Tip:  if you ever happen across me standing in line someplace, even if you really wanna talk to me or get my autograph or something like that, don’t do it.  I’ll mail you an autographed picture of my bare buttocks – whatever you want – just do yourself a favor: go stand in the next checkout line over.  Even if its twenty senior citizens deep.  Trust me.

Here’s a brief list of typical scenarios that I face on a regular basis:

“Hey Coach, I don’t feel so good.”

Dairy Queen

Baseball Team:  sextuple (seven) scoop hot fudge brownie boat with sprinkles, half-fat caramel chocolate-mocha frappe drizzle, every single nut known to the Dominican Republic, freeze-dried watermelon rind puree, cat liver, fucking onions, and whatever else you got, lady.  After three bites, the kid doesn’t like it or throws it up all over the floor, or on my sweet tennis shoes, and it goes in the garbage.  What a surprise…

Grocery Store 

Extreme Couponer:  Suddenly surrounded by Cameramen emerging from behind counters and repelling from the ceiling by mountain climbing harnesses.  Price check on every item strategically packed into four carts.  Persistent, overly assertive TV-like drama and bickering with the underpaid juvenile checkout kid with a bone through his nose about the four pennies that should have been saved on twenty eight bags of egg-free noodles that will eventually be placed in a doomsday prepper bomb shelter in order to conduct a shelf life experiment.  All I wanted to buy was this stupid Carrot for my Salad.  And some cigarettes.  And maybe a pack of gum (impulse buy).

The Movies

Popcorn or Pretzels?  Butter or Salt?  Or both?  Or neither?  Frozen Coke or Regular Coke?  Jumbo or Mini?  Hot Dog or Pretzel?  Snowcaps or Twizzlers?  Eeny Meeny Miney Mo Catch a Tiger by His Toe, if he Hollars Shut the Fuck Up Already and Make a Decision, dummy.

The Bar

Extreme Couponer. Seller Beware.

Dude with a credit card buying a round of the most fantastically complicated shots known to man for every single douche bag in the entire Saloon except for me.  Turns around frequently to test the effectiveness of my eardrums by yelling to someone standing on the other side of the bar, which happens to be located somewhere in Paris, France, in order to let the person know that they are having a fucking insanely crazy-fun time getting loaded and preventing me from ordering my very simple Coors Light in a bottle which the bar doesn’t stock because not that many people drink it.  Credit Card decline in 3…2…1…

Eat a pile of it, putz…

The Fitting Room

Every changing stall filled with sophomore high school girls partaking in their daily after school fashion show.  Yes, please, keep teasing me (not like that, Chris Hanson of Dateline) by making me think that you’re finally done trying on every single halter top on the clearance rack when stepping outside of the stall every ten minutes only to provocatively strut toward the congregation of groupies standing in front of the trapezoid mirror, all simultaneously shifting their half-A cup boobs in front of the people that they ironically find *creepy.  I hope all your homecoming dates forget your tickets at their other girlfriends’ houses…

Oh, and a note aside:  Next time I’m gonna wait in the parking lot for you little cornballs to pack into the minivan at the designated pickup spot, then drive by you with my car that I am allowed to legally operate with my driver’s license.  All while fist pumping into the hot summer air.  See you at the movies…

*****

You know, I still have the right to bitch…  \m/

- Happy Blogging…on your iPad…while standing in line someplace.

Fotoshop Cameo.

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I decided to spend the first night that I didn’t have to run out and buy ‘stuff’ by testing the smoke alarm in my 600 sq. ft. dwelling.  It works.  Not only is it loud, but there are two of them that beep at the same time.  They talk too.  A female voice told me to stop cooking and to exit the building in a single file line with all the other pissed off residents.

After about ten minutes of listening to the incessant, loud beeping, I decided to just turn the radio on.  I couldn’t find the clicker to change the hippy-music station that was on, but quickly decided that it was my only option to drown out the sound.  My neighbors now have two good reasons to hate me.

After a couple of songs I began to realize why I prefer head banging and mosh pits ( \m/ ) over club humping and booty-grinding.  A flood of awkward memories from an earlier point in life drifted into my subconscious mind.  One particular memory stood out: 8^th grade Halloween Dance.

I kinda looked like this. But skinnier. And geekier.

I remember being absolutely stoked about it.  Not just because Halloween is my favorite holiday, but because it would be the first ever legit school dance.  It was gonna be off the hook: costumes, decorations, spiked punch, heavy metal, and chicks.  Lots of them.  All I needed now was a sweet-ass costume to reel ‘em in…

The days leading up to the big dance peeled off the calendar, and before I knew it, I was darting out of my mom’s minivan in front of the school in my badass Zorro getup.  (Editors Note:  Momma’s boy)

Ok, two things:

1.)      A Marketing professor once told me that minivans are appealing to women because they look like a pregnant woman.  Ironically, he was never married.

2.)     Don’t ever go to a middle school dance dressed as Zorro.

That’s not Paul from The Wonder Years on the left. That’s me.

With cape fluttering behind, I ogled all the decorations through the hand cut eye holes as I stormed into the front hall of the school.  I could hear the music blaring from inside the gym as I excitedly handed my prepaid event pass to the ticket zombie (volunteer mom).

