Oh Captain, My Captain…

Would you believe me if I were to tell you at the ripe ole age of seven, I was watching movies from Francis Ford Coppola?

You’d call bullshit right?

That my friend would be where you are wrong.

You see, many moons ago while I was just a young lad, I often took trips to California to visit my grandparents in San Diego. During most of these trips my grandparents would make sure that my brothers and I had a great time and filled our summer with amazing memories.

We’d often hit up the San Diego Wild Animal Park. Or the San Diego Zoo. One time we were even treated with the opportunity to visit Miramar Marine Base. (It used to be Miramar Naval Base, and the reason that’s cool, and the reason you should care, is because that’s where they filmed Top Gun. Remember the scene where Charlie is dissecting Mavericks flying, and he gets all pissed? Remember that darkened room? Yeah? I was in there. I sat there where Maverick, Goose, Iceman, and Sundown all sat. Aside from my job at the radio station, this is the only time I really namedrop anyone. However, I have since stopped, cause Tom Cruise is a crazy bastard.)

In addition to all those cool activities, my grandparents made sure that we attended Disneyland at least one day while we were on vacation there. Many of my now existing fears and loves are because of these trips to Disneyland.

My love of pirates? Pirates of the Caribbean.

Fear of the Ocean? Captain Nemo’s Submarine ride.

Hatred of the Outdoors and Cold? Matterhorn.

Back in 1986 one of my new loves was just forming. See, music television had just hit the airwaves, and there was one such a gentleman that was ruling them. His name was Michael Jackson. He was great. Billie Jean was the coolest video. Mainly because he had a tiger in it. I had no fucking clue what was going on, but dammit tigers were awesome. I can remember back then that I often attempted to copy the King of Pop. I had a red jacket that I thought rivaled that of MJ. However, mine was a Members Only jacket, and the only zipper was the one down the middle. I felt that even though it lacked that many number of zippers that MJ’s did, being red, it was very much the same.

Much like any kid my age, MJ’s dance moves were legendary. I can remember a rumor flying around school that Tommy had actually done the Moonwalk. I mean the actual Moonwalk. Not just dragging your feet slowly as you walked backwards like so many other kids in school could pull off. (me included.)

Summer rolled around, and it was indeed time to make it to California for the traditional summer vacation trip with my brother. At the beginning this seemed as if it was going to be just another trip to Disneyland. Seeing as there was no internet at the time information on your favorite Pop star was few and far between unless you heard it on the morning show of a radio station your parents didn’t want you listening to under the bed covers in your room. So being 7 years old, I may have missed out on the fact that my favorite Pop star of the time, and all around cool guy, was indeed going to be at Disneyland.

No, not quite in person, turns out that after his 4th nose job (not a stat I’m making up by the way) MJ was working on his new Sci-Fi image and career. Enter….

Captain EO!

For those of you who haven’t seen this piece of work let me fill you in. Disney took the reigns and produced a “state-of-the-art” 3D movie that would be featured in their theme parks. Starring none other than Michael Jackson, and some BAD ASS effects. When you’re 7 people, 3D is amazing. And the glasses are cool. Not only did it star MJ, but Academy Award Nominee Angelica Houston, and directed by Francis Ford Coppola.

No shit. Francis Ford Coppola.

Apparently at the time, not only was it the coolest movie I’d ever seen in my life. It was also the most expensive per minute movie in the entire world.

I feel as if my words in writing this don’t give this cinematic masterpiece it’s due. So with that being said throw on your 3D glasses and enjoy all that is, Captain EO!

and part two

I’m not sure it works, but if you have some 3D glasses I suggest you put them on and enjoy…. Man this brings back so many memories.

I left that day satisfied beyond all belief. My new found musical pop hero was in the coolest movie I had ever seen. I was at Disneyland. And to take home with me I bought the flying little thing as a plush toy…

I can remember seeing Captain EO a couple times over the next couple years. My grandma always sat through it with me, and always complained about the music of the movie. Another Part of Me by MJ became one of my favorite songs of my childhood years.

