Great Lake Beers

Beginning with these two photos is probably as good of a place to start as any with our Ohio/Asheville Wedding/Vacation getaway.

These two photos are of our beer fridge at our hotel while staying in Cincinnati (3 for 3 on my are, our, ARRRRRRRRRRR! usage).  Now, all of these beers are not from Cincy, but most are regional.

Unfortunately, the best photo from this time was not taken, nor the best comeback delivered.  A fun story from Cincy was an errant drive whilst looking for some decent breakfast for a Ron Swanson carnivore like myself, and a Veggie lover like Angi.  Driving around some strange roads, looking for something unique in a foreign land, we got caught behind one of Cincinnati's finest cultural elite.  Texting while driving we all know is getting out of hand, but here was a first for us.

Ever been caught behind someone at a light who's not proceeding because they're texting?  It's quite frustrating, yes?  Well Mr. Mercedes (of course it has to be an upper class white guy driving a Mercedes in this case) nearly found a way to hold up two lanes of traffic before a few people tooted and sped past him.  Annoying, but this happens too many times nowadays so it's not that unique.  However, we somehow got caught up at another light behind this guy, and the same thing happened.  This time, the horn was a little louder, and funnier faces were made at him as we rode past his country club stereotype.

When we approached the next light, he pulled up beside me (I was passenger side, but he didn't make me spill my beer), rolled down his window which was met by me rolling down my window (he was richer than me and whiter than me so I wasn't afraid of him naturally) and well ... here's the conversation, as best remembered over a week later ...

Mr. Mercedes: Is there a problem, can I help you with anything?
Me (very condescending and polite): Yes.  If you could stop texting and drive when lights turn green, it would really assist with us getting to where we need to be much quicker.
Angi (from behind the wheel):  You're not important enough to be texting at lights, trust me ...
Mr. Mercedes (dumbfounded): ... ... (keeps staring at me, trying to look condescending)
Me: (Dilly G style condescending blinks): ...
Mr. Mercedes (rolls up window)

Now it may appear this conversation went as well as any could when something serious like road rage is involved and you have an actual conversation with a dickhead driver.  In fact, this is the longest conversation I've ever had with a stranger who's driven poorly.  Two things occurred to me after the incident though which would have made this much better:

1.  I so so wish I had taken a picture of this guy to put on facebook, or my blog.  It would make this story so much better.

2.  When he asked me if he could help me with anything, if I responded "Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?" I would have been the coolest person in Cincinnati, possibly the entire universe.

Oh well.

In terms of some quick beer reviews from the area:

At a northern Georgia gas station I found a six pack of Fat Tire, which was a very pleasant surprise.  Oddly, I wouldn't find this beer again until we made it to Asheville.

Goose Island out of Chicago makes incredible beer.  We can't get it down in Florida, but if you can get your hands on that stuff.  Go at it.

Beers I can remember drinking in Ohio (but not necessarily from Ohio):

Founder's Red's Rye PA.

I've never been a huge Rye guy but I am now due to this beer and ...

Arcadia Ales Sky High Rye

Angi was waking me up from a pre-wedding nap to help her drink this one in the hotel room.  It was worth it.  This may be the best rye I've had thus far in life, and the Founder's is probably a close second.

Thirsty Dog's Old Leghumper Robust Porter

Thirsty Dog has great labels and wonderful beer.  This was a great porter.

New Holland's Dragon's Milk Stout

Not to be confused with New Belgium (even though I did several times, so this warning is probably just for my own memory) this is one of those beers aged in a Whiskey Barrel, or it's likeness.  It was incredible.  Fortunately, unbeknownst to me, Angi brought home a big bottle as well, which will be perfect when it gets cold here in ... well, it never really gets cold here, but we'll drink it 'round Xmas time I'm sure.

We also had a few Goose Island beers which were all incredible including the 312; their Summertime and IPA.

I'll hopefully get to the Asheville portion of the trip tomorrow.

Gasparilla #18

This will be my 18^th Gasparilla in a row.  Let me try to take a walk down a drunken memory lane here and see if I can remember at least one thing about each of the.  Ah, to remembering the things I'm supposed to forget … the things I don't remember.  (Names are removed to protect the guilty).

1994 – It's easiest to remember once I can remember where my home base was so …

Home Base – UT's Delo Hall.  My first one was a sober one.  I was underage and had no clue what Gasparilla was.  My roommate said it was a big parade and not being a parade fan, I almost didn't go. 

Highlight - Either my roommate or "Little Bubba" fell off of a cooler while trying to attain beads, and in the process, knocked an old man down off of his feet.  This was funny at the time once we realized the old dude wasn't dead.

1995

Home Base – UT's Delo Hall. 

Highlight – I don't remember much of the parade or anything, but I remember walking downtown at night to watch fireworks and almost getting attacked by some frat guy because he thought me and the dude I was with were gay. 

1996

Home Base – UT's Rescom (most likely)

Highlight – I don't remember this one at all, but this was the first one where the idea was to take whatever substances one could get their hands on, so naturally …

1997

Home Base – I don't remember this one at all either because well, same theory as 1997.  These were the Gasparillas where I'd wander off on my own for a good couple hours of the parade and see who I could find. 

1998

All I remember from this one is ending up being real cold and hungry after a nice day with Lucy in the Sky.  I got home, made some instant mash potatoes and they made me feel so much better.  I also remember watching the Winter Olympics. 

1999

Home Base – Apartment in Hyde Park

Highlight – This one is very vivid because I was hosting the party.  I was in a little tiny apartment and so many people were coming in and out.  Sugar cubes were left behind which would lead to months of, "Is she coming to get the sugar cubes back?" questions and me making the worst mistake ever and seeing "The Mummy" while onst said sugar cube.  (Worst because it made a crappy movie thee worst movie ever).  I also remember laying in my bed trying to play "The Blue Danube" on guitar while a few other people were laying in my room. Lastly, I remember the night ended when some random stranger carrying a full bottle of liquor was hitting on one of my lady friends.  Fortunately nothing awful came of that.  Wish I could remember more. 

2000

A dark Gasparilla after returning from Phoenix.   All I can say is that I ended up at an Indigo Girls concert.  

2001

Home Base – Apartment on North A St.

This was my first Gasparilla with my new Tampa friends and also the same weekend as the Super Bowl.  This preceding week was the hardest I ever partied in my life.  The Giants were staying at the hotel I was working at an office in.  OJ Simpson was in town.  I was running on about an hour a sleep a night for the entire week and was in no mood to go to the parade. A friend fed me some rum and I made it out there. 

Highlight – I  believe this was the one where two of my friends nearly got arrested for peeing in someone's yard, which was hysterical at the time.  After this parade, I slept for something like 13 hours that night and was ready for a fun Super Bowl party the next day. 

2002

Home Base – The Porch

Highlight – The Toast Concert.  Yes, this was the infamous "performing" on Gasparilla one.  This had bad idea jeans written all over it.  I actually remember this Gasparilla very vividly as I had to stay pretty sober to perform.  I won't share many memories on this one because many are pretty rough.  This was probably the beginning of "the dark Gasparillas".  This streak would last a few years.

2003

This one most likely started at Yeomans, and was my first one that was about the "Invasion" though I do remember making it to the parade.  This was also the one where the Space Shuttle disintergrated upon re-entry while we were watching on the Yeoman's television. 

2004

I remember this ended on Fremont AVENUE, and I wasn't too happy, not that there was anything wrong with Fremont AVENUE though. 

