Effin' Sweet

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Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Don't Rain on My Parade!


"Are they done, yet?" Tom's ears are always open to dissenting opinions.


The following statement is entirely accurate: I Love Metallica! Metallica is awesome! Disagree? Who cares?

There was never a man alive who loved a lively debate more than me.

Uh, no.

Actually, I run screaming like a Brownie Scout from any trace, rumbling, or inkling of confrontration, disagreement, or altercation.

Though I possess my own firmly-held beliefs in this ever-increasingly marginalized political and moral atmosphere that we live in, I have no desire to push them on anyone else, or to try to change anyone else's mind. Debate can be good, when engaged in thoughtfully and respectfully, in bringing clarity to certain subjects.

However, there are certain subjects, like art, whose absolute value cannot logically or reasonably be argued or debated. By art, I mean that which has no practical use other than to entertain. This would include paintings and drawings, sculpture, books, movies, theater, music, and television. I suppose there are myriad other forms of art that can be mentioned, but I know I'm already losing some of you ("...maybe it's time to get back to work," you're thinking) and there's a point I'm trying to get at.

One painting is not objectively better than another. Nor is one song better than another song based on some universal value-system of goodness. Art is subjective. Art's value is found in the eye (or ear) of the beholder. Some people think Leonardo Da Vinci was the greatest painter ever, some think it's Pollack. Some people love Justin Timberlake, and some people, Marilyn Manson. Who's right? They all are. If you personally like something, who's anyone to say that you're wrong to like it? Can a song's value really be debated? All that can be objectively declared is the "success, or popularity" of a form of art. But just because something is popular or made a lot of money, does not affect your personal appreciation of it. Have you ever heard someone say, "Oh, well, when you put it that way, I guess the song really sucks, after all. I wonder why I liked it in the first place?" One cannot be persuaded not to like a certain form of art.

Art is personal. It's something that strikes you. And it becomes a personal thing to you, something that reflects on you. Many people even define themselves by the art which entertains them. "I'm really into Michelangelo" "I'm really into Dr. Dre." "Polka is my life!"

So my gripe, which is something I never got around to in a previous blog entry, is the irritating people that come around and start bashing stuff I happen to like. I went to see Star Wars, Episode III the very night it opened. And the very next day, I had to listen to nerds complaining about it. Screw you guys, I liked it. Does that make it "good"? No, because no movie can be determined to be good, because it's all a matter of opinion. And if your opinion of a certain movie or song happens to drastically differ from mine, then I don't want to hear it!

Honestly, why people feel the need to play critic is beyond me. Whenever the subject comes up in regards to a movie, or band, or show that I don't happen to like comes up, I always preface my possible denouncing by asking what others thought of it. If someone likes it, I keep my mouth shut. What kind of jerk bashes something that brings joy to another? What did Mom always say? "Shut Up!"? No, the other thing, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Which is a good piece of advice... for chatting about the merits of Everybody Loves Raymond... and not such great advice if you're a political activist. But you see what I mean. Don't rain on my parade, people!

Most of the time, these parade rainers do so unwittingly. But then there are some that feel the compulsion to press on with their diatribe after I or someone else voices a different, favorable opinion.

Me: "Metallica is my favoritest band ever!"
Parade Rainer: "Metallica f*cking sucks!"
Verdict: Guess what? You suck. Seriously, what are you doing, trying to change my mind, or something? "Oh right, they do suck! What was I thinking?" Uh, no. The only opinion you're changing is the one I have for you. It shows that you're insensitive and purposely contrary.

I really can't stand purposely contrary people. They get their jollies by sowing discord. And that's really not nice.

Me: "Batman Begins was fantastic!"
Parade Rainer: "The new Batman movie was the gayest thing I ever saw!"
Verdict: You know, you're right... I never realized how gay it was until you brought it up. It was the gayest thing since pink bike seats. Thanks for enlightening me. Those are two hours I'll never get back... Uh, nope again.

I've found that the nay-sayers for both Batman Begins, and Star Wars Episode III also happen to be the same people who went to go see them opening night. Why be so eager to watch something only to tear it down? I think a lot of people can only feel good about themselves if they're criticizing something. In the case of a movie, especially a fantasy film, involving a guy who dresses up like a winged mammal and fights bad guys, or involving spaceships and people in brown robes dueling with laser swords, you go because you want to give yourself over to the experience, to lose yourself in the story. If you're hanging back, snickering over a bit of dialogue or a piece of special effects, then you're completely missing the point of the movie experience. And then you go out after it's over and put down something others really enjoyed. What's your problem, guys?

This is, of course, not to say that I don't have my standards. There've been movies that have disappointed me... but I'm not going to start bashing it until I know that everyone present also disliked it.

Also, maybe I'm only speaking for myself. There are many others, I'm sure, that don't take things like a movie or a music band so personally, and can quite easily listen to dissent without getting defensive. But I've always taken criticism of something I liked, like a TV show, or movie, to heart, and it always bothered me. So I've grown to be sensitive (maybe even over-sensitive) about the subject.

But I'll never rain on anyone's parade. I promise you!