The hallway leading to the music was decorated with hundreds of Black and Orange balloons, spider webs, skeletons, monsters, event posters, and a few stragglers mingling outside the gym.  Everybody turned as I stormed past.  It was definitely the costume.  I was a virtual clone of the dashing Zorro.

After turning a few heads, I exploded into the entrance of the gym, took two steps inside the door, and stopped dead in my tracks.  It was at that moment when I realized that I was the only clown in the entire gym dressed in a Halloween costume – not just any Halloween costume – one that consisted of a cape, fake leather boots, a penciled-on mustache, and black tights.  That my mom made.

I back peddled through the entryway of the packed gym before anyone really noticed, escaping with only a few snickers and jeers.  There I stood, in a dark corner of the hallway out of sight, contemplating.  My heart felt like it was gonna burst out of my chest and my face began to flush.  I felt so stupid.  Did I not get the memo?  Was this a practical joke?

With sweaty hands, I peeled the mask from my face, exposing the redness that had formed on my cheeks and forehead.  In a matter of milliseconds I’d gone from standing on top of the world to having the world standing on top of me – smashing the toes of my fake leather boots.

At this point, I didn’t have any way out.  I couldn’t go back in that gym.  At the other end of the hallway I noticed a Ping-Pong table swarming with the school’s uber dorks.  Of course they were all wearing costumes. Clearly, that’s where I belonged.

I just stood there watching the uncoordinated geeks whiff on every serve.  Then they argued.  Then they whiffed.  Then they argued.  In the meantime, I just stood there shamefully peeling off layers of my once proud costume.  All I could think was just blend in, Chowderhead, just blend in.

And that’s how I spent the rest of the night…

******

Everyone has a ridiculously funny story from their awkward middle school years like this.  I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t still a little bit of residual hurt left.  It’s an awkward time, and transitioning from being a kid to an adult is a painful process.

That’s why it’s important to never stop being a kid. 

- Happy Blogging, Chowderheads \m/  

Minivan undergoing a C-section.

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Here’s how it works:
1.)  User asks a question seeking a valid response.
2.) Question is then made available to a general population of experts, comprised mainly of YouTube trolls, single men over the age of forty, and juvenile hipsters.  Answers are typically never longer than five words, and usually written in butchered English or hipster shorthand.

99.99% of the replies found on the site are also found written on dumpy bar bathroom stall doors in black Sharpie pen across the continent.  Thanks to the contributions made by the single males over the age of forty group, .01% of the information found on the site is not entirely useless.

I’m still trying to figure out why it exists?  It’s like a pipeline for fucking morons, and a few other Jeopardy rejects.  Do these folks not have access to Google?  With a half billion websites at our disposal, there’s bound to be a few pieces of information out there to meet your need, right?

Let’s look at an Example:

What is the correct title to use on a cover letter if a job posting doesn’t have a recipient name listed?

Adam S 

If a specific name is not listed on the job posting, an appropriate title would be: Dear Hiring Manager.

  PlainGuy1972  **Single Male over 40 group.  

**************************************************************************************************************************
PlainGuy1972 is clearly the outlier in this pack of apes.  Let’s have a look at some of the other responses…

**************************************************************************************************************************  

I don’t think dat it matterz cuz if you work hard and try at your job interview den you shouldn’t have to even write one. <3 <3 <3

FunGlitterGirly95    **Od’ing on glitter…  

Dear Pinhead.

L8erSk8er   **Most likely a YouTube Troll…    

Good luck finding a job.  Company’s aren’t hiring because of the repressed economy, and too many jobs are moving overseas.  I’m not sure how the U.S. is going to to compete with China’s economic growth in the coming decades.  On top of that, I’ll never see a Social Security check.  Thanks a lot, Obummer.

DamnYankee456   **Thanks for not giving two shits about my question…

It really depends on the company.

MorpheusFTW  **Over-analyzer.  Definitely a Jeopardy reject.  Matrix Junkie too.  Matrix Junkie too.  (See what I did there?)

I don’t think you needa cover letter for some places like where I got my job at Taco Bell.  Dey jus need to know dat you know how to work.  Lolz!  K, bye!

MaloryBabez97  **There are aliens among us…

***************************************************************************************************************************

Statistical Breakdown:

- 85% of Respondents would likely fail a standard 5th grade literacy test.

- 34% of Respondents probably don’t  know how to spell the word literacy.

- 34% of Respondents speak fluent Hipster.

- 17% of Respondents pose a threat to your computer security.

- 17% of Respondents pose a threat to national security.

- 100% of this post is made up.

**************************************************************************************************************************

And that’s all I got.   

Cheers to a happy May.  April, you can kiss my skinny ass.

-Happy Blogging \m/

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Instead, they would lay in wait, denying the crowd the gratification that it desperately wanted, long enough to build up that certain cosmic energy that music is made of.  These artists understood the powers that they possessed, harnessing the mystery and mystique behind the sound.  And then, right when the audience was on the verge of blowing the roof off the stadium, the amps ignited, the vocals cracked the sound barrier, and the drums blasted a city-wide hole through the motherfucking ozone layer.

That’s how a Rock and Roll show begins, and how ChowderHead began here.  Well, sort of.

