Viva Las Vegas

Last weekend, I was fortunate to travel to the land that our forefathers dreamt about when they skillfully crafted our beautiful Constitution. Yes, my friends, I am talking about a place where the beer flows like wine; where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talking about a little place called Las Vegas.

It was in Vegas that I most defiantly spat in the face of all those lawmakers who came before me, as for I, J.Diddy, turned 21. I have clawed and scratched my way through life as a simpleton, but now -- I am going to fuck your shit up. You thought you could stop me and change the ways of the world, MADD, but now I'm legal, and you can't do anything to stop me (minus throwing me in a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison).

After a long-standing battle with the legal system, I can now safely enjoy a frothy B(eer) outside the comfort of my home, most notably, at the local watering hole near your home. Now don't get all pissy at me because I am going to get so blind that Ray Charles will be driving me home, because you know what? It's my goddamn legal right. So HA HA piss on you. Seriously, I may actually piss on you -- It's happened before and it sure as hell will happen again. It's just inevitable.

I'm going to start calling myself "the Hurricane" because I'm going to go Katrina on all your asses. And you know what else? Crying won't help you, and praying won't do you no good. Cause when the levee breaks, mama, you got to move.

So kudos, Alcoholics Anonymous, for I may be seeing you soon. But for now, I'm going to enjoy Happy Hour.

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Goodbye, Marc Dean

If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you. ~ Winnie the Pooh

I feel like I'm writing a eulogy right now.

As the taste of vomit escapes from the depths of my throat, I am a lost puppy searching earnestly for a way home.

I thought this day would come easy--really, I did. But, unfortunately, I can't say that anymore.

Certainly, many of you are wondering what the fuck I am talking about. And sadly, I must admit: I am a victim. My life, my identity was stolen from me.

Not just stolen, though, but snatched like it was one of the Crown Jewels. Like a fucking thief in the night, some bold motherfucker gut my bag open like a goddamn fish. And like the innards of a dead carcass, this crafty shithead sifted through to find the heart of my being -- my wallet.

Not only was it a wallet, but a way of life. Hell, it was my lifeline. I don't know how much longer I can carry on...

But honestly, I feel so violated. Let me tell you how this all went down:

I was just minding my own business (like I ALWAYS do); I may or may not have passed out after a long night of binge drinking, but that's beside the point. So there I was just resting my eyes on the train back to my place when all of sudden -- WHAM! I've become a victim, a measly statistic.

I don't really know what happened. I wish I did though. But that didn't stop me from standing nose-to-nose with the first guy I laid eyes upon. He was a shifty motherfucker sitting in front of me. What else was I to think? I mean, hell, when I finally came to and opened my eyes, all I saw was his sideways glare creeping at me with his hands moving all shady-like. I can't explain it.

So the story goes on without much resolution. I never caught the guy, obviously, or the next time you would see me I would be wearing his (or her, I guess, but that's just sounds silly) hands around my neck like a goddamn trophy. You know, like a scarecrow to ward off potential theives. I wish I find him, and I'll go Riyadh on his ass. Steal my shit, I'll cut your hands off. Look at me funny, I'll scoop your eyeball out with a spoon. I'm just saying what Jesus taught -- eye for an eye, right?

I can't believe no one stopped this guy though. I can only imagine what it looked like when he was standing over me, knife in hand, about to slice me open like Bear Grylls on a dead mule. The only thing that really chaps my ass,though, is the fact that I lost priceless valuables. I couldn't care less about the credit cards or $3 cash that I had on me. I was able to cancel the credit cards, but only after the stupid fucks bought McDonald's and a CTA pass. Seriously, that's all they bought.

But they took more than my credit cards that fateful July night...they took my friend. They stole a piece of me that can never be returned. And if it was, I couldn't bear to hold it in the same spot in my heart as it was before. Alas! Marc Dean, my alias for so many years, has finally been laid to rest. He was bore by the grace of God, and into my hands he was commended. Words will never do justice the priceless memories we had together. We laughed, cried, lived together...

I know many of you have been able to partake in the pure joy of being around him as well. If you would be so kind, I invite you to share some of your finer moments with Marc, so his memory will never be forgotten. He may be gone physically, but his spirit will live on forever.

So here's to you, Marc Dean: my friend, my confidant, my brother! Lest we forget!

(This entry is dedicated to the life and times of Marc Dean: June 16, 1984-July 31, 2008 of 8128 Groesbeck Rd, Lansing, MI 48912. You were a Gemini, and a non-organ donor. You will never be forgotten, Marc. Thank you for everything.)