And here is a link which holds videos that does exactly what I've been complaining about "You Have Bad Taste In Music" (Pretty funny, though.) Thus, this article has now been rendered meaningless.

Feedback Question of the Day:
"What is your biggest pet peeve when it comes to people's social behavior?"

Monday, June 20, 2005

Bachelor Party Embedded Reporter Tells All!


That's How We Roll in Jim Thorpe, PA. Tom brandishes his fearsome, pink-plugged paintball pistols on a bleak morning at Skirmish USA.

They say war is a cruel mistress... a devouring beast that no man, or army, or country, or even ideology, ever truly wins. Yes, they say there are only losers in war, as transient, pyrric victories pale in the wake of the pointless cost in life...

...war is hell.

But then again, it's pretty frickin' awesome, too.

My name is Tom Crimmins, and I served as an embedded reporter for "Effin' Sweet" this past weekend, at the bachelor party of Jason Gutierrez. There, I witnessed what no man should ever see, and experienced things that would render lesser individuals dead, or at the very least painfully maimed for life and wishing to be dead. The hardiest man's endurance was tested, and in the ensuing trial by fire, we emerged with a stronger appreciation for life... and copious amounts of alcohol.

How I didn't go blind is anyone's guess...

Let's Start Things Off With Sleep Deprivation!

Jay and I took part as guests at Andrea's and Chris's wedding this past Friday. A delightful affair, to be sure... but a dubious event to start off the weekend, as well. For we were to proceed the very next day to celebrate the Jay-man's bachelor party. And we all must agree that it's hard to switch gears from celebrating the beauty, hope, and love of a wedding, and then the very next day wallow in our testosterone-drenched crapulence and dirty jokes and not showering and wiping our noses on our sleeve and leaving the toilet seat up and not caring, etc, etc. Most guys might have cracked under the stress of such paradox... somehow we survived. I think we have tequila to thank.

We ended up getting back from the wedding that Friday evening (which, technically, was Saturday morning) at 2AM, agreeing with Mike Herlihy to wake up at 6AM to head up to Tarrytown, NY to meet up with Jay's best man, Chris. Do the math, people... we weren't gonna get our 8 hours that night. I had stayed over at the Herlihys' because I completely didn't trust myself to wake up on my own, and so relied on the more responsible Jay or Mike to give me a healthy kick to the ribs to get me going at 6. (To get me going... or to send me to the emergency room... there is thin line between the two.)

A Brush With Near-Death... Before Breakfast!

Incredibly, it all worked out, and we headed up the ol' Taconic to meet up with Chris. I had the opportunity to sport my brand-new black, white, and gray urban camo pants for the paintballin' that morning, and was feeling pretty spiffy. Jay had his own paintball gun that he recently appropriated from ebay. For a nickel, I could touch it. When we arrived in Tarrytown, Chris hadn't arrived yet, so Jay invited Mike and I up to his brand-new, swanky apartment. It was part of multiple-home compound (it's hard to explain... it was sort of a hive-like conglomeration of individual dwellings connected with various terraces, walk-ways and stairs). After the trip from Douglaston, Jay was in a bit of a hurry to get to his apartment (for the sake of his privacy, I won't divulge why he rushed in so fast on this blog... Okay, he had to pee.) He gave Mike and me sort of vague directions in, as he disappeared into the labyrinthine alleys into the compound. I walked in with Mike, still carrying Jay's gun. I found the first door that more-or-less corresponded to Jay's hurried instructions, and pushed the door in. At that moment, looking into what was obviously some stranger's home, I realized the precarious situation I was in... a bleary-eyed, scruffy-headed goon wearing urban camo pants and carrying a gun, bursting into a complete stranger's home at 7AM. If I happened upon any of the apartment's residents, I was going to get shot if I went any farther. Killed and/or arrested, most likely. Thus, I retreated and waited with Mike at his car until Jay returned. Disaster was narrowly averted. Probably.

Paintball's Fearsome Foursome

Chris finally arrived and we all headed out to Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania... home to Paintball Skirmish USA. This would mark my third visit there, and my second in this past year. Though somewhat experienced in paintballing, I had never gone during the summer, and was excited about not having to worry about frostbite, but concerned about how much I was going to stink to High Holy Heaven after sweating buckets in a thick, one-piece camo fatigue jumpsuit in the woods all day. My previous trips to Skirmish were spoiled a bit due to my incredible luck in finding the single mask in the entire compound that fogged up whenever it was put on. You know how adults used to always spoil your fun by warning you that whatever you're playing with will "put your eye out"? Yeah, well... paintballs actually do that. "When a small, semi-hard projectile hits your face at a 100-plus miles-per-hour, either you go blind, or you die." These are the actual words spoken during the token safety lecture by the paintball ref while riding the bus to the fields. While paintball is fun, it's more than mildly dangerous, and eye-cover is absolutely necessary. Thus, fogged up goggles really freakin' sucked.