ChowderHead is as much an art form as it is a conversational hub.  It’s an oddity really – a fantastically bizarre, mysterious, dark, unpractical, senseless, anything-but-itty-bitty Rock and Roll ditty.  Fart.  (I just threw that fart thing in there for comedic effect.)

Moving along.

The stories and articles that you’ll read (or avoid) here are meant to draw you out of body, cradle your undivided attention, then backhand you across the face when you’re least expecting it.  It’s an exploration and exploitation of all of the five senses through the creative assemblage of words.  Sometimes you’ll laugh.  Sometimes you’ll cry.  Sometimes you’ll fart.  

Sorry, I’m done with the fart joke thing now.  

The subject material is supposed to be compelling, engaging.  It’s supposed to make you think.  Speaking of thinking, around here, cliché is an unwelcome guest.  ChowderHead is about originality, weirdity, and taking that gut-ripping ride down the neural highway and into the deepest depths of the mindscape.  And after you get there, you’ll probably far-

Ah!  See, I caught myself that time.  Fart.
God dammit…

So climb aboard the winding snake with me and let us slither together along the frayed edges of the human condition…

…with a fist in the air.

Salute.  \m/

***Fart tracker:  the word fart was mentioned or implied a total of 42 times throughout this post and comment section.  Well done people.  Well done.

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I pick up on a one-sided conversation coming from the booth adjacent to me, involving a pig-headed suit and tie, yammering into a phone about a stock deal gone sour.  The woman seated in front of the man appears emotionally detached, which is indicated by her body language.  She ignores the man and blankly stares off at a young female clearing the surrounding tables.

I’m overcome with remorse for the woman and her situation, finding myself privately analyzing the dysfunctional correlation between the two. Clearly, she’s numb inside; another wandering soul, financially bound to some corporate meat head.

The murmur throughout the diner adds to the endless chatter taking place in my head, but the humming is abruptly halted when, without warning, an explosive discharge of profanities and pent-up rage erupts out of the woman.

The man immediately stands up and begins violently shouting back, exchanging threats with the fragile aggressor.  The conflict quickly escalates, and I find myself growing increasingly discomforted by it.  My gut screams of something horrible about to happen, yet I’m unable to flee.  I can’t move.  I’m stuck.

My instincts are validated when the women reaches into the cleavage of her blouse and draws a concealed pistol from it.  My anxiety is now at a rolling boil.  Her hands tremble as she extends the cold, steely weapon in front of the man’s face at point-blank range.  Her lips quivering, tears streaming down the crevasses of her swollen face.

With her finger firmly pressed against the firing mechanism, she stutters off an impromptu eulogy.  From what I can recall, it went something like this:

“You see this?  I traded in my wedding band for it.  I couldn’t stomach looking at it anymore.  It was nothing but a constant reminder of what a cold-hearted pig you are.  This…this right here?  This is all you do: pretend to be some big-shot with your fancy suits and loud-talk. I’m sick of it.  I’m sick and tired of you dragging me around like some kind of a god damn trophy.  You don’t respect me.  You don’t care about me.   Today is the day that it ends, Norman.  Today is the day that I make everything right.  But before I do, I want you to know this: you’re a lousy, selfish, half-witted creep that ain’t even worth the cost of that napkin dispenser…“

The last thing that came out of her mouth:

“…Eat lead, Chowderhead.”

And that’s when I woke up…

My indecisiveness leads me to believe one of two things: 1.) I’m not incorporating enough essential fatty oils into my diet, or 2.) I’m pregnant.

“You’re about to get served.”

All that aside, I made a promise that I intend to keep and I’m gonna make good on it today.  But I’m changing the rules up a bit; instead of blabbing on and on about one person, one winner, I’m about to throw a bunch of thick-skinned blogger buddies of mine onto the barbecue.

Congratulations.  You’re all winners of the Name Adam’s Dumb Blog Contest!

Here’s how the whole thing’s gonna play out:  I rip you to pieces, you cry for a few minutes, then you send me an anonymous death threat or a horse head, then we hug and makeup, and then you drop me a PayPal contribution for publicizing your blog!  I just threw that last part in there.  It’s not mandatory.

The Premise of the Roast:  

I have a couple of really sharp computer geek friends that figured out a way to reverse the search term feed.  I know who used what search terms to find my blog, and today I’m gonna let the dirty little kitty out of the bag.  I’ll also try my best to address your long-forgotten queries.  Of course I’m making all this shit up right now, but just play along.

So sit back, relax, crack a beer, throw some ABBA on the stereo, and soak up the sweet insults of the First Inaugural Roast.

Forgive me in advance.

Blogger:  Merbear.  Blog Title:  Knocked Over by a Feather.
Search Terms:  “Can you get bumps around your genitals from running?”

It sounds like someone has been bumpin’ plugs with some dirty strange if you know what I’m sayin’.  I don’t think those bumps are from your highly unfashionable, nylon runner shorts; you may well have caught your first raging case of gonorrhea.  Well, you could easily be a repeat recipient of the crotch-critters, but who am I to judge?  Merbear, head to your nearest clinic.  Stat.  And stay away from public restrooms in the meantime.

Blogger:  Lady Anonymous:  Blog Title:  Alien Red Queen
Search Terms:  “My boa constrictor makes a farting sound out of her mouth.”