Editor's Note: For those in the Metro-Detroit area, there will services held the days of August 8th through August 18th in rememberance of Marc. Please contact Joe D. for further information regarding the memorial.

Finally, below you will find a re-enactment of the crime scene. The following is a snippet of the scene I now dub The Severance in which the perpetrator slices open the bag, revealing the goods -- the wallet. Mr. Grylls is playing the role of the criminal, and the dead zebra is playing the role of myself, the innocent victim. The meat Mr. Grylls tears and steals is a metaphor for my wallet: the part of my own body unjustly stolen and, ultimately, exploited.

G.I. Joe D.

Imagination is a funny thing. Especially while you're growing up, too. You know, like when you would dress up as your favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (Donatello, of course) and save the best news reporter ever, April O'Neil, by fighting off Shredder -- while eating pizza provided by Splinter, your rat sensei. Don't pretend like you have no fucking clue what I'm talking about.

Either way, I like to think that my imagination is running wild as ever in this God-gifted head of mine -- enough to think people read this.

I think there was a lull, though, that considerably hindered my growth as an imaginative character. Perhaps it was caused by playing "Hey, Mister!" outside liquor stores in Detroit; the booze-filled benders spent on street corners of Birmingham; or maybe it was the time that my friends and I decided to dress up as soldiers, run around the neighborhood, and, subsequently, sprint from the police.

Yeah, I think it was definitely that last one.

So, I don't know who's idea it was, but I'm sure as hell not taking credit for this.

It was, oh, I don't know, a Friday? You know, one of those high school weekend nights just spent with your boys. It was unlike any other Friday, really. And it all started off just hanging out at P.Ry's house...

Like I've mentioned before, P.Ry is a military man. He comes from quite the conservative family stemming from the fact that his Dad was also in the Army. So I don't know if it's clear to you or not, but his Dad is not to be messed with. He goes by Doc -- his authority is like the hand of God. He could crush my head like a grape.

So what do you think P. Ry, Bush, Lep, the Fooz, and I did when P.Ry's parents left for the evening? We did what any other group of teenage guys would do, of course: steal all of Doc's Army fatigues and run around like a bunch of assholes throughout the streets of Birmingham.

Oh don't worry, we didn't come unprepared. We were equipped with facepaint too. Oh, and I'm pretty sure Bush went as far as to bring his air-soft gun. You know, just in case we faced insurgents. Oh yeah, it was gonna be a good night.

So let me save you some time and get to the good parts. I'll just brief you (it's a military term, you may not understand) on what happened after we were fully equipped in our, I mean, Doc's combat gear: we ran from P.Ry's house due East; Bush discharged his weapon into my right thigh when I wasn't looking; we continued on our march towards an undisclosed location; after passing by a civilian walking his dog, we arrived to the undisclosed location at approximately 2100 EST.

At this point, I begin to get a bit shaky with the details. (If you put my symptoms into WebMD, I'm fairly certain they're on par with post-traumatic stress disorder, but I digress.) I do know, however, that we split up: Bush and myself; P.Ry and the Fooz; Lep the Lone Ranger.

Again, I don't know why Lep was alone, but I wasn't about to say anything at the time. But if I knew then what I know now...we'd be singing a different tune. What seemed like a coming-of-age tale for Lep to go solo on this mission proved to be fatal. (Ok, well not really fatal, but if you knew Doc it very easily could have been.)

So there we are -- fatigues and facepaint camouflaging our every move under the shadow of night. An owl hooed to mark the culmination of our mission. As we began to move in on the target, our friend's house, I can remember my heart beating in my throat. Sweat began to gather on my brow -- we were ready.

Just as we were about take our positions, I noticed a flash out of the corner of my eye. Something wasn't right. We mandated the prohibition of all flashlights earlier in our debriefing. And then...

HOLY SHIT! COPS! SCATTER!

Once again, my night was foiled by law enforcement. Didn't they know we were fucking Army Rangers? And fuck, Bush was armed! He could have given those pigs a nasty bruise with his air-soft gun if they were showing any bare skin. But hell, I wasn't going to stick around and tell them that. Grease was the word, and I was running.

I take it that many of you have never had the chance to run from the Birmingham police, but if you have, maybe you can empathize with me when I say there truly is a subtle joy that comes from evading arrest. They have nothing better to do, and they know it. It's great.

Either way, along with the sheer terror of actually getting arrested, there came an absolute surge in adrenaline that allowed Bush and I to hop over fences and glide like fucking gazelles into our safe zone -- the cemetery down the road. But where were the others?! In the midst of all running to save our own asses, we lost P.Ry, the Fooz, and Lep. So much for an "Army of One."