The good news, I can watch Captain EO on YouTube, and pick up Another Part of Me on iTunes. And even though he may have been clouded by some “extra curricular” activities, I’ve got some fond memories of The King of Pop. He truly was a talented musician.

Plus, everything is so much cooler when your 7.

Until Next Time…

Email me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com

I’m Still A Virgin…

First things first.

I would like to announce that I have indeed changed the address of this blog. It’s now, SarcasmAsAWeapon.com, which is what should have done in the first place, but I’m a bit slow. So feel free to update your bookmarks, or bookmark it in the first place.

With that outta the way, I shall now get to the meat of this blog.

You see, I’m not your typical guy.

Don’t get me wrong. I love many of the same things that men do. I love fast cars, actions movies, I love sports, I love eating wings and drinking some beers, I love whiskey, I enjoy a nice cigar here and there, I love Vegas, and gambling, and not showering for a couple days.

With that being said, there are a few things that I also enjoy that don’t necessarily make me gay, but it makes me look gay.
I like to go shopping.
I enjoy The OC, 90210, and The Hills
I spend a lot of money on clothes.
While not completely metrosexual, I do put some time and effort into my appearance.
I have an insane collection of shoes. And I’m not talking about Air Jordans.
Speaking of, I love shoes.
I’ve seen my fair share of musicals, and reference them in conversations.
I hate camping and being dirty. (aside from playing sports.)
I don’t really care for the outdoors whatsoever.
I don’t believe you should wear socks and sandals.
I don’t think you should wear a black shirt with a brown belt.
I spend too much money getting my hair cut.
I really liked Hitch.
I have some “interesting” titles in my iTunes collection.
I spend too much on grooming supplies.

But the kicker…. I don’t like strip clubs.

I’ve never been to a strip club in my life. I don’t understand them. I don’t get them. Wait, let me take that back. I totally understand them. I totally get it. However, for me it’s always been a mystery to me. Why would a perfectly smart dude got spend money on getting cocked teased? Blows my mind.

I mean put it this way… no man would buy Rock Band, open the box, and realize he couldn’t push the buttons!! Or, he wouldn’t take his hard earned cash to a car dealership, give them all his money, for him to smell the interior then 15 minutes later see another dude with his dream car! Yet, when it comes down to naked women, men will do a lot of crazy things.

While other men’s propensities for strip clubs is not the subject, my disdain for them is. I’ve gone 30 years of my life without setting foot in a strip club. Most of it was due to the fact that I’ve been in relationships in most of the years I was supposed to be out getting ripped and seeing naked women dance around. I guess I just thought that I was already getting laid on a consistent basis so what’s the point of seeing some other chick take their clothes off. Oh, and I was getting laid for free. Now, admittedly I paid for sex in different ways, like having to see some pretty messed up chick flicks, but the reward was always pretty worth it.

So I guess I just missed out on a time when I had tons of expendable cash to help support higher education goals of today’s women.

The Streak, as it shall be forever called, was in jeopardy this past weekend as I reunited with my college roommates for one of their bachelor parties. My good friend Gibbs was there and as we had talked in the weeks prior to the event, there was mention of indeed visiting a strip club. Gibbs is happily married, and like me, has grown a bit past the strip club stage. That, and he went about a month ago. But Gibbs, like me, wasn’t very keen on the idea of attending another strip club. Sadly, this was the goal of the groom Big P. He had his mind made up and was determined to go. He was really looking forward to it.

Gibbs and I had a plan.

Back in college we drank a bit. We may have made a Drink-O board that rivaled Bob Barkers Plink-O board. Some may have said we had a problem. We just figured we were accomplished. We haven’t changed much since then, so all of our drinking tendencies are all pretty much the same. I tend to swear a lot and Gibbs is a close talker. Big P, on the other hand, Big P is a different animal all together. Seeing as how Big P is a really big man and a National Champion CheerleaderPower Stunter one would assume that Big P can handle his liquor. And to be honest, if the man would slow down a bit, he could probably out drink the both of us combined.