You know, you always struck me as one of those chicks that shows up to some really elaborate wedding sporting shredded fishnets, combat boots, miscellaneous spiked-jewelry, and fucking purple hair.  Queen of the damned.  I can picture you all gothed-out, holding a one-sided debate with Ed the bartender about the current political climate in Sudan.  Ed’s not listening.  He’s staring at your eyeliner.  And your hooters.  Oh, and by the way, who buys a boa constrictor?

Blogger: Jules  Blog Title: McCrabass
Search Terms:  “Job interview porn.”

Which part is the fantasy here: the steamy sex scene with your interviewer, or actually finding an interview?  I just consulted with my magic eight ball to determine the likelihood of either and here’s what it said: Fat Chance.

Blogger: Becca  Blog Title:  25 to Fly
Search Terms:  “My masterpiece liquor dispenser is broken how do you fix?”

I think the hair dye is starting to leach into your grey matter, darling.  Anyone that can’t tell the difference between a hammer and a band saw should either call a handyman or toss it in the garbage.  If you don’t heed my advice, you might not have any fingers left for me to put a ring onto.

Blogger: Jen  Blog Title:  Sips of Jen and Tonic
Search Terms:  Does Paul Reiser smoke?

Oh god, first Hasselhoff and now this tool?  So Jen, if he did smoke, would that tarnish his otherwise flawless character?  His whiny voice, corny hairdo, and the fact that he was kind of married to Helen Hunt doesn’t factor in?  If he does smoke that would be the only cool thing about him (Don’t listen to me, kids.  And stay in school).  He strikes me as a Virginia Slims kinda guy anyways, which totally kills all that.  You’re too uptight, Jen.  Drink a fucking beer.

Blogger: Cathy Ulrich   Blog Title:  Large Self
Search terms:  “Steven Segal Spine Punch.”

When Cathy’s not busy taking pictures of flowers and writing inspirational poetry, she’s reading up on how to perform violent Judo take-downs.  I’m making a point to tread lightly here.  If I say something stupid and we happen to cross paths in the future, chances are likely that I could end up in the back of a meat wagon with a dislocated head, courtesy of Dr. Ulrich.  You look very lovely today, Cathy.  Lovely indeed.

Blogger:  Amy  Blog Title:  The Bumble Files
Search Terms:  “Didn’t fart in front of husband for 30 years.”

That’s a dump truck full of bullshit.  You’re probably not aware of this, but we have a mutual friend, Amy.  I know for a fact that you’ve been quarantined on drinking holiday weekends on more than one occasion.  I also know about your lighter trick performance back in college.  Video Proof:  click here.

Blogger:  Calahan  Blog Title:  B.L.O.G.  
Search Terms:  “One seated band wagon.”

Mike, your hair is definitely riding a one-seated band wagon.  Ditch the mousse.  Helmet hair hasn’t been in style since the 50’s.  Neither has your blog.  It’s gotta be difficult finding a jug of Drain-o in your homentown with you living in it.  I can’t even imagine how many gallons a week it requires to keep your shower water from backing up because of all the fucking hair product you stuff into your plumbing.  B.L.O.G:  (B)uys  (L)ots  (O)f  (G)el

Blogger:  Madame Weebles  Blog Title: Fear No Weebles
Search Terms:  “Offended you are Yoda.”

Star Wars Nerds…

Don’t worry, Weebles, Yoda not I am.  Or something like that.  If it wasn’t for all of the nauseating publicity that you fan geeks get at these conventions with your themed weddings and Vader-humping get-ups, I wouldn’t even know what the hell  a Yoda was…

Blogger:  Edward Hotspur  Blog Title:  Edward Hotspur  Search Terms:  “I’m feeling verklempt.”

Oh stop crying, Eddie.  This Romantic Monday stuff is elevating your estrogen levels.  That makes me weepy.  Listen, Ed, if you don’t start focusing more on testosterone-boosting activities like beer curling, hammer throwing, and chain saw woodcarving, you might start growing breasts soon.  So bottoms up.  Now go buy a chainsaw and start practicing.  Start with something simple:  a carving of Mt. Rushmore.

Blogger:  Lillian  Blog Title:  High, High, Higher!
Search Terms:  “there are already so many good blogs”

Keep practicing, Lillian.  One day you’ll be this good.  No I’m just kidding.  That’ll never happen.  Freshly Pressed twice you say?  The WordPress editors were clearly drunk.  Both days.

Blogger:  “Yo.”  Blog Title:  Tales from the Motherland
Search Terms:  “Blog straight from the gut bitches”

I know I wasn’t supposed to do this, and I won’t.  However, I will say that your infatuation with the Adam and Becca show is now bordering on Glen Close in the movie, Fatal Attraction.  Just a heads up, I’m filing a restraining order against you next Wednesday.  Lawyer up, you nut.

Blogger:  Pixie girl  Blog Title:  Exploring Pixie
Search Terms:  ”Outdated Halloween Outfits.”

I see you took some time out of your grueling piano practice schedule, which probably consists of Chopsticks and the first five notes of the Sesame Street Theme Song, in order to update your wardrobe.  There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re a Walmartian.  Look, there goes Pixie Girl with her little fairy wings strapped to her back, floating aimlessly down the dairy isle in search of a loaf of bread.  Clearly your school investments did jack shit to improve your financial situation.  Or for that matter, your IQ.

