Personal Days

“Hi, Jean, today I will be out of the office. I will be taking a personal day.”

If you substitute “Mom” for “Jean," "in your basement" for "out of the office," and “day of Wilos” for “personal day,” you got my favorite day of the week. (They are also tied for first place with MONdays! Ain’t that right, MONtos! Ya, MON!). Days of Wilos, also known as personal days, occur only on days that end in “y,” and I have had about 225 consecutive Days of Wilos since handing in my senior thesis. Pretty badass, huh?The Day of [insert name] stems from the Greek word fraternity, which is the most awesome-est thing to be invented since Easy Mac, NHL ’94 for Sega Genesis, and lambskin condoms. For the record, I was in a fraternity in college, we were far and away the best on campus, and I recently threw away all of my t-shirts accept for my frat shirts. I mean, fuck, what kinda chick doesn’t wanna hook up with a dude rocking some grey newbies, Mountain Khakis, an Alpha Beta Kickball tournament shirt, and a Kavu visor? Especially if he has scraggly facial hair, is from Texas, has a Skoal ring in his back pocket, and a nice set of dimples. It also wouldn’t hurt if he was the big varsity quarterback in high school.

Anyways, back to the subject of this entry, I must say I am having a good hair day. I mean, I need to cut my pubes. I mean, Lean Cuisine Swedish Meatballs are the silicone tits!

Days of [insert name] are great. Absolutely fucking great. Like, for example, taking one of those really sensual poops. Huh?? I really need to stop leaving my computer open while I fondle my sweaters. But the days are really great. In essence, a Day of You is a day where you do whatever the fuck you want. Literally, anything you want. It usually occurs after a long bender of drinking, most commonly after a long day-drinking session which segways into a raucous night, and such heaters are usually aided by the help of various performance enhancing scenes or salts.

The subsequent Sunday is accompanied by waking up to an apartment with broken bottles, paintballs splattered on the door, a hole in the drywall sculpted by your roommate’s head when he fell up the stairs, and a hangover that, if it were analogized to a soup, would be vichyssoise. Your plans for the day will most likely include, but are not limited to, a session where you and your roommates sit on the couch in your boxers and ripped undershirts trading war stories from the night before and attempting to get back together with your girlfriends via text message, watching football, TJ Kushmanzada-ing, having a nice greasy breakfast at around 4:15pm, and taking tiger snoozes in your parents basement until they kick you out because they want to watch Mad Men and you smell like the inside of the Small Mammal House at the National Zoo.

And that is just the precursor to your Day of You. Once you relieve some tension, listen to Trampled by Turtles, and hibernate for the night, you wake up to the bright lights of the reality that is Monday morning, take a piss, chug a bottle of water, call in sick to work (or, in the case of your humble author, give your poster of Sarah Palin a kiss on the lips), and go back to bed. To quote Devin the Dude, “oh what a job this is.”

Take today, for example. Wilos had a whole shit list of things to do, such as, seeing the light of day, taking a shower, moving into his apartment, getting his first haircut since May, creating his whole high school football team in Madden, and, becoming an NFL quarterback who doubles as a firefighter/astronaut. However, upon waking up from his second nap at 4:05pm, Wilos rubbed his sleepy eyes, looked at himself in the reflection of his parents flatscreen tv, and said, “fuck it. I need a Day of Me.” So, what did he do? Went the fuck back to sleep, that’s what he did. Then, he played some NBA Live 2003, watched some Californication, had a couple of Strawberry Banana smoothies, and ordered an “I Am Legend” poster from allposters.com. Duh…

Anyways, I think you get the point. Basically, every two-thirds of the days-in-a-year-in-a-row or so, you might need a Day of You. And, you know what Yogi Berra said, right? “When you come to a fork in the road, take it!” So, when your alarm clock awakens you just before you are about to release your tension during a lapdance in your dream, turn that shit off! Because, after all, if you don’t go back to that special place where, as the Boss so eloquently described, “you can’t remember, but you can’t forget,” you just might go into the office with a lot of built up tension.

Just be sure to clean up.

The Chat Scene

So, I guess this is moving a little bit into the “social commentary” aspect of the blogosphere, which I never really wanted to get into, because my opinion on the topic of anything holds about as much importance as the four Mott’s apple sauces that I just housed do to anyone who might be so bored at work that they are reading the musings of Wilos. I mean, shit, guess what Wilos thinks about the faux pas of facebook or the new Martha Stewart Cookbook! Damn, Yonder Mountain’s new album is pretty dank (heady, bra! And, this one is true, so you should care). On a side note, when I listen to music when writing I tend to ramble, so bear with me or go back to redtube.

