Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

My friend Jim just put together an insane psychodelic image of me with my tooth gap. For your own health, don't stare too long.

Just got back from the dentist. They told me the only way I'll be able to continue eating apples with my front teeth is to get a "dental implant". That means they crank a bolt into my head---I assume at least up to the brain area---and afix an artificial tooth to the end. The dentist giggled when I called it a "bolt", but that's exactly what it is. See for yourself. It won't be done for another six weeks (!), and the temporary tooth won't be done until next week (!!), so I have to walk around for a full week looking like Cleatus the Slack-Jawed Yokel.

I'm bartending at a 4th of July party this weekend, so I'll be trying to keep conversations at a minimum and smile with my lips closed. Lord.

I tried to saw off the end of the old tooth in order to construct some sort of pre-temporary place holder in my mouth, but it didn't work. My plan was to suspend the old tooth in place with tape or denture glue, but in the process of chopping off the root of the old tooth, the whole thing shattered into a thousand pieces. Oh well. Guess I won't be hanging it on a gold chain around my neck.

Any suggestions?

Prolonged pain, concentrated into a tiny bone in your mouth is the worst physical agony most people ever experience. This was my situation from Wednesday to Saturday when I finally broke down and paid $181 to a San Antonio backwoods dentist to put the pliers to my mouth to make me feel better.

I woke up Wednesday morning with a slight toothache and didn't think much of it. I'm a tooth grinder by nature, and I figured the small pain was due to something I did while sleeping. Like a typical male (read = tough guy) I didn't say anything and hoped it would go away. But it didn't.

By Thursday, I was loading up on Alieve but it wasn't helping. This was when I first thought that the only cure might be the drill or the pliers. Friday morning rolled around, and the pain was unbearable. The tooth was throbbing and I was getting light-headed and nauseated from the pain, so I went to the emergency room in downtown San Antonio, hoping they would give me the good meds. They prescribed codeine, and I promptly took the maximum dosage. Unfortuantely, that did very little either.

I could barely sleep because of the pain on Friday, and when I woke up, my entire mouth was swollen. That's when I knew the deed must be done: I took a cab to the emergency dental offices on the outskirts of town. It came down to two choices: 1) pull the tooth, and the pain would immediately cease or 2) wait several days until I could get an appointment with a root canal specialist---spending tons of money in the process. Obviously, I chose the former. At that point, I would have done anything short of killing a man to get that pain to go away.

The actual extraction was quite nice, to be honest. I had been through so much blinding pain with my abscessed tooth, that the sight of a 10 inch needle aiming toward my gums was a blessing. Once everything was numb, the dentist brought out the pliers and proceeded to rock the bad tooth back and forth until it came out. I kept it as a souvenir.

So then I had to travel from San Ansuckio back to DC, except the thunderstorms closed the DC airports and caused the pilot to divert the flight to Newark where I spent the night on the cold linoleum floor next to creaking baggage carrousels.

Life is good, life is good.

Ugh. The whole schmoozing instinct is completely foreign to me. I'm at a conference right now, and I'm constantly trying to force myself to schmooze -- ie, "be interesting and be interested" -- but it doesn't come naturally, especially the "interested" part because most of the time I could give a quick fuck.

But there are natually born schmoozers. Probably the same kind of people who decide early on that they want to become actors when they grow up.

There are people who are afraid to swim in dark water---folks who are loath to dive deep, forgetting inhibitions (flipperless, goggleless) into the murk to check what's caught around a boat propeller, only to find a barnacle-encrusted chunk. These people are normal. But they must recognize that the ad nauseam attack of shark scare programs on television is, in part, the reason for their fear.

In reality, you should fear not.

No one who's afraid of sharks wants to hear statistics, and I'm not about to rattle them off to you. But I will say this: the worst that's going to happen to you in dark water is a pissant sting from a jellyfish, or a cow-nosed stingray (it's unlikely they'll actually sting your ass) knocking you off balance. Have you ever experienced that? Stepping on a stingray and it subsequently knocking you down? Didn't think so. Until you do, take my advice: it's not bad, especailly after a few drinks. It's like waking up in the middle of the night, going for a drink of water, and stepping on your dog. The ocean is there to love, my friend, and you can't convince me otherwise. But I'm digressing.

Last weekend, I went to the 2006 Ocean City Shark Tournament. Granted, I didn't get any good pictures of sharks---likely because they're almost extinct---but I guarantee you'll all be happier with one less shark in the world.

For me, I could give a fuck. Long ago, I learned to stop worrying and love the ocean. Here's some picutures from the recent Shark Tournament in Ocean City to prove it.









You can't truly love the earth---especially the ocean---until you suck its stringy guts into your mouth, down your gullet, and out of your ass. A good place to start is by ordering crabs. Oh, and make sure you wash it all down with cheap beer.