Blogger:  John  Blog Title:  Society Red
Search Terms:  “I’m really lucky I took my hidden cam that day, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to shoot this hottie’s sexy big ass in grey butt pants.”

It’s clear now why you transitioned from construction worker to massage therapist: you’re a pervert.  I’m starting to wonder if Society Red is a secret voyeur cult.  I got my eye on you, Grandmaster John.  I’m sure you got your eye on me too.  And anyone wearing grey butt pants.

Blogger:  Amber  Blog Title:  Lady lovely Blogger
Search Terms:  “I’m warming my lips.”

Ok, I’m just gonna say it:  I think you’re one of those anonymous hardcore sex bloggers. The gushy-poetry thing is just a fluffy diversion.  Fess up.  You’re a closet sex addict.  And hey, since your lips are good and warm right now, why don’t you put them to good use?  Wait, let me bend over first.

Blogger:  Annonymous Hornball  Blog Title:  Fat Bottom Girl Said What
Search Terms:  “Demonstrations on how to shave my pubis and cookie for my man.”

Where would you even find the time to shave your cookie?  It seems like most of your free time is spent guzzling cheap beer and Facebook stalking all the guys that dumped your crazy ass after one date.  The rest of your time is spent crying about it on WordPress.  I was picturing an intimate dinner date with you just now and it went something like this:  “Check please.”

*****

Whew, that was fun!

You know, when I scroll through that list of mugshots, I don’t just see a collection of random people that willingly subjected themselves to public humiliation, I see a list of some of my absolute favorite blogger friends.  Not only are all you people really good at your crafts, but you’re also good at inspiring, motivating, and encouraging others that share the same passion. 

Speaking personally, at one point or another you’ve all helped prop me up during the dark times, flattered or complimented me when I sucked, encouraged me to keep writing when I wanted to quit, and inspired me when I didn’t have anything left in the tank.

Not only have you all played a part in the evolution of this dumb blog, but more importantly, you’ve inspired a very personal evolution.  Nowhere else will I ever find this much heartfelt support for a silly pipe dream of mine.  I can count the people on one hand in real life that support my writing.  But here is different.  I’d need a lot more hands.  \m/

And lastly, I wanted to make honorable mention of one person in particular on the list: Jules, the author of the blog, McCrabass.  Thank you for all your help outside the blogosphere.  You’re an immense talent and a very gifted mind.  Thanks for taking the time to point me in a direction.  You have a big heart. I’m still your number one fan.

I wish I could have included everyone, but damn, this took a long time to put together.  Thank you all again for being good sports.  And thank you to everyone else not mentioned here that I interact with regularly.  You’re all very much loved and appreciated.  We’ll see where this whole thing goes.

Sorry for being a dick.

*****

Thanks for your contributions:

• Jean, author of Wholey Jeans
• Tracy, author of, um, Tracy Fulks
• Sara, author of Laments and Lullabies
• Jenn, author of Jenn’s Midlife Crisis
• Vanessa-Jane, author of Vanessa-Jane Chapman
• Mystery Lady, author of Happy Zinny
• Mystery Lady #2, author of Words Fall From My Eyes

  *****

Feel free to test the thickness of my skin in the comment section.

- Happy Blogging \m/

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Maybe preoccupied is a better word, and it’s all because of a trip I took recently down to Lafayette, Louisiana…to go on a date.  I know.  I’m sure a lot of words come to mind:  ballsy, desperate, detached, or possibly even clinically nuts.

Becca, the author of 25 to fly, and myself have been communicating via Skype and email for the past few months now, and after a whole bunch of scenario planning, discussing potential meetup cities, and buying seven hundred dollar plane tickets that I couldn’t use, I finally decided to swallow my uncertainty about all of it, pack my bags, and head due South for The Bayou.

The Crazy Cat Lady in all her glory.

It took me roughly 21 hours to get there by car from Detroit, with a layover in Tennessee.   I found that ten hours on the road flying solo is about all I can physically and mentally handle.  It’s extremely tough on the body and mind, for me, anyways.  But I’m kind of a wuss like that.

Being that far from a familiar lifeline is an unsettling thought, and with over twenty hours to sit and ponder, it’s impossible for it to not cross your mind at some point.  What-if scenarios will drive you into a panic if you let ‘em.  Stop for a minute and think about the idea of being stranded in the middle of the country, alone.

Toledo, Cincinnati, Louisville, Nashville, Memphis, Jackson, and Baton Rouge were the milestone cities.  With crossed eyes and sweaty palms, I anxiously watched the minutes crawl by, whispering to myself the mantra:  “just get to the next big city.”  After reaching one, another couple hundred miles of open highway to sit and think some more.

I decided to stop just South of Louisville on the way down to clear my head.  I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all of it, and I even entertained the thought of turning around.  I thought better of it, and after gathering my wits, I bit my tongue and got back on the highway.

