I know that a lot of people think Halloween is a children’s holiday. There are also the holy rollers that consider it evil, a bad influence on children that will make them devil-worshipping serial killers, or, worse…Democrats! Then, there are the sorority girls. These girls are nothing short of costume geniuses. The sheer creativity…sexy cat, sexy devil, sexy angel, sexy nurse, sexy schoolgirl, sexy cop, sexy plumber…you name it, they sex it up. I tried to pull off the sexy astronaut look one year, but it turned out poorly. Just one of the myriad reasons I was never in a sorority, I suppose.

I was especially excited about Halloween this year. You see, I was going to get to attend the unholiest of unholies…Kyle and Brett’s annual party. I had been married and living out of town for the previous ones, and judging from pictures and stories, I knew I had been missing out. Past themes have included “Dress as Your Favorite Shot” and “Sexual Euphemisms.” This year, the theme was “1980’s TV and Movie Characters.” This is not to be confused with a run-of-the-mill 80’s party where you wear leg warmers or a Member’s Only jacket and your costume is complete. This took some thought. It was also strongly encouraged not to pick anything too obvious (Miami Vice).

I declared that anyone who showed up just wearing 80’s clothes without an actual character in mind was to be punched in the face before entering the party. I also have a similar policy for anyone who drives a yellow car or truck. (If you are reading this and happen to be offended because you drive a yellow car or truck, don’t write me an angry email. Just back slowly away and be out of town before sundown. We don’t take kindly to your type around these parts.)

Kyle and I decided on what we thought to be the ultimate group costume, and set about recruiting members for it. We decided that we wanted it to be top secret until the last minute for full effect. Since Brett was involved in a couples costume and unable to assume a role in ours, we had to adopt a code name since he is Kyle’s roommate and would be around a great deal when we were planning. Thus, Operation: Florida was born. The most difficult part of getting the costumes just right was that none of us knew our dress size, since we are all straight males. I thought I was an 8 or a 10, but I was way off. I’m actually a 14, and that’s a bit of a tight fit. Next were the wigs. These proved a bit difficult as well, but we all managed to pull it off at the last minute. Now we were prepared to make our debut at the party…as The Golden Girls. Kyle was Sophia, Fayaz was Rose, Brian (aka the Evil Genius) was Dorothy, and I was Blanche. Yep, I was the slutty one. The best part of being Blanche was the ability to line my purse with plastic to keep ice and beer in there, so I never had to make a trip to the fridge. The worst part was that I make a truly ugly woman.

Other Halloween costumes included Mr. Miyagi and the Karate Kid (Brett and Jennie), Mr. Belvedere, Winston from the Ghost Busters, Rocky Balboa and his trainer (can’t recall the name), Slimer, Punky Brewster, Doogie Howser, Radar and Hot Lips from M.A.S.H., Smurfette, Mario (or was it Luigi?), the Hulk, 2 girls dressed as Jem (from Jem and the Holograms) and a few others that I have either forgotten or didn’t recognize. A special mention should go out to Julia and Aubrey, dressed as Batman and Robin, respectively. I don’t know for sure that they qualified as 80’s characters, but it was late when they got there, and the sexy Batman and Robin was a nice change of pace from sexy cat or sexy devil.

If you threw a party...
Invited everyone you knew,
You would see -
The biggest gift would be from me,
And the card attached would say
"Thank You for Being a Friend"

I’ve been meaning to write this for slightly over a week, or maybe longer. It’s late, and I can’t sleep, which means that everything is a tad fuzzy. Like a kitten. Damnit, I need sleep. Anyway, after writing about my newly acquired nickname of B.J. Tennessee Damnit, III, I started thinking about all of the nicknames I have.

I don’t know if this is unique to my group of friends or not, but we each have at least 3 names. It is currently confusing the girlfriend greatly, as it should. Who the hell would expect JM, The Jew, and Hebe to be all the same person? Well, they are…I mean, he is…hell, forming a sentence about it is difficult enough. What makes it more difficult is that we are scattered around the country and only see each other once or twice a year when we make a massive effort to meet up. (By “we,” I mean everyone else, because I live 2 hours away from our meeting spot, so it’s a short drive.) Despite the fact that she hasn’t met a lot of them, I still talk about them like she’s known them for years. Mainly because she has fit in so well with my friends so far I forget she hasn’t met them or been around us forever.