Anyways, the reason that I am writing on a subject of such importance as the “Chat Scene” is because, well, CdM, I just love pickin up some new scene. Also, I was talking to my old skydiving buddy MJB, one of the all-time great party bois. This dude is so cool, that he is up there with Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and Moses, and Wilos as the Top 5 coolest guys in the history of history. On a side note, thank you for happening, history, for without you my thesis wouldn't have been possible. Anyways, I said, “hey mon, my good skydiving buddy, I’m bored, just partyin by myself, have no job or friends, and want to write something stupid in my blog. What should I write about?” And my good buddy said, “hey mon, just write about the old AOL chat scene!”

And I said, “shit! Why the hell has it taken me two paragraphs to introduce this topic?” So, anyways, let’s get to the point. I used to love those AOL chats. This entry probably won’t be very good. We used to get our buddies together back in sixth grade, and it was very exclusive if you were asked by LaxRat16 to join "Sweet, Sweet 6th Graders." We would shoot the shit on topics ranging from football, to which chicks were hot and which had acne (I still do), to football, to which websites had the best (fake) topless Spice Girls pictures, and who just sprouted their first pubic hair (yuck!). By the way, a bunch of friends and I were the Spice Girls for school Halloween in 4th grade. Pretty bold move.

Then, then came the chats with the girls. Now these were fucking awesome. If you got invited by the hot blonde chick who had hit puberty three years before everyone else and had breasts the size of Granny Smith Apples, then you had fucking made it. You were set. You might as well have already accepted your bid to the best fraternity on campus six years later (sick!). Now these chats were where the most important topics on the planet were discussed: Which dance we would be attending on Friday. Whose parents would be willing and cool enough to host the spin-the-bottle party on Saturday. What was the latest horrendous inside joke or nickname that the girls had ingeniously discovered, and that us guys would have to laugh at and pretend was funny. If you weren’t chatting, you might as well resign yourself to a life of getting wedgies by the lacrosse team or getting stuffed into lockers by the football team, and wait until college to try to reinvent yourself as having an ounce of coolness.

Lastly, and these were my favorite, were the “open” chats. The chats that you had to check the box that said “I certify that I am 18” to enter. Now, if you have a pair of testicles and had access to the internet in 6th grade, and you were as sick as my friends and I were at the ripe age of 12, then you know exactly what I am talking about. You had a lot of options, here. You could go into the standard adult chats, the lesbian chats, threesome chats, and even downright weird chats. So, you would lock the door, tell your parents you were studying Latin vocabulary, and pop into your chat of choice.

You would start off by either asking for or responding to the standard “a/s/l?” question. Now, to amateurs, this might be a tricky question, but to those well-versed in the language of desperately-seeking cyber sex, this constitutes an immediate, mandatory roll call for chatters to divulge their “age, sex, and location” Now, let me give you a sample response had I replied truthfully: “12, male, sitting in the top bunk with the lights off so I have time to react if my parents come in.” However, you would naturally spit out something such as “19, m, Los Angeles.” I don’t know why, but it was always LA for me. Musta been the sunny weather. So, you’d hook up with SexxxyBabe6969 who was 21, f, Fort Lauderdale, and open up a private instant message window.

Now, as sexy babe describes her voluptuous and Coke-bottle curvy body, you are combing the Abercrombie and Fitch website for a picture of a stud in the latest fashion to email to your new girlfriend. On the other hand, sexy babe was most likely an overweight, middle-aged lady eating Dominoes Chicken Kickers and guzzling Pepsi out of a 2 liter bottle. Or, worse yet, a rail-thin, middle-aged man who was doing keyboard dusters and running a GPS search on my computer. Hmmm, pretty nice “off-campus house at USC, Wilos, which happens to be located on the east coast...” And, the conversations that transpired from that magic moment are not appropriate for this blog. However, I never got much further then the a/s/l introduction. Never had to. Hmmm.

Anyways, I have provided far too much information on the subject of middle school cyber sex, but I have no shame in general, and nobody knows who this anonymous writer from Wichita, Kansas is, right? Anyways, to wrap it up (wear those raincoats, kids!), it appears as though a revival of the various “Chat Scenes” is upon us. The leaders at the forefront of this glorious movement happen to be Skype, g-chat, smoke signals, and craigslist.

Craigslist, you ask? Just search for my ad under “19 year-old stud looking for hot MILF affair” in the Los Angeles section. I still rock the A and F long-sleeve golf shirt in my pic. Haven’t aged a bit.

