor or anyone who paid to see "The Notebook" in the theater. I donate to the St. Jude foundation, which, I'm told is NOT named after the Beatles song. I give money to the guy that approaches me in the parking lot, spinning a fairy tale about "car trouble" and his "wife's doctor's appointment". I figure if I can afford two and sometimes as many as three bags of beef jerky at a time, it won't kill me to shell out five bucks so a guy can have a 40 of Old English and a People Magazine. Even the destitute should be able to stay abreast of Tom and Katie's latest adventures. This is America for chrissakes. <br /><br />But those things don't make me a real humanitarian. Not in relation to the lady I spoke to on the phone today. Compared to her, I'm downright misogynistic. Whereas I took no more than a casual regard in the jewelry order she was giving me on the phone, she took an intimate interest in me and my health. As I was pretending to care what channel she was watching our auction on, she cut to the chase.<br /><br />"Honey, I'm in the medical field…" she interrupted "…and I want you to make sure you get your prostate checked." I wasn't sure if she was offering to do it herself. I hoped not. She didn't sound like my type. <br /><br />"Uh. Alright, June. I'll do that." I stammered. My phone voice clearly wasn't as hip as I thought. Obviously I sounded old enough that my internal organs required routine maintenance. <br /><br />She sensed my discomfort. <br /><br />"I've been in the medical field for 50 years, sweetheart, I can say things like that. My husband didn't listen, and BANG - prostate cancer, overnight."<br /><br />It's disconcerting when someone uses the word BANG in relation to a prostate exam.<br /><br />I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say. Should I promise to send her a note from my doctor after it was done? Did she want notary confirmation? Photos?<br /><br />"I promise I will get that done, June." I told her, with as much conviction as I could muster. I thought about imploring her to check her breasts for lumps ASAP, but I blanched.<br /><br />"Ok darling. You have a real nice Thanksgiving." she said.<br /><br />"You too, June. And thanks." It sounded hollow.<br /><br />When the initial shock wore off and I was able to force the imagery of the procedure from my mind, I realized that this woman had REAL compassion. Sure, I might toss some loose change to the lady at the bottom of the off ramp, but far be it from me to ask about the time since her last pap smear. I just don't care that much about someone who's not a close friend or immediate family. Hell, I've got cousins who's names I've never bothered to learn, always being able to get by at Christmas dinner with "Hey reindeer sweater, pass the yams." <br /><br />I didn't ask if June's husband's overnight prostate cancer had been fatal. I didn't want to prolong the conversation lest she find out about my diabetes and demand to know my blood sugar level RIGHT NOW. She'd been in the medical field for 50 years, she could say things like that, right? I promised myself I would take her advice and call my doctor at my earliest convenience. No later than the next Summer Olympics or presidential election, whichever comes first.<br /><br />I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person June is. One that talks so freely about prostate cancer, is concerned for total strangers and orders gaudy jewelry off the TV. I think I'll just keep doing the little things like giving the guy in the Wal Mart parking lot money. Maybe he will actually use it for gas to get his wife to her doctor's appointment. If he does, hopefully they'll have a copy of People in the waiting room. <br /><br />I hear baby Suri is walking now.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-80965133362982240592009-02-16T12:03:00.000-08:002009-02-16T12:05:05.323-08:00Might as well face it.I never had any sympathy for addicts. I didn't care what you were addicted to, I thought you were just weak. You could quit smoking if you really wanted to. It's not meth's fault, you're the one without the resolve to stop. Your last three girlfriends left because you're a drunk? Just quit drinking, for Christ's sake. Three year old kids have to be told that a hot stove will burn them - they don't know any better. I figured if you were a grown up you knew full well what was good for you. God, was I wrong.<br /><br />I found out how wrong when I stumbled on to my own addiction. I was in the middle of one of the worst times of my life. I was lonely and confused and my addiction threw it's arm around me, slapped me on the back and said "I'm here for you…" I accepted it's companionship like a man stranded in the desert for days would accept a cup of water. I embraced it like a long lost love. I made it my entire focus. When I was happy I'd celebrate with it. When I was sad, it would commiserate with me. It never told me I was stupid or not good enough. When I was bored, it rousted me off the couch. When I was lonely, it begged me to venture out, it's voice so loud in my head I couldn't ignore it. It was easily justifiable since it was not illegal, nor was it a threat to my physical health, and it was easy to keep a secret. Too easy.<br /><br />Gambling is not a physiological addiction. There's nothing I ingested that made my brain say "YOU NEED THIS". Nothing got in my bloodstream or altered my chemistry. But it's still an addiction. It still spoke to me. It said things like "If you wanna have any money left after the rent, YOU NEED THIS" or "If you want that new pair of shoes, YOU NEED THIS". There was a smaller voice imploring me to be smart and be patient and be responsible, but it was a whisper. It didn't speak with the power and authority of the addiction. The addiction doesn't shut up, either. Not when things are good and not when things are bad. Not at night when you're trying to sleep, or in the middle of the day when you're at work. It doesn't know how to tell time. But it knows you need it and it knows just what to say.<br /><br />Then I hit rock bottom. The first time. Yeah, one rock bottom wasn't enough to straighten me out. See, you can climb out of that hole, do all the right things, and sincerely want to get better but the addiction doesn't go away. With the help of your friends, family and a good group of other people who suffer, you can learn to quiet the screaming of the addiction and listen to the whisper instead. But the addiction doesn't go away. It hides in some dark recess waiting for it's opportunity to be your pal again. I'll never forget that now, but I didn't know it then. Not when I hit rock bottom that first time.