Cursed With Ambition

I Watched Tucker Max

I went to see Tucker Max speak last night at Rice University.  I was expecting a mature, intellectual discussion of the lawsuit he's currently in, First Amendment issues and the growth of online publishing.  Despite the guy's persona I didn't think he was going to be irreverent and arrogant while giving a speech.  I was wrong on both counts.

First of all, I was probably the oldest person in the room, which was pretty embarrassing.  Strangely, I didn't get any weird looks despite the fact that I was wearing my work clothes and everybody else was there in shorts, t-shirts and flip flops.  Seriously, I was in a room with about 250 20 year-old Rice undergrads and one 30 year-old internet celebrity.  There might've been one guy who was older than me but I'm not sure about that.

A quick word about Rice - that place is awesome.  The campus is super nice.  All of the buildings are either new or very well kept, the architecture really appealed to me and the grounds were immaculate.  Tucker Max was supposed to be speaking in Room 117 of the Humanities building but ended up moving to the Baker Institute, presumably because they had too many people for a regular classroom.  The Baker Institute was like a museum and was really well put together.  Walking around the Rice campus made me wistful about my misspent undergrad days.  I left thinking about all the things I should have done from the ages of 16-22 and how I wish like hell I would've known then what I know now.

But on to Tucker Max.  The speech and the guy were a disappointment.  The main thing I can say is that he didn't have the "presence" that I expected.  He's not a squirrelly guy but he's squirrellier in person than his online image for sure.  He talked about the current lawsuit he's involved in by basically telling stories about how the guy suing him is a douchebag.  After that he opened up the floor for questions.  Most of the questions were about things that people could've read on his website.  He more or less retold the same stories you can find on his site.  He swore a lot and sipped on a Shiner Bock.  I got the impression that he was performing and trying to uphold his image.  He came off to me as sort of a stand up comedian but instead of telling one-liners he told these stories, which weren't nearly as funny with him telling them as they are to read.  There were a couple of moments where it appeared to me that he knew he was tanking and those moments were hard to watch.  He did have several witty replies and insulted a few people who asked questions.  Some of those things were funny and I laughed out loud four or five times.  I realize that he was playing to his audience of undergrads and that accounted for some of the content and delivery.  I found it puerile, but the kids ate it up.  If I got nothing out of last night it was just how far removed I really am from those days.

I can't say that Tucker Max isn't as advertised but him in person is sort of a "lite" version of the image you get from his website.  He admits this as well as being forward and honest about anything he talks about.  I do think the guy has a lot of integrity, even if it is misguided a lot of the time.  I had hoped to hear more about free speech and the revolution of online publishing.  After all, he sells himself, in part, as being a crusader for those things.

Anyway, I can see my interest in this guy waning.  He's meant for college-aged kids, not me.

Jeffie's 21st Birthday

About four years ago my cousin Jeff turned 21.  I'm nine years older than he is and have always been sort of a mentor to him because his parents were divorced and he didn't see his dad much.  Plus too, he only had older sisters.  We've always been pretty close.  He was like another little brother.  In anthropological terms, we are bilateral cross cousins, which means that our fathers are brothers.  The theory is that you will be closer to your father's brother's kids and your mother's sister's kids.  So that might explain why we were so close.  Jeff's mom sort of doted on him since he was the only boy and the youngest child in their family.  She still calls him Jeffie, as do some of our cousins.  I did what I could to help the kid feel manly - buying him beer, talking to him about sex and girls, inviting him to UT football games and watch parties when he was in high school.

Anyway, since Jeff was turning 21 we were going to take him to a strip club for the first time.  We rounded up seven or eight guys, including my brothers, one of our other cousins and some of his buddies who had already turned 21 (Jeff was one of the youngest kids in his class).  We had a pretty wild night planned.  This was going to be Jeffie's coming out party.  We even rented a limo for the night.

We had a hard time deciding where to go, but we eventually settled on this new place called Mermaids that we had heard rumors about.  We showed up there around 10 after pre-drinking at our house and while driving around in the limo.  First, a word about this place Mermaids.  The focal point was this HUGE aquarium that actually had strippers dressed as mermaids swimming around in it.  The costumes were so realistic - they really did look like mermaids.  By far the best strip club I've ever been to.  I'd have to say that if I were to ever own a strip club, I'd want it to be just like that.