The Endless Summer: In Search of the Perfect Rave

First off, I would like to start with an earnest apology to my six loyal readers who have been so fervently craving a steady dose of Wilos’ Blog over the past month and a half. Not surprisingly, I have been a huge bum who has lacked the motivation to “find my voice” and engage in the art of fine composition. In other words, I have been too fucking lazy to “get up off the couch,” “take the Steak and Egg out of my mouth,” “walk up the stairs” to “find my computer” and open a Microsoft Word document. After all, the sole purpose of my computer’s existence of late has been for looking up crunchy concert dates online, watching bukkake with newly-initiated DC Unemployment Line Member CdM, and chopping it. Not to bukkake, that is.

Anyways, now that I have scared off any of the female readership (if the bukkake comment didn’t do it, I would assume that the reference to doing “guy stuff” did…), I can really speak from the heart about all the cool stuff I have been doing the past six weeks, all the hot babes I have been bringing back to my Aero bed, and how cool I am in general. In other words, how utterly pathetic I have been, the bare bones of my intimacy, and how much of a waste of space I am in general. Before I provide whatever amount of details that my slothful mind can produce at this hour, I will give you a quick stat line on the glorious month that has been Rocktober: I have visited my alma mater (college, that is) on three separate occasions for a total of six nights, my alma mater (high school, that is) on three separate occasions, one of which was the opening football game, to which I had to trick my Egyptian friend into going because my high school friends wouldn’t go, and another was the school’s centennial party, where I faceplanted on the d-floor in front of the Headmaster - this after sticking my hands in multiple cakes (desert cakes, those are, not “bu”-kkakes) and bird feeding myself, been fishing twice, hunting once, been to New York a couple of times, saw Widespread/Allman Brothers, P Groove, Yonder Mountain, and then Railroad Earth/Yonder Mountain – all in the span of one week, been to Nantucket, tried Molly (just kidding!), gained about 15 pounds, and a whole bunch of other cool shit that I can’t think of right now. Now I am getting ready to go to a Springsteen concert with my Mom tomorrow night and email some college buddies to see what the undergrads are up to for Fall Break. Man, it’s been a great summer so far.

Looking back on that, I will allow myself to pat myself on the back. Hell of a season, pal, and it’s not even the All-Star Break yet. Thanks, Wilos. How kind of you. I guess I’m too tired (guess the 14 hours of sleep per night isn’t enough) to go into detail about my totally awesome life at the moment, and I am also looking forward to crushing a dozen or so more episodes of Sleeper Cell (great Shotime show about counter-terrorism – a more intellectual 24 if you will) and Community (funny new show on NBC with Chevy Chase – a great line, after Chevy has failed to come up with a “school song” for their community college: “I’m sorry, Jill, I lied. I’m no more of a song-writer than you, or… Billy Joel. I just can’t do it.”) before takin a nice, long Tiger Snooze. However, in light of the grim prospects for respectable uss in the near future due to my horrendous game, I will leave you all with a quote from our high school’s unofficial class mentor, on the subject of taking down rather large women: “Hogging is fine, from time to time, but after a while, it’s no longer hogging. It’s what you do.”


But hey, man, now that I’m pushing 220, I guess if I ever hook up with a girl it’ll be hogging for her… Ha!

Fit for Fall

This week must be a week of epiphanies for me. As I was helping my Grandmother clean out her garage the other day, I happened upon a scale. So, naturally, I stepped on it. “Holy shit!” I gasped under my breath, and, had my Grandma not already turned off her hearing aid out of boredom from my B.S. reasons for not yet being employed, she definitely would have heard this. I quickly looked around to make sure nobody had seen, let the scale recalibrate to 0, and tried it again. Damn. I stealthily snapped a picture on my camera phone for evidence. Ladies and Gentleman, as Ed Harris would say in The Rock, “I shit you not.” This was the reading on the scale:

Wow. I am officially the size of an NFL running back.

If you will pardon my French for a second, when the fuck did that happen?? Although, because of the team’s epic losing streak, it is somewhat embarrassing for me to admit that, my freshman year in college, I played a sport that required you to make weight twice-a-week below 172 pounds. Granted, that was quite a stretch for me, and because my playing weight in high school was around 185 I was forced to spend many a morning running in sweats and spitting in a trash can to shed the last few ounces, but still. Fuck me if I’m wrong because I’m not a genius or anything, but if you do the math here, that means I have put on 40 pounds since the end of my competitive athletic career.