What should Bush and I do? Do we stay safe in no man's land away from the coppers or go back and try to save the others?

Well, before we could even answer that question ourselves, it was answered for us -- we saw Lep, the Lone Ranger...in the back of the paddywagon.

MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. It was like getting hit in the sack.

I knew it right then...our game was up. But where were P.Ry and the Fooz?

Bush and I were reluctant to give up, but we had to. It was only right. I know, I know -- you're asking yourself, "Joe, why do you always take the proverbial 'high road'?"

And I'll answer you this, it's because I am one of the most self-righteous men you'll ever meet. (And humble, too.) It's ok, I know you agree. But we can talk about that at another time. Now let me get back to the story --

So ultimately, Bush and I turned ourselves in. We knew the drill: hands up, heads down. I've never been so ashamed. Not because I was getting in the back of a pig-mobile, but because I felt that I let my country down. I let President Bush down. I let my grandmother down. I let you down. The free world was on our shoulders for one night -- and we failed.

I feel like Bush, Lep, and I may have gotten the last laugh though. Because when we got back to P.Ry's house and Doc came out trying to understand why 3 boys that AREN'T his own were being escorted into his home, he went hunting -- for his own kin. I had never felt so safe in the presence of a police officer.

To try and end such a story right now doesn't do justice the myriad of emotions that washed over me while we waited alone in the silence of P.Ry's dimly lit basement. Hope, despair, jealousy, hatred, and, once again, sheer terror. What awaited P.Ry and the Fooz under the cloak of night was a man born in the shadows -- Doc.

I don't know how it went down, but Doc found our two AWOL friends before the police did --no surprise there. It's one of those things you never really talk about; one of those things that are just better left unsaid.

Doc was surpisingly calm when he talked to us though. I was bracing myself for something a little more along the lines of fire and brimstone. Or to be smote down with lightning bolts. I'll never forget his demeanor or the long talk he gave to us. I could try and re-create it for you, but that's like asking Moses to paint a picture of God after receiving the Ten Commandments. It's just not going to happen.

On days like this, I try and wonder to myself what would have happened if we never ended up doing our mission that night. I sit back, laugh, cry, and simply shake my head. I thank God for that night. I grew my first chest hair. I danced with the Devil, and won.

Some guys like to tell you tall tales of booze, loose women, and bar brawls. But not this guy. When I look back and tell my grandkids about the time my friends and I looked Death into the face and winked -- I'll be telling them the legend of Doc. And the night I became a man.



From Left: Lep, Bush, P.Ry, Myself, and The Fooz

The Fooz

Before I get too far with all these posts/stories/incessant rants, I'd like to take a moment and pause for the cause (and the Cos). You know, give a little credit where credit is due. I can't believe I've forgot to pay homage to the man who recently just stopped by one day, and ended up staying for a week--the Fooz.


Everyone knows him, whether you've actually exchanged pleasantries with the man or not. He's the old friend that stops by unexpectedly and stays for a week; the drunk uncle that you don't want your kids to be around; the little bluebird on your shoulder.


Most importantly, however, while the rest of America is resting on their laurels, he is the man that is advantageously racing across our purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain. Yes, ladies and gents, as the world waits for relief from all that ails us, the Fooz is heading into the eye of the storm -- he's taking on America one city at a time. Well, actually, what I'm talking about is his (cue thunderous voice echo) GREAT MIDWESTERN ADVENTURE.


Luckily, I was fortunate enough to lay claim to his first pit-stop along the way. (Chicago's the Gateway to the West, right?) Well, by the grace of God, Fooz made it. And, let me tell you, the man did it WITHOUT Google Maps. How many people can say they have done that?


You're a goddamn liar if you said "Oh, shit I have." You needed a map when you were playing Oregon Trail. You aren't going to convince me otherwise -- not this time.


Either way, I just lost my train of thought. Thanks a lot.


Oh yeah, so I guess now I really don't have much to say, except "Godspeed, Fooz."


Hopefully he hasn't already died en route to his next destination, and will be able to read this. And if you're asking yourself why I am practically blowing this guy, it's because he gave me quite the inspiration to keep this whole blog-thing going. And if you don't like my blog, fuck you.

So here's to the little bluebird on all of our shoulders. And maybe, just maybe, I'll move out of my parent's house one day.

Now back to more self-deprecating stories. I promise.

The Taste of Stevie Wonder

I think I had a pretty good weekend. Here are some reasons:

1. My parents came in town.

2. I saw Stevie Wonder.

3. I'm fairly confident he saw me too.

I don't think I really need to explain much more. His name is Steven Wonderful. He is fantastic. He makes babies and music. He is agape.