Anyway, we got a table and ordered drinks.  We had been there maybe fifteen minutes when I found the hottest stripper there and went up to her and asked her if she would give my cousin Jeff a lap dance.  I told her it was his 21st birthday.  She came over to our table and segregated Jeff from the rest of us so she could have room to do her thing.  By this time some of the other guys in our party had also ordered lap dances so all of the guys at the table were distracted by that and weren't really paying attention to Jeff and his girl.  I have to admit, I didn't really watch Jeff's lap dance that much either.  Plus too, it was kind of dark in there and not easy to see.  After the song was over I paid Jeff's stripper, thanked her and she walked off.  I leaned over and tousled Jeff's hair and asked him what he thought about the lap dance.  He sort of quipped that it was good and then said he needed to go to the bathroom.  I thought that was kind of weird but I dismissed it.  When he got back his shirt was untucked.  He came over to me and said, "I need to go home."  "Home?" I asked, "We just got here."  "I know," he said, "but I really need to."  I asked him, "Why?  What happened?  What's wrong?"  So then he tells me, "When the stripper was dancing for me, I, uh, came."  "You mean you came in your pants?!" I couldn't believe this.  I mean, I'd heard stories about it happening but I never believed it.  Poor Jeffie was totally embarrassed.  I asked him, "Why don't you just go to the bathroom and clean yourself up?"  "I tried," he said, "it didn't work.  It was a lot."  "Damn man, I can't believe you actually creamed in your pants," I told him.  He pleaded with me, "Please don't tell the other guys."  "All right, all right," I told him.  I stood up and addressed our friends, "Hey, guys - Jeffie just got a nut during a lap dance, so I'm taking him home to clean himself up."  Our friends were shocked speechless at first but slowly the snickers turned into writhe-on-the-ground laughter.  Jeffie was totally humiliated but I kept telling him not to worry about it.  I called a cab and Jeff and I went back to our house so he could change.  We met the rest of the guys at a different bar later. 

The guys still give him a hard time about it to this day.

*Unlike all of my other stories, this one is absolute fiction.  I don't have a cousin named Jeff and the strip club called Mermaids does not exist.  Yet.

Homeless People Piss Me Off

Tuesday morning. Go to truck. Discover that truck has been broken into. Door was left unlocked. Battery for keyless entry has been dead. Trash from ashtray all over floorboards and seats. Glove compartment ransacked. Center console too. Look to see if anything is missing. Only one item: the Ojo Rojo Legendary Championship Custom Darts and their Metroline Case. Actual value of items stolen: $70.00. Personal value to me: way more than seventy bucks. Clean up truck. Drive to convenient store for smokes and breakfast. See gnarly looking homeless guy who is not normally there looking very suspicious. Try to detect bulges shaped like dart case in his clothing. Think I see bulge exact size of dart case. Go inside and purchase items while visualizing beating the shit out of vagrant and taking back my property. Watch as somebody leaving the store gives bum several dollars. Visualize taking the bills along with my darts as I spit on bum's prone body after beating shit out of him. Walk out of store past bum. Get in truck. Drive away. Think the phrase, "Fuck the homeless" several times during day. Buy battery for keyless entry at lunchtime for $2.67, installed.

I'm Ethical!!

Passed the MPRE!! 

Absolutely did not deserve to pass, but I did. 

Fuck You Jabba the Hutt

When I was a kid we lived in the country on a dead end road. My dad bought this property, built a road on it and tried to sell off in pieces as a subdivision. He hoped to make enough of a profit on the land that he could pay for our house. The street was named after my grandfather, who fronted the money for the land purchase. The idea was a good one except that some of the lots ended up being on a flood plain and the real estate market wasn't very good, so it didn't exactly work out. But anyway, we lived on a street that had our last name, which was pretty cool. Cool like if your last name was Johnson and you lived on Johnson Street.

There were about seven other houses on our street, mostly other families who almost all had kids who were the same ages as me and my brothers. We all played together. Next door to our house lived the Haswell family. Cricket Haswell (no shit, her name was "Cricket") weighed about 300 lbs. and was the butt of many jokes among the families on our street. My family actually got along fine with Cricket and the rest of the Haswells, although we didn't really have a lot of contact with them. I suppose they were dysfunctional. The father was an alcoholic, the daughter, who was my age, was pretty normal and the son, who was my brother's age, was a typically annoying kid but otherwise okay. But I think they had problems. (The daughter ended up being a raging slut and got knocked up by an African American boy named Curtis and the son ended up being a criminal. He actually burglarized our house as a teenager. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he's in prison right now.) Mrs. Haswell used to have my brothers and I over and would give us cookies and kool-aid and we would play with her kids. Others in the neighborhood did not have such a great relationship with them. My brothers and I went to Catholic school but all of the other kids in the neighborhood went to school with the Haswell children and there were fights and disagreements between them on the bus to school and at school that my brothers and I weren't a part of. The other kids on our street teased the Haswells ruthlessly about this or that, but mostly about their mother being so fat. That probably explains why we had such a better relationship with them - we weren't around to participate in any of that. Keith and Jeff from down the street were always antagonizing the Haswell kids and making fun of Cricket for being obese. There was open hostility between the Haswells and another family on the street too. (This other family actually taught its parakeet to say, "Fat Cricket!! Fat Cricket!!") I had no sense of it then, but the Haswells were pitiful and it makes me sad today to think of how mean everyone was to them and how unhappy they were.