I haven't been interested in cool cars since I was a teenager, but when I happened upon a Lotus Elise on Friday while biking home, I was stricken with desire. Normally, I never pay cars any mind, and find most of them to be boring. But I challenge anyone who's been in the presence of a truly spectacular motor car to feel anything but raw awe and desire. This car is a work of art. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

When I joined friendster.com in early 2003, and myspace.com in early 2004 they were fun and interesting ... for about six months. In the beginning, I would spend hours browsing ladies' profiles who had photos of themselves with that come-hither look---bangs unfurled into their eyes. And I'd check out the teenaged dirtbags trying to look cool with tattoos and guitars. And on and on and on ...

(Slow, wide-mouthed yawn...)

I remember when I wrote down "drinking" as a "hobby" on my profile and thought it was hi-larious. It wasn't. I was a d-bag just like everybody else.

By now, the Fonz has jumped through the hoop and landed a double back flip over the great white sharks of myspace and friendster.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who gloats over the fact that they joined or listened to the cool shit before anyone else (judge me for yourself ... my 2 year blogiversary is in 2 weeks), but this shit has got to end by the time you're eeking toward your mid-thirties. Plus, as I've said before, I don't need any new friends.

Trix are for kids, my bitches. And I've moved on to Wheaties.

You might think that dumping buckets of blood and fish guts into the ocean while occasionally hauling in a 300 pound mako shark is cruel or boring, but I disagree.

My grandfather took me to my first shark tournament weigh-in when I was a little kid. I came home with the dorsal fin of a 400 pound tiger shark and kept it in the basement freezer for years. Every time a friend visited, I'd ask, "Wanna see a shark fin?" What a thrill.

At this point, it's become a tradition to drive to Ocean City each June and watch the redneck extravaganza unfold, as the hunters of the sea bring their catches back from the depths to be weighed. The final weigh-in is Saturday. Check out my photos from the 2005 event here.

But the real mullets and American flag bandanas start flying after the weigh-ins are done at 5:00. Hell, there might even be an ad hoc "hot bod" contest---a typical occurance at these things. But at some point, the blazing sun, sloshing Budweiser and cluster fuck of redneckery hit a saturation point for me. I mean, I love getting into the spirit of white trash, but I just can't hang after a while. I grew up middle class, so there's always that disconnect. And I never had a girlfriend named Tammy or Crystal who smoked menthol cigarettes like the rest of the shark tournament fans. Oh well.

More later ...

I was awakened this morning to tragic news that the publisher of Washingtonian Magazine, Philip Merrill, was swept off his 41 foot sailboat in the Chesapeake on Saturday and he's now feared dead.

While reading, I kept waiting for that inevitable line, and halfway down, I found it:

"Investigators believe he wasn't wearing a life vest ... because his wife told them he generally didn't use one."

This is the same old story you hear when there's a death at sea: sailor dies ... with no life jacket. I was sailing in the same vicinity as Mr. Merrill this past Saturday. Hell, I probably saw his boat at one time---who knows. But unlike Mr. Merrill, my wife, dogs and I were wearing life jackets (yes, the dogs have their own life jackets. It's very cute). But I wasn't always so strict about it. I changed after a fateful day several years ago.

In July of 2003, I was sailing near Annapolis with a few freinds on a beautiful Saturday, when we were hit by a freak thunderstorm. In a matter of minutes, we were hit with 40-50 knot winds, lightning directly over the mast, and rain that felt like a shower of gravel. We immediately put on our life jackets. During the worst part of the storm, the waves and wind hit our beam so hard, that we heeled up until water was gushing over the rail. One of my crew panicked, and jumped overboard. You might think that when someone has jumped overboard, you can see them slowly drifting away. Not in this case. The wind and rain were coming down so hard, that he was gone in an instant. For a while, we feared him dead, because his life jacket had not been strapped down securely. I eventually called a mayday on the VHF radio, and the Coast Guard began their search. After about three hours, they found him floating several miles away, alive. And there's one reason he was alive: unlike Mr. Merrill, he WAS wearing his life jacket.

Mr. Merrill had been sailing since he was 7 years old (he died at 72 on Saturday). But despite any sailor's experience level, if you're in a situation where you need a life jacket immediately, you usually won't have time to put it on. I don't require my crew to wear life jackets on board all the time, but I wear mine whenever I'm on the water, just to set a good example. It may seem like a nerdly trait, but I guarantee the only way I'm going to die at sea is when the beasts swim up from the depths to drag me down while I'm floating.

I can't get over the hilarity of Adobe Photoshop. While jaded Mac-users might have a blasé attitude towards cutting friends' heads out and putting them onto J-Lo's body, it hasn't gotten old for me and still splits my sides with laughter.

While I've put many of my best works on this website, below I give you some of my lesser known pieces, simply for your personal enjoyment.
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This was what happened when my friend asked me to put her into a scene with The Captain (of Captain and Tennille) and Lawrence Welk:


My friends Jim and Fruzie were wanting to host a Fourth of July party at the beach, and I pitched this flyer to them to promote it. For some reason, my email never received a response. It's either not going to happen, or I'm not invited any more ...