2005 & 2006 & 2007

Ugh.  I believe these are the D.I. Morning Party Invasion years (and the next three aren't too different.  In these years, I know one of my friends was drawn on with a permanent marker which led to a trail of terror.  Another one my friends who was trying to quit smoking jumped in the middle of the street in front of a car, and another one told a lady cop to go fuck her mother.  I'm not saying these three people were my former bandmates or anything, but I am saying the break-up of Toast did have some consequences.  These were all hysterical at the time.

2008

Home Base – My apartment

This one was pretty good.  I remember our friend's house was under construction, so everyone just met at the Invasion.  It was a block away from my apartment.  That was awesome.  I remember someone blasting "Girls, Girls, Girls" at about 8 in the morning which woke me up.  I had no problem with that.  They were the good guys that morning.  After all, it was Gasparilla.  A few people from out of town came in and a group of five of us walked up to the parade.  One woman fell and busted her ass which was hysterical at the time.  There was no darkness on this Gasparilla, that is, until we tried taking a taxi home and it took us nearly to Brandon, and said out-of-towners ended up passing out at my place, keeping me up all night. 

2009

Home Base – DI House again.

This may have been a nice calm one.  I don't remember too much of it, which means it was nice.  It may have been the first time I did not go to the parade.

2010

Home Base – DI House again

This was another relatively calm one.  That's what's been great with these last few Gasparillas, is they've been more calm and not all RAAAAAAAAAAR.  Maybe the stories aren't as good, but sometimes you don't need stories.

2011 and Beyond ...

????

Happy Gasparilla Everyone.  Let's see if I can do this for 3 more years.  It certainly gets harder every year (that's what she said!).  

My Damned Dirty Ape of a Right Knee

Yes, atleast my second post about my knees, more specifically my right effing knee.

Life's good right now, so I'm going to try to not let anger dictate my post here. It's easy being angry about a downturn in the hunt for a condo, a rough day of work or your favorite baseball team falling apart. Those are all things you have no control over and will all be fine the next day. Your body is another story. You can't stop the aging process, no matter how much water you drink, you will get older.

So here's the full story about the right knee. It all started way back in Lake Tahoe. I was having a drunken conversation with my buddy Sam in a seedy Tahoe Casino about playing a pick-up basketball game with my other Tahoe compadres, Joey, Jay, and the mad bomber Eric Prensky. In terms of basketball, I've always been the 5th best player out of this group and Joe, has been the best. My theory was, that Joe and I could take on the 3 of them and win. I knew deep down all I'd have to do is play good D, and keep tossing Joe the rock. Sam's counter theory was they could just double team Joe the whole time and keep one guy on me. His theory almost had me back peddling but I had already boasted too much, so the game was played.

I was right though. I did exactly what I intended and they just couldn't stop Joe no matter which style of defense they tried (and believe me, they tried many). We were playing to 11, and winning something like 10-5, Joe having scored all our points. I was checking the ball in when the eye of the tiger hit me and I HAD to score the game winner. My 17-year-old mentality kicked in and I thought I could just drive the lane like I was Evan Bernard so I gunned it right at everyone, jumped, and threw up a shot uglier than someone who just woke up hungover in a pile of mud. Worse yet, when I landed, but right knee never came back.

When I got back to Tampa, I resumed my running and it just wasn't working. The knee would act up and I stop nearly as quick as I started. I started doing alternative exercises and alas, after a month or so, the pain was gone.

Over the past few weeks, I've been running the best I've ran since the mid 2000s. In fact, I'm even trying to do another 5k in 24 minutes, which WAS an attainable goal ... until tonight. I'm about a mile into my run tonight and all of a sudden my right knee starts feeling Lipps, Inc.-type funky. This happens every now and then and I can just run through it so I tried. Not happening. Then I decided to walk for awhile and start running again. Even more pain! Then I tried stretching it ... EVEN MORE PAIN!!!

Though no one will ever confuse me with a professional athlete, I see why athletes like to go out on their own terms and not due to injury. For them, their athleticism is their truest passion, and being robbed of that by injury must be brutal. I'm some free thinker that jobs because of the clarity it brings and tonight, no matter how much I wanted it, I couldn't have it. My effing body wouldn't let me have what I wanted.

So here I am writing about my damned dirty ape of a right knee, kind of pissed actually because I could only run a mile tonight before the break down. I was running so well too. I felt like I could take on the whole Empire myself today. My body said, Nooooooo Nooooooo No. I'm only 34 and I have knee problems. This sucks. Sucks rhino.

Life's good though, so I'm not going to let this bring me down. Hopefully a night of rest will bring me back to health and I can have a great run tomorrow.

Freegin' knee.

GET OUT OF HERE GHOST!

It's time for a more serious post. Or as serious I can get while I'm still deeply entrenched in my Phish marathon.

My day started this morning with me walking to my car, and my neighbor was outside smoking a cigarette. As a friendly American, I asked her the most famous question we Americans ask each other as a way of saying hello which is, "How's it going?" Normally, the response is something like, "it's going" or "good" maybe even "great" and sure enough every now and then it could be "not to good" but by saying that, one American is signifying to another, "I got some shit I need to say!"

This morning I got the worst answer to that question ever. The answer involved phrases such as ... and let me bullet point this because nothing drains emotion out of writing like bullet points, and in this case it's absolutely necessary. The phrases in what turned out to be a 15 minute conversation were:

• Murdered friend, mother of 4
• Personal 3 way custody battle
• Foster care
• "I'm on my meds now, so it's cool" (foolishly followed by me asking why)
• Abortion post stress syndrome
• Stolen Car
• Drugs
• DMV today (gosh, this could be the worst of them all)

So I got all these in this little conversation that ended up making me a little later for work than I should've been. The only things missing were AIDS, 9/11 and Cancer. If anyone has a worse story of asking the "How are you?" question, I'm dying to know.

That got me thinking about the existence of ghosts. We all have them, and ultimately, there's nothing we can do about them, that's why they are what they are. Some people don't believe in ghosts, and maybe seeing a floating sheet in your haunted bedroom can be a stretch, but having continuous nightmares about your past and waking up feeling relieved is quite the haunting experience, no?

Now, I know I haven't had them my whole life. I'd say my first ones started striking when I lost my pops to cancer many years ago. Obviously, that's a tough ordeal and when you're 23, and nothing bad has happened to you your entire life, naturally, that's going to haunt you. That one "loss of innocence" moment is the seal breaker though, and from then on, littler things creep into your life that may not destroy your psyche, but definitely add more weight to it. It could be something as serious as a divorce, or maybe drunken foolishness and trying to sing back up at an Open Mic to someone who's already singing a beautiful song. I'm haunted by every bad word I've said, and every now and then that memory creeps in there and I shiver. The ghost is haunting you. Maybe the ghost is a chemical dependency, or maybe its this dependency that's opening doors for more ghosts to come in. Whatever it is, it seems the older you get, the more you have, in all sorts of varieties.

The good news is that I've found there are actions man can make to not necessarily kill these ghosts, but make them less powerful. Having nightmares about a cancer ridden father was once quite a frequent occurrence, but over time, they became less frequent. Unfortunately by then, the dream of being back together with an ex-girlfriend became heavy in the haunting rotation. Sure enough, over time that one became a 90s song on a new millenium station as well. Now that I think about it, my subconscious ghosts haven't been haunting me in my sleep as much that is, except for one of the most vile ghosts of them all and that's, "I got too much shit to do at work tomorrow" ghost. He's terrible. He'll come at you in the middle of the night making you think you have to correct things that don't even exist. He'll add wrinkles to your face.