But fog they did not, this time, and the power of sight was granted to me on this, my third visit to Skirmish. So I was stoked. Plus, the dense foliage added to the excitement of trying to out-flank our opponents. I've learned in my visits here, that I'm not particularly good. At 6'2," 230 pounds, I don't exactly have stealth on my side. Put I've learned to play smart, and conservative... and it served me fairly well. My favorite moment was during the second match, when our team was responsible for guarding the flag which was set up on a small "island" surrounded by a shallow creek, connected to the rest of the field by two narrow bridges. The creek stretched across the entire field, and was choked with boulders and low scrub. Seizing the opportunity, I went maverick and crept along the bottom of the creek (trying in vain not to soak my boots too much) in the hopes that I might have a shot at glory. Silently scuttling from rock to rock, I advanced through the field with paintballs buzzing all above me. I could tell that no one had actually spotted me, and it soon became apparent how far I had made it. Suddenly, after a flurry or shooting and several of my teammates were dispatched, all became silent. I chanced a quick glance and lifted my head from the riverbed to scan the surroundings. To my left, one of my opponents was creeping towards my base. The guy was only 15 feet away, and was wholly unaware of my presence. In all my times paintballing, I've never shot a guy. I never had a chance. Now, bogged down in mud and water, flat against the side of a creekbed, I had my chance. I raised my gun, zeroed in, and squeezed off three rounds...

::FWOOT FWOOT FWOOT::

...right into the guy's guts!

WAR! It's FAN-tastic!

The primitive joy that erupted within me... I had felt nothing like it before. I took the savage satisfaction in dispatching a breathing, living opponent. The guy was stunned... he looked down at his splattered stomach, it had come out of nowhere. Then he looked over at me with an incredulous expression peering from behind his goggles.

What else could I do? I gave him a little wave.

Of course, my death-dealing did not go un-noticed, and his comrades came gunning for me. I was now trapped under one of the bridges, hiding from behind a pair of trees... paintballs skittering into the shallow water on either side of me. I tried to get a bead on them around the tree, but they were invisible in the brush. As I raised my head to get a better shot... BANG! I took a paintball to the back of the head. I raised my gun to signal I had been shot (I didn't want to get hit again... those things sting!) and looked over at who had gotten me. The guy was hiding in a ditch, and as I walked past him towards the dead-zone, he apologized for hitting me in the head. I said, "No problem," and gave him a high-five. That's paintball, brother... Oh yeah.

The day progressed quite well, and I even managed to take out another guy or two (seeing really helps, let me tell you!). We all ended up making a good account of themselves, with both teams getting one win a-piece, and three ties. The last game was The Castle... but that's a whole other story all together.

Chris's Simian Stripper Surprise

Before we left Skirmish that afternoon, Chris had confided in me that he had a surprise in store for Jay. Now, Jay had laid a couple of guidelines for Chris when he was planning the bachelor party. "No strippers, Chris." But Chris felt obligated to pull off some crazy stunt for the groom, and so a plan was formed. Jay's two college roommates, Mike and Brendan, had canceled out on Jay's bachelor party for various reasons. Chris arranged to have the two of them arrive in Tarrytown without Jay's knowledge. He then rented two gorilla suits for them to show up in after we got back from paintballing. Chris asked me at Skirmish to go on a mission: We would stop at a Target on the way back to Tarrytown, on the pretense of picking up audio cables for Jay's surround-sound entertainment system back at his apartment. While there, I'd be responsible for picking up two sets of XXL bikinis for the gorilla-suited buddies to wear. I agreed. Maybe a little too eagerly.

Now, I must have looked pretty sketchy, lurking around the plus-size woman's underwear department at the Tarrytown Target, picking out the most outlandish unmentionables I could find. I'm sure there were more than a few mothers whisking their impressionable children away from me, a foul smelling dirtbag in a GI Joe shirt, urban camo pants, and filthy boots. But when I finally found my shiny-gold panties, I knew I struck paydirt, and quickly headed up to the register to pay for my bizarre goods. (How's that for a sentence you never thought I'd write?)

When we finally made it back to the apartment, we cleaned ourselves up and were joined by Chris's dad, Jenna's dad, and Jay's dad... cool guys, all. Everyone was in on the surprise, and we all sort of hung around the living room, making small talk, trying to stall the increasingly agitated Jay. It was 9PM, and we hadn't yet headed out for dinner and drinking. He paced around the apartment, not knowing what the hold-up was, as Chris mysteriously had disappeared under the pretense of "going out for some beers." When he finally returned, Chris smoothly came through the front door and said, "Jay, here are your strippers."

In come these two gorillas in bikinis, gyrating their way through a roomful of hysterically laughing men. Words can't adequately convey a scene with two man-sized monkeys giving your buddy a lap-dance and waving their butts in his face. A Mastercard commercial could probably be found in this: "2 Gorilla Suits, $60...2 XXL Shiny Gold Bikini's, $60...Getting a lapdance by your two former college roommates dressed as Gorilla Strippers, PRICELESS."