Once again, please excuse the language, but holy shit! Do you know how much that is? That’s almost 25% of my old body weight. Do you know what weighs 40 pounds? A full sack of dog food. A 5-gallon bucket of water. A 40-pound dumb bell. A 5 year-old kid. Think of that. Think of taking a 5 year-old, and swallowing him whole with no digestion. That's essentially what I did. Weird.

I was talking to a buddy of mine from school on the phone tonight who has been complicit in this non-stop, 24/7 life of hot-and-cold-running eating, sleeping, partying, and being in the “supine” position since we handed in our theses, and he came up with a good idea: “Hey Wilos,” he said. “You can look at it as though you are getting ready to hibernate for the winter! I watched a show on Animal Planet about that today. Basically, think of it as though you’ve been going around, gathering berries for your great winter slumber.” Come to think of it, he’s basically right. I (have been, and) am preparing for a long winter to be spent hibernating in my parents’ basement (which we call the “Womb” because of its soundproof walls and dearth of windows that would allow any natural light to seep in) wherein I will probably breeze through a season or three of a TV show on DVD each winter week.

I guess it makes sense. All weekend, my dear sweet Grandmother, who, at 86 years-young, still skis 14 days over Christmas, plays tennis with far better consistency than yours truly, and lifts her small weights every day to stay in shape, was dropping subtle hints that I finally realized were not just cute coincidences but were aimed at saying, in so many words, “Wilos, lose some fucking weight!!” Some of these included: after my sister and I explained to Grandma that the old golf cart was running very slowly, “Well, dear, that’s because there’s so much weight on it…” and, (twice) after playing tennis, “Well, dear, the reason you are so sweaty and need to put down a towel on the chair for lunch is because that’s probably a lot more exercise than you’ve gotten in a while…” As Adam Sandler once so aptly put, “whoa, you gotta love your Grandma.” Bless her heart.

Basically, after taking a step back (waaaay back, so I could properly fit in the mirror) and looking at my reflection, I realized that, with the exception of the occasional jog or exercise-bike ride at school, and perhaps a few 1-2 week stints of lifting weights, I really hadn’t worked out much since the winter of my freshman year of college. In hike skewl I played three sports and was always training for those, and, in fact, like any meaty high school jock in America, I loved to lift. I got pretty big senior year, and my friends jokingly called me “God the Bod” (did I mentioned that I was The Man in high school?). I was even such a tool that I would wear wife beaters underneath my shirt and would jump at any opportunity to remove said shirt (I also enjoyed rocking the occasional lax pinney at the beach like a complete chatch), but that is for another entry that I will write in the near future.

Anyways, since I am a man and, therefore, am as inherently lazy as a sloth, I basically rode out my physical fitness for almost the whole four years of college. And, to be honest, I stayed in alright shape. Sure, I got a tinge of the “frat fat” – a thin layer around what used to be a 6-pack, the patented Galvin Double Chin, and experienced a bit of the redistribution of muscle weight into fat that allows for the transition into a prime example of a washed-up athlete’s body without putting on any significant weight. However, come the time of my senior spring, the jig was up. I had hung on to the fruits of past labors for too long, and the well of metabolism eventually ran dry.

I remember hitting the Big Deuce (two hundo) upon returning from my post-graduation trip to Greece, and, as one my friends noted, “Wilos, you have hit a benchmark that is, for an athlete who is trying to bulk up, one of the happiest days of his life, but for an ex-athlete, one of the most dreadful.” In light of my frame and the circumstances, two bills wasn’t all that bad, and I thought I could turn it around pronto. But, as the dog days of summer wore on, apparently the lbs started to add up.

And sure, I guess I look a little bigger (a number of people this summer have said, “Wow, Wilos, you’re lookin’ thick man, you been hittin the weights?” and I chuckle a bit on the inside), but in reality I’m not that fat. I guess I like to look at it as more along the lines of the “Phat” (pretty hot and tempting) that Chris Tucker popularized in the classic Rush Hour. I do not need to heed Dante’s warning and “all hope abandon” as I enter the fall of 2009. I think as long as I stop sleeping 14 hours a day, eating loads of crap, imbibing large quantities of highly-caloric alcohol on a nightly basis, lying down all the time, and if I add in a little bit of exercise, I should be fine. That, or, maybe someone can sign me up for Nutrisystem for an early Christmas present.

Damnit!

I’m sitting here in the basement of my parents’ house watching the FSU vs. Miami game, and I just had a huge revelation. FUCK! I am no longer in college.