Well, since standard operating procedures for this blog state that I must ramble and lose track of my point at least once per post, I’m proud to say: Mission Accomplished. This started out as a post about nicknames and slowly meandered its way into me talking about the girlfriend again. The point is: it’s very difficult, when first being integrated (or assimilated) into our group (posse, crew, entourage, or other “hip” term here) it can be very difficult to tell exactly who we are talking about, or to. We may even have assigned you a nickname already and forgotten to tell you, which is why we’re all staring at you waiting for a response, Rico. Pay attention, Chachi!

Since I’ve run out of creativity and am finally starting to get drowsy (most likely as a result of a bottle of bourbon and some cough syrup) I will leave you with a list of the nicknames I have been assigned over the years. This is probably not a complete list, but it’s always expanding, and some nicknames have been retired, so it would be virtually impossible to remember them all. If I’ve left any out, feel free to let me know.

In no particular order…

JT
T
T-Bag
T-Money
J-Tizzle
Hoss (Thanks, Kyle!)
Mark
Caleb
El Dorado
BJ Tennessee Damnit, III
Coach

Here’s a fun contest (as well as a desperate plea for someone to leave a damn comment to see if anyone reads this thing anymore…) whoever can guess the origination of the most nicknames will get a prize of some sort, probably a beer when I see you next.

Well, it’s that time of year again. No, not football season…no, I’m not talking about Halloween either. I’m talking about the SC State Fair. Ah, the fair. Upon entering, you’re greeted by the sights of swarms of teenagers (one third country, one third punk rock, one third gangsta,) dozens of mullets, and trillions of fanny packs. The smells are varied as well…vomit, assorted fried things, meat, and cattle.

The girlfriend and I went last Wednesday, and immediately started riding the most nauseating rides. After three or four of those, we decided to take it easy and ride something more calm, and made our way to the swings and then the chairlift that went over the entire fair. We then entered the most relaxing haunted house ever. I’m not sure who they were trying to scare, but it didn’t work. The only thing that kept me from getting bored and screaming out things like “Oh my God! My scrotum!” was that I thought there may be children behind us.

I’m not sure what I enjoy most – people watching, riding large steel contraptions that I fear were hastily assembled by carnies, or eating the food. Okay, I’m lying; I know I love the food more than anything else at the fair. The Fiske fries with vinegar, the fried mushrooms with spicy ranch sauce, chili cheese fries, polish sausages with onions and peppers…man, I’m getting hungry again.

However, there was a disturbing trend this year. There were way too many foods that resembled a phallus. And they were all on sticks with some sort of dipping sauce. The girlfriend and I termed them “Homoerotic Meat Sticks,” and had a bit of a competition to see who could spot the next one. There was the regular corn dog, the18-inch corn dog (that gave me a bit of a complex, to be honest,) something that I assumed to be teriyaki chicken or steak mounted on a stick, and the scariest, which looked like a pot roast on a stick. I’m also fairly certain there were others, but my mind has already blocked them from memory. Now if I could just stop thinking of the 18-inch corn dogs…

The girlfriend and I went out of town to a wedding on Edisto Island. It was a former coworker of hers getting married, and the girlfriend was officiating and playing the violin. So, really, aside from the bride and groom, she was the wedding. Despite this, she still chose to let me accompany her.

Any weekend that involves earning a new nickname is bound to be a pretty good one…or an extremely bad one. In most cases, a new nickname means a good weekend. The sign of a truly great weekend is earning a nickname like B.J. Tennessee Damnit, III. I think it is the most impressive one I’ve earned to date.

Before anyone gets any bright ideas, I would like to point out that “B.J.” stands for “Big Josh,” because there were two of us staying at the house in Edisto with the same name, and I was the bigger of the two…because the other one was six years old, not because I’m a hulking giant. I won’t clear up the rest of the nickname, because I prefer to let people interpret it as they will, except for the B.J. part. Also, I don’t remember where “Damnit” came from.