<br /><br />I'd stayed up all night, gambling until I was down to my last $6. I knew I needed diapers since I was picking up my daughter in a few hours and would have her for a few days. Even knowing that, I struggled to leave the Sands. "That machine was just about pay BIG and you could buy diapers and have gambling money too!" my addiction was saying as I left. It was all I could do to ignore it. I was angry enough already since I'd lost $165 of my own money and I'd actually been way up at one point. All in all I'd blown close to $400. I had barely enough to buy the diapers. I picked up my daughter after sleeping in my car for about two hours. I didn't want to drive home since my tank was, as was the norm during this time, only about a quarter full and I couldn't afford to put any gas in it. I was raw and irritable at the store and the mixture of self-loathing, fear and lack of sleep had me feeling very on edge. After I'd grabbed the diapers, which I calculated would come to about $5.25, my daughter tugged at my sleeve.<br /><br />"Daddy, can I have some Lucky Charms?" she asked.<br /><br />"No, you can't have Lucky Charms!" I snapped. "We've got corn flakes at home!"<br /><br />"I don't like corn flakes, daddy…"<br /><br />"Well you better learn to like 'em, because I don't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal!" <br /><br />My anger was thick and palpable. I wasn't mad at my daughter, but she didn't know that, and I couldn't explain it to her. I'd yelled at her for no reason other than she asked for something, something reasonable no less. I paid for the diapers and we rode home in silence. I'd told her I didn't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal and she was none the wiser. She cried, as toddlers will do when their feelings are hurt and they don't know why you're mad at them. Of course I had no money for cereal. I'd blown it all on Wheel Of Fortune instead. It wasn't so much that I wouldn't get her the Lucky Charms that had her upset, it was that I'd barked at her for asking. <br /><br />That got me into Gambler's Anonymous. I called my mother later that same day and told her I needed help, and fast. I was too embarrassed to tell her what the final impetus was. To her credit, she didn't ask a lot of questions and she didn't lecture. She called a friend who was in the program and that friend called me. She told me her story, listened to mine and had me at a GA meeting the next afternoon.<br /><br />The stories I heard ranged from WAY worse than mine to not quite as bad. It would be maudlin to repeat them. Suffice it to say, that was the day I started to have compassion for addicts. That was the day I realized sometimes something is just bigger than you and though you may really want to stop, you can't. Not alone anyway. I went to GA once a week or more as needed for awhile. <br /><br />Then I thought I was better. I stopped going to meetings. I hadn't gambled in 6 months. I was doing great! But slowly, the addiction crept back into my life. It seeped in slowly at first but it wasn't long before I was begging my parents for the rent money. It wasn't a matter of cereal now, it was a roof over our heads. I promised my mom and dad that if they bailed me out, I'd go back to GA. They did and I did. <br /><br />That was about four years ago. Since that day, I've been a lot more tolerant than I ever was. I sympathize with people who suffer from any addiction and I have compassion for those who've owned up to them and sought help. I never judge or cajole anyone who asks me about GA. I just tell them my story and let know them know we're not worthless or weak. We're sick. And though there is no cure there is a treatment. And it can be scary as hell. The first step for me was asking for help and I had to take that step by myself. <br /><br />But I've never walked alone since then and I never will.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-63883908216640417362008-11-03T15:39:00.000-08:002008-11-03T15:40:25.728-08:00What's in a Name?Sometimes I like to go to the Laundromat. Not because I need to do my laundry. I get that done at home. What I don’t get at home is the chance to eavesdrop on people. I bring a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and maybe some underwear to make the ruse look realistic. Then I sit down and open a book I have no intention of reading. Nothing written by Robert B. Parker or Sue Grafton can compare with the conversations of people who are doing their laundry in public out of necessity. <br /><br />I’ve heard about people kicking drug habits. I’ve seen drug addicts kick people. I’ve been privy to family squabbles that rival anything on “Wife Swap” or “Supernanny”. I’ve been thoroughly entertained as I listened to women in oversized army fatigue jackets and leggings discuss their plans for Saturday night. I had to struggle not to look up from my faux reading when one promised to “down at least 12 kamikazes and fuck the first thing that asks me to dance…”. <br /><br />You can’t get this kind of stuff on any of the 280 satellite channels I aimlessly flip through everyday. The girls vying for the affection of Bret Michaels on “Rock of Love” come close, but am I really supposed to believe anyone under 30 is interested in him and shouldn’t I say “affliction” instead of “affection”? Not even on the Sci-Fi channel can I find anything like watching a guy lick the wall dispenser calmly before getting his mini box of Tide. Nor is there, as far as I know, anyone on any show on those channels whose mother screams “Goddamnit, for the last time, get out of that dryer, Talon!”.<br /><br />Granted, I may have it wrong. When you are so FREAKING COOL that you name your kid after a part of a bird, or any animal, you probably don’t follow the cumbersome rules of conventional spelling. More than likely you grew up listening to Enuff Z’ Nuff, Phish, and Limp Bizkit so your kid’s name, though it’s pronounced the same as the word for an buzzard’s foot, is probably spelled Talyn. “He’s cute but he’s not as smart as his brother, Beaxk.” The “x” being silent.<br /><br />Why would you do that to your kid? I guess you’re saving yourself the trouble of dressing him funny or walking him to school until he’s a sophomore to make sure he’s at the very least threatened with an ass kicking everyday. When I was little if me and my pals wanted to throw rocks at something, a kid named Talon would’ve taken precedence over houses, cars or even the aviary creatures who sported the very appendages after which the soon to be welted little guy was named.<br /><br />What’s the process here? Do you first decide that Michael, Jason or even Tyler are simply too commonplace? Forget naming him after anyone in the family. Elliot or Harlan might make an OK middle name but it won’t look good tattooed in old English letters on his neck. “Of course we can’t name him Camaro! What are you, stupid?” No, you’ve got to be different. Forget the fact that your offspring will be the one to suffer for your rampant “outside-the-boxedness“. Do you run thru different animals? Why does Talon make the cut but “Antler”, “Snout” and “Hoof” don‘t? Are there kids in Australia named “Pouch”?<br /><br /><br />Even if the kid makes it out of high school alive, then what? You’ve limited his career choices with that moniker. Wanna have your colon exam done by a doctor named Talon? How’d you like to have your second grader taught P.E. by coach Talon? If he can’t be a VJ, a drummer, or a Knight, he’s pretty much screwed. Though I guess he might have some success as a divorce attorney or hairdresser.