AL, Bachelor Party MVP

As I previously mentioned, the dads were all there. Chris's dad, Al, was in attendance, and I immediately registered the obvious that he was a totally cool guy. Little did I know at that time, how cool he truly was. I would soon find out. We headed out to a riverside bar and grill to eat dinner and begin our night of drunken debauchery. Al drove Chris's van with us idiots as passengers. Mike and Brendan, the two strippers, were already pretty amped-up... mainly because they had arrived early (3PM instead of 6PM) and had spent the day drinking at a local bar. We started off the drinking with a fairly dangerous selection... a round of tequila shots. I decided to make a record of all drinks and foods, by summarily dropping a bit of all of them on my pants. Not on purpose, of course... just because I'm a complete klutz. But thanks to my stained pants, I can tell you with complete certainty that we drank a shot of tequila, got hamburgers, had gin and tonics, Bud Lite... and then apparently took a brewery hostage. It would turn out to be Al who drove us around for the rest of the night, deftly chaffeuring us from establishment to establishment, regaling us with his heroically enormous collection of dirty jokes. We closed down a couple of bars that night. We rocked out to Dio. We dangerously switched from liquor to beer to liquor again. Then back to beer once more. Brendan made a couple of marriage proposals to bartenders and patrons alike. Mike and I played drunken pool. And at the end of the night, the diner owner sequestered our whole gang to the darkened back room so we wouldn't disturb his other guests at 4:30 AM. And Al was with us the whole time. Thank you Al, for making our drunken antics possible... and mobile, swerving through Tarrytown from bar-to-bar, us rolling around in the seat-less back area of Chris's van, howling incoherently.

And no one threw up.

And, seriously, how I didn't go blind is anyone's guess...

So far, I have not met a single Al who is not awesomeness personified.

Feedback Question of the Day:
"What's your favorite anecdote of rowdy, late-night revelry? Who was there, and what made it so memorable?"

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Put Down Those Horns Before You Hurt Yourself


This is how it's done: Tom "Group-Hug Horns" , Brian "Pimp My Horns", Jim "Two-Fisted Horns", Matt "Too Cool to Put Up the Horns", Mike "Crouching Horns", Wayne "Wild-Buckin' Horns", and Chris "Okay, Take-It-Easy Guys-Horns" hail satan after finishing Catholic High School in 1997!


Pandemonium Ensues on Sesame Street. Holding aloft "The Horns," a group of wide-eyed young lads are full of hope and promise... and utterly empty of any sort of street cred. Seriously. Give it up, fellas.Posted by Hello

Okay, you know what? I have to get something off my chest.

The Devil Horns? We're taking them back.

Party's over, kiddies. It's time for adult swim.

It lately has occured to me how the once "scary" gestures of "the horns" has been essentially co-opted into a bland sign of MTV-approved, committe-formed, conformist "rebellion." Be a unique, radical metal-head! ...just like everyone else!

Maybe I'm just a crusty-ol' 26-year-old who's lately wandered into a Hot Topic store, or has been forced to view a cable program hosted by "Metal Mistress" Juliya, or simply have been in far too much contact with the dull-eyed youth of today that have essentially been accosting all the treasured fashions, music, and various social graces of our heyday... we, the children of the '80's... the so-called "Generation X."

If we're Generation X, specifically anyone born between 1975-1985, then that makes these new batch of kids, the poor unfortunates that came later, "Generation Y Bother."

Because, let's face it: they got nothing. The greatest cartoons, toys, and music came out during our youth. We had Star Wars, GI Joe, He-Man, Transformers, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. By the time Power Rangers came out, we were embarrassed out of childhood, because Power Rangers were, still are, and forever will be the gayest things to ever come from Japan since... uh, lavender gay chopsticks, carved in the shape of naked Grecian swimmers wearing tutus. Since then, all major toys have been movie tie-ins or '80's remakes.

Nothing new has been invented.

Really. Think about it: What major toyline, even vaguely comparable to the above-mentioned came out after 1990? Having trouble? It's because there never was one. After that, it was just tamagotchis and pogs. And what's on the toy shelves, now? Uh... Star Wars, GI Joe, He-Man, Transformers, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

And since creativity wasn't important anymore, everything then got imported from Japan. Saturday morning and afternoon cartoon lineups these days are absolutely atrocious.

But, making fun of the after-'85 generation is like booing at the Special Olympics... so I'll get back to my original gripe: The co-opting, and eventual-nullifying of "the horns."

At one time, rock stars didn't put up "the horns" in pictures. No self-respecting rock stars, anyway... (except for Dio and Judas Priest) Aside from them, all the rock gods and metalheads flipped the bird. They put up "The Finger." Why? Because they're bad-ass and don't give a shit. And it was, and still is, a shocking gesture. You certainly couldn't get away with showing the middle finger on basic cable or a reality show. The finger is a symbol of irreverance and defiance. It was and forever shall be synonymous with rock and roll.

Along came The Horns. They were more obscure, more underground, and seemingly more controversial. Anecdotal wisdom holds that the sign originated with Ronnie James Dio, who got the idea from his Old-World relative who made the ancient symbol, ironically, to ward off the devil. But because Dio was a rock god, he decided to make that his own symbol, in celebration of heavy metal and all it's diabolical symbolism. The Horns thus became a secondary symbol of all things metal. More importantly, only heavy metal fans ever used this gesture.