But, to move past his epic performance, I've got to tell you this: I saw Stevie Wonder drive into the show!

No, he wasn't the driver, you fucking goof. It's bad enough they allow old people and Asians to drive.

But honestly, it was great. My parents and I were being zealous citizens -- abiding to traffic signals and crosswalk regulations -- when along comes, who else, but Stevie and his crew driving up in a brand new, white Escalade. (Move over, St. Lunatics.)

So close your eyes and imagine this (just as Stevie does): we're minding our own business, about to walk into the Taste of Chicago, when Stevie's driver practically bulldozes a group of innocent pedestrians.

What would you do in that situation? Oh, I'll tell you what we did -- we waved to him and screamed his name like a bunch of little schoolgirls.

You know, why not make gestures at a blind man as a way to show my adoration? It seemed like a good idea at the time, though. Just about as good as Stevie Wonder requesting the specific

COLOR and MAKE of his escort vehicle.

It may just be me, but it seems a bit strange that a man of his, ahem, caliber is demanding particulars such as colors and shapes of cars that he has never -- dare I say -- laid eyes upon. But hey, who am I to judge?

So kudos to you, Stevie Wonder! You don't need to look in a mirror to know you are still a true American badass. You just have everyone else telling you how fucking sweet you are (myself included).

Now I wonder....was Helen Keller was this demanding?

Why I Left Public Schools

I went to Midvale for pre-school.

I stapled my finger to see how it would feel.

It fucking killed.

(I wish this could have been a haiku.)



Finally, there is someone who can understand my pain.

The Beginning

I'd like to think it all began when I made a day trip up to Toronto for a fake ID. Yeah, that's definitely it. It all started when I realized I'm a BAMF and was able to convince some kind of Indian-Canadian crossbreed to make me a fake ID that says I'm from Montana -- 50 bucks well worth it.

So I have to test the motherfucker out right? Well, to skip a few more stories, I was able to totally pull a fast one on this minimum wage Kroger employee at the U-Scan and, get this, buy a bottle...of ALCOHOL. What a fucking moron!

I was on top of the world. The day was mine. I was going to be a mediocre, white boy peppered into a sea of underachievers -- STATE.

Needless to say, I had hidden the contraband in the safest, most secure place any guy can hide only the darkest of his secrets: my undies. What teenage boy is going to let his Mom or Dad snoop through their unmentionables? Definitely not this guy.

Exit: my parents Enter: ELPD

I'll be honest with you guys right now, the details from here on out are a bit hazy. But what I do know is that I felt like the Queen of England when I had about, oh, I'd say 8 people in my room that night pregaming before we went out. (It'd be safe to say they were all dudes.) Boy, was I kicking it into high gear in COLLEGE!!!

At this point I'd like to quote a simple man, Andrew Bernard, who once said: "Beers buzzed... Shots drunk..." In those wise words, I think I'm able to paint the picture for you.

So, ultimately, we knocked back the bottle of Smirnoff's finest collection and proceeded to walk. "Where'd you walk to, Joe?" you may being asking. And dammit, that's a fine question. It's too bad I'm unable to answer it. Maybe you've been to MSU and you know that sometimes when you head out, you just go in a general direction. (In my case, it was north.) And maybe you haven't been to MSU, and, in that case, where the fuck have you been spending your time cause you've been missing out on a fucking blasty blast. So, we headed north...

"Once you walked north, Joe, where'd you and your posse go?" Alas, another great question without an answer. There's absolutely no way of knowing. I wish I could answer it for you, I really do, but I have better things to share.

After making a complete ass of myself in front of countless people that I may or may not ever see again, myself, along with two of my friends decided to walk home. Like I said earlier, I was living the High Life. So we're walking home, I'm happy as a clam, and some dueche bag pig decides to come and spoil my great time. Buzz Kill City, USA. What a jackass. He thought, just cause I was walking home in the gutter, with one shoe on, singing show tunes, that I was drunk. Talk about racial profiling.

So to make a long story even longer, I got tossed in the tank. But I'm not talking East Lansing's very own jail (that's for a another time). I'm talking Ingham County jail way out in Bumfuck, Michigan -- somewhere around Mason, for those of you with close family of friends in ICJ.