<br /><br />And lastly, you’ve got to consider the last name. I might be inclined to think a guy named Talon Rexx was cool. Talon Simpson is just not the same, and Talon Goldfarb is a rock-throwing kid’s dream. Take it from someone named David Giovanni Mencarelli.<br /><br />As I was moving my fake laundry from the washer to the dryer, Talon, who was probably four, sauntered over, unscrewed the lid of my brand new Diet Pepsi , and took a swig. When he was finished, he took it back to the spot where he was playing with his Hot Wheels. When his mother noticed she hollered at him to put it back.<br /><br />“No, really it’s fine. I’m good.” I told her. “I’ll get another one. It’s the least I can do for him.”<br /><br />“Ok. Thanks.” She half smiled. Then she noticed her daughter climbing out of her stroller.<br /><br />“Get back in there, Crimson” she hissed.<br /><br />I only wished I’d known if it were her idea or the daddy’s to saddle these kids with those names.<br /><br />I didn’t wanna throw rocks at her if she didn’t deserve it.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-64556630043493242802008-11-03T13:09:00.000-08:002008-11-03T13:10:26.627-08:00To Tell The TruthI’m not proud of it, the way I left my ex-wife. I should have been more forthcoming and I’m sorry I wasn’t. Hell, if I’m going to be honest, I’d known for more than a year it was over. I wouldn’t admit it to myself or say it out loud to even my closest friends, but I knew it. In the back of my mind and in the bottom of my heart. I ignored it, though. I didn’t have a bad marriage. She worked all day while I took care of the kid then I worked at night while she cared for the baby. I’d go out with my friends after work and come home long after she was asleep. It worked for both of us, I guess. We’d spend a few hours together on the weekends, if our schedules allowed for it, but we certainly weren’t religious about it. We just sort of fell into living separate lives. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened.<br /><br />We’d had an incredibly difficult year leading up to our daughter’s birth. I got “the diabetes” and spent most of that September in the ICU and hospital. My wife was three months pregnant. In a time that should have been all about her and the baby, she was suddenly forced to take care of me, the household and our 12 year old son. By herself. I was utterly incapacitated. She handled it, all the while spending every possible moment at the hospital with me too. <br /><br />About the time I was starting to get well, her father died. The doctors found a tumor in his chest and three weeks later, he was gone. She was five months pregnant and in the span of two months her husband had been extremely ill and her father died. I was barely able to muster up the strength to travel to the bay area with her for the funeral, but I felt I owed her that. So she loaded her sickly husband into the car and drove 200 miles to bury her father. He was 57. She handled that, too.<br /><br />Right after Thanksgiving, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. I’d had a bit of a fever the night before, but I was feeling relatively good. Better, it turns out, than I should have. I’d grown a cyst on my pancreas, that along with the fever scared the docs a little. The words “surgery tomorrow” scared me, a lot. My first thought was how the hell could I call my wife and tell her they were admitting me to the hospital, again? Hadn’t she had enough? Not yet, apparently. <br /><br />The surgery was successful and I spent another three weeks confined to a hospital bed. On the bright side, I’d lost close to 125 lbs over the last three months and besides being a maudlin shade of grey, I was looking good. My ex-wife once again weathered the storm. While I was watching Days of our Lives and getting daily sponge baths from a cute 24 year old nurse named Daisy, she went to work, took care of the house and continued to grow what would turn out to be one of the best things ever to come into this world.<br /><br />The day after I got home from this hospital stay, she’d apparently reached her limit. As she laid out my pain medication on the nightstand that morning, she told me she was having what was probably a minor problem and was going to see her OBGYN at lunch. What I hoped was nothing turned out to be premature labor. 16 weeks premature. They admitted her and told her she would not be touching her feet to the floor until the baby was born. They’d try to prevent that as long they as they could. Now it was her turn to sit in a hospital room, but the difference was, I was in no shape to take care of things at home. In all honesty, had I been healthy that would have amounted to a monumental task for me. With the help of my best friend and my incredible family, I somehow managed. My sister came to stay and make sure I got off the futon for at least a half an hour a day and shove healthy food down my throat. My dad sent money. My friends at work took up a collection and brought groceries and other necessities. As the time stretched to near Christmas, two of my friends showed up with a box full of presents for my son. My mother and step-father were there everyday for my moral support and mental health. <br /><br />I’d go visit my ex-wife at the hospital as much as I was able. I was weak from the surgery still and I’d make my mom or sister push me in a wheelchair until I was right outside her room, then I’d get up and walk in, trying to look like I was feeling good. I think she knew I wasn’t. Finally, in January with nine weeks left before the original due date, they couldn’t stop the baby from coming. She was born 3 lbs 3 oz and when she came out was hanging on to the umbilical cord like she was in a tug of war. We knew she’d be alright.<br /><br />And she was better than alright. She spent 3 weeks in the neo-natal ICU and improved every day. I was still a little weak and sickly, and we were in the ICU everyday to visit our daughter but my ex-wife would get there before me and stay after I’d left, feeding her thru a tube, bathing her and pestering the doctors and nurses about her condition. When we took her home she weighed a hefty 4 lbs 6 oz and could eat and breathe all by herself. It had a been a hellish 4 months for everyone, but I suspect it was hardest on my ex-wife. She’d not only struggled thru my trials, she’d lost her Dad and suffered her own hospitalization. During those last six weeks she was stuck in bed, though we never spoke of it, we both wondered if our baby would make it.<br /><br />She did. And we did. For a while longer. The next year went by before we knew it and by the baby’s first birthday I’d started to feel a little disconnected. I should have said something then but I told myself it was just the residue of all we’d been through. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, just bored and restless. But by the end of the summer I was just looking for a reason to leave that wouldn’t make me feel like an asshole.