Fast forward to today, and The Horns have become a marketing gimmick. Today's pale excuse for celebrities, zeroes like Ashton Kutcher, Justin Timberlake, and Sum 41 have championed the "metal monniker," into some sort of instant street-cred... like, "Check me out, I'm so unconventional and hardcore, I'm going to make this vaguely alarming gesture in public! I'm totally into old-school metal! I'm a hip and happening, dude!" And yes, I blame Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz, too. Walking on stage at the MTV Movie Awards torn-up AC-DC shirts, putting up The Horns, and suddenly, they're not mega-rich movie star celebrities... they're bad-ass rockers! Right?

Uh, no.

I mean, it's obvious that there is absolutely no one that even remotely qualifies as a "Rock God," anymore. The aforementioned Sum 41, with even their johnny-come-lately metal-esque riffs are also Canadian... and thus, lame. Everyone else is either an angst-wrought wuss or some scruffy goofball who looks like one of the mooks who come by to ask my sisters out for dates. These are the rock stars? Where's their Rob Zombie? Where's their Bruce Dickinson? Where's their Jon Davis? or James Hetfield? (you just knew I'd throw him in, didn't you?!)

Let's compare the top rock bands from the class of '97 to the class of '05:

Class of '97:
Rage Against the Machine, KoRn, Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, White Zombie, Stone Temple Pilots, Soundgarden, Metallica, Guns N Roses...

Class of '05:
Blink 182, Sum 41, Hoobastank, My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday, The Strokes, and Bowling for Soup

Sorta makes you feel a bit sorry for them, doesn't it?

Suddenly you understand why the kids of today are so obsessed with the past... why they go out, grow their hair to 1979-standards, and buy pre-aged t-shirts of bands that are 25 years old, pre-worn denim jackets, and pre-hill-billied trucker hats. You can't blame them for realizing we were the awesomest.

You gotta give them credit for that, at least.

But, us oldsters oughtta keep some things sacred, so I am officially putting my foot down on all this devil horn nonsense. In order to protest the systematic rendering of The Horns into a meaningless and toothless gesture, I shall not make it again, until such time as I feel it is no longer the mainstream, corporate, wannabee hipster gang-sign of the attention-craving celebritiy whores and slack-jawed teenagers. From now on, if I wanna be hardcore, rock'n'roll...

...I'm gonna give you the finger.


And seriously, what's the deal with those pink polo shirts? Really.


Random Query of the Hour: And for that matter... what is the honkin' big deal about Coldplay? Honestly, now... WHAT?


Feedback Question of the Day:

"What was old is new again. What fashion or trend would you love to see come back? And, conversely, what trend or fashion are you most upset to see rear it's day-glo, New Wave head again?"

Monday, June 13, 2005

The Crimmins Weight-Loss Plan Can Work For You!


Booya! Back in June of '98, Katie and Tom own their attitude by displaying the highly-treacherous "Three Finger Point" Pose. (The cameraman recovered at Mercy Hospital a week later)

A week ago, last Sunday, this battered and broken shell of a man tipped the scales at a whopping 239 lbs... a grotesque mockery of manhood that cowered with his facade of fatness in obese obscurity.

Today, on Sunday... this sleek, sexy beast weighs a mere 234 lbs.

I lost 5 pounds, baby!

Okay, I admit I have a long way to go... but I really am happy to start shaping up. After all, I believe it is an old African saying, "The longest journey begins with but a final step, and chubby mojumbo must stop eatting banana chips every night if he wants to fit into his dashiki."

We can learn a lot from that.

Last week, I stood on The Evil Scale at work. This computerized weight watcher is cruelly accurate, and has the ruthless audacity to actually report your poundage correctly. Not like The Good Scale at home. This gentle device very considerately grandfathered my weight back in 2001, when I weighed 225. And according to The Good Scale, whenever I stand on it, I still weigh 225. Yes... whenever I'm on The Good Scale... or the moon... I weigh 225.

I stood on The Evil Scale and it gave me a number: 239 lbs. I quickly changed the settings to kilograms, and it made me feel a bit better. But unfortunately, I knew the grim reality of my (mass)x(gravitational constant) and nothing could change that... so I swore then and there that I would lose 5 pounds by the next Sunday.

And somehow, I actually did it!

My grand plan to weight loss (and, more importantly, fitness) was three-fold:
1) Eat small meals every 3 hours until dinner. Chiefly, I had to start eating breakfast (according to Men's Health magazine, the average adult male's metabolism decreases by at least 5% if he doesn't eat breakfast, and can gain at least 15 pounds a year just by missing breakfast every morning!) Then, every 2-3 hours, I would have a small meal, like a yogurt or something. Yogurts are important, because as a dairy food, it facilitates fat-burning in the body (thanks again to Men's Health!) I tried to avoid candy and desserts and over-indulging in a lot of starchy foods. I also started packing my own meals for work, so I wouldn't be tempted to get take-out. A typical day is cereal for breakfast, a yogurt 3 hours later, a sandwich, another yogurt 3 hours later, and a small dinner. The constant, though sparing, meals keep your metabolism going, burning more calories consistently throughout the day.

2) Get at least 7 hours of sleep nightly. Your body uses the time you sleep to recalibrate your body and put it into a healthful state that allows for weight-loss and muscle building. Lack of sleep depresses your metabolism and muscle synthesis... and basically isn't healthy at all.