I rolled into a small town in Tennessee called Hurricane Mills at about 7pm that first night.  It was time to unwind.  According to the yammering twang at the counter, some famous country star was born a couple miles up the road.  I don’t recall the name.  The only thought on my mind at the time was, “no offense ma’am, but I could give a flying fuck.  Now please give me my motel key.”  Stereotypical small-towners…

It wasn’t a particularly luxurious room by any stretch, and to ice the cake, the mini fridge sounded like a time bomb.  All night long: click, click, click, click, click, click…By 4 am I nearly lost my mind.  I decided to pull the plug.  The trade-off for a good nights rest?  All the food I’d brought spoiled by morning.  Fuck.  Back on the road.

Truck traffic is horrid through Kentucky and Tennessee, and getting stuck behind a trailer blockade is probably the most nerve-racking part of the drive.  Trailers take turns passing each other down the stretch, but never with any real sense of urgency.  Sometimes it would take up to five miles for a truck to finally merge out of the fast lane - a far cry from traveling on any given Michigan highway.

The second leg of the trip was longer than the first.  Mississippi is nothing but a long stretch of highway with few places to stop.  After swinging through Jackson, Louisiana was only about an hour away.  It’s a noticeable transition upon entering.  For as far away from home as I’d traveled, it felt surprisingly familiar.

The Baton Rouge Bridge. Equip your meds.

The Baton Rouge Bridge spanning the mighty Mississippi River is an impressive structure.  And large.  (That’s what she said.)  If you don’t like bridges, bring your meds, because after that doozy, expect to spend about thirty miles on the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.

The last couple hours were inspired by adrenaline and heavy metal.  Full steam ahead.  And then suddenly, Bam!  Everything came to a halt.  There was a car fire in the middle of the expressway that shut down both lanes.  Nobody  was moving and there was no place to turn around.  Even if I did, I had no idea of any alternate routes.

After what felt like days, the blockade finally loosened.  Petal to the floor.  That’s when I started to think about the greeting part.  You know, actually meeting Becca for the first time.  I mean, how do we do this?  Do we shake hands?  Do we hug?  Do we high five and shotgun a beer?  Oh, right, beer.  Yes, that sounds like a great idea right now.

I finally arrived in Lafayette at around 6PM that second day.  What a beautiful compound.  (I think Becca is secretly sitting on some cash-ola.)  It looked like a hotel resort from the front; a multi-level apartment complex with boutique-style storefronts on the lower level, and a reflection pond and walking path for the residents.

The Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.

I hadn’t eaten much that day and was almost through a second pack of smokes.  I got out of the car on two shaky legs, still lost in thought, and stumbled around the resort trying to reach her by phone.  No answer.  Dial again.  No answer.  What the?  I come all this way and she’s dodging me?  Luckily, I remembered I had the apartment number on my phone log.

I walked up the steps, excited, pprehensive, and breathing heavily from the endless flight of stairs.  When I arrived at the door, it was slightly propped open.  Deep breath.  A creative knock…

The door opened slowly, and low and behold, before me stood the real Becca.  The final puzzle piece.  Not an email message, not a Skype image or a picture – the real Becca.  It was a surreal moment for both of us.  We hugged each other and then sort of awkward silence followed.  We were both a bit shell-shocked and reality immediately set in.  What the hell did we just do?  We’re basically complete strangers.  This was the first time we’d ever met face to face and we’re about to spend a long weekend together.

Quiz question:  Who is crazier?

A.) the guy that drove twenty one hours to go on a date.
B.) the girl who invited a potential rapist/nut job/ax murderer into her apartment for a long weekend.
C.) all of the above.

The answer is C.  All of the above.

Ok, put all that crap aside.  It was time to start warming up.  The clock was ticking and we had a lot to talk about: drumming, video projects, astrology, marriage plans, cats – in no particular order.  But, first things first:  I needed to shave, brush my teeth, and put on a shirt that didn’t smell like a dog fart.  Oh, and beer?  Yes, please.  After feeling semi-human again, and slightly buzzed, we ordered a pizza from the restaurant downstairs and started pounding beers like we were in high school again.  Note:  for a 5’4″, small-framed chick, the girl can put em’ back.

This is Becca making garbage bag balloons when we’re supposed to be eating crawfish…

The following night Becca introduced me to a local delicacy that I’d never tried before: Crawfish.  If you ever visit, take my advice, don’t refer to them as Crayfish.  Those crazy bastards down there will skin you alive and hang you in a smoker someplace if you insult their prized dish like that.  Anyways, now is the time of year that they’re in season, and according to her, they sell a shit ton of ‘em.  There are all kinds of roadside shacks and restaurants everywhere selling bags of the tasty little critters.

Ten pounds is a pretty typical amount for two people to share.  It sounds like a lot, but after you dismember them and toss away half the body, the only thing that’s left is a piece of tail meat the size of a grub.  It was pretty obvious who the out-of-towner was during the crawfish-peeling tutorial.  Becca on the other hand?  Pro-level.

The night after, we went out to a local bar for a greasy patio burger and more beer.  There was a band playing covers that evening.  I remember having a strong déjà vu moment while I was walking around the joint.  Apparently, the bartender was also having an out-of-body experience; she mistook me for some dude in the band (I get that a lot) and put my burger next to the stage for a half hour.  By the time I got it, it was cold to the touch, but the gallon of Tabasco that it was slathered in more than compensated.  Everything those folks eat down there is spicy.  I can dig that.  We shot some pool and I didn’t even have to let her win.  The chick’s a shark.