Big P, however is no marathoner. Big P is a sprinter when it comes to his drinking. As is the case, Gibbs and I devised a plan to see to it that we indeed missed the strip club. I received a text earlier from Gibbs asking me a great tequilla for Big P to drink. I responded by letting him know my buddy swears by Don Julio. And so it was.

I arrived Saturday afternoon to the boys already immersed in a game of beer bong. However this wasn’t your typical game. The cups were filled with water and the boys were drinking from cups they had to the side of the table. Turns out, the cups to the side were filled with their beverage of choice. In this case, Big P’s was filled with roughly 8 shots of Don Julio and some Sprite. When I asked the boys, why they didn’t just play regular beer bong, the informed me that this was indeed “dirty.” This coming from the same guys that after spilling a pour of Don Julio on the plywood table top, proceeded to lick it up.

Our plan was in motion. It was like George Clooney and Brad Pitt in Ocean’s Eleven. (Gibbs, go ahead and pick whichever one you want to be. I’m cool with either, however, I’d kinda rather be Clooney. Pitt kinda seems like a little bitch. Aside from Fight Club.) Big P was diligently killing cup after cup of Don Julio. In most cases, I’d be a bit appalled that someone was treating such a fine liquor like a two dollar PBR, but shit, it was all a part of the plan.

Roughly around 10:30 (which unknowingly to me, is prime strip club time) the rest of the natives were getting a bit restless. In fact I remember a shout, “Big P, it’s 10:30!” “We gotta get going!” It was about at this point that Gibbs was taking out his revenge for The Dark Knight weekend of hockey beatdowns. He was indeed whooping my ass 10-2 in some NHL 2001. We decided that we should put down the PS2 controllers and start rallying the troops. This took longer than expected for some were still eating, some were smoking, some were finishing up a game of beer pong.

Around 11:15, our plan had been determined a great success. We had lost Big P for a good 10 minutes. When we started scouring the house, someone had gone to the side of the house, where a patch of grass was now wilting under the immense pressure that was the dead weight of a 300lb Power Stunter. Big P had passed out in the front lawn. We of course rushed to his side…. to take pictures. He remained there for sometime. I figured it was all over, and the rest of the guys would been crestfallen and resign themselves to continue PlayStation and Beer pong.

And then it happened….

The taxi pulled up and honked. The mighty beast was awaken!

Big P arose from the grass to not only walk like a infant taking his first steps, but to yell out… SHOTGUN! Big P was back. Clooney and Pitt had been foiled. I volunteered to drive some of the others toward their preferred destination of some place that was indeed a euphemism for sex. Something like the “Hot Box” or “WildCats” or “Giggles.” The name isn’t particularly important. We arrived in splendid fashion. I couldn’t find Big P or Gibbs. I scoured the parking lot that was only brightened by the amber glow jetting out from the front door lights. And then I saw them, Big P, doubled over with Gibbs hand on his back. Big P was indeed puking. This had to have been it… it had to be over!

Sadly, one of the guys in our group knew the owner of the Club, and astonishingly they were allowed to proceed inside. It was tough… The Streak was alive. Yet so close to it becoming over. I didn’t want to go in. Yet the golden lights that back lit the naked lady figures on the doors called to me like the Yellow Brick road of OZ. (PS that was a reference to The Wizard of Oz. Not HBO’s prison Drama OZ. Again, please refer to the list above. It doesn’t make me gay, it makes me look gay.)

(Cue internal struggle.)
I should go in.
No I shouldn’t.
I should go… I’m just supporting higher education.
The streak is alive. THE STREAK!
There are naked ladies… I haven’t seen one in a bit, aside from the ones that appear on this 13 inch screen.
They have STD’s in there.
Maybe one will like me.
You don’t make enough to enjoy yourself in there!
THEY’RE NAKED!
THE STREAK!

The Streak. The streak was kept alive. A shit storm of smack talking rained down from some of the boys including calling me gay. And “loving the cock.” However, as it stands… I’m 30 years old. And I’m a strip club virgin.

I’m pretty okay with that.

Until Next Time…

Email Me
SarcasmAsAWeapon@gmail.com