3) Work out. Over the past week, I've worked out 6 times. I've left one day to let my old bones and joints a little time to recover. I've started jogging again, and I'm actually up to 3-and-a-half miles a day. I lift weights and do stomach exercises every-other day. Weight-lifting is very important for fitness, as it promotes a healthier physique and a secret weapon for weight loss. (More muscle = more fat-burning) Basically, the more muscle you have on your body, the more calories you're burning every second!

Geeze... when did this become a fitness article?

I guess I'm just excited that my discipline is starting to pay off. I'm going to try to be just as good this upcoming week, and hopefully, I'll drop another 5 pounds. If I keep this pace, I'll lose the total 20 pounds I've been gunning for, just in time for Jenna and Jay's wedding. I gotta make sure I look good for the pictures! I don't want Jenna and Jay going through the pictures with their kids some day, saying, "And here's a picture of Uncle Tom... he was a bit chubby back then... and it looks like he just stole the serving tray from the caterer... oh right, that was the night he spent in jail... Hey! You know what, kids? Let's play Clue instead!"

Now that I've been all dopey and declarative about this, I can't turn back. I have to stick with my newfound discipline and not give in to (too much) temptation. And I have another trick to keep my eyes on the 20 pound prize. An incentive too good to pass up...

GLUTTONY!

Yeah, I'm going to make pigging out my prize for behaving myself and exercizing. One of my co-workers, Dan, told me of a mythical place out in Suffolk County on Sunrise Highway. A legendary land called "Howard's Cafe." A place that makes delectable hamburgers and a delicious deal: All the beer, wine, and soda you can drink while you eat the hamburgers.

Buh? Say again? Let me get this straight: We buy your hamburgers, which according to Dan, are awesome, big McHale's-esque affairs, and, while dining at your establishment, we can have all the beer, wine, or soda we can drink, included?

Is this the promised land? My friends, I think it is.

So, here's the deal: If I lose the aforementioned 20 pounds in time for Jenna and Jay's wedding, July 2nd, that is, I'll weigh 219 or better, we're going to Howard's Cafe to celebrate.

Who's with me?

Feedback Question of the Day:
"Did you ever set out to improve an aspect of yourself? How did you do it? And did you succeed?"

Friday, June 03, 2005

Ode to Bygone Friends, Part I


"Buh?" Joe "Sultan of Ska" Chierchie, Brian "Prince of Punk" Craine, "Jim "Maestro of Metal" Grant, "Reverse Raccoon" , and Tom "Congealed Hair Cube" awaken in a suburban kitchen after a raucous day at the Warped Tour back in '98.


As Joe Chierchie rocks out to the Spice Girls' latest single, Tom demands the photographer to "take the picture! Take the picture , NOW!" Posted by Hello

Yeesh. Look how serious I am! Relax, Tom. You're supposed to be having fun.

As a little historical footnote, I believe the above is the first historical evidence of me doing the now patented, "finger to the camera lens" (FCL) pose. But sadly, it wouldn't be the last.

My buddy, Chris, in his neighboring blog, began a series a while back dedicated to his friends. A sort of "spotlight of the week" tip of the cap to each of his buddies. In deference to his coming up with the idea first, I doff my own proverbial chappeau to him, as I start my own series: "Tributes to Bygone Friends."

The source of this innocuous idea had less positive intentions, as I originally wanted to make a tongue-in-cheek dedication to a guy I always include in my group e-mails and never get a response from. (I get a bit surly sometimes) But since I re-booted this blog a while back, I made a solemn pledge to keep it light and happy-go-lucky, so I won't make this person the source of my online ire. But, if I happen to get drunk next New Year's...

...you may never know...

Anyway, the first individual to receive the esteemed honor of dedication is my former-buddy, Mr. Joseph Chierchie. And please let the record show that his memorial is not for those I parted ways with acrimoniously, but rather those that went their own separate ways in their own proper ways and time. These aren't break-ups. These are people I'd be glad to see on the street and have nothing but warm, fuzzy memories about. So let's get on with it:

Joe Chierchie: the Man, the Myth, the Legend

It was Halloween night '97, in Bellmore, Long Island. My buddy Chris and I had gone over to Sharon's house to hang out and whatnot. These outtings for me, at least, were always a novelty... being as I had gone to an all-boys high school and had prior been nigh terrified of the opposite sex. So hanging out with a couple of gals in a basement, watching TV, was essentially the most exciting thing I've ever done. Maybe we'd even order a pizza... but I didn't want to get my hopes up. Chris was far more urbane and sophisticated (he went to a dorm school) so it wasn't such a big deal to him...

A Strange Time in My Life

But as for me, as I happened to be experiencing a bit of a crush for Sharon (a torch I'd carry more or less until I went to Ireland, the following winter) I was positively giddy. She'd recently broken up with her longtime boyfriend... so, who knew what the night could hold in store? Of course, I was also considering at the time to make vows of celibacy and dedicate my life to Jesus... which, of course, made all these feelings a bit... conflicted. But then again, I was 18.