It wasn’t the day that the College Football Preseason Annuals hit the newsstands. It wasn’t summer turning into fall. It wasn’t the actual kickoff of college football season. It wasn’t talking on the phone with friends in younger grades, it wasn’t searching for jobs (haven’t quite “tried that out” yet), or receiving firey emails on my fraternity’s email list about rush parties that are less than a week away. Instead, this epiphany of an oh so tragic truth surfaced when ESPN's camera zoomed in for about four seconds on one of the FSU Cheerleaders.

No, there was not an emotional moment of nostalgia when Neil Young’s rendition of Helpless during The Last Waltz came on the iPod shuffle, and I balled my eyes out (that was 2 hours ago…). It took the visual stimulation of seeing this absolute baberaham, dressed in her skimpy cheerleading uniform, shaking her pom-poms (and what her mother gave her), and having absolutely no idea that there was an instant classic rivarlry football game taking place behind her, for me to realize that I can no longer actively partake in the debauchery that is college.

Not that I would have been able to capitalize, but I no longer have any chance of ever seeing a girl like that, in an environment like that, who is – pardon my language – looking to get plugged by some gigantic football player or some hammered frat daddy later that night. FSU just lost on a last-second play, but fear not: this chick (and thousands of other broads just like her around the country) is still looking to party and hook up tonight, and the highlight of my night will be watching Erin Andrews interview Jacory Harris about his shoulder injury, which he just described as his “funny bone.”

Oh well. I guess at least I don’t have to do homework.

P.S. For a website that boasts a congregation of pictures of absolute smokeshows from SEC schools that will make you wish that you had listened to your testosterone and went to a state school in the south, check out http://poonsec.blogspot.com/

Streaking

Cal Ripkien’s 2,632straight games. The 1972 Miami Dolphins’ undefeated season. Joe DiMaggio’s 56 consecutive games with a hit. Orel Hershiser’s 59 consecutive scoreless innings. Bowling a 300. Pitching a perfect game. Pitching a tent. These are some of the all-time great “streaks.” However, when the sun sets on Monday, September 7, historians will be able to add another great streak to the annals of ass. Wilos will have gone the whole summer without hooking up with a chick.

Damn. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of dry spells (see: TI Initiations and the weeks to follow, sophomore year), but this one is pretty bad. It might not be my longest; but, given the circumstances (recent college grad with no job, a fact that has allowed me to go out any night I see fit), this one cuts deep. I mean, come on, not even a lousy d-floor make-out! Not even a lousy hj under the table at the Olive Garden whilst sharing a Chicken Carbonara and bowl of endless breadsticks!

My last intimate contact with a member of the opposite sex (aside from the goodnight kiss that my mother gives me on the forehead as she tucks me in to the bottom bunk of my bunk beds each and every night) was back in early June. I treated myself to a little “sky rockets in flight” with the broad upstairs after I finished packing up my college dorm room. Thought it’d be nice to give me something to smile about as I bid my school farewell in the rear-view mirror. Smooth, right? Resident Stud Wilos closes down shop with a bang (hiyo!). Gettin ready to slide on in to my post-collegiate victory lap wherein I would be up to my eyeballs in women. Nope. Nothin’.

I dunno what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that I wear a rubber “Livestrong”-type bracelet from my elementary school’s 5-Year Reunion. Maybe it’s the fact that I oftentimes over-serve myself to the point of losing control of my bladder. Maybe it’s the fact that my hair resembles that of Bozo the Clown. Maybe it’s Maybeline!

Whatever the underlying factors, I have come to the conclusion that the reason I am in the throes of this epic summer drought is that I do not posses the slightest hint of what one would call “game.” Boom. I have no game. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Looking back on it, as laughable as it sounds, all of the tail I pulled in high school stemmed from the fact that either a) the girl was a staunch practitioner of the Open Door Policy or b) I was a senior, the BIG varsity quarterback, and, quite simply put, I ran shit. (Cocky, much?)

Take last night, for example. I was out at a bar in Nantucket called the Chicken Box which is, to put it in layman’s terms, packed wall-to-wall with hot soup. I mean, there are some FBI (Female Body Inspector, of course) Certified, Grade A scorchers in there. And that’s the eye candy. My target range is more along the lines of the slightly overweight chick in the corner, eyes rolling back in her head, guzzling her seventh vodka-soda, and dancing by herself. But I can’t even bag that! You wanna know how my night ended?? (Probably not, but…) I ended up on a random beach by my house drinking scotch-and-waters with some bizarre dude that I shared a taxicab with. Hmm.

