I only own one suit.  This isn’t really a problem since I don’t wear suits that often.  But just in case I, say, have to wear said suit on consecutive or near-consecutive occasions (e.g. a second job interview), I have a few different shirts and ties that go well with the suit, as to give the appearance of different outfits.

Unfortunately, I bought the suit, the shirts, and the ties a few years ago when I was looking for work.  Apparently, since then, I have put on some weight.  Sure, I was aware of my weight gain before I put on the suit, but I wasn’t aware of which body parts had increased in size since the weight gain.

I had a job interview to go to a few weeks ago, so I pulled out my trusty suit and fancy shirts and started to get dressed.  The shirt felt a little snug around the old stomach region, but this wasn’t much of a surprise.  What surprised me was that I couldn’t for the life of me button the very top button.  You know, the button at the collar.  I couldn’t fasten it, couldn’t get it through that lousy hole.  Apparently, my neck is fatter than it used to be.

When you put on pants that are a little too small in the waist, you can suck in your gut.  No problemo.  But I soon learned that you can’t really suck in your neck.  Very difficult if not impossible to do.  So, I fought with this button (I thought about leaving it undone behind the tie knot, but then I worried I would look like a slob).  I had to try and then retry getting the dumb thing fastened.  I had to take breaks in between attempts.  It was ridiculous.

Finally, I buttoned the button.  Yes, the collar was a little snug, but damn, I looked good.

The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here.  It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater.  I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher.  I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors.  It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater.  She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school.  Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired.  This usher, however, was different from the rest of us.  His name was Peter.  Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes.  He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow.  His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out.  I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage.  It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little.  But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around.  He also liked to talk up the female workers.  Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her.  Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter.  That’s nice of you to say.”  Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said.  “You know him.  He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.”  And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him?  You can do much better!”

Ouch.

If you aren’t already aware of my ongoing battle with my car’s tires, then read the following previous posts: My Troubles with Tires (Part I) and My Trouble with Tires (Part II).

So, after replacing literally every one of my car’s four tires, the cruel hand of fate decided to play yet another tire joke on yours truly…

It was a Friday afternoon.  I had worked all day, and was looking forward to going home.  My coworkers and I left the building at 5pm.  But then, as I approached my car, I noticed the driver’s-side rear tire looked a little low.  At first, I thought it was a trick of some kind, a mirage, a product of my imaginative faculties.  Surely, the air in the tire was just a little low!  Certainly I didn’t have yet another flat tire!

But, my friends, the tire was flat.  There was no way I could drive on it.  I shook my head, incredulous.  I turned around and walked toward my coworker D___.  Guess what? I said, and I told her I had a flat.  She, being privy to this blog and my other tire woes, was in disbelief.  Then my boss L___ approached.  I told her, yes, I have another flat tire.  And L___ being privy to this blog and my other tire woes…laughed.

Normally, I am a man of good humor, but at this moment in time, I found it hard to laugh along with L___.  Some time later, after I removed the flat, I noticed that I had not one but two nails jammed in the tread.  Some guys have all the luck.

But wait! I said to myself later when I went to the tire shop.  Surely, those two nail holes could be plugged!  Certainly I wouldn’t have to buy yet another new tire!  But, alas, the one nail hole was too close to the edge of the tread, and yet another new tire (number five?) was bought.

Woe is me.

Sorry for the lack of updates recently.  I wish I had some kind of awesome excuse for why I haven’t updated this blog in a few months, but I don’t.  Honestly, I’m just lazy.

I have a younger brother, and as kids we fought all the time.  No big deal really.  A few inept punches  thrown (few landed), perhaps a wimpy kick or two, and a lot of rolling around on the ground.  But there comes a time in almost every young man’s life when he has to engage in a fight with someone who isn’t his brother (or sister, for that matter).  Some young men actually yearn to engage in fisticuffs with another person and relish the idea of beating the crap out of someone.  Then there are those who fear fighting.  Intensely.  As a short, underweight kid with braces and glasses, I was one of those kids.

One afternoon after school—I guess I was in 5th or 6th grade—myself and three friends got together to play a game of backyard football.  There was Dave, Justin, Adam, and myself.  Now, at one point during the game, Dave and Justin got into an argument.  I don’t remember what they argued about.  All I know is that they ended up rolling around in the grass together.  No punches were thrown, just two dudes rolling around on the ground.  Adam and I watched together and laughed.  How ridiculous! we thought.

Then, Adam looked at me, smiled, and asked: “Hey, do you want to rumble?” (Yes, he said “rumble.”)

Judging by Adam’s smile, I assumed he was joking, so I said, “Sure.”

Next thing I knew, Adam had put me in some kind of hold to keep me from moving.  I squirmed around a bit and managed to break free.  I turned and looked at Adam.  He was no longer smiling.  He looked serious.  Surely he wasn’t expecting us to really fight, was he?  But before I could make any sense of what was going on, Adam squared up and punched me right in the eye.  (Remember, I was wearing glasses).  I hit the ground like a sack of dirt.  Adam stood over me.

“What the hell?” I managed to say.

“Asshole,” Adam said.

Completely dumbfounded, I stood up, covered my eye with my fingers and told Dave I was going home.  Walking home, I thought, was that a fight?  Was that my first fight?  I didn’t even know it was a fight!  Had I known, I would’ve at least tried not to get punched in the eye.  But, alas, that’s what happened.  And it suddenly occurred to me that come the next school day, Adam would tell everyone how he punched poor me in the eye and how I did nothing and just went home.  And that, my friends, is exactly what he did.