Chris and I had joined the Great 1997 Long Island Bandwagon of Ska. And, of course, the high priests of ska, (at least, according to MTV) were the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. So, Chris and I, afficionados of the happy horns and infectious riffs of that funky ska sound, decided to wear suits to the Halloween get-together in lieu of costumes, as that was what the Bosstones wore.

The Coming of Ska Joe

When he and I entered Sharon's kitchen, who should we come face-to-face with? but Joe Chierchie, himself. "Who are you guys supposed to be?" I think, was his first actual words to us that night. "Mighty Mighty Bosstones" we replied in nerdy unison. "Psssht. Please."

Turns out, ironically enough, Joe happened to be a long-time, hard-core fan of the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Like, for several weeks before I'd ever heard of them. So, fittingly, one random Halloween night he should meet the two of us, neophyte fans, wearing suits in honor of the Bosstones, coming to hang out with his ex-girlfriend, Sharon. I admit, I wasn't the suave guy back then that I am now. I must have looked a bit ridiculous with an ill-fitting light blue suit, sunglasses on in pitch black, hair all spiked up, and my younger brother's old dented trumpet.

The Era of Chierchie Dawns

Despite the awkward greeting, the three of us hit it off that night really well. It's amazing the bonding that can occur when everyone loves Jim Carrey movies! and Star Wars! Chris and I took to Joe as a sort of elder-statesman (he was, after all, a whole year older than us) and he seemed to have great charisma with the ladies and an overall chill, relaxed personality. So charismatic, in fact, that he and Sharon renewed their ultimately on again-off again relationship that very night. I was conflicted (again with that word c-word!) but I more-or-less thought Joe was a great guy.

Joe became quite a fixture for our social world for the rest of the school year and summer. A summer filled with near-daily trips to bowling alleys, pool halls, and the ol' Long Island standby: diners. I'm still digesting some of those chicken fingers. Though my cholesterol level was horrible, my social condition was much better, and I found myself in an exciting co-ed circle of friends. Joe educated the willing in all things ska, even taking Chris out to the near-mythic Moon Ska Records store in Manhattan. Birthday parties, softball games, hanging out at the mall, ska shows, going to the City, even staking a claim at our very own dive bar (Jones Beach Inn, baby!). All these did Joe take part in. Most importantly, Joe somehow got me a gray Yankees jersey from his job at the Mall. I don't know how he got it... and I didn't ask. But I was grateful, and that is what matters, right? In thanks, I picked him up a little buddha when I was in Amsterdam. He really liked that little statue.

Joe Chierchie, Gone Greek, then Just Plain Gone

But as some friends come and go for seasons in your life, the "Chierchie Era" came to an end due to the most universal of friendship killers, "The Greek Organization." Those gatherings which seem to inerringly alter personalities and essentially take over all facets of people's lives. When Joe went to Hofstra, he decided to join a frat. That was essentially the end. But I celebrate Joe Chierchie's memory, and all the fun we had. He represents an innocent and fun time in my youth. I wish him the best.

All the Rest

As for various issues that have been fermenting into a fine and heady brew, I need to address several other issues...

Finest Amongst Feedbackers

I'd like to take a quick moment to thank the various individuals who've been so dedicated in responding to my various "feedback questions of the days." Not only do your creative and honest answers are always fun to read, but you also communicate that you like the stuff I'm writing. And thus, I appreciate your proverbial "pats on the back," as they were. We don't get to hang out or even speak that much, so it's nice that we stay a little bit connected during our long periods between get-togethers. Thus, I'd like to make special notice of two individuals whose recidivism is impressive if even a bit scary, they've each contributed to the Feedback Column 3 times each since the new blog is up, and I'd like to give them all a little recognition. Big Puppy Guy and the Anskatian, I salute you!

Big Puppy Guy, my favorite quote of your's was an answer to my question about which moment did you realize you weren't getting any younger? "I can feel the rain coming in my left hip, I swear." I could just picture you playing checkers on a rainbarrel somewhere in hillbilly country, a piece of straw sticking out of the corner of your mouth, sitting in a rocking chair, going... "It'll rain tonight A'hm sure, hip's a achin' somethin' fierce." Something about imagining an Asian hillbilly just makes me laugh.

Anskatian, my favorite quote of your's was an answer to my question about which recurring nightmares have you had? "Sonny Bono and I go skiing and he makes it back while I'M the one who hits the tree!" Not that I find your getting killed while skiing funny, but this is probably one of the more esoteric responses I thought I'd ever receive. "Esoteric"?! (Insert your Family Guy joke, here)

The Inevitable Aftermath of the Mock Trial

Curtis and Heather lost. Probably because of me. As you may recall from my last entry, I was to appear as a witness for Curtis's mock trial at St. John's Law School. I also had to somehow drop off my car at the garage to be fixed and pick it up so I can be home by 4PM to be picked up by Chris for the Yankees-Red Sox game.

Well, as Meatloaf has famously said, "Two out of three ain't bad."