Is there anything this woman can’t do?  I’m getting to that part…

Throughout the trip I taught her various drum sticking patterns, one of them being the Tom solo in that 60′s surfer song, Wipeout.  Everyday she’d sit on the couch or balcony, biting her tongue with her lips, lost in her head.  Over and over she’d practice the pattern.  Like a machine: mess up, shake her head, try again.  It was fun to watch.  She’s just about got it.

We stopped in at a friend’s house nearby one evening to listen to hippy music and have ourselves a jam session.  The owner of the house, Chris, stopped playing his guitar shortly after I sat in.  I’d like to think that it’s because I’m so god damn good, but he probably just had bad gas or something like that.  After a few beers and some porch monkey conversation, we decided to turn in for the night.  Sorry for showing you up bro, honestly. \m/

Adam and Adam Clone

We spent one afternoon messing around with another mutual obsession of ours: corny videos.  I introduced her to a video editing program awhile back, and since then, she’s become a regular Spielberg.  Becca’s a fast learner when it comes to pretty much everything.  Sometimes I feel like Forrest Gump when I’m around her.  That’s all I have to say about that.

Check out the video here: Shitty Clones on Hashtags

The last night was probably the best night.  Bittersweet.  We were finally starting to feel comfortable with each other, and after several days of eating nothing but pretzels, coffee, and beer, our appetites finally came back.

Quiz Question:  How does Becca like her steak cooked? 

A.)  Burnt to a crisp.
B.)  Just a little Pink, please.
C.)  Don’t bother cooking it.
D.)  Red meat?  Sorry dude, I’m a vegan.

The answer is C.  Don’t bother cooking it.  

Me and Rebecky.

So let’s recap:  she shoots whiskey, she’s a pool shark, she plays the drums, she drives an off road vehicle (like a maniac), and now I find out that she eats her steak nearly rare?  Wtf.  Stop making me look like such a pussy all the time.  Man Card revoked.

Needless to say, it was really hard to leave that following morning.  After saying our goodbyes, I watched her as she slowly clicked down the stairs, got into her car, and drove off into the hazy Louisiana horizon.  Soon after she left, she became that same figment of my imagination that she’d been just a week before.  I had to pinch myself.  Did it really happen, or was it all just a dream?

************

If it in fact did happen, then thank you for your incredible Southern Hospitality, Ms Rebecca Ann Cord.  You’re one of the most considerate, sweet, charming, and genuine people I’ve ever met.  You’re better than a cold beer and a head full of Led Zeppelin on a warm summer day.

That’s sayin’ a lot.

- Happy Blogging (in the Bayou) \m/

P.S.  If you ever wanna see Jack the Cat again, wire transfer me $500 U.S. dollars by Friday.  He said you better do it.

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I picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue…

Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.

I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy.  I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know?  Write it out, Adam, just write it out…

See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying.  Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter.  That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.

Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…

What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane.  Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress.  At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”

That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios.  Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant.  That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back.  But that was only like a violent vurp – not really full on hurl.

In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit.  God I hate that word.  They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia.  Gnarly!

What’s your sign? Do you have kids? What do you do for a living? Have you ever had a prostate exam? I really like airplane peanuts. What time is it in Amersterdam? Oh, and don’t call me Shirley.

Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.”  I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:

1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.

I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…

I’m rambling now.  Shut up, man.  Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff?  I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know.  Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.

Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know,  The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”

Ok, bye.

Louisiana or bust…

…Say what?

-Happy Blogging\m/

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This informal name blogging contest thingy is getting fun!  Thank you so much for all your suggestions.  Honestly, you guys are a clever brand.  I’m in good company.  Oh, and Calahan, stop being so damn funny.

Anyways.

I always wanted to do this.  This post is like a magic trick explained – debunked.  I’m blowing the mystique of David Blaine so to speak.  Of course, I’m only assuming that you too think he has mystique.  If not, disregard the comment.

Today is a continuation of this whole cleansing/purging ritual that I’ve succumbed to.  I wanted to take this opportunity to present to you a list of fallacies about me and this page which you may or may not have mistaken for fact.  If I were a famous musician this might be something you’d find in the “box set”.  Some of it you may find shocking.  Some of you might even hurl.  So, grab a bucket and keep it close.

Behold,  MY RIGHT TO BITCH unmasked:

MRTB Fallacy #1  I Loath Hypothetical Questions.

In two of my past posts, Hypothetically Speaking, and Still Speaking Hypothetically, I spewed off about how much I loath unanswerable questions.  This a fabrication.  I actually love ’em.  Find as many as you can and I’ll find a disturbingly creative way to answer them.