Some people exercise to kill them, and it does a great job. Life is beautiful after a work out. Sure whatever problems you have are still there, but the adrenaline rush leads to a confidence that can only be obtained by physical exertion. I didn't know what to think of that conversation I was roped into this morning all day. I felt fortunate for my own life yes, but I didn't know what to make of it. I've honestly never had a conversation with so much turmoil in it that was directly affecting person I was speaking with. What that girl has going for her now though, is the chance to rebuild. The castle has been destroyed sure, but as bad as they are, it's these experiences that make life, life. The low points make the high points that much higher. It can't all be smiles and sunshine, otherwise, we wouldn't know what sunshine is.

I hope she turns everything around. Despite all the madness, she really seemed like she was keeping it all together. Sure, as she herself stated, "it's because of the meds," but the great thing about bottoming out is that the only way is up. Unless of course, things get worse, which naturally they always can if you succumb to the ghost, rather than trying to fight it.

Things fall apart

The center will not hold

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

Peace to my neighbor and I really hope everything gets better for her.

My 34-Year-Old Knees

I'm over worrying about my 34-year-old knees.

They're taking me past the elderly woman walking her mom

in 90 degree heat down Channelside at 6 pm.

They're bending more now, destroying imaginary karate wood,

getting me to my turnaround point quicker,

where I reach walking satisfaction.

The water skier cares even less about his.

Now matter how much I chop, his motor boat pace

takes him up and down the channel multiple times.

His pendulum pattern over the man-made waves

is more reckless than me gunning

and taking one to the hole a decade from now.

He'll attack the waves head on,

collect air under his feet, smash down into the water

and get dragged for a few seconds as the boat stops.

He'll regain his balance,

motion for the boat to go faster,

creating greater waves,

greater air under his feet

followed by an even greater crash.

Some bicyclists doddle in their wind resistant fatigues,

and my 34-year-old knees catch up with them

until they start peddling again

and I walk in the space I've created for myself.

Random Baby Shower

An interesting thing happened at work today. We had a baby shower for one of our co-workers. I have no clue who sees who outside of work, but if our office has 18 employees, I'd say there are probably 6-8 different clicks, 9 if you count my, "Zach Only Listens When He Hears His Name" click. Its got 1 member, and in the words of the new Modest Mouse EP (love the title) ... No one's first, and you're next! Getting into my work click is probably just has hard as joining the Illuminati, except they're actively accepting new members and I am not.

As I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, we had an actual baby shower in our office today for a co-worker, who maybe knows 3 people there. When I first got the email several weeks ago that this was going on, my immediate reaction was, "I'm a guy! I'm out! Right?"

X X X

Keep in mind, if our office is 18 people, only 5 of us are men, the groom being one of them. 2 of those guys actually being friends with him, which leaves me, my boss and about 13 girls who barely know the guy, and next to zero that know the gal.

Then I thought it was on June 13th, which was conveniently smack dab in the middle of my trip to Lake Tahoe, which even if my friends and I were swallowed whole by the lake, still would've been worth it just to miss a random baby shower. On top of that, I have a tough time buying baby gifts for my own nephews, so buying something for someone I barely know was going to be an impossible task, and thank god, I guess there's enough Corporate Experience out there, that there was the "collection for a group gift" which I jumped on quicker than a train to Jesus' house. There have probably been so many cranky guys out there throughout the existence of large corporations that somewhere in the bylaws, it says that if there is to be an office baby shower that guys must attend, a group gift MUST be an option for disgruntled male employees.

So along with that group gift (which was turned out to be a zillion little shirts), about 4 or 5 others and the boss (and by boss I mean his wife) bought gifts as well. Here's where the uncomfortableness begins. When the gal starts opening the gifts, there's no one really awwwwwwwing because guys don't do that unless they're being sarcastic, and the gals didn't really know her that well, so it's poor lady for you. She had to sit there, open gifts you could tell she was thankful for, and despite not having a clue who they came from, pretend like that the person giving it really put thought into the gift. Fortunately for her, I'm not the same ass at work that I am outside of it, so instead of making that half hour the most uncomfortable in her life, it probably merely ranked in the Top 5. For a half hour, unwrapping gifts slowly, in a congested conference room with no one awwwwwwwwwwing.

There's a reason why guys don't do baby showers, and it's not some sexist, smoking cigars kind of thing. It's because we don't ew and aw, and would rather be talking about football. A conversation about how many more years Urban Meyer will coach at Florida (I got 1 by the way), did in fact break out which shouldn't happen at a baby shower in a million years. Today though, it didn't matter. It broke an uncomfortable silence of people eating chicken strips and cake.

Poor gal, but hey, they did get a lot of baby crap.

Back From Vacay ... A Tale of Flight

When the stewardess told me she didn't need my credit card for my glass of wine yet because it was a long flight, I knew this flight was destined for greatness, despite its turbulence. They take cards on planes now ... dangerous. Running a tab on planes just seems like it's not a good idea, but it was fantastic on this day. The fact that the stewardess understood me, without ever having seen me before is a good thing, though I'm sure she's seen more than her fair share of douchebags ordering drinks while wearing a t-shirt supporting their local baseball team.

This leaves me to piss. I was seated next to a freckled-face ginger (redundant I know), blue hair who must have been so proud of her "A" boarding group seat selection that she fell asleep in her aisle seat right around take off. You'd think someone who wants to sleep on the plane, and has his/her choice of seat, they would go window, get one of those neck pillows, draw the shade, shut off the light ... boom, you're left alone for 4 hours. I could hardly wait to wake up her up with the tragic news that I was a 30 something that's had a few adult beverages and needed to urinate with my facial expression saying, "Listen lady, pick a window next time. I have to piss."

Miraculously, after a Chili's weak Jack'n Coke, a beer and a half, and a glass of wine, I'm a camel on this plane. It's a long drive to a Key West bachelor party, only the entire opposite. If my urine storage facilities are being calmed at the moment, its probably because of the smell though. I don't know what this Phoenix-bound Floridian stereotype has in her feed bag, but there have been times I've left last night's dinner in my sink and it's smelled better than this. It smells like a skanky concentrate of a hobo's proud return of his first real food in days. Of course, between the wine, whiskey, beer, boneless spicy chicken wings and ultra-processed cheese'n crackers, whatever she's got in that feedbag is definitely curing the slight hints of uh-oh I'm dropping. It's nice to have someone to point the finger at sometimes.

I'm deep in my 2nd glass of wine, still unurinated and flying over Texas for what seems like an eternity. It's no wonder why I opted to add several hours to a Phoenix drive to avoid this state. Even at 30,000 miles, very flat, boring and sandy. If the state of Texas was a body part, it would be an elderly woman's cooch, but even as I say these awful things, Texas starts turning red and gaining texture, though still Joan Rivers sandy. The wine has definitely taken affect. This red starts to bring back Phoenix memories, good ones, if that's even possible.

Before I get to Phoenix, gotta bet back to the reason why I call this website, "The Daily Deuce." Farting on a plane is quite a dangerous social endeavor, but I learned a lot on this flight about it. What makes farting on a plane do-able is that the roar of the engine will always be more powerful than the giveaway sound. On top of that, everybody's ears are popped, most people have headphones on and all you really have to worry about is the stank (unless you have feedbag lady next to you, in which case you don't have to worry about the smell at all). What's unique about flatulence, and I have exactly zero data to back this up, is that if your first one doesn't smell, you're clear from then on until you eat again. I'm love the freedom of literally knowing my farts don't stink right now and this is the perfect segue into my Phoenix arrival.