<br /><br />I finally got it. It was something minor that I blew up big enough to use as an excuse. I convinced myself my anger was justified, though I knew it wasn’t. I mustered up the courage and told her I was moving out. It must have seemed so out of the blue to her. I hadn’t said anything was bothering me or even acted like it. Now I was leaving. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t coming back, too. I’d already met someone and though we hadn’t acted on our feelings yet, I knew we would. I left that part out when I sprung this on my ex-wife. I let her believe we could work on things and maybe save our marriage. I let that go on entirely too long and probably would have let it go on even longer had she not found out on her own one day after I‘d moved out. After fifteen years together and especially all we’d been through in the last two - she deserved better than that. She exacted some revenge, and I hope some minor satisfaction, with a pretty good right cross. It was well deserved and I think I got off easy.<br /><br />I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the whole truth back then. It made things more difficult in that first year or so after we split. She never knew what to believe. Had I been totally honest in the beginning maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly.<br /><br />We made it through that time and we have a better relationship today than we’ve ever had. We’re both re-married to people we’re much more compatible with. She was lucky enough to find a guy who loves NASCAR and camping as much as she does, and I was lucky enough to find someone who’s beautiful, smart, funny and thinks I’m at least one of those things ( I hope its “funny” but I‘ll settle for “beautiful“). Our daughter is well adjusted, compassionate and most likely a genius. She’s by far the best thing we ever did.<br /><br />And I can always be proud of that.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-53086416680530199872008-10-31T11:24:00.000-07:002008-10-31T11:36:31.844-07:00Humor MeBack when I used to be serious about comedy, I’d write ideas for bits on scraps of paper, napkins, the backs of keno tickets or whatever was handy. I have hundreds, maybe thousands of these potential bits in a briefcase sitting near my desk. More than 90% of them never turned into a full fledged part of my act. Some never made it because they just weren’t funny when I looked at them later. <br /><br />Like these:<br /><br />“I traveled thru Indiana recently. I was in Gary for about an hour. I gotta tell ya, he didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as I did…”<br /><br />“Now that I’m single I live with two other guys and they have cats. They piss on the carpet, shed constantly, and rub all over my legs any chance they get. Thank God the cats are well behaved.”<br /><br />“I made a mistake and got my kid the “Hooked on Phonics” program. Now he’s completely strung out. I found a baggie full of scrabble tiles in his room. Not the cheap stuff either, it was full of X’s and Q’s.”<br /><br />“I have a smart dog. I taught him to heel and he cured my mom’s glaucoma.”<br /><br />Some things I can’t do because I lost a bunch of weight. When I first started in stand-up I was sometimes over three hundred pounds. Being that fat lends itself to a specific set of jokes.<br /><br />“You know, being a fat dude, the question I get asked most is ‘You want that for here or to go?’”<br /><br />“I’m so fat, on Halloween, sumo wrestlers go dressed as me.”<br /><br />“I’m so fat, when I go to Arkansas for my family reunion the cows go Dave tipping.”<br /><br />“I’m so fat there’s a book coming out called ‘Women are from Venus, Dave is Mars.”<br /><br /><br />Other stuff never got in because I was afraid it was too insensitive or offensive to do in front of an audience. Nothing makes ME laugh like inappropriate humor mind you, it’s just not usually something I’m comfortable admitting or doing at a corporate gig in front of uptight business executives. I won’t give specific examples here obviously. Suffice it to say that jokes about mongoloids, paraplegics, or republicans are rarely funny to the masses. <br /><br />A lot of stuff never made it because when I looked at two or three weeks later, I had no fucking idea what it meant. Some of it was just illegible. Most of it just didn’t make sense.<br /><br /><br />On the back of a check from Applebee’s: Blow me and cheese sandwich.<br /><br />On a cocktail napkin from a club: Clean your floors? Buff my hardwood.<br /><br />At the bottom of an old grocery list: Porn movies / scaring the fish. AND… Hooker - Ranch - Pro - How’s my f’ing. (I’m not editing here, I actually wrote “f’ing”)<br /><br />There’s a whole bunch more. These are things that must have struck me as potentially funny at the time. I’ve been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to make jokes out of these and I can’t come up with any. None that are funny anyway. I guess that’s why I don‘t do stand up much anymore. Writing funny jokes is hard. I only wish the inability to write funny stuff would stop other comics from performing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.<br /><br />All of the above examples of humor are either juvenile, don’t have a punch line, or they’re just plain not funny.<br /><br />Maybe I should be writing for “Frank TV”?Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-6417275779128089062008-10-30T15:49:00.001-07:002008-10-30T15:49:56.503-07:00Home Sweet HomeIt was the smallest place I’d ever lived. The whole house was only slightly bigger than the room I’d rented from my sister. It had a tiny well kept yard and was right across the street from a movie theater. My landlords lived in the Victorian mansion right next door. In fact my place had belonged to the carriage driver back in the early 1900’s when there were still carriages. I wasn’t lucky enough to live there in exchange for driving them around, but the rent was reasonable and I didn’t have to clean up horse shit. The landlords treated me like family, but not in the overbearing, meddling way my REAL family did. Not once did they accuse me of being lazy, irresponsible or “fresh” (my grandmother). Don’t get me wrong. I love my meddling, overbearing family and if it weren’t for them I’d more likely have been living on the streets instead of in this little house. This little house where I finally got well.