I made it to the Law School, and I was able to be picked up at 4 by Chris and Maggie. But the car? Oh, that car. Saturn took over 6 hours to do the "diagnostic," which, roughly translated, means "look at it and decide how much to charge me." By the time they were ready to work on it, it was around 2:30 PM. They said it would take another 2 hours to actually do the work, which, would be unworkable, since that would take me to 4:30PM, and it'd be pretty much impossible to pick up my car at 4:30 if I had already been picked up and taken to the Bronx at 4. And of course, since it was Memorial Day weekend, the garage and dealership would be closed until the following Tuesday. Great. My parents ultimately picked up my car that evening, and I must give them mighty props for doing so. Parentals, you guys are awesome. Since I worked the following 5 days straight, the car came in mighty handy, let me tell you. While at work, I was complaining to my buddy Randy that I should probably get rid of my car, what with all the expensive repairs, gas prices, insurance, etc) and just ride a bike. After all, I reasoned, "I'd have more money in the bank, and be in much better shape!"

"... and single." Randy added. He's such a smart guy.

Yeah, I figure it'd be pretty difficult to carry on a relationship with a girlfriend without a car. "Comon' baby, I got my Huffy parked right outside. I just got some new pegs!" Yeah, that wouldn't fly.

The biggest wrinkle caused by my car being held hostage by the dastardly denizens of Saturn was my temporary loss of my coleman grill, so named in honor of the Diff'rent Strokes star. I had earlier packed it away in my car's trunk. The same car that was with Saturn. And the same coleman grill I promised Chris I'd bring to the game. Crud. Chris and Maggie were very gracious and we all went to the deli and picked up some sandwiches instead.

The Yankees Game was great. They won. Which always adds a lot. Red Sox fans are probably the most obnoxious people I've ever met. You don't see Yankees fans going to a game at Fenway just to cause problems. But again, I reiterate, the Yanks beat the Sox, so all was well. There was this one jerky, fat Sox fan in front of us in the bleachers. He was screaming and carrying on and basically being a typical Red Sox fan. This Yankee fan about 6 people to the left of him starting making fun of him... he called him "Pizza the Hut." Every time the Sox would do something good, or the Yanks something bad, he'd go, "Oh boy, Pizza's happy! Yeah, Pizza the Hut!" It cracked me up. Even though it was a bit mean spirited. It shut the guy up, though. So it had it's plus side. I just don't like it when people come to rain on someone else's parade.

As for the Mock Trial, I naturally made an entrance. When have I ever not? Whatever you may have pictured about a mock trial, this was not it. Instead of a big, open room, where the door is always behind everyone, this was a classroom, where the door was right in front. Now, I was instructed to come a little bit after it started, because I was only needed for the prosecution. When I got there, the defense was still doing her opening arguments, or introductions, or whatever it's called. I peeked in (the door was chocked open by a metal garbage can) I could see Curtis and Heather, and they made eye contact with me and motioned me inside to sit in one of the open chairs (the room was friggin' crowded.) The only open chair was right behind the standing defense attorney making her speech. In my inimitable, highly agile way, I tried to slip through the door, weave around the garbage can, and plop myself right on the open chair. This went fairly well, in that split second, but in my haste, I forgot to ease the door closed again, and so, it made a fairly loud "BONG!!!!" when it landed back on the metal garbage can. I was embarrassed. I understood this was a graded exercise, and that there were invited people there, and that the law students had all worked very hard on it, and plus, it was 9:30 in the morning and was already sort of out of it. I muttered a lame, "sorry," and looked sheepish. The defense person, being about 18 inches in front of me, turned around to glare at me for interrupting her. Well, she didn't exactly "turn" around... basically, her head just swivelled around like it was on a turntable, her shoulder moved not an inch. She held her hateful gaze to me for a couple of beats longer than she had to... darts flying from her pupils. I had the fortune not to be eventually cross-examined by Ms. Frigid Esquire. I received that from her more humane, pulse-having partner.

I really have to hand it to trial attorneys and judges. It's a lot of work. Every word, every question, every inflection must be gauged and weighed. If a question is worded wrong, if a series of questions are advanced incorrectly, it all must be listened carefully for. It must be mentally exhausting. Plus, the lawyers need to be so well-prepared that they would be able to anticipate answers to their questions and to get their point across. It was fun for me, but it was a very serious for those lawyers. Judges also have a pretty friggin' hard job, because they have to weigh issues and decide if some lines of questioning or evidence is proper. They don't just get to bang a wooden hammer or be sassy on daytime TV. I was impressed.

The interesting thing is, the legal world is very nebulous. The whole issue that was decided was that Curtis and Heather's side was suing some policemen for breaking into her apartment, roughly handling her, and bringing her to a hospital against her will, while the defense's side was that the police responded to a possible suicide tip and had to restrain a hysterical woman and bring her to the hospital for treatment. I wanted to ask, well, what is the truth? But that never seems to be the issue. The goal in trials is not to reveal the truth, but to win the case. Details are either highlighted or downplayed, depending on what the goal is in the case. And the victor is determined by a group of everyday citizens, not experts. To be a lawyer must be an ethical tightrope. Not for me, that's for sure. But, be that as it may, I give them a lot of credit for the amount of work they must do... and since I'm entering the medical profession, I need to make as many friends in the legal community as I can!

Feedback Question of the Day:
"In my opinion, one of the best roadtrip driving songs is 'Panama,'by Van Halen. What, in your opinion, are some of your favorite roadtrip driving songs?"