I arrived with as much optimism as a new kid in school. I even began to think how it wouldn't be entirely bad if my flight got delayed until the next morning so I could cab it into Tempe and see some places that could've become old hangouts had I lived in the city for more than 6 months. I thought about how funny it would be to walk with my friend Mary around the town and show her the place I actually lived at (kind of an inside joke, but have to include it). So yeah, I'm in Phoenix and I'm smiling as my plane is pulling into the gate ... or was pulling into the gate ... it stopped. So now we're just sitting here, inside the plane, waiting, starting to get concerned about my connection. Eventually I got inside the airport and noticed my flight had been delayed a couple hours. So it begins.

What's unique about Arizona is they don't celebrate the time change. You can go as far as to say Arizonians have a purer concept of time than you and I ever will. However, let's say someone is travelling from the east coast, through Arizona to Reno, Nevada and that person is trying to arrange meeting up with someone travelling from the Central time zone through Las Vegas and coordinating phone calls versus flight times. I felt like a 3rd grader wandering into an algebra class so I gave up easily.

Instead, the rage that had built up between delays, booze and complicated math due to time zone inconsistencies was taken out on the blonde airline attendant, who's job it is to basically stand there an act as the complaint department. Now that we need our boarding passes even before we get to the gate, those gate people are basically just standing there for the confused, and the angry, and I was the latter.

"Excuse me, are their any other flights going to Reno tonight so I can get there sooner?"

"There's one going to Vegas now, but its kind of full."
"What the hell am I going to do in Vegas, I'm meeting people in Reno?"

"Well, then you have to wait sir."

"Is this flight really going to leave at 7:40, or is that just to get our hopes up? Is there any chance it will leave earlier?"

"There's always a chance sir."

"Is there a chance it won't leave at all and I'll be stuck in this fuckass cowboy town all night?" (I didn't really say that, but did say something to that extent loudly so people could hear me while I was on the phone with someone coordinating the Reno arrival).

"This flight should be leaving at 7:40 sir. There were some weather issues in Dallas ..."

"Well listen, I'm going to walk over to that bar yonder (Zach does the little walking thing with his fingers in the most condescending way possible) and grab a couple drinks. If for some reason this flight leaves earlier, will you please make an announcement over your little loud speaker there so I don't miss my flight due to your company's disorganization?"

"I'm sorry sir, you'll just have to keep checking."

Arizona, how much I missed thee.

I'm going to end this story here for now.

100th Post Spectacular!!!!! ARRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

While I watch the American League Champion Tampa Bay Rays get announced amidst pyrotechnics that would make Great White fans jealous, I must drop my 100th post and talk about nothing other than PIRATES! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

This isn't some Gasparilla story, or some condescending review of Johnny Depp's acting ability, this is about REAL ... LIFE ... PIRATES!!!! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

The Somalian Pirates are in some ways the coolest pirates ever and in some ways not really pirates at all. While it's okay to glamorize the pirates of yesteryear, something tells me Barack Obama would wag his finger at me if he saw me praising this mystic crewe. For instrance, you never want to praise anyone that holds an AK47 and they're not in the middle of a battlefield, but you have to admire, that these pirates thought they could hold an American Captain (ARRRRRRRRRRRRR) hostage. On top of that, they're also messing with the French and Ay-talians like they're taking out some Somalian lack of World Cup angst or something.

Basically, the Somalian Piracy threat seems on paper as if it could start World War 3, except that well, it'd be everyone against the pirates. I'm not sure if Al-Qaeda likes them, and even Kim Jong Il was quoted as saying, "They're worfress! More worfress than Arec Barwin!"

That's what makes these pirates so cool though. They basically do everything pirates do from pillage and plunder to making the Captain walk the plank. Sure, the story is the captain tried to escape, but XXX! WRONG!!! They made him walk the plank, but when they realized he may be able to swim to safety, they brought him back in. They stick to the unwritten pirate (arr) principals and go their own way (yeah yeah yeah). They're fucking pirates, what else are they going to do? Living in Somalia is so shitty, they've chosen a life of scurvy and spending their days at sea, capturing whoever comes near them, trying to take whatever treasures be they vast and true. YARRRRRRRRRRRRR! Downside, they're using AK47s, and at some point, they're going to be referred to as terrorists. But here's my hope:

In the first half of the 20th Century, it was the Germans. The Germans threatened everyone.

Oh Look the Germans are mad at me!

Then after them, it was the Russians.

America it's them bad Russians. Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians. The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.

There was a war on drugs and which pot smoking teenagers were all of a sudden shooting their friends in the head and

This is your brain (egg poured on fryer)
This is your brain on drugs ... any questions?

So now we're enduring the War on Terror, which in my opinion will be about as successful as the War on Drugs, and aside from eventual World Ass Whooping China will lay down one day, making the Israeli-Palestine conflict look like a temper flaring India/Pakistan cricket match, the next War on __________, could ... fingers crossed ... be

THE WAR ON PIRATES ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

The End of an Era, The Tale of Ipod #3

It was Christmas 2003, when my mom bestowed upon me Chachi, my first Ipod. I knew what they were and what not, but this is before Feist and Franz Ferdinand songs were blaring over commercials for these things that now come in all shapes and sizes and do just about everything except rub yo' dick fo' ya, so I wasn't sure of their capability. I didn't know I could arrange all my albums by "Year Released" and make a list of "My Top 100 Songs from 1972-1973." This would all be learned over the course of the next year though.

I'm not really known for taking care of things, be it a friend's fish while she's on a vacation, rusted strings on Anxiety, or all of those pretty dishes creating Talcott Mountain in my sink. So taking care of Chachi, my first Ipod, was a learn as you go experience. Two things I learned pretty quickly:

1. Sweating into the Ipod while your jogging ... not a good thing.
2. Some debate me on this, but having your Ipod on constant shuffle leads to it's demise.

These 2 factors led to a rather quick demise of Chachi, my first Ipod, but I had the warranty, so it wasn't a big deal.

Spinderella, my second Ipod didn't stand a chance. That one was never good from the get-go, so another exchanged happened, and in July of 2005, I got Coleco Vision, my third Ipod.

Back in my day, Ipods were white, and at most had 40 gigs (mine 20) and they didn't play movies and that's the way it was and we liked it. Coleco Vision, my third Ipod was a dinosaur by the summer of 2005. Most friends had theirs by now. They were thinner, blacker and looked like Super Ipods from the future.

Coleco Vision, my third Ipod was durable. Almost immediately, I dropped it on a carpeted floor, but it was ok. The light stopped working, but I overlooked that because it never had any other problems. It even went through something more severe and survived. This will be described as my #1 Coleco Vision, my third Ipod, memory.

Top 6 Memories of Coleco Vision, my third Ipod

6. My Ipod always came up aces during plane trips. Whether my grandmother or grandfather had just passed away, or a friend was getting married, my Ipod was always there for me when everyone else was gone. The best example, was waiting to meet my bro and mom in the Milwaukee airport and "Good Vibrations" came on followed by "I Wanna Be Sedated" and I realized how much the Ramones sounded like the Beach Boys. That never would've happened without it. Also, after the wedding, and the airport shuttle, Sufjan Steven's "Chicago" came on, and it was perfect for my Sunday morning hangover remorse.

