The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

Archive for March, 2010

Weekly Wacko (22)

One Part Blind, One Part Awkward

I just went to check my mail, where I had a lovely letter from Whitney. On the way to the mailbox I saw a woman waving frantically at me. I found it odd and was about to respond when I looked closer and saw she was waving at a baby. That made a lot more sense.

My favorite time of mistaking someone waving at me was in college.

The weather was beautiful out, so I went to the student union center and got my favorite thing there – the chicken ceaser wrap from Chick-Fil-A. Man those things are good.  I also bought a milk and a Twix bar. Combine that with sitting outside, my headphones and spacing out and you’ve got a little slice of Heaven.

I’m about done with my delicious meal when I notice a girl calling at me in a very chipper tone. I had taken off my glasses and put them in a case in my pocket, so I don’t take them out first.

I’m wondering who this girl is – usually I can recognize friends by their voices, and why on earth would someone be so chipper and happy while calling out at me? Sure, I can be nice to talk to, but not that nice to talk to.

I don’t think much of it and start walking toward while squinting.

(A good friend of mine, Brittany, loved making fun of me for this. She would see me without glasses and yell “HI BRAD!” so then I’d squint like crazy while walking toward her to make sure it was Brittany. She’d walk toward me and mockingly squint at me while cracking up. Brittany’s a funny gal.)

At some point I realize the girl was looking not at me, but in my general direction. I am about five feet from her when I notice this – and it wasn’t like I could’ve been walking to her, or some other place. There was nothing around her, I was bee-lining to her.

Uh oh.

I turn around and good God I’m a moron she was trying to get a stray cat’s attention. That’s why the chipper tone.

It was a cat call, literally.

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Weekly Wacko (21)

Bracket? I Hardly Know It!

It’s almost March Madness time, BABY! (That’s my Dick Vitale – who annoys the hell out of me, BABY!) I enjoy college basketball now, sort of. For example, last year I watched the final game between whoever and their opponent (go underdog!), BUT, I did arts and crafts while watching the game. Seriously.

I took construction paper and cut out giant numbers for a clock. Then I taped these numbers on my bathroom wall, and I gutted your simple, average school clock (the big white one with the black lettering) so that just the motor was left, and I taped that on the wall. Wha-la! Arts and crafts!

The most interested I ever was in a college basketball game I wasn’t attending (if I’m there all bets are off – I’m INTO it) was when I put 20 bucks on Boston College to beat somebody. I was in Vegas with the fam and let’s GOOOOOOO twenty bucks! BC lost. Stupid BC.

Anyhow, as a kid, I had even less interest (which is a very tiny amount of interest) in basketball. So what did I do when I was forced to fill out a bracket?

*

I lived in Leavenworth, Kansas from the 3rd to 6th grades. Most of my friends there, and it seemed like a majority of the town, were crazy for Kansas. That is, the University of Kansas Jayhawks. There was the occasional fan for Kansas State, but mostly we were in Jayhawk territory.

That’s how it goes in a state with two big schools, you’ll find something similar in Arizona where you’ve got Arizona vs Arizona State.

Because people were crazy for Kansas, and Kansas was (and is) consistently a big contender in college basketball, people talked about college basketball.

I liked playing basketball with my family, and I did the very stereotypical boy thing of practicing buzzer beater shots in our driveyway.

“5 seconds Stanley’s coming down the court! 4 seconds! Stanley passes to … Stanley … 3 seconds! … he puts UP THE SHOT! … um … HE WAS FOULED! HE WAS FOULED! I CAN’T BELIEVE HE WAS FOULED!”

I have a great imagination, which really came in handy because I was (and am) a lousy shot. You wouldn’t think someone would be fouled while doing free throw shots at the very end of the game, but in my daydreams I was. Fouled over and over and over – until I made the shot.

Anyhow, the extent of my basketball knowledge was just how bad I was at basketball.

In gym, when brackets were passed out and EVERY (seemingly) boy around me got excited, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t confident enough to clearly show my ignorance, and it really did feel like everyone knew what this bracket meant and who these teams were. I thought the best and most logical option was to pretend I knew exactly what I was doing.

“You put Gonzaga as advancing? Brad, I don’t know … do you know something?”

Um. Gonzaga sounds like a nickname for a part on a woman’s body? So I picked that? How do I explain my reasoning, when I have no reasoning?