<br /><br />I wasn’t sick physically when I moved in. I didn’t have the flu or chicken pox. Nope. My illness was much, much worse. It couldn’t be treated with bed rest or calamine lotion. I was nuts. Whacko. A fruitcake (my grandmother again). Not the “put him in a strait jacket, wipe the drool off his chin once in awhile, oh my god he likes James Blunt” kind of crazy. More of a “functional manic depressive, fluctuating between extreme narcissism and crippling low self esteem, cries during certain episodes of ‘Full House‘” kind. There’s no pill for that, trust me. <br /><br />This was the first time I’d ever really lived alone. I’d always had a wife or a roommate or both. Up until recently, I’d lived in a room in my sister’s house. When I moved in to the little house, I felt like a genuine adult for the first time since I’d gotten divorced. I had my own place, decorated the way I wanted it - leather couch, brick-a-brack carefully selected to look slapdash, and wrought iron patio furniture in the 5 x 5 square foot dining room. My “Singing In The Rain” movie poster hung proudly above the TV in the bedroom. This place was all me and I could do what I wanted here. I could stay in my boxer shorts all day and play Madden football. I could eat the ice cream right out of the container. I could let the dishes pile up in the sink and never, ever plug in the vacuum.<br /><br />The funny thing was, I didn’t do those things. The playstation stayed mostly unused, save for some penniless weekends. I bought an ice cream scoop and ate no sugar added butter pecan out of the bowls I’d bought at Ross. I did the dishes every few days (manually, with no automatic dishwasher, thank you very much) and I vacuumed more than Alice from the Brady Bunch. I didn’t realize it then, but those were the first steps in me taking control of my own life. Finally. <br /><br />It was like this carriage house was magic. I had a tight circle of friends who would stop by occasionally and I was proud of my place. It made for a great spot to gather for events in the downtown area, two blocks away. You could see the fireworks on 4th of July perfectly from my yard. One of the reasons I tried to keep the place clean was in case I was lucky enough, or un-lucky enough in some cases, to get a girl back there. I definitely felt cooler just by having my own place and that translated into the opportunity to actually get a few girls over there. They’d be nervous or excited about what might happen next and I’d be asking if they liked where I had the TV. To most guys, getting the girl to come over was the penultimate step. For me it was the only important one. As long as they complimented my decorating skills, I felt validated. Whatever happened after that was all gravy. <br /><br />I don’t give the house all the credit. I met some people at just the right time. People who became role models and motivating forces in my life. People who reinforced the feelings living in that house had planted. I started to realize that I was a likeable person with something to offer to friends, women and the world in general. I started looking forward to waking up in the morning instead of dreading what each new day might hold. <br /><br />The house made me a better father, too. I’d relied on my ex-wife, my sister, and even some roommates to provide a home for my daughter. That wasn’t an option living alone. My kid loved the little house and I wanted it to feel like a home to her. It had to be tough enough shuttling between her mother and me, and even tougher when I never stayed anywhere for long. I staked out a corner in the dining room for her toy box and made sure to prominently display her school artwork, not just on the fridge, but everywhere in the house. We played in the yard in the summertime, and built snowmen in the winter. She learned how to climb the door frame in the living room and neither of us ever stopped enjoying that.<br /><br />About the time I started to feel a little cramped in the house, my life changed forever and I met the final piece of the puzzle. I’d never have been in shape, mentally, to impress a woman of her caliber before. Living in the little house had stopped me from feeling like a pinball bouncing around the machine and allowed me to relax and eventually stumble across my soul mate. I wasn’t astonished that this person could fall in love with me like I would have been just a year earlier. I was confident and secure.<br /><br />I don’t usually believe in sentimental mumbo jumbo, but I think there was something special about that house. Something intangible and magic. Something that made me right again.<br /><br />Or maybe right for the first time.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-12649025897434728582008-10-30T08:10:00.000-07:002008-10-30T08:15:29.952-07:00Paradise Lost?Maybe it was the hype. Like that movie that everyone raved about but when you saw it you thought “Eh.” That’s what Hawaii was like for me. I moved there when I was eighteen, spurred on by the logic that I may never have the chance to do this again. My parents had moved there and I’d at least have a place to stay for a bit. I wasn’t particularly interested in leaving Reno. I liked my life. I was living in my first apartment with a good friend of mine. We’d spend our off time eating chicken wings and playing “Super Bowl Sunday” on the commodore 64. On the weekends we’d cruise up and down Virginia Street until we met some girls, got in a fight, or decided we wanted to some pancakes. It was good times. I started working the graveyard shift at the restaurant and though there wasn’t as much “Super Bowl Sunday” anymore, I was still having fun.<br /><br />I’d get home from work around 7 a.m. and sleep ‘til around 2:30 or 3. Then I’d get up and eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes while I watched “Days of our Lives”. At 4 o’clock I’d switch over to channel 2 and watch re-runs of “Magnum P.I.” That’s where I got my images of what Hawaii would be like. But not everyone on the island lives on a private estate, drives a Ferrari and can pull off a moustache like Tom Selleck. In fact, not even Tom Selleck did those things, except for the moustache. I didn’t know this yet. I’d watch it everyday and imagine all the fun we’d have in this tropical paradise. My roommate was moving there too. We were able to have a blast in Reno, how could two handsome, funny, intelligent guys like us not have a great time living in Hawaii? There turned out be lots of reasons.<br /><br />We got off the plane in Oahu around 1 a.m. My parents greeted us and were amused by our wardrobe. Both of us were wearing denim shorts, short sleeve button up shirts (I believe mine was also denim, but I make no certain admissions), white shoes with no socks and white Swatch watches. “Abbot and Costello go to Hawaii” could have been the title of the movie. My parents decided, even though it was so late, they’d take us downtown before going home.<br /><br />Waikiki at one o’clock in the morning is breathtaking. It’s 71 degrees and there’s not a soul on the beach. The water is crystal clear even in the dark and the sand is soft and comfortable. I imagined myself lying out there, tan and fit, wearing my white Swatch watch and chatting up local girls and tourists alike. My roommate was lamenting the fact that Hawaii had just raised the legal drinking age from 18 to 21 and wondering if he’d be able to get a fake ID as good as the one he’d had in Reno, where his name was Spike and he was 23. Hey, it worked. As we drove to my parents house right outside of downtown Waikiki I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.