I really just don’t know how to get with chicks. Maybe you have to “talk to them.” Maybe you have to “spend time with them at the bar.” Perhaps it would behoove me not to be the guy sweating pure ethanol through two layers of shirts because he is running around the dance floor Rabil-ing dudes right and left. I dunno.

So, as I sit here on American Airlines flight number 853 headed for O’Hare Airport (from where our family will drive out to our grandparents farm), it looks like, save for an act of God or an act of incest, Labor Day will come to pass with old Wilos notching an astounding zero hookups in the season that was the summer of aught-nine. In the words of Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers, “hell of a season, pal.” And, with the way things are going, look out Cal, cause this streak ain’t ending anytime soon…

(Eds. Note: credit for picture goes to BJG)

Rule No. 1

I was hanging out this past weekend with a friend of friends in THE City (New York City that is, for all of you who thought I was referring to Des Moines), and I realized that our host and his two roommates referred on two separate occasions to “Rule Number 1.” The guys were very cool, so I immediately ruled out the fact that they might be trampling on the grave of Wedding Crashers by quoting an extremely cliché and oft-overused exchange between Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (what the hell happened to Luke Wilson, by the way?). So, I thought that perhaps the trio had a bro-riffic series of rules forged through years of time spent together, but I used my deductive reasoning to cross this off when I realized that “Rule Number 1” was a joke of sorts.

The usage of “Rule No. 1” came about under the following circumstances: when someone felt bad about something, be it drinking obscene amounts of liquor on someone else’s tab and not paying the person back, engaging in questionable antics with a girl, or committing any act that a girl would be infuriated with, they were “breaking Rule No. 1.” As I’m sure you can see, breaking Rule Number 1 is feeling bad about something. In essence, never feel bad about anything you did that brought satisfaction to yourself or to your friends. The guys accentuated the joke by saying, “what’s Rule Number 1?” “Never feel bad.” “What’s Rule Number 2?” “Never feel bad,” and etc.

Perhaps I have been living under a rock for the last twenty-two years, but I had never heard this terminology and, I’m not gonna lie, I liked it. I believe that this concept would be classified under the family of “Sorry For Partying,” “Never Apologize,” and the more traditional “Fuck you.” Sorry for Partying was a phrase that took its formidable roots at my school on that fateful day that was Fall Lawn Parties 2008, which spilled into an epic night at the fine establishment Winberries, which went hand-in-hand with the ushering in of “Disturbia” as the anthem of the year/my life (citation here goes to a cohort of people, including CJB, EAS, JF, and MJB).

I am quite tired and do not feel on my game tonight, so I will cut this post short by leaving you with a picture. I will throw out a WARNING, as this picture is pretty gross and not for those with a weak stomach. It occurred on the night referenced above, and if the custodian charged with cleaning this up or any residents of Spellman entry 5 are reading this, I offer you my most sincere apologies. For partying.

Wilos' Blog

What I will now write is somewhat of a disclaimer for this mutated beast of a “blog” that I created about a week ago (on a side note, how the hell did they come up with that name, anyway?). I had been out on the town, returned home, had had a few too many pops, and thought it would be funny to rip on people who are a tad too into themselves, as that is a pet peeve of mine (along with Princeton FluFest – citation to MPC). However, after some thought, sarcastically chastising others for behavior which, I’m sure, at one point or another, I myself have been guilty of becomes a) old and is b) probably unhealthy for my general outlook on life.

So, when my lazy ass gets around to it, I will try to change the name of this site to something along the lines of “Wilos’ Blog.” I must admit, I cannot take full (nor, for that matter, any) credit for this ingenious title, as it is similar to the name of a very amusing book that I received from a friend about a year ago (JDB). The book was entitled Rickles’ Book, and it was Don Rickles’, who happens to be, in my esteemed opinion, one of the funniest comedians around, autobiography. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrzJf334rXI&feature=fvw for a scene from the cult classic Dirty Work, wherein Rickles goes off on one of his patented rants.

Anyways, as I can only imagine you have no doubt realized, I tend to ramble a lot and go off on tangents before (and, sometimes, I don’t even get a chance to) I make my point, so I will try to get to it. This will be – if I have the willpower and commitment to write stuff down every once in a while – my blog, and I will write about random stuff. Hopefully the blog will take on some type of an identity (i.e. I will write about either specific things or broad topics), so for the meantime if you happen to be reading this, please bear with me.