5. OK, so it wasn't really Coleco Vision, my third Ipod that started making me work out, but I definitely developed my best "Work Out Mix" on this one. MIA, Metallica, Kill Bill soundtrack, 2 Live Crew ... it was spectacular.

4. During my unemployment days, there was nothing like spending an hour to make a long playlist, buy some beer, mute my television and shoot me some good guys playing Grand Theft Auto and listen to said playlist and see how much better the songs got with the amount of beer I was drinking. Without it, I probably would've had to have read or something.

3. Getting the call out of the Compound Bullpen. See, almost everywhere in the Compound there's access to some ______ gigs of music. I have no clue how many, THAT'S how many. Tourists from South Dakota stop by to get a look at that hard drive. However, in the living and dining room, there's a mere pair of speakers with a plug designated for an Ipod. Playing one of my well thought out playlists, grabbing a glass of wine, and playing some chess ... man, good times.

2. The best it ever was though, was driving across the state and listening to the playlist I had created. It was usually classic rock and that always struck me the best on the road. My combo of Zeppelin, Hendrix, the Doors, the Stones, the Dead and the Allman Bros made a three hour drive too short. I just wanted to keep driving and singing along to the tunes. One time, while driving some 4 plus hours to South Florida, I had once planned to listen to an entire Phish show, and the Phish show was so massive, I got to Boca Raton before the show had ended. Even I couldn't believe that.

1. Lastly, my best memory is also my scariest. I was walking to work with a bunch of things in my hands, after all, I'm not going to carry a purse. I adjusted my fingers and miscalculated my grip on Coleco Vision, my third Ipod, and dropped it down a story of cement stairs and it snapped in two when it hit the ground. I could've been doing this writing then, but somehow, someway, she survived. I popped the hard drive back in place and snapped the white cover into the metal back, and it played. Lord, she played.

Coleco Vision, my third Ipod, crawled through a river of shit, and still played tunes on the other side.

I'm Not Irish, and Neither Are You

So what are you lookin at?

I wore green to work today and I'm trying to figure out why. I'm absolutely, positively ZERO percent Irish. I like drinking, and that's the most wondrous of stereotypes we have of Irish people, so everyone likes to pretend their Irish on St. Patty's Day. It's another day to go out drinking, except you wear green, listen to traditional Irish music and drink green beer. On New Year's you wear party hats, during sporting events you wear your teams colors, during Gasparilla you dress like a pirate, on halloween you dress whatever you feel like and ofcourse on Cinqo De Mayo you dress like a Mexican. And then you drink heavily.

So today, when I got home from work, I had an incredible evil urge to go out and get sauced. I have a friend going to Channelside, who isn't drinking there, and I wouldn't go to Channelside sober if I was on drugs (figure that out). I'm sure other friends are gathering at a Casa, but St. Patty's Day is about going out to an Irish bar, and doing the whole bit. Normally h-yah, I would blame the fact that my friends are old, and married, and babied, and yadda yadda yadda, but that's not really the case. I'm not even making an effort to drag anyone out. So maybe it's myself? Maybe I'm maturing because I don't like to drink on weeknights anymore? Maybe ...

Maybe I know I'm going to be really busy at work tomorrow and seeing all these freakin' Leprechauns walking around in green with huge smiles going to Irish bars are making me jealous because I know going out would be the dumbest decision imaginable right now. Fuckin A. In the words of Bill the Butcher, "Let's burn'em, and see if their ashes turn green."

Rocktober!!! Return of the Possum

So, I haven't ran in a couple weeks, but I finally got back on the chain gang tonight. 40 minutes, after two weeks, not too bad relatively speaking of course.

So here's my story for the day.

As I'm running, there's a possum, naked in the daylight. I'm from a place that I always referred to as, "the old neighborhood" once I moved. We're all from "the old neighborhood" of course, but mine had characters like the Almond Bros., Nicky Palmasano, Brian Casey, Jon Birch and Amy Gallo ... not to mention my brothers friends like Chris Gallo and my favorite of them all, Dan Staboneezer, whom we commonly referred to as "Dan Stabbed a Sneezer" What can I say, 8 year olds are quite clever.

At that age, you don't understand neighborhood dynamics like you do now. Your neighborhood is basically one gigantic playground for games such as tag and hide and seek, and of course, "Book!" which was a game that was a pre-meditated way to ditch someone, usually Jon Birch. Someone would yell "Book!" and we'd all run away from a particular person and have a rendez-vous point to continue our fun without that person. I guess we're all a little too old for "Book!" now, it's unfortunate.

You basically learn which neighbors are the cranky neighbors by getting chased by old people like you were a common squirrel from out of their bushes, or behind their garage, out of their gutters, or wherever you're trespassing in their yard. Your neighborhood has limits, like you can't cross Lancaster Ave, and stay away from Farmington Ave, the busy street. Every now and then, a neighbor would offer advice too, like Mr. Taylor. Yes, we lived next door to an elderly couple, also named the Taylors, and Mr. Taylor died in his sleep. Now that I think of it, he was the first person I ever knew who died, but at whatever really young age I was, it obviously didn't have too much of an affect on my life, whereas my parents probably had to go to some funeral they may or may not have wanted to go to. Dying in your sleep though to me, seemed very soothing. I decided then that's the way I wanted to go.

Mr. Taylor had some advice for me one day, that I remembered today. One wintry New England day, us kids were running around the neighborhood, building snow forts and snowmen and throwing snow balls at Jon Birch, and we encountered a gray raccoon running around like a cat would, or a dog. We were naturally intrigued, and wanted to capture it, maybe pet it, or whatever, but Mr. Taylor advised us to stay away because it was rabid. His theory was, if you see a nocturnal animal out in the day time, you should probably stay away because chances are it's dangerous.

That brings me to today. Another possum encounter, but this time I didn't have my car and Christmas cheer to protect me. As I jogged, he opened his evil possum mouth. He recognized me. He knew I keeled hees brotha, and said prepare to die. So, I crossed the street, not wanting to be chased by a rabid possum at age 33. Thank god for Mr. Johnson's advice, because after I past him, some little kid went running after him, a gingerkid just like Jon Birch, and the possum jumped on him and started eating his face. Okay, I made that last sentence up, but the rest is true. Poor Jon Birch.

Men at 33

Okay, 43 minutes today ... meeeeeh. Crampy whampy tampy mampy. It could be worse. I could be in the path of Ike. Any storm named after a Republican President has to be devastating. If there's ever a Hurricane Dubya ... wait a minute, I guess there has been for about 8 years now. Politics are stupid though, so I'll move on.

I now like having a White Russian after dinner instead of dessert. If that's not a sign of adulthood, I don't know what is. That's all for me today.

Attack of the Wasps!!!!!!

For stahtahs ... 42 minutes for the 5k, not too good, but improvement.

Now, for the real story.

It's rare that I cook. Over the weekend, I bought a steak at the Lix and knew, after a tough Monday of listening to people complain, a steak dinner would be Waking Ned Devine.

Get home, go runnin, look how awful my fantasy football teams are, get slightly excited that Jeff Garcia may not play next week, and wonder if the Seahawks will ever win another football game on the road for Mike Holmgren after that last performance. It was awful. They need to come home. I hope 8-8 is good enough to win the NFC West.

After all of this, I start making my steak. I start frying, and wisely decide to open my kitchen window so my apartment doesn't get all smokey. I open the window, and between the screen and the glass pane ... WASP NEST!!! ENHNHNHNHNHNHNHNHNHNH!