<br /><br />When we boarded the bus the next morning to go downtown, I was still excited and dressed funny. It occurred to me that my roomie and I were two of only five white people on the bus, which was packed. I didn’t feel threatened by all the islanders and Asians, just different. I’d never been in the minority before. I’m guessing it wasn’t as much my pale skin as my green pastel shirt that made some of them stare. Maybe they thought I was Sonny Crockett? That’s what I was going for.<br /><br />When we got off the bus, I wondered if we were in the right place. What had been so beautiful and serene just hours ago now looked like Detroit with a nice beach. Thousands of people were crowding the street. You could barely move inside some of the shops and the restaurants all had at least 30 minute waits. It was noisy and it was raining. It rains every morning on Oahu. People in Seattle jump off buildings or OD on lattes because it rains everyday. People in Hawaii don’t. There’s a general lack of reaction to everything there from the locals. The only thing they get even a little riled up about is all the goddamn howlies, of which I was one. One wearing a girly colored shirt and a white watch. I started to feel a little silly as I saw that most of the obvious tourists were dressed just like me. I’d have to make an effort to fit in, I thought. Maybe get a Ferrari and grow a moustache. We had fun those first few days in spite of everything. We hung out on the beach, spent too much money and I of course, kept my eyes peeled for Thomas Magnum.<br /><br />About the time we needed to start looking for jobs and a place to live, my roommate bailed. One week of paradise had been enough for him and he went home. I was a little bit pissed but more than anything I was envious. I already knew this wasn’t for me either. I couldn’t live in a place where I couldn’t pronounce the street names. What did these people have against consonants, for chrissakes? I called home one day, lost, to get directions.<br /><br />“I’m on the corner of Kalakua and Pheeliapas…” I told my mom.<br /><br />“Do you mean Kalakua and Phillips?” she said, barely containing her amusement.<br /><br />All the vowels broken up by an occasional K or W wasn’t the only thing that I came to hate. I couldn’t stand living with my parents. And they couldn’t stand me. I was miserable. Their apartment was made of cinder blocks painted a pale yellow. The living room was long and narrow. It was like a jail cell with a lanai. Lanai is a fancy word for what we here in the real world call a balcony. Everything in Hawaii has a fancy word. Our lanai was just big enough for you to stand on, as long as you stood sideways with both feet pointed in the same direction.<br /><br />Job hunting in paradise sucks just as much as job hunting anywhere. It wasn’t long before I realized I’d have to work at least two jobs just to survive. A 300 square foot studio apartment over a McDonalds with a broken hot plate and a view of the dumpster was $600 bucks a month. And there was no lanai. Milk was something like $31 dollars a gallon. On the bright side, Spam and corned beef hash were cheap and abundant, and at least they were in cans so the roaches couldn’t get to them.<br /><br />And then there was the island fever. I was petrified to fly so I felt more isolated than even a normal person would. I was getting more and more difficult to be around everyday. I wouldn’t go to the beach or to visit all the beautiful places on Oahu. Instead I’d lie on the floor, my head propped against the couch with my feet touching the “far” wall and watch Stryper and Poison videos on MTV. My parents were disgusted with me, imploring me to go out and do something. I missed “Super Bowl Sunday” and chicken wings more than ever now.<br /><br />I got a job working for a restaurant in downtown Honolulu. My boss was a lesbian, and a mean one. My other two co-workers were a gay couple. Roger was a white guy about 45 and Angelo was a Pilipino kid about 22. My white Swatch didn’t seem so weird around these people. I made the best of it and socked away every dime I made so I could go home, where the states were connected and people got pissed when you accidentally bumped them on the bus. I actually liked my boss and “the girls”. They were funny and easy to work with. My parents still harped me about getting out and doing things. My mother would say “Why don’t you go out and have some fun? You should make friends! Stop lying around the house all the time!” So the night I went out with everyone after work, I thought she’d be happy. When I got home at 2:30 in the morning, she was waiting up.<br /><br />“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!?! I WAS ABOUT TO CALL THE POLICE!!!” she informed me. She obviously had not adopted the lassez-faire attitude of the islands.<br /><br />Before I could save even a fifth of what I’d need to move back to the mainland, my parents decided to help me. They gave me all the money I needed, and a little more, to make sure I wouldn’t come back. I’d miss them and I felt badly, but I took it. I strapped on my white Swatch, and steeled myself for the plane ride home.<br /><br />When I tell people now how I hated Hawaii and explain why, the general response is “But wasn’t it just so beautiful?” The best way I can explain it is, living in Hawaii is like dating Paris Hilton. Sure it’s good to look at, but it’s expensive, loud, boring and lot’s of people are in and out of there all the time.<br /><br />Who wants to live like that?Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-343040596594378572008-10-27T11:09:00.001-07:002008-10-27T11:10:18.782-07:00Beauty is in the Eye of Me and YouI can’t deny I’m superficial. I don’t want to. Why should I, it’s not a negative trait. It’s human nature. EVERYONE is superficial. From Angelina Jolie to the guy in the Sav-Mart parking lot with the wispy beard and the hump. It’s ok to be attracted to someone based on their on looks. And we all are. If Angelina Jolie had some patchy facial hair and scoliosis “Lara Croft: Tombraider” goes straight to DVD.<br /><br />Superficial is defined by Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary as “ concerned only with the obvious or apparent : shallow, concerned only with an appearance without regard to substance or significance”. <br /><br />Think about why you bought your car? Was it because it offered the best functionality and value or was it because it was metallic flake silver and had pretty wheels? Sure, if you can get great gas mileage, reliability and comfort, you’ll buy that car too. But you’ll want it to make your genitals tingle when you look at it.<br /><br />Just like when you’re picking a mate.<br /><br />Have you ever overheard a girl say her to friend “That guy looks like he’d be sweet and funny. Yeah, the one over there with the comb-over, in the Members Only jacket.