Lastly, before I sign off and finish watching The Soloist (great uplifting movie by the way, with Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr.), I will close with one point. I am a firm believer that, in some ways, for a guy like me who happens to be gainfully unemployed, living in his parents basement, and currently lying on his sofa wearing a Mount Lebanon Women’s Lacrosse hoodie, writing a blog is quite narcissistic. I mean, after all, who am I to think that others care what I have to say about the tools that run around Nobadeer Beach in Nantucket? It’s one thing if you are doing something cool like living in Kenya for the year or teaching English in China, but I have little of interest outside of my own rambling thoughts and opinions.

So, please do not take this as a self-interested guy trying to write for the enjoyment of reading his own work (well, not 100%...). I see this as a forum for me to collect some of my jumbled thoughts on paper, keep in touch with my writing, and hopefully find out a little bit about what the hell is going on inside this weird little thing that one might call my brain. And, if I happen to elicit a laugh or two from friends, then all the better.

-Wilos

P.S. I realized that last part sounded a little too self righteous. I was the man in high school.

Awesome!

I'm watching a movie on TV and the leading actress just showed her tits. Nice!

BRO-badeer, continued

So, as promised from yesterday, here are some of the ideas that I have come up with for the Nobadeer project. A few of these are a bit lackluster, because I do not have my right-hand woman with me to stimulate the creative juices, but I will update the post as I get more. Perhaps we will compile these into some sort of T-shirt. Or, perhaps these will be read by a grand total of six people and I will forget about starting this blog by next week.

-Brobadeer: Ya, my Dad still smokes pot. With me.

-Brobadeer: Licenses to Chill accepted here.

-Brobadeer: Where’s your fucking Trin Coll bumper sticker?? Ya, that’s what I thought. Have fun at Cisco!

-Brobadeer: The first rule of Brobadeer is we do talk about Brobadeer. A lot.

-Brobadeer: I remember my first beer. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Beware of pickpocketers and loose flying lax balls.

-Brobadeer: I went to a lax pinney trading show and a beach party broke out. With lots of hot chicks and dudes wearing the same aviator sunglasses. And lax pinneys!

-Brobadeer: That reminds me of the day I drank 100 beers. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Home to shitty D3 laxers playing with fiddlesticks and skimboards since 1992.

-Brobadeer: The water’s warm, the brews are cold, and our fake IDs say we’re real fucking old!

-Brobadeer: So many babes, not enough time.

-I went to Brobadeer and all I got was this lousy hickey from a Seal. On my ass. Bro.

-Brobadeer: Play another Afroman “Because I Got High!”

-Brobadeer: Yo, who brought the acoustic? I wanna hear some JJ.

-Brobadeer: This fucking ATV cop should be mowing my step dad’s lawn.

-Brobadeer: Don’t hassle me. I’m on my fourth straight month of vacation and this economy is totally killin’ the job market. Dude. I mean… Bro.

-Brobadeer: That’s my bro Tommy. He’s always bumpin’ the hardcore country jams. Got all six Kenny Chesney CDs. And one Shania Twain.

-Brobadeer: You ever heard that song, “Six Pack Summer?” Ya, that’s me. And my Bros.

-Brobadeer: If you ain’t got croakies, you either lost them when you were BLACKED OUT last night or should keep on walkin’….

-Brobadeer: Ya, go ahead and try to arrest me for drunk driving on the beach. My Dad is the best lawyer in New Canaan and he’ll see to it that by the end of the month you are jobless, homeless, penniless, and… hairless.

-Brobadeer: Where Bros congregate to face chug Mike’s Hard and tell stories that they vividly remember from when they were blacked out the night before.

-Brobadeer: If I play my cards right with this babe, I might get a bro-job.

It's BRO-badeer, biatch!

A good friend of mine and I were wrapping up a random but enjoyable night in FRATucket – which had included partaking in some illegal activities in her outdoor shower out of a beer can, walking/taxiing in the rain to four different bars in the span of about 48 minutes in search of a female friend who it would please me to see (most likely already have freaked her out with my over-exuberant text messaging, calling, and general existence), and stuffing our faces with some dank Tacos Tacos burritos - when we saw what I will describe to you now:

