The Broken Guy.

After nearly a month of solid haunting, my body felt really bad.

Despite easier accommodations, the cooler weather and the strange position I had to stay in for hours on end as a severed head wrecked my left shoulder and lower back. I could feel it as we went “full time”, and while I got proactive with massage and days at the spa, it was back to square one when another weekend came around.

But I still found time to get into my usual brand of mischief.

Tours at the Museum were at their usual: One kid argued with me that alligators are extinct to no assistance of the teacher to set that right, to my discussing how the dinosaurs went extinct in great detail.

Me: “And that’s what caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. Any questions?” *pause* “Yes?”
Kid: “But how did the dinosaurs die?”
Me: *stares blankly* “Are.. are you kidding? I just told you.”

Zoolander, apparently, was based off of real-life people.

Outside of work, I ended up meeting Sarah Jane to counter-protest Westboro Baptist Church as they were protesting in front of a high school. Really? They target children with their hate rhetoric now? I didn’t so much join the chanting (lack of voice) or the sign waving (lack of energy) or even the elaborate costuming (Sarah Jane covered all three factors), but I wanted to make a stand that I was on the other side of the crowd when it came to their protests.

Hatin' on the hate....

Hatin’ on the hate….

And hey, curiosity. I wanted to see what these sort of people looked like. Of course, there were only four of them, singing bad covers of Lady Antebellum songs. Actually, after my Kauai adventures, I’ve grown fond of “Need You Now”, as they played it constantly as I drove around the island, but now I get to envision a bunch of sour-pussed grumps singing how everyone not like them is going to Hell. For people who claim to have all the answers and are so self-righteous, they look like genuinely miserable people.

That’s nothing to say of the follow-up cast party from my haunting friends. I’d like to say “It all started normally enough….”, but that’s how most of these things begin.

One of the people in attendance was something of a “Wild Card”. Always in peoples faces demanding to know why you didn’t like him (though nothing had been said), and he was well blitzed before the party even really began. He took a liking to the little group I was hanging out with, and just when you think he was gone, “Drunk Guy” would reappear to get more aggro and vocal, slamming chairs, and screaming that he spent nearly $400 on a bar tab that people took advantage of, and he couldn’t cover it on his credit card, all the while screaming because people took his keys, and he was belligerent towards everyone at this point.

For one moment, I thought we had finally shaken him, but as if on cue, “Drunk Guy” immediately reappeared out of nowhere like Mr. Mxyzptlk to join us at a table. “Oh Goddammit, don’t you ever go away”, I sighed wearily.

At this point… “Drunk Guy” was moaning that his pay was docked to cover his bar tab, and then demanded to know how much the Boyfriend of the couple I was sitting with made. “How much”, “Drunk Guy” demanded. “HOW MUCH? YOU FUCKING TELL ME!” At this point, the neighboring table of three huge Latinos snapped “Shut the fuck up! You’re getting in our conversation”, at “Drunk Guy”, to which he mouthed off at them. “And I’m done”, I said, getting up. It was then that the Latinos pushed “Drunk Guy” into me, and having enough, I elbow blocked him to keep him off of me. “Drunk Guy” was furious at the Latinos and threw his beer bottle down on the floor, smashing the bottle near my feet, beer and glass flying into my sandals.

If I had enough earlier, I was seriously done now. “Are you serious? You fucking asshole!” I raised my arm to shove him away, then lowered it as I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes widened in horror.

Oh, not good. Not like this.

The three Latinos were bearing down on me and fast.

So I did what I could: I smiled broadly and said “Whoa, we’re cool” to them as I quickly pointed over at “Drunk Guy” and told them to “Have fun”, as I side-stepped the charge. The bartender broke it up, and they went outside. All I know is that while the bartender handed me a wet paper towel to clean glass off my feet and keep me from further getting cut, the parking lot exploded into a lot of cop cars, and a lot of handcuffed people.

I said goodnight to my friends, now truly ready to walk out the door. “This never happens to me”, the girl said. “Are you kidding”, I stated matter of factly, “Stuff like this happens to me all the time.”

We walked out, and there was “Drunk Guy”, looking hopeful as if we’d back up his story. “Hey! Fuckers! Come here”, he bellowed at us like we were old friends. I stared at him briefly for a moment. “No. I think not”, I said, as I ducked past the cops so that I could go home. Police questioning was the last thing I wanted after that particular night.

Injured, but smiling.

Injured, but smiling.

Life outside of work and prospective bar fights was far more normal: Lake Las Vegas, Boulder City, a visit to the Zombie Apocalypse Store (for all your undead needs) and a lot of massages. I felt like the hunchback, and nothing was setting me back to my old, fun-loving ways.



But I dragged myself out to the South Point Casino to support Sarah Jane in the “Sons of Italy Spaghetti Eating Contest”. It was an astounding, fairly grotesque affair where people had to eat unlimited 1 pound plates of spaghetti for seven minutes. Someone ate 12 plates. 12 POUNDS of spaghetti. I was mortified, but fascinated. Sarah Jane was not “The Biggest Eater”, but she gulped down a respectable 3 1/2 pounds.

Live music!

Live music!

"The Silver Slurper" competes.

“The Silver Slurper” competes.

Years later I would get my comeuppance for these shots.

Years later I would get my comeuppance for these shots.

My pain-ridden gloominess was forgotten with Sarah Jane’s food antics, eating handfuls of spaghetti like a baby wanting to feed themself for the first time. It was thusly hilarious, and a welcome diversion. I also attended a Yelp event, again hanging out with my pink hatted pal at P.J. Clarke’s as we attempted to eat oysters in a very overcrowded venue.

Sophisticated hors d'oeuvres.

Sophisticated hors d’oeuvres.

Building a better beard....

Building a better beard….

One day, whilst walking the dogs in the neighborhood, one of the neighbors revealed that the previous owner, an old lady, died in the living room. Fun! That’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? Because now whenever I walk into the room, it’s the first thing I think of, and where exactly in the living room did she die?



At least I was starting to feel somewhat better again…. And of course, there was Skyrim….