“? I doubt it. They’re looking for the guy with his hair moussed to just the right haphazard angle (it is NOT haphazard at all of course, but painstakingly made to look so), the square jaw, and the expensive watch. They’re not concerned, originally at least, about whether or not he can speak meaningfully about politics or literature. No. “You work out how many times a week?” is a more important question. Ask ten women what the most important quality in a man is, and at least nine of them will say “sense of humor”. Well, there must be a lot of hysterical firemen and investment bankers out there. I’m funnier than a lot of guys but if it comes down to me and a Navy fighter pilot driving a Vette - who do you think is getting laid? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Not me.<br /><br />Men are no better. In fact we’re probably worse. We can be downright crude. We’ll say things like “Check out red sweater over there. I wonder how she shaves her vagina…” or “Hey, lookit blonde, black glasses. She looks smart. I’d like to Shake-spear her.” We don’t care if a woman can carry on intelligent conversation or knows who the Speaker of the House is. As long as she fits into size 4 jeans comfortably - we’re good. We don’t care if they think “Forest Gump” was a true story. We don’t care if they form all of their opinions about the world based on what they read in the Chatter section of “Us” magazine. If they’re blessed with good genes, they’ll have no shortage of fighter pilots and Corvettes.<br /><br />Certainly there are exceptions. Remember Angelina Jolie, back there? Hell she married Billy Bob Thornton. Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi. Who can forget Paulina Porizkova and Ric Ocasek? He must be HILARIOUS.<br /><br />And of course I’m not completely superficial. I’d never stay in a relationship with a beautiful woman who’s only draw was her looks. Not for longer than 6 or 8 months, tops. <br /><br />There’s a popular saying among guys that goes like this: Show me the best looking woman in the world and I’ll show you a guy who’s tired of nailing her. There’s a lot of truth to that. That initial attraction, the one based on the superficial nature of a person, will not be the cornerstone of a wonderful relationship. It’s only the spark. But the spark is a necessary part of what, hopefully, becomes the fire. Sometimes that spark fizzles out, sometimes it becomes a small ember that burns brightly for a second or two and then there’s that rare occasion where it turns into a five alarm job. That occasion when you find that guy with the nurturing spirit, a love of children, and 6 pack abs. Or that girl who is compassionate, likes Major League Baseball, and has watermelon sized knockers. Whatever it is about your significant other that you love now would never have become apparent to you unless you were first attracted to them physically. It’s why online dating sites show you pictures. It’s why you spend hours getting ready to go out. It’s why people who otherwise might have nothing obvious in common meet, fall in love, and get married. If I listed the top five things I love to do on a Saturday afternoon (1. Sleep 2. Watch baseball 3. Feel sorry for myself 4. Sleep 5. Go bowling) and the top five things my wife loves to do (1. Work in the yard 2. Clean house 3. Watch QVC 4. Tell me to stop feeling sorry myself 5. Take a walk) you wouldn’t think we‘d be happily married would you? But we are and it’s because we found each other attractive in the beginning. HEY. Some women like bald guys with abnormally large noses and an abundance of ear hair. <br /><br />And I will admit women are generally less superficial than men. All those examples back there of celebrity couples were ugly dudes with hot chicks ( I assume Ellen is the man). Good looking men rarely date ugly women. We’re not as evolved as broads. Well some of us are. Take a look at Jon Bon Jovi’s wife.<br /><br />I love my wife more than anything in the world. She is beautiful, smart, funny and she’s the sole breadwinner. What’s not to love. But I’d never have had the opportunity to find out all these thing about her if I wasn’t initially physically attracted to her. If she’d been a dog - there’d never have been a second date. Now that I know her, she could grow a beard and I’d still love her. And that’s saying something because she’s Italian. She might REALLY grow a beard. <br /><br />So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not superficial to a fault. I think we’re all a little superficial and that shouldn’t be considered a bad thing. <br /><br />So the next time you feel badly because you’re just not attracted to that heavy girl at work who keeps coming on to you or the guy at the gym with mole cluster on his forehead who’s always asking you to spot him, remember it’s not because you’re a bad person…<br /><br />It’s because they’re ugly.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-8488447438415282832008-10-24T12:35:00.000-07:002008-10-24T13:44:48.622-07:00From the Mouths of BabesThe following is a piece of a conversation between my wife and one of my daughter Maya's friends. His name is Martin. He's seven.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Martin:</span> Do you play Warcraft?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">My Wife:</span> Oh, no. No.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Martin: </span>Why not?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">My Wife:</span> I don't have time. I have to go to work, do laundry, vacuum, pick up dog crap, help Maya with her homework, do the dishes and lots of other stuff.(1)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Martin: </span> Does Maya's Dad help you?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">My Wife:</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> </span> Not really, no.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Martin:</span> Uh... Well... He's still a cool guy, right?<br /><br />My Wife's response was something along the lines of "Yes". That is, if you consider a loud snort followed by hearty laughter along the lines of "Yes", which I do.<br /><br />I think I<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> am</span> still a cool guy, even though I could certainly do more around the house, help more with Maya, and get a job. Not that I don't do anything. In fact I just baked Chunky Peanut Butter Squares. Really. I took out some trash and put some dishes in the dishwasher. It's not a lot of work, I know. I'm pacing myself. Maybe this afternoon I'll take all my shoes upstairs.<br /><br />The whole thing got me thinking about what makes someone a "cool guy". I realized everyone's definition is different. Martin, for instance, thinks I'm a cool guy because we talk Warcraft and I play tag with the other kids before school. Martin is seven. He's easily impressed.<br /><br />My Wife, despite the fact that I don't do much housework and currently only bring in $32 a month in net income, still thinks I am a cool guy. I make her laugh and... I also... Um... Making someone laugh goes a long way, I guess.