This faux movie poster was meant to inspire enthusiasm for my five day sailing trip. Universal Pictures was not pleased.


The story for this masterpiece is too long and funny to tell. One day, it will get its own post ...


In case you haven't been following the Volvo Ocean Race, this is what happened to the Spanish yacht, Movistar. Davey Jones' Locker, people.


Ok, technically this isn't a Photoshop job, but it's just a really handsome picture of me about three years ago.


You may be offended by the below picture, but believe me, I originally meant Matt's picture to be included in the aftermath of the Reagan assassination. I was just getting bored that night, so ...


This one was meant to get Derek and Greg's attention right before the sailing trip. It was titled, "Where the Fuck Are Derek and Greg?" Photoshop is very useful in times of need.


I put this together to get my friends geared up for going polka dancing in Maryland. From left (the heads): G.G. Allin, Johnny Rotten, Jim W., Sid Vicious, My lovely wife, Matt G., me, Isaac Washington (of DC Drinks).


About two years ago, I was obssessed with the Reagan assassination and its aftermath. There was one government agent, in particular, that I couldn't get out of my mind. So much so, that I Photoshopped him into a picture with me. See if you can spot him here.


If the Movistar story (above) is ever made into a feature, they better choose my poster.

Obtaining a gut (or "food baby", as my woman calls it) takes work. Years of work. In fact, for the straight American male, a gut is bragging rights that years of good living are under his belt. But this afternoon, I saw my reflection in a window and was startled by a slight lack of paunch.

Some background: I was not able to break above the 135 pound mark until the time I finished college. Throughout most of my school years I was skinnier than many of the girls. It was a huge blow to my security and sense of malehood. But then, about 6 or 7 years ago, I gained a bulge in my stomach and it's been growing steadily since. Sometimes, when I look at old pictures of myself, I cringe, and each time I look down now, I feel reassured that I'm not a puny little boy any more.

Until today.

Is it because I've given up soda? Perhaps something happened now that I'm biking to work every day. Whatever it is, something may be changing, and I'm not happy about it.

I grew up in the DC area and have lived in DC proper for many years now. I've heard every criticism that's been laid on DC's doorstep: full of uptight yuppies, pretentious, blah blah. But none of those cliches have ever rung 100% true for me. Then, about a month ago, I figured it out. DC is first and foremost a city of nerds. All the rest of the pejorative descriptions we get stem from that fact.

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not counting myself as completely separate from the nerd population. While I don't have my master's degree, I still enjoy a few nerdly pursuits here and there, like politics, wearing a life jacket while on a boat, and Discord Records.

Now that I've finally come to this conclusion, I can rest easy. Because who doesn't like a nerd? And an entire city full of them? Very likable indeed.

A typical image of a sailor is a blazer-wearing blue-blooded New York Yacht Club type. Granted, those gents exist, but not the types that obtain used sailboats with stank-ass mildew-coated bilges, worn out lines and broken sinks.

In case you're thinking of buying a sailboat for under $500 from a place like Buzzard Point Marina in SouthEast Washington, DC, refer to my handy guide if you desire to be a true Modern Swashbuckler.

Boastful Behavior:Most people aren't natural liars, but in order to be a Modern Swashbuckler, you must get over that. Every true story must be embellished. Throw in some shite about saltwater, blood, cutting tangled lines and how you paid nothing for your boat. Also, speak in a really loud voice. That makes it more likely that listeners will believe your bullshit. Since the Modern Swashbuckler doesn't have a cutlass strapped to his side, he has to make up for it by being boastful and loud.

Flamboyant Recklessness: "Any damn fool can navigate the world sober. It takes a really good sailor to do it drunk". -- Sir Francis Chichester Somewhere along the way, the word "flamboyant" took on homosexual connotations. A homosexual may also be a swashbuckler, but being flamboyantly reckless, in this case, has nothing to do with butt sex (see next point). The flamboyant recklessness usually stems from the abundance of alcohol on any trip, so this important trait won't have to be contrived.

Friggin' in the Riggin': Most jokes made onboard your vessel must include a reference to buggery or you're not a true Modern Swashbuckler.

Feigned Misogyny:If you're hanging out with a group of guys on a boat for more than half a day, the sex talk will flow naturally. Being around men for days on end will make you want to fuck your girlfriend or wife so bad, that somehow, disparaging females as a group prevents public masturbation and insanity. I can't explain it, but those who've been there will understand.

Singing: 1812 Overture, Chinatown Bumboat, gangster rap, what-have-you. As long as it includes cursing, you're fine. For seasickness, music with a "parental advisory" sticker is better than Dramamine.

Quasi-Fascism:Any good ship is a benevolent dictatorship. Like our presidency, one person---and one person only---will be The Decider. Anything less will destroy any sailing boat. Oh, and every command made by the skipper must be followed to a tee, regardless how ridiculous it seems.