Fortunately, I'm waaaaaaaaaaay too tired from running to really panic and notice that they go right for the kitchen light. I turn off all the other lights in my house, and leave the kitchen's on. Here's the problem though, the steak-is-a-still-cookina. Immediately, I go in there, grab the pan and walk out into my living room, but where in society's apartment can I put a piping hot pan with a half-cooked steak on it?

After figuring out this jambalaya, it's time for revenge. The wasps may have won round one, destroying my relaxing steak dinner, but what happens, when wasps push a man, a man who's already been pushed too hard by society, too far. Those wasps ... they die. DUH! DUH! DUH!

Without turning off the top of my oven (smart smart), I bolt for Walgreens or Eckerds or CVS or whatever pharmacy-plus store meets me when I drive off of Davis Island. Yes, I'm panicking the whole time because I knew almost immediately that I forgot to turn off the oven and my apartment could burn down, but there's no turning back, because you can't let the wasps take over. This is my apartment. Zach Taylor's' Apartment!!! I find wasp killer that clearly says "Kills Instantly!" and I am on my way.

A grab the spray, and a shoe, and look in my kitchen. Wasps abound. When I first discovered the nest it looked like there were about 20, realistically probably just short of 10. That's still too many because well, 1 is too many. There's a couple on the light, a couple chillin' on the wall, and who knows how many in the nest. Pshht Pshht! Wasps, one by one, dead. I counted 6, so I'm fearful that there are still a couple more wandering my apartment somewhere. It's a tough life. To live in fear of terrorism, famine, a poor economy, the possibility of Republicans winning another election due to America's gullibility, and the greatest fear of all, being stung by a wasp, because after all, I'd actually feel the effects of that.

Day 2 ... Evil or Good?

I did it again. The 2nd day is always the easiest. Work kicked me in the balls again. It's beyond ass kickings, and I believe I would much rather be kicked in the ass than the balls, so that's that. I guess the next step is Work Kicked Me in My Heart. That would probably be worse than the balls.

Okay, enough about heartballs. My time today ... was a whopping ... 46 MINUTES!!!! Another putrid performance. I thought I'd do much better the second day. Truth is, I was tired out there.

I listened to the group called The Bug, which is an angry Rasta house madness. I've never liked this genre of music ever, and never planned on liking it. I got hooked with the first song ...

So many things that get me angry and
So many things that get me mad

It's got one of those raucous house beats and it's soooooooo dang catchy. Now the rest of the album has grown on me. You really find something new every time, and this I like. That's it. I wanna get a beer and play guitar.

RETURN OF THE BLOG REDUCTION OF THE BLOB

Doakie oakie, I'm going to try to resurrect this thang.

I'm officially back trying to exercise again. I had a moment of clarity during the My Morning Jacket show that, really, life is a great thing as awful as it can be sometimes, and being out-of-shape isn't going to help anything, and exercising will really enable a more enjoyable life.

The problem with exercise is that it's boring. Even good music gets old after awhile. The reason why it's so much easier for children to stay in shape, is they're constantly around other children, chasing eachother, and growing into sports. Basically, they're competitive and the competition makes it fun.

Well, I'm 33, and I have no one to compete with, except for the most diabolical cartoonish super-villain of them all, The EVIL ZACH TAYLOR, who wants to come home from work, drink beer, play video games and watch TV. The GOOD ZACH TAYLOR wants to come home from work, exercise, write or play guitar, then catch an hour or so of tele before he sleeps. The only way the GOOD ZACH TAYLOR can win, is to beat his previous time that he ran/walked the night before. I have mapped out a 5K course around Davis Island, and I'm timing myself.

Day 1, September 2nd = 47 minutes. A putrid performance. In my defense, I planned on walking the whole course and didn't. I also listened to this pretty weird band named Snowman, who wasn't exactly good work out music.

That's it for now, my dinner is ready.

The Baptism of Running in the Rain

You killed a monster.
It’s been over a decade now,
The ugliest of life has corroded
My subconscious asleep
Where brain tumors were cured
By the loss of romantic love.

As you grabbed my chin,
Man grew wings,
with the fictitious kiss
He conquered space
And before the morning critters song
Had a chance to erase
Your dying for words
Rang like a medicated sax solo.

Tyrannosaurus birds begged
A floozy of a mom for breakfast,
Their nest tucked cheerfully behind
My window’s shutter.
My eyes greeted the humidified air
Before I had a chance to respond,
My classical piece amongst
The riff raff of meat-headed distortion.

The clockwork internal tears,
Another beautiful lost to 9 to 5 mentality,
The way a nation dreams,
And an entire weekday to beard
Pathetic rituals. This was your debut.
I love your knife, your machine gun.
I could awake to my spacious bed
For years.

Who is Fox Trying to Scare Me With Today?

Don't know if this will be recurring, but after they tried to scare me with pregnant ladies carrying bombs instead of babies, that did it for me. Pregnant women are to be feared enough without them being Al-Qaeda. So this morning, I'm clicking on FOXNEWS.COM and seeing who's gonna get me.



1. A Wild Gunman. I'm sure every news outlet is carrying that horrible story, so now FOX FEAR on that one. Wild Gunman. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that a Nintendo game, or maybe an Atari Game? I'd research this if it were important (I'm on it). Hellz-yeah! Some things from the 80s you just don't forget. Fortunately, Wild Gunman was a western game where you shoot mean cowboys, rather than college students.



2. Arizona Busts Massive Immigrant Smuggling Ring. Ofcouse I have to be afraid of Mexicans. What would FOX be without making me wanna say, "Dey took our jyobs!" I'm sorry, I think Mexicans prefer to be called Illegals now.



3. The recession ofcourse. No one is feeling this more than the real estate market people.



4. Girl Finds Dad Dead with Corkscrew in his head. This kinda sucks because I'm a big wine drinker. Sometimes, some corks are more troublesome than others and you have to use more force. Once you use more force, you never know what's gonna happen, but "corkscrew to the head" never really crossed my mind.



5. Why is the U.S. Taking Out it's Own Spy Sattelite? I love how FOX openly roots for the government rather than the people. This is what makes other news networks so damned liberal. They try to inform the viewer of corrupt government officials/policies and what not, but FOX treats the viewer as if he/she's corrupt.



6. Typo Spurs Erroneous Bonds Report. If Clemens and Bonds go away yesterday, it's still not soon enough. I've decided though, no HOF for the juicers. The list: McGwire, Bonds, Clemens, Sosa, Palmiero and Curt Schilling, sure he's not a juicer, but he's just such a douchebag. Anyone who puts red paint on his socks so he looks like a "warrior" shouldn't be allowed in the Hall. Well, that and his stats aren't good enough.



7. Armed Man Terrorizes K-Mart Customers. I could go with the requestite "If you shop at K-mart, you deserve what you get" kinda response, but that's not very nice. So how about, what the hell was the gunman thinking that people that shop at K-Mart have money? Atleast upgrade to Wal-Mart or Target bro.



8. Kids Clothing Gives Teacher Migraines. I've always been scared of what children wear, so this is nothing new, jeez.



This is getting old, so I'll rap it up ...



The Meat-Cleaver Therapist Killer ... (I'll take The/rapists for 100 Alex!")

Tidal Wave could destroy Colorado town ... sure, it could happen.

Ex-prisoners in bus abandoned on highway ... (Stay Away from the Treasure!)