<br /><br />The thing is, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I </span>think I'm a cool guy. That's what really counts. I don't let my job, or possesions, or what someone else thinks define me. Not anymore. I learned you have to be comfortable with yourself. You have to be lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love and support you, no matter what. You could hang around with 7 year olds, but that is not only missing the point, it's probably a misdemeanor. <br /><br />And "cool" is relative. <br /><br />You still closely follow the career of an 80's teen idol? Better than being lined up for the first showing of "HSM3: Senior Year" (I'll wait for the DVD). Tivo every episode of "Gossip Girl"? At least you're not clearing your schedule to watch it when it's on. You've seen "Caddyshack" 31 times? There are people who've seen "Caddyshack II". All the way through.<br /><br />It's easy to get caught up in feeling like you're no good. You're your own worst critic. (Unless you're James Blunt, then<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> I'm</span> your worst critic). I struggle daily with how I got to be 40 years old and I have no idea what I want to do for a living. It bothers me that I wasn't a very good Dad to my son when he was growing up. It gnaws at me that I can't forgive my own father for the mistakes he's made, some of which are no worse than my own. I'm lazy. I don't keep in touch with people like I should. I could lose a few pounds, take better care of myself. Etcetera. I accept these and the thousands of other flaws in me. I work on the ones I can, when I can. <br /><br />Nobody is perfect. Lots of people are cool. You don't have to be perfect to be cool. You just have to be you.<br /><br />Perfectly you.<br /><br />It probably wouldn't hurt to do your own laundry once in awhile, too.<br /><br /><br /><br />(1) <span style="font-style: italic;">"other stuff" would be defined as ordering stuff from QVC.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> It's not all dog crap and vacuuming.</span>Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-56077557843897966442008-10-22T22:23:00.000-07:002008-10-22T23:13:48.916-07:00That's a Fine SpecimenI normally appreciate a little small talk. At the grocery store, in line at the bank, camping out for Skid Row tickets (there <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">was</span> a time), whatever. I don't mind exchanging small pleasantries like "S'posed to rain tomorrow!" or "Where did you get those shoes?" or "Didja see the rack on the broad in the first pugh?" I think it's important to engage in idle chit-chat if the occasion calls for it.<br /><br />But what do you say to a woman holding a cup "filled to the top line" with your urine? Difficult to discuss weather, wardrobe or whatever in that instance.<br /><br />See, I don't know the protocol here. Sans the fact the lab tech was wearing rubber gloves, she acted like she could've been fumbling with a cup of gatorade to hand to a thirsty marathon runner. It didn't seem to phase her and I guessed she'd been doing this awhile. But there had to have been a time when packing up someone else's urine was not commonplace for her. That's all I could think of. That and the fact that, apparently, now it WAS commonplace for her! I was acutely aware that it was piss. My piss. I started to feel more uncomfortable. I scanned her face for any hint of reaction. Was it the right color? Temperature? Volume? Was I out of line if I asked? This seemed like it was a pretty intimate thing to take place between two total strangers, the handling of one another's bodily fluids. Could I now ask this girl to help me move?<br /><br />I winced noticably when, after she taped the lid shut, she flipped the cup haphazardly on it's side to initial the tape. If it spilled, who would be responsible for the clean up? Thankfully it didn't and she handed me the pen and pointed to where<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> I</span> should initial. This was becoming more surreal by the moment. What if I pressed too hard and punctured the cup or popped the lid off? Again, who would be responsible for the clean up? It was, after all, my pee. Or was it? I decided it was NOT. Once she taped that lid shut and put her initials on it - it was hers. Plus she had on the gloves. I handed her pen back and checked my pockets for my keys and cell phone for the forty third time, pretending to really care if I had them just so I wouldn't be standing slack-jawed, watching her, in awe that she had probably 5 more hours of handling stranger's wee-wee today alone.<br /><br />When I thought I might actually scream, or at least start whistling the theme from Miami Vice, she spoke.<br /><br />"So... gettin' a job at Best Buy, huh?"<br /><br />I nodded, almost imperceptibly.<br /><br />Suddenly taping up cups of piss didn't seem so bad.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790428759918260704.post-80320181568053484062008-10-14T15:31:00.000-07:002008-10-14T16:12:22.589-07:00For the Honor Of Stormpike! Or something like that.As I sit here waiting for the Blizzard Updater to finish it's work I realize this would be a good time to start mine. My "work" that is. See, once the Blizzard Updater is done, I'll be back to goofing off playing World of Warcraft. The "work" I want to get done is some substantiative writing. Something provocative, something that'll evoke anger or sadness or laughter. It's much easier to click the WoW icon instead of logging on to blogger.com and writing something that seems pithy and wise. See, in WoW (World of Warcraft) it's easy to get a sense of accomplishment. Writing is not like that. It's hit or miss. In WoW, I can earn gold, rack up kills and advance my character's skill set. Everytime. When I sit down to write something, sometimes, nothing happens, or should I say nothing gets written. LOTS of things happen. I curse myself for not getting out of the bathtub last night and jotting down the great idea I had for an essay that I can't for the life of me recall now. I wonder what made me think I could write anything that anyone would want to read in the first place. I spend 15 or 20 minutes realizing that it's easier to sit around and say to yourself "Oh sure I could write something compelling <span style="font-style: italic;">if I wanted to...</span>" than to ACTUALLY write something. The sense of accomplishment I get from WoW though is fleeting. It's like the Chinese food of accomplishment. No matter how many honor points you get, an hour later you want more. You NEED more. I don't blame WoW for being a distraction. If it wasn't some MMORPG, it'd be something else. A tv show, a book, a playstation game, lunch with someone I don't even like. Anything other than trying to create something, and failing. That's scary.<br /><br />I see that Blizzard is done updating, and thank God. This blog was rocketing unsteadily toward that failing I mentioned back there. If you've read this far, please don't give up. I plan to have more interesting things to say in the future. But right now, I've got to go save the Mage Tower from the wrath of the Horde army.<br /><br />Wish me luck.Dave Mencarellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17151163691099551069noreply@blogger.com1