The groom was British, and his two brothers (who, oddly enough, were also British) were there as well. I had never before seen a Brit drink Coronas, but that was all that Joe (the youngest brother) drank all weekend. It kind of blew my mind. The rest of us drank whatever was closest at hand, and plenty of it. Also, one of the brothers is a chef back in Britain, and he cooked for us all weekend. The food was exceptional, the beer was cold, and the people were friendly. I was also put in charge of making sure that the photographer’s glass was never empty, a task which I took to with glee. It was easily one of the better weddings I’ve ever been to, except for the part where the girlfriend had a nasty head cold and couldn’t hang out that much.

It was also my first time meeting any of her friends. She has met plenty of mine, but we all live fairly close together, and a lot of us make the trip to Clemson for every home game as well. I think I made a good impression on her friends, and I know that I enjoyed meeting them. Hopefully I fooled them into thinking that I’m a good person, and will get to see them again soon.

I know I’ve written about my cable company and how much I love them before, but that was a previous cable company. I have since moved, and found out just how good I had it with the last cable company. Sure, there were very few people who spoke English on more than a rudimentary level, but at least they did what they said they were going to do.

When I first called my new cable company to set up service, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the person on the other end of the line spoke English well. What surprised me more was that they couldn’t get to me for at least a week. Charter, my last cable company, who I owe apologies to for my unkind words, would almost always show up within 24 hours. They were even willing to send people out after normal business hours. Time Warner, my new cable company, takes upwards of a week, and must be within normal business hours.

I’m sure most people are familiar with “installation windows,” meaning that someone will be there between the hours of 11:00 and 2:00. I used to get frustrated with Charter because they would usually show up towards the end of that time window, say at 1:59:59. Oh, how naïve I was! How I wish I had known how well they were treating me. Time Warner, promising to show up between 11:00 and 2:00, had not shown up by 2:15. I called in to make sure I had the day correct, and was assured that I did. They promised to have the “technician” call me within 10 minutes with an updated arrival time.

Do the math with me here, folks. That means he should call by 2:25, right? He called at 3:30 to tell me he was running late. Really?! Good thing he told me. I asked what time I should expect him, and he told me “No later than 6:00.” Keep in mind that I had been waiting for him since 11:00. Here’s the fun part: He arrived at 5:50. He also had no idea how to hook up the high definition receiver, so I did it for him in the interest of saving time. Also, if I had watched him blankly staring at the color coded cables in his hands and try to figure out what went where (here’s a hint: green to green, red to red, etc.) for five more minutes, I would have had to hide his body in my crawlspace and dispose of his truck somehow.

Well, the seasons are definitely changing here in South Carolina. However, while the temperature is in the high 50’s to low 60’s in the mornings, it is still climbing to the high 80’s and low 90’s in the afternoon. For those of you unfamiliar with the state, it almost never gets really cold here. Sure, we have snow and ice from time to time, but it rarely ever sticks around for more than a week, and it never accumulates to more than a couple of inches. Of course, now that I’ve put that in writing, Mother Nature will decided to send us a blizzard of epic proportions and keep the temperature well below freezing until July because she hates me. She’s a dirty whore.

My feud with Mother Nature aside, it finally feels like football season outside in the mornings, and I’m getting the urge to go camping as well. Anyone who has kept up with this blog since its inception last December will be bracing themselves for impact, based on my previous camping escapades. Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m not going to disappoint you. I know for a fact that our next camping trip will involve the use of chainsaws while consuming alcohol. It has to; since trees have fallen across the road we cut down to the campsite last spring. Sure, we could operate the chainsaws before we start drinking, but I’ve never run a chainsaw sober, so I’d probably do something stupid.

Those of you who know me in real life may be concerned about another factor: the girlfriend. As you know, I have settled down considerably in the past month. I haven’t sat up drinking long enough to watch the sun rise in quite a while, nor have I rung up any obscene bar tabs. I haven’t even woken up on Kyle’s futon in a month or so. She’s a good influence. This doesn’t mean I won’t have good stories, it only means that they are less likely to involve police and/or other emergency personnel. I promise I’m still not all that bright, and I still love fireworks, PBR and moonshine just as much as ever. I’m just slowing down a bit, and my liver thanks me. This does not preclude me from a wild bender from time to time. I just try to reserve them for once a month instead of once a week.