In my sophomore year of college I was single.  Just like my freshman year…and my junior year…and my senior year.  Now, this wasn’t for lack of trying, but I just seemed to have bad luck when it came to the ladies during college (or any other time for that matter).  Here’s a typical example…

I met a girl on the train during one of my trips back to Mechanicsburg.  She was my friend’s roommate, and for the life of me, I can’t remember her name (Kathy?  Kate?  Kat?).  Anyway, she was a moderately attractive redhead, who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say during that train ride despite the fact that I was a longhaired, beret-wearing (I wish I were joking), film-student doofus.

I never saw much of this girl after that train ride, except for a few random passing-bys in the dormitory and on campus.  But when the new semester started, I saw her, much to my surprise, in my Eastern Philosophy class.  We would talk occasionally, but not too often because this was an early morning class and she was either usually late, asleep, or absent all together.

One time during the semester, I noticed that she missed two classes in a row.  My brain quickly worked up a plan.  I would approach her after class, ask if she needed notes from the classes she missed, and then maybe work up the nerve to ask her out.

The next time the class met, she was there.  I meant to get her attention after class, but she somehow  exited before I could say anything.  So, I followed her.  Then, just before I got up the nerve to approach her, it happened.  A tall, jock-looking guy in track pants waved at her.  She saw him, smiled, ran into his arms, and planted a big kiss on his lips.  So much for my plans at romance.

Oh, and just for the record, I don’t consider this a total tale of woe only because I luckily managed to avoid asking a girl out who already had a boyfriend, which is much worse.  How do I know?  Because in my lifetime, I’ve managed to ask out three different girls who, unbeknownst to me, were already dating someone.  And that’s much more embarrassing for all involved.

Here’s another example of why I don’t like clubs…

So, once again two of my female friends (the same ones from Dancing Machine) dragged me to a club, this time a club in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.  Once again, off the top of my head, I can’t remember the name of the club, which gives you an indication of the impression it left on me.  At any rate, at this point in the evening, I was tired of dancing and was leaning against the wall in a darkened section of the club, drinking a beer.

From where I was standing, I could still see my two friends dancing.  This club, if I recall correctly, had these platforms (with vertical bars) interspersed throughout the club where only girls were allowed to dance.  Kind of cage-like, I guess.  Anyway, while I was watching my friends from afar, I saw an African-American gentleman in oversized clothes approach my then-ex-girlfriend, who was still in one of those cage things.

This guy started chatting up my friend, which was fine with me, but then my friend starting pointing in my direction as if to say, “I’m here with him.”  Now, technically, I was there with her, but not in any kind of romantic capacity, so I was kind of annoyed that I was being singled out.  Leave me out of it, I probably thought.  Anyway, the guy stepped away from my friend for a moment but then returned moments later with what appeared to be a piece of paper and a pen.

He approached my friend again and was ready to either get her number or give her his own.  Again, my friend pointed me out to the guy as if to say, “No thanks, I’m here with him.”  Yes, me.  The short, wimpy guy standing in a dark corner looking totally uninterested in what is going on.  So, this guy gives me a strange, smug look then proceeds to write his information on the piece of paper before handing it to my friend as if to say, “Who?  That guy?  Whatever…here’s my digits, baby.”

What the fuck?  If I was my friend’s date, this guy’s move would have been a total slap in the face.  At this point, I had a vague urge to throw my beer bottle at this guy or at least the crowd in general and run for my life.  But instead I probably just sighed, took a sip of my beer, and tried to look inconspicuous.

Stupid clubs.

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post…

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.

When I was a kid, man, did I love baseball! Loved everything about it. I studied stats for hours. I stared at pictures of great players. I collected baseball cards. I dreamed of playing baseball, dreamed of the sound of the ball smacking an oiled mitt, the crack of a bat, the cheers.

Unfortunately, when it came to actually playing baseball, I stunk. I was so small I could barely hold the bat off my back shoulder. My swing was awkward, as was my gait around the base path. I couldn’t catch for a damn, either. And despite hours of practice with my usually impatient father, I wasn’t getting any better. However, my father and I persisted. Take that boy out of right field, we dreamed! Put him at the top of the order! Let him smack a few dingers over that chain-link fence!

One afternoon while my family was visiting my grandparents in New Jersey, my dad took me out into the backyard for some baseball practice. That day’s lesson: learning how to dodge an errant pitch. Now, despite the fact that I rarely connected with the ball, I still got on base frequently, mostly due to the fact that the pitchers were wild and my strike zone was practically nonexistent. But I was getting hit by a lot of pitches. And to make matters worse, I usually cried after I got beaned; and that was embarrassing for all involved.

So, there I was in the backyard, my bat on my shoulder, dodging pitches from my father thrown intentionally at my person. Now, around this time I had the strange penchant for placing a blade of grass in between my lips and occasionally chewing on it. I guess this was my substitute for chewing tobacco or sunflower seeds. Anyway, my dad threw a wild pitch, which headed straight for my helmetless head. I jerked away, stumbled, and fell on the grass. It just so happened that when I hit the ground, I managed to swallow that blade of grass in between my lips. Except, I soon realized due to a peculiar scratching in my throat, that I didn’t completely swallow the grass. In fact, as I soon realized upon going inside and looking in the mirror, that the blade of grass was stuck, yes stuck, to my uvula (usually referred to by many as “that hangey thing in the back of your throat”).

And no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the grass unstuck. I tried drinking copious amounts of water. I tried eating and swallowing excessively. I even tried to pull it out with my fingers, but, of course, this proved impossible because doing so made me gag. Unbelievable, my family collectively groaned. Another embarrassment, another baseball failure.

Ultimately, I had to go to our family doctor who, after proclaiming he had never seen anything like it, took out a pair of lengthy tweezers and effortlessly removed the blade of grass from my uvula.

I never did get any better at baseball, and I hung up my cleats for good after one last embarrassing season where I batted a mean .000 (yes, I never actually got a hit).

P.S. Go Phillies!