A tall, skinny, somewhat-awkward-but-definitely-hiding-it-enough-to-woo-the-blonde-hike-skewl-chick-with-braces-and-the-cherished-full-Gatorade-bottle -of-vodka-on-the-STRIP! guy walk into the newly-opened Easy Street Cantina (which is a new combination of Tacos Tacos and Joe’s Broad Street Grill, which now serves breakfast all day and is open until 2am – a great spot for late-night munchies). Immediately, my friend and I begin to crack up, and she mutters underneath her breath in her unique English accent which amounts to a slightly higher level of humor, “we neeeed to get those t-shirts….” Anyhow, upon seeing me approach him, our new friend, entering the restaurant from stage right, almost immediately halts on a dime and recoils into a deer-in-the-headlights look. The guy, who will we call Nathan Nantucket, is your prototypical kid who has just spent his first summer on the island of sin that is ACK. In essence, your prototypical chief. Nathan is wearing a fresh pair of Rainbows, khaki shorts that are too loose for his long legs, has a sailing-rope-type bracelet on one wrist (you know what I mean), a puka shell necklace, has sun-blonded hair, a tan that could only be accumulated through three straight months of sitting on a beach, zero percent muscles or fat, and is wearing a shirt that I will describe to you now:

It is a white t-shirt, naturally too large across the shoulders, girth of chest, and in the length of the sleeves because of his lack of muscular structure. On the front of the shirt (which isn’t even a pocket tee!!), there is a sign. The same type of sign that they have at the Rotary that says “Surfside,” “Town,” “Madaket,” etc with an arrow under it pointing in that direction. However, instead of displaying the name of the area of the island that one might be attempting to reach via vehicle, little Nathan’s shirt said something different. The road sign on the front of Nathan’s shirt that was draped over his delicate little frame said one word, and one word only. And if you know Nantucket, you know this word, and if you know this word, and you are remotely cool, and you see Nathan stroll into the Cantina after a night cruising the Strip, typing some text messages to himself into his new Samsung Sidekick, and almost bagging Lucy who works at the Juice Bar, you know that this shirt might as well have had a road sign with an arrow that pointed to the owner of the shirt that said, in big, bold letters: “TOOL!” That word, my friends, is the one. The only. The most kick-ass beach on all of the island (and, for that matter, in the entire fucking world – yup, beat out the Hamptons, the OC, AND Surfside, SC). "NOBADEER."

So, my apologies for the long introduction, but I have nothing else to do and, for those unfamiliar with Nantucket, the life of a young partier trying to find his place in this wild world, Nobadeer, douche bags, talking about how much you like to drink and party, I just wanted to paint the picture. Nobadeer, aka BRO-badeer, is one of the few beaches on Nantucket (and, for that matter, I believe, on the east coast, which is pretty cool) on which you can drive your truck or SUV. This adds a fantastic dimension to your day at the beach with the additions of power, louder music, a place at which to congregate and a staging area from which to play outside drinking games, a larger compartment in which to transport your food, drink, beach accessories, and friends, and a vessel which facilitates travel to a nice spot on the beach without having to exert effort. And, of course, a sure-fire layup of an opportunity to drunk-drive home before showering before dinner with your parents. Just kidding. No, but seriously.

So, naturally, the hordes of high school, college, and post-collegiate frat stars that inhabit Nantucket during the summer months migrate toward this strip of beach on the southeast corner of the island, located directly underneath the path upon which airplanes fly to and from the airport (adding a further Wayne’s World/heady aspect to your time spent relaxing underneath the sun). And, all of the above provides an excellent recipe for a great time. And, as any fun kid who has done a tour of duty on Nantucket knows, there is nothing like a day at Nobs.*

HOWEVER, and as the above asterix insinuates, there is a catch. This glorious conjunction of positive positivity comes with a hanging chad: There are a ton of d-bags that partake in the party atmosphere of Nobadeer Beach. Thus, one must take caution when approaching the subject of Brobadeer. In a short sentence (because I am getting tired), there is nothing that screams “I am not cool, simply a jabroni, faux bro (citation: The Beer Lodge), chief, tool, etcetera etcetera” louder than overdoing something without sarcasm, being 100% cliché without sarcasm, and being… well… just not cool, an asshole in general, think you’re cool when you’re not, and, ya… any of that stuff.” (Sense the sarcasm??) So, while by no means should you let the fact that a contingent of posers spoil a great thing by overcrowding and drawing too much attention to themselves deter you from enjoying an amazing day at Nobs, just be careful when you talk about it and about who you might encounter there.

Anyhow, seeing Nathan walk into the Easy Street Cantina, most likely before he sprints to his house to chew on peanut butter and swallow Listerene to make curfew and to avoid missing another awesome night out on the Strip because he was grounded, prompted my friend and I to come up with ideas for a sarcastic shirt or, perhaps, an expose satirizing the anti-bros that take up space on a great party spot (when taken for what it is). Due to time constraints on my computer’s battery I will not write those down at this time, but my friend and I hope to knock heads (and, perhaps, boots!) tomorrow and come up with some ideas. We already have a design for the shirt and some ideas, so stay tuned.