Ever seen Shawshank Redemption when the inmates are all laughing hysterically about the crazy shit they pulled to land them in the Big House? Try waking up to that. Now multiply that by 12. If only Morgan Freeman was there to make it all better. (Editor's Note: We don't call it the Big House in the Big House. Sometimes it's The Joint. But usually it's something along the lines of The Resort. Or My Place for Kids -- but for adults. Or something clever to mask the utter dispair and deep, deep depression we feel for ourselves when we're caught in the whirlwind of our downfall. It's like a Greek tragedy. Minus the whole hero thing. Inmates are quite the comedians if you ever get the chance to get locked up with them for 14 hours. I recommend it.)

The Bullpen -- that's what it's called. That's prison jargon for "you're fucked." Figuratively, if you're lucky. But, hey, I guess underage drinking deserves the same severity as rape and theft. It's all good. No hard feelings though, Judicial System.

So where was I? Oh! That's right. Jail. By the end of it all, I spent a little over half a day in a 15x10 concrete jail cell dubbed "The Bullpen" with 12 grown men recanting eachother's finer moments in life. It what I call now a "learning experience."

It sure is a great story to have. Or at least bits and pieces of one. I'd like to make it into a made-for-tv movie actually. I'd cast my favorite actor, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, as myself --the oppressed white male. The climax, or zenith if you will, would be when I (JTT) is finally released from what seemed like years behind prison bars. I can finally empathize with my fellow life-without-parolees. As I'm granted back my possessions that the pigs snatched away from me, I'll be walking out of ICJ with "Redemption Song" growing increasingly louder. Into the warm sunshine, into freedom. I'll have it be entirely accurate too -- just as it all happened. I'd be waiting for my sister (Tiffany Amber Theissen) to come pick me up. As I would gather my possessions from the plastic bag they were kept, I would finally slide my sandal on the chaffed foot that had been missing it (symbolism of the Cinderella story), and drive off into the sun.

I can look back and laugh now though. Probably not as hard as all my friends did when they heard I was in jail...and probably not as hard as they all are now when they're re-reading this. This story is for them. For all of you. So I can finally join in on the laughter with you guys -- at last justice is finally served.

Final Editor's Note: The picture you see is not the actual booking photo of the aforementioned incident. It is merely an artist's rendition of the author after hearing of his tragedy, and ultimate triumph. It was the artist's idea to portray the author when he was at his lowest point -- the infamous "Bullpen."

Michigan State University: The Happiest Place on Earth

If any of you know me, you know I went to a little place called Michigan State University before I ended up in Chicago writing blogs in my dirt-ass apartment. It's not too bad though -- if you enjoy blackmold that seeps down from the bathroom ceiling; the lingering smell of gas; a constant barrage of sirens; a retarded landlord; and a partridge in a peartree. But that's beside the point.

So, yeah, I went to Michigan State for year. If you ask me now, I'll probably tell you some bullshit story about why I left and how it wasn't right for me and (my personal favorite) how the academics just weren't up to my expectations as an aspiring scholar. FALSE. I left because I didn't want my family members and close friends watching me on an episode of COPS.

Would you stay at a school after you spent the first night in jail? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, please, lend me your ears while I try to portray my magical first night in college...

The Happening?

I ended up heading back to BIRMINGHAM for the weekend. Of course, P.Ry, Bush, and I had to see the obligatory movie on a gorgeous summer's day. Since P.Ry has had the recent habit of choosing the absolute worst movies, I obviously figured this one would be different.
Going to the movies with P.Ry does have it's additional benefits though. You see, he's a military man, with military privileges. Ipso facto -- military discount. You should see when people DON'T give him a military discount. It's a gong show. (Enter: the homeless man selling hot dogs outside of bars in Pontiac.)
But I digress.
Bush was able to get in for free though, so that was nice. And I was pretty excited to see the movie because I had heard absolutely nothing good about it. Soon enough, once the movie began, I could see why M. Night should have never taken this piece of shit off the drawing board.
SPOILER ALERT! The movie fucking blows.
I don't even know where to begin or end with this movie. I shouldn't even call it a movie. It was like watching a person with no hands try and work their pant's zipper--you just can't bear to watch, but you know you have to see them piss themselves.
If I had more time to tell you all about it right now, I would. But to save your time and money I'll make it easy on you. Basically, people start catch some bullshit disease spread by plants who get angry with them. It's like an extreme case of the Asian Bird flu or SARS or herpes. I didn't understand it whatsoever.

To make a horrifyingly long story short, neurotransmitters are blocked in the head and blah blah blah the infection makes you want to kill yourself. Moral of the story: Half way through the movie I had to turn to P.Ry and Bush and let them (as well as everyone else in earshot) know about my wish at that moment: I wanted to catch the infection everyone in the movie was getting... so I could kill myself.