I put Arizona as going all the way, because that was my dad’s favorite team. I had watched basketball, and it could be enjoying (the last few minutes at least), but for the most part it didn’t hold my interests. I’d rather be DOING something.

I looked at the bracket like it was a math problem, and people weren’t actually involved.

“The sixteenth ranked team against the first ranked team … well, obviously the first ranked team … unless it’s a trick …”

I turned in my bracket having confidence I would be out soon – and hope that the gym coach (or anyone) would throw it away without studying it.

“That Brad kid is amazing! He picked every losing team in the first round!”

This year my arts and crafts project while watching the game will be to do some collages of a sort. I’m a man’s man, and don’t you forget it.

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Weekly Wacko (20)

Adventures in Studly-ness!

Recently, for the first time I went to a bar and got a girls number. And I did it with jazz hands.

I work with a group of guys who are around my age and have also just started here. This has provided us with good reason to chat at work, and we grab lunch once a week or so.

On February 5th we decided to paint the town red. Another co-worker recommended we go to a bar in downtown Houston – Rocbar. Girls who work there dress in a lovely way (read: slutty), and they have, apparently, rock music.

The three other new guys came over and we played XBOX and three of us had two beers a piece. Then we piled into a car and picked up the fifth guy (the bar recommendation guy). The five of us, piled into a sedan, were ready for an adventure.

Before we had left my apartment I used the bathroom because when I drink any liquid I get a mean case of what doctors call ‘grandpa bladder.’ It’s a burden I bear.

The bar was maybe 35 minutes away and oh my Lord you’ve got to be kidding I have to pee again. I make a comment. The driver, D, looks at me in a – ‘you’re f-ing kidding me?’ way. I’m afraid not.

In my defense we drove from my apartment to get the fifth guy, so really it’d been a good 40 minutes since I’d last peed. That’s some bladder!

*

Once at the bar we started drinking. Gulp, gulp, gulp, down goes the liquid confidence.

We went to an outside patio type area and they had big swings, like you’d have on a big front porch. I sat down and start swinging around side-to-side, because that’s fun. I got the feeling I was ‘cramping the fellas style’ so I calmed down my five year old desire to play on a swing set.

Eventually two of the five guys went off and started chatting with girls. What a concept. Myself and the remaining two stood around, talked, and did laps around the bar like it was a middle school dance (‘hahahha! oh man look J’s talking with that girl!!! Duuuude, I wonder if he’ll get her number!!!’).

The two guys would re-join us periodically and we’d talk nonsense.

*

The liquid confidence finally entered my bloodstream and my mind went from ‘well she’s very pretty and aw shucks’ to ‘ehhh why not.’ Yeah, that’s right, the charm was on full blast.

I walked up to a group of girls and basically shouted at them (I’d been drinking, it was loud in the bar, but still I feel a bit awkward about my starting this conversation by yelling in their faces). I told them I was new to Houston, I’d just moved there, and what’s the best place to eat. I said this because it was true, and I love a good place to eat.

They weren’t having it. One of the girls semi-answered me so I looped around to hear her better. She told me a boring chain restaurant recommendation (seriously, that’s boring). I could tell they weren’t enjoying me, so I moved on.

Surprisingly, I didn’t care at all.

*

I headed outside and sat down on a swing, talking to two of my friends. I noticed that across the patio a girl was sitting on a swing, doing basically what I’d been doing when I first sat down. That was all the green light I needed.

(I actually met up with the girl one time, and since then nada – so this story comes from her since I was too boozy to remember. And I’m writing this now because had I written it when she and I were still talking, I would’ve felt like this was a bit odd. I don’t know dating etiquette, but I feel like blogging about a girl you’ve just met is not kosher.)

Apparently, I walked up, hands spread out like I’m semi going for a hug, semi doing jazz hands. I said ‘hey!!!’ very happily and then bam started talking. I didn’t introduce myself. I told her I’d just moved to Houston and what’s the best part about Houston. It turned out she was from northern California (where I’d moved from).

Within five minutes of meeting her I told her about my grandpa bladder.

I also talked to her about my job (which is probably fairly boring to most people).

All in all, I was a real charmer.

I ended the conversation by telling her that my grandpa bladder was acting up, and a fella’s gotta do what a fella’s gotta do. I said let me give you my number, she said no let me give you my number. Tricky.

*

Wish me luck tomorrow night. Hopefully there will be less jazz hands.

I mean, really – who starts a conversation with jazz hands?

Copyright 2010 Brad Stanley

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