30 Day Sex Challenge! ... I'm in. I could easily have sex for 30 days in a row. I gotta find a church with a pastor like this.

Happy Valentine's Day! YEY!

It’s funny how St. Valentine’s Day is one of my favorite days to write about nowadays. Pure love in the air. Birds singing. Raccoons and Foxes making out. Boys passing notes to pretty girls they “hate” in school. Ahhh, what’s not to love about this day? Sure, I could send some email about how candy hearts now say things like “LOL” and “E-mail Me” on them, but not even that can ruin something with the true romantic power of Valentine’s Day. Sure, I’m single, but why should single people ruin it for all those happily married people out there, those couples who are inseparable and happy because they’ve found that special soul mate? It’s Valentine’s Day! YEY!

So today, in honor of this beautiful day (and fellas, I hope you all did something special for your ladies today!) I’m going to tell yet another sad story of my life, a tale of a love lost in the 90s.

It started in High School. There was this blond girl that was everywhere, and man, I had to have her. If I reference the Big Lebowski too much now, just imagine how many, “Schwing!” or “She will be mine, oh yes, she will be mine” references my friends had to endure back then. This girl to this day is nothing short of a blond bombshell. She’s like a cross between Pamela Anderson, Megan from Rock of Love 2, Christie Brinkley of the early 80s, and Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. Okay, that was just put in there to clear the palette I suppose (that’s 3 Wayne’s World references in one paragraph, that will never be topped, nor should it).

If other girls were summer sunshine, she was that first breeze of autumn, the leaves that were changing color, the first snow fall, the first day of spring, the first day out of school when a long vacation begins, the wine glass grasp. She was that first moment when you realize your laundry is done, and it’s the most amount of time before your next wash. Mmmhmm.

Problem is, obviously I wasn’t the only guy to notice this, and she had that special someone, which is great, because it’s Valentine’s Day! YEY!

So, as the 90s continued, I ignored my heart. If there was a Knight in King Arthur’s Court that conquered an entire country for the woman he loved, I was the exact opposite. Senior year came, nothing, college freshman, nothing. Then something happened that threw me, and every other guy that was lusting over her hot body for a smiley face loop. Her obviously not “better half” was caught with another woman.

I couldn’t believe this. To me, this was like trying to get traded from the Lakers to a D-League Team. It was listening to U2 on purpose. It was getting accepted at Harvard, but saying, “I bet Arizona St. has a little more to offer.” Now I had a chance, but was she worth moving over?

Fortunately, this question didn’t even matter, because as soon as I considered it, she didn’t freaking leave her man. Here you have arguably the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid on eyes on, and now she’s with a guy that’s openly cheating on her, and she’s not budging. In normal situations like this, the woman would become more unattractive, but with her it worked somehow. She was so stunning, it almost just seemed as if to say, “Look how much of an idiot he is, he has this, and goes elsewhere! Look at how much of an idiot he is!” I know that was merely me insinuating how it looked, but if she broke up with him, he would’ve quickly been forgotten and couldn’t live a complete life in shame. Man, that really made me want her even more. It could be a Valentine’s Day Miracle! It’s Valentine’s Day! YEY!

I know there are many ladies on my email list, so I don’t wanna get too crazy about just how much lust I had for her. Let’s just say, if I could’ve simply kissed her nice soft cheeks, I would’ve gladly given up Phish and The Simpsons, two of my favorite things in the world back then, in a heartbeat. Just a kiss on the cheeks. Mmmmm.

After the cheating episode is where the story gets lost. I got involved in a serious relationship and I couldn’t really devote that much more of my thoughts to her (though I still did in secret). I noticed she never left her man, and continued leading a nice productive life. Shit, if it were this day and age, after the cheating episode, she could’ve become Generation: B-Spears, but this was the 90s, and all girls had back then to look up to was Madonna when it came time for rebellion.

So, I tell this story today, on Valentine’s Day (YEY!), not to bring up old flames that never happened as just another piece of the Zach Taylor puzzle, but I saw her on TV recently and I was taken aback. She was on that Intervention show … hahahaha, just kidding. Seriously though, when you watch that show, don’t you start rooting for the people with the serious drug or alcohol problem? I do, but then again, I rooted for the warden in Shawshank.

Where I saw her isn’t really important, because there she was, gorgeous, her flowing blond hair, her beautiful blue eyes, her soft cheeks, her supple breasts, her perfect ass and those legs. Oh, those legs. I’m sorry ladies, I know if you’re still reading this, that may make you uncomfortable, and I don’t mean to do that, so I’ll stop. But when you have a crush on Hillary Clinton as I always have, there’s not much else you can do.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY EVERYONE!!!!!! YEY!!!!

Gasparilla #15

Thank God there was no football yesterday. That's all I can say. I did watch "How the Earth Will Be Destroyed" in afternoon and later on, "How the Earth was Created" later that night. "Pirate Invasion" was not one of the ways the Earth could be destroyed, and I was pretty surprised.

I'm going to try to recreate the experience here, from my point-of-view atleast, because well, I'm sure there were POVs somewhere in the hundreds of thousands, and that's not even including people who had multiple POVs within their own eyes. Yeah, Gasparilla.

8:30 - Cannon's start going off, and sounds of joyous Gasparilla revellers livens up the Channel.
9:00 - Troy Cedeno calls. "We'll be there in about 2o minutes." I was still hoping to stay in bed until about 10, but fortunately, this chain of events happened:
9:05 - "Welcome to the Jungle" starts blasting as loud as humanly possible. If I played it on Guitar Hero with my TV sound jacked, it wouldn't have been this loud. I smiled, and realized it was time for Gasparilla.
9:08 - "Welcome to the Jungle" was followed by "Girls, Girls, Girls" which, even though I wasn't at a Gentleman's Club, still seemed perfect for one reason or another.
10:30ish - I start walking to the Channel. Now, I know everyone said Chippewa, but I don't know which D.I. crossroad is which in terms of positioning, I just know I'm close, but this was sweet, because it was a block away. The first street I reached on my walk from my apt, was Chippewa, and the usual gang of pirates was right there. Let me see if I can recall the group:

The bikers - O, Procs and Ted
The Cubans - Troy, Julie and Shannon
then came me
The Tallahassee Man Lassies - Paul, Sean and Don
The Dan Bam Bigelows - Keri, Jaime and Dan

Others who made appearances were Bez and that other guy who comes around the studio sometimes, but I don't know his name.

the Tracy crew was in full effect.

Roy T. Johnson ... YES! This dude though was not very social. Don't know why, but whatever. He was the exact opposite of the Roy I know, aside from his Yankees jacket, and Giants cap. He did say he doesn't live in Tampa though, so any rumors that he moved back here can be put to rest.

As for the invasion, it was a great one. Tons of boats. My personal highlight was Paul Ritchey calling me on his cellphone when he was standing right next to me, and I proceeded to talk to him for a few minutes before I let him know I was right next to him. That was fun.

In terms of the boats, the Coast Guard blocked many after the main ship passed, which created, as Sean Rogers pointed out, one huge clusterfuck. I've never seen a boat traffic jam before, which is basically what happened.

So now the group began to separate. Julie and Shano left, the Dan Bam Bigelows made there way to Dan's apt, which we were trying to get to too, and by we, I mean, me, Troy and the Man-Lassies. The bikers went to this party on the island, which we went to too, and I'm glad we did.