MRTB Fallacy #2  I’m Not Into Small-Talk  

In another post, 5 Creative Ways to Avoid Small Talk, I played the role of a social-phoebe.  The truth is, I’ll talk to you until your ears bleed.  There’s nothing in this world I love more than chillin’ out on a patio, in the middle of the summer, drinkin’ beers and yackin’ it up with good company.  I’ll even pay.  However, if The Bragger, Story Teller Steve, Religious Rick, or Political Pete show up, the party’s movin’ indoors, followed by a deadbolt.  Oh, and I am Too Much Information Guy.  But you knew that already…

MRTB Fallacy #3  I’m a Picky Halloween Candy-Eater

Back in October, Don’t Be a Halloweiner included a list of sucky candy not to pass out to trick-or-treaters.  I told a white lie.  There are three items on that list that I actually love:  Mounds, Almond Joy bars, and Raisinettes.  Whoppers still actually do suck.  As a kid I never liked any of them, however.  I think all kids are genetically hard-wired to hate those candies.  That much is true, so don’t pass them out.  Seriously, this is science talking.  Never argue with science.  Unless you’re catholic.

MRTB Fact # 1  The Fruitless Pursuit of an Anonymous Hacker is a True Story.

I do dumb shit like this all the time.  I get riled up about something, then drive around trying to figure out a plan to right all the injustices of this world.  I usually give up soon after departure, and head back with my tail between my legs.  Then I end up sitting down someplace to chain smoke and mull it over.

MRTB Fact # 2  Suze Orman is One of My Role Models.  

Yes, you read that correctly.  She’s kind of turdy most of the time, but the chick knows personal finance better than you.  And me.  Although, despite her financial wizardry, she’ll never be protected from future Fotoshopping efforts.  Ever.  It’s too easy.  Speaking of, she’s also not really missing a tooth, but I think I mentioned that already.  You gotta admit, it was a seamless Fotoshop-job.

MRTB Fact # 3  I Voted for Bush

Both times.  I can already see the comments…

MRTB Fact # 4  I Love Reading Books

The problem is that I rarely finish any of them.  I’m not that big on novels, however.  I don’t think I’ve made it past the fourth chapter of any of the so called Classics.  Go ahead, blast me.  The problem is that I get sidetracked when people speak in fucking Olde English.  I’m sure it’s a classic, however, I found the first forty pages or so to be extremely uninteresting and confusing. Plus, I would much rather make up my own stories.    Side note:  I have to credit my Grandma for teaching me how to story-tell.  When we were little kids she’d always make up bedtime stories on the fly.  They were all better than any of the crap I write.

MRTB Fact # 5  I Do Poetry and Short Screenplays 

But you won’t find any of it here because it’s not for prying eyes!  I’m not Spielberg or Edgar Allen Poe by any stretch, but I dabble in both from time to time.  Scripting is actually the reason I started the whole blogging thing in the first place.  See, a lot of people that write scripts (not me) are really fucking snooty.  They act like they’re all carrying around the next Forest Gump Screenplay.  Give me a break.  I always wanted to make a Short Film, but it’s virtually impossible to network with people in the trade.  Ah bite me.  Now I write blog posts instead.  It’s funner.  More fun, I mean…

Anywhoozle, I feel better.  If you have any deep, burning questions for me, ask now or forever hold your peace.

In the meantime, I’m gonna go grab another espresso.  With some vodka in it.

- Happy Blogging, Rock Stars \m/

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I’m sorry.  It’s true.  After the week has concluded I will have purged every last ounce of negativity and whining out of my frantic fingertips, and My Right to Bitch will be no more.  Bankruptcy has been declared.  Liquidation has begun.  The podium mic unplugged for the last time…

Bonnie Raitt has absolutely nothing to do with this post.

Ok, let’s not get all overdramatic about this.  I’m not going anywhere.  Yes, I’m a bit choked up about the decision, and it’s  a bittersweet one, but it’s time for a rise in consciousness.  Sort of.  The direction of the vortex has been reversed, and new and exciting horizons are on the…uh, horizons.  Wait, that sounded stupid.  That doesn’t even make sense?

I’ll come back to it.

Here’s the deal:  Daddy needs a new name for this domain.  The catch? I’m not gonna be the one to pick it.  That’s your job.  I know, I know – like you give a rat’s ass about naming my blog, and probably wondering out loud, “what’s in it for me?”

Oh-Ho-Ho!  I’ll tell you what’s in it for you!

The winner of the name my blog contest will win an all-expenses-paid trip, including airfare, hotel, and deluxe accommodations, for a 6 day, 7 night trip to Cancun, Mexico.  You will be stayimg in a presidential suite at the fabulous Mayan Palace resort, furnished with a golden toilet and lots of chocolate and berries and stuff.

Hahahahahaha!  Yeah right!  Who do you think I am, fucking Oprah Winfrey?

Yeah, you’re definitely not going there on my dime…

Ok, for real this time:  The winner of the name my blog contest, as it is will be officially known by, will earn a guest of honor spot, right here, where you will be Comedy Central-style Roasted by yours truly, and become part of the last ever My Right to Bitch rant.  This will probably be in history books one day…

I’ll be experimenting all week long with some sucky titles that I had in mind already, as well as revisiting some memorable posts and interactions with a ton of faithful followers.

Keep in mind, we ain’t ditchin’ the parties around here, and my brand of humor ain’t part of the liquidation process either.

Here’s the new tag for a little bit of inspiration:

“Rooftop Keg Stands. Pyrotechnics. Unruly House Guests. An Occasional Orgy, and Rock and Roll.  Grab a Cup. Five Bucks at the Door.”

So, put your thinking caps on and drop your best ideas in the comment section throughout the week..

I’m counting on you.  Tick, tock…

- Happy Blogging \m/

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