This party, kinda behind Estela's, may have been the highlight of the entire day. On the way to it, some guy on the Channel had this HUGE block of ice, which he was pouring Jaegermeister shots down. Sure, most of mine landed on my face and shirt, but some got in my mouth, and it was good. It hit the spot even. When we got to the party, someone said, "I was wondering when you were going to spill on yourself." When I told that person that it was Jaegermeister, it kinda changed their tone.

First of all, I think y'better watch your tone with me man. I'm Leonard Washington. I don't get butt naked for nobody... (just had to get that in there for no reason whatsoever).

This party had a great band playing in the middle of the Courtyard, with people all along the stairs and what not watching. We ran into many Island people, like Nikki, Teisha, Roy et al. It was great seeing them. I even ran into a couple old college buddies which was cool. We also ran into the bikers, which would be the last time I saw Procter and Ted for the rest of the day ... Owen, that's a much later story.

This is where the trip began. I know I geeked out and made tons of LOTR references all day, and I'll spare you that here, but never watch the Trilogy the week before the parade. There were 5 of us, me, troy and the Man-Lassies.

Our first stop was atop the DI bridge, getting a beautiful view of the ambiance. I believe this was one I first "borrowed" Troy's bottle of rum and took a sip. It was cool up there. Our destination was to get to Corva's party, and find Corey Corral along the way. One of the surprises of Gasparilla in fact, was Marisa came out, who was partying it up with her brother.

So, as we started walking up the back roads to Howard, we took a u-turn so Troy could meet his Alltel people behind Walgreens. The one thing I remembered from driving around the day before, was that this Walgreens was selling hot dogs for one dahra. I gladly ate a dog, and we continued onward.

The highlight of the walk, was "The Girl Who Fell." Oh man, that was awesome. Her and her boyfriend asked me for a beer, and I gladly obliged, and as we continued walking and conversating, the girl just totally bit ass. It was HYSTERICAL once we found out she was okay. There was a moment in there where I thought we were rushing to the emergency room. Like a 4 year old boy who just fell off his bike, she wasn't crying at first, but as soon as she realized we all saw her fall, she started to ball. She thought he knees may have been broken (even though she was standing up fine). I can't stress enough how funny this was, except on this made it funnier. As we continued up the street and took a break a few blocks further, the couple passed us again. As soon as she saw us, we started asking her if she was alright, and BOOM, here came the waterworks again. Good stuff, really.

After about 2, maybe 3 hours of walking (don't remember anymore) we finally found Corey and Marisa. Corey had partied waaaaay to hardy by this point and looked like the Bucs just finished an 0-16 season. Liz was still going though, Kara, not so much. Marisa was fine though, and we hung out on the corner of Howard and Bayshore. At this point, we got some much needed rest. The Dan Bam Bigelow connection found us, and now that we regained some depth, we made it to the Corva party. Good party.

While here, I got into a long talk about this year's Oscar nominations with someone, don't remember who. Also ran into Maude and Jeffrey. Even though Eva's brother and his wife have real names, I just have to refer to them as Jeffrey and Maude. So, it was then I could scratch off "Lebowski" on my Gasparilla "Who I Saw" checklist. Speaking of which - I heard Zoly was there, but didn't see him. Never saw Vince Luongo. We already went over Roy, so that leaves Jose Gaspar, who I'll get to later, Jesus, whom I don't think I saw (Did anyone see Nowicki?), and Heath Ledger, who I guess is really dead, oh well.

Wow, this is getting very long. So anyhoo, while at this party, the "Nu" biker gang formed which was Owen and the Egolfs. This is where everything starts getting a bit hazy.

Many of us entered this vehicle that was half-cab; half-shuttle; half-van and it was supposed to take us to the Island. The dumbfuck got on the crosstown though, so we got caught up in some traffic after having to pass about 3 exists PASSED the one we wanted to get off on because, if memory serves me correctly, THERE WAS A GASPARILLA PARADE finishing up near the island and downtown. He then proceeded to drive us to the Marriot downtown, not the Island, and wouldn't drive us any further. I'm glad I spilled a beer back there. I hope he needs to reupholster is whole half-cab; half-shuttle; half-van like vehicle and it comes out of his pocket.

After hanging at the hotel for a bit, I had my Popeye moment of, "That's all I can stands, and I can't stands no more." So instead of waiting with everyone for another cab, I ran-walked from the Marriott downtown near the Ice Palace to Davis Island (and yes, I beat the cab people).

I'm going to finish the story here, even though it went on. Paul was in needing of passing out on my futon, and I ALMOST left my cooler bag at Yeoman's. I'll end it with this. Jose Gaspar came to me at about 5:00 AM. When he left, I felt much better though.

The Jose Gaspar Code

Okay, so every year I tell the story of why we here in Tampa celebrate piracy once a year, and every year someone says, "Nuh uh" and I respond with a "Uh huh." This year I'm willing to concede a little, because I've uncovered some new information about the holiday.

Jose Gaspar is not a pirate at all! Psych! (even saying that is probably punishable by catapult tomorrow) How awesome would it be, if we took some of the town's worst people, like those who commit crimes on our children (won't somebody please think of the children (9:09)) and after the day parade, everyone gathered downtown and we catapulted them out of town? Who wouldn't watch this? If you elect me mayor., I will make this happen. Under the rule of Queen Iorio, we'll never get the catapult punishment.

Lost my train of thought there. What I learned this past year, is that Jose Gaspar is a member of a secret society, a society of historical importance, because that society knows the secret of the buried treasure ... yarrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Jose Gaspar is a descendant in a pirate lineage that includes Blackbeard, Bluebeard, Captain Ahab, and of more modern importance, it's his illegitimate offspring that have spawned the Neo-Pirates causing trouble off the coast of Somalia.

When Gaspar and his men rested here, and the town embraced them, there was one secret that no one knew about. While everyone was drinking rum and sleeping with captain's daughter ... arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ..., Jose Gaspar went off on a quest in young Tampa to bury the treasure. This was no ordinary treasure either. It held a secret. No one knows for sure what's in there, but rumor has it, it's proof that traces the evolution of man, all the way back to thee one and only correct God. So, after Gaspar hid the treasure somewhere in Tampa, unknown to anyone, he made a map, and went back to the party. Unfortunately, on the way back, some Anti-Sempirametic cops busted him, and threw him in jail. They made fun of his one eye, his peg leg, his beads, his beard, the parrot on his shoulder ... arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr .... They even made him walk the plank, which in an old timey jail cell meant ... I don't know, let's say waterboarding.

While in custody, Gaspar met a couple of local troublemakers named Ennis and Delmar. He was quite concerned for his well being, and promised the two, that if they helped him bust out of jail, he'd share the treasure with them. So, the three broke out of jail and started back towards the treasure. On the way, many things happened. The highlight of which was Ennis turning into a horny toad.

When they got to the place of the supposed treasure, there was a man there, said his name was Sam Walton, and he had purchased that land and was planning on building a chain of stores where you could buy discounted goods at cheap prices. Jose Gaspar almost took out his sword and sliced him right there, which as we all know, would've changed mankind most definitely. Instead, he told Ennis and Delmar that he had made a mistake and the treasure wasn't really there.

As the three continued, Jose Gaspar took them to a place he'd been years before, a nice little house, in a nice little village. When they got there, a gorgeous woman walked outside and the two embraced. He turned to his new friends and said, "Sorry boys, the treasure was true love. CLACKITY CLACK!" Then him and his woman sliced and diced Ennis and Delmar.

Moral of the story, don't be named Ennis and Delmar, because you will most certainly be taken advantage of.