Well, one day Keith and Jeff, who hated the Haswells and especially Cricket, were over playing at our house. They came up with the brilliant idea of writing a dirty letter to Mrs. Haswell. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I never thought we'd get caught and it seemed like fun, so I joined in on the act. We decided to get a piece of paper and write it out like a greeting card. This is what it said:

I wrote all of the text and actually came up with the "Jabba the Hutt" thing. Keith drew the hand shooting the bird. We ran over the note with our bikes to make it look like we just found this anonymous letter in the road. Our story was going to be that we innocently found this terrible note in the road and that we had no idea who could have done such a reprehensible thing. We gave the note to my little brother to deliver to Cricket. Cricket was out on her riding lawnmower, which was sagging under her weight. My brother started to run across the yard carrying the note while all of the rest of us were hiding around a corner of my house watching. Right before my brother reached the Haswell's I started having second thoughts. I realized how stupid this was and that I would certainly be caught and that I was going to be in deep shit. I panicked. I immediately started screaming at my brother to come back. Now I don't know if he heard me and ignored me because he knew I was going to get into trouble and this pleased him, or, if the sound of Cricket's lawnmower drowned out my voice, but I was screaming at the top of my lungs for him to come back and not to give the card to her. The daughter saw my brother coming and met him at the edge of their yard. He gave the note to her first. She opened it and read it and her face contorted with shock and horror. She ran to her mother on the lawnmower and handed her the note. Cricket read it and a deep, angry frown appeared on her face as she turned off the mower and lumbered off of it. She started stomping straight for our house!! "Oh shit!" I thought. I freaked out. All of the other kids scattered, leaving me alone to face this humongous woman's fury. I thought she was going to squash me. I ran inside where my mom was and told her, "Mom!! Mrs. Haswell is coming over and she's going to tell you that I did something that I didn't do!" My mom very calmly asked, "What was it?" "Somebody wrote her a dirty letter! I don't know who it was," I stammered, barely able to get all of the words out from the plan we'd developed earlier. "Well, if it was you I'll know it because I would recognize your handwriting."

Oh fuck!! Handwriting!!! I hadn't even thought about that!

I knew I was doomed and Mrs. Haswell was almost at our house. I had to think quickly so I threw myself on my mother's mercy and I confessed. "Mom! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Please!" I cried. My mom went outside to meet Mrs. Haswell. I stayed inside, still worried that Cricket was going to sit on me. I didn't think my mom would be able to protect me because she was so much smaller than Mrs. Haswell.

I couldn't hear or don't remember exactly what was said but I do know that Cricket was very pissed off. My mom remained calm and apologized to her. As soon as Cricket showed my mom the note she recognized my handiwork. I was totally busted. I do remember hearing my mother assure Mrs. Haswell, "Christopher will be punished for this." When she came back inside she simply told me to go to my room and wait until my dad got home, which, of course, was about the worst thing she could have done.

I sat in my room and looked out my window anxiously watching for my dad's car to pull onto our street. When I finally saw his car I started jumping around my room like a caged animal. There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide. When my father walked in the house I pressed my ear under the door to my room to try and hear what my mom told my dad about the note in the hopes that I might get some clue about what I could say or some excuse I could give. I saw my dad's shadow approaching from under my door.

Now, my parents subscribed to the "Spare the rod, spoil the child" philosophy of child rearing. I fully expected to get the beating of my life. So I was incredibly shocked when my dad opened the door to my room (holding the "Fuck You Jabba the Hutt" card by the way), sat down on my bed and said in a very calm voice, "Son, there are three things wrong with this letter."

All he did was talk to me. I was so shocked that I really wasn't listening to what he said. Something about what the word fuck meant and how I should never use it and about how insulting and hurtful it was to Mrs. Haswell. I don't even remember what the third thing was - maybe something about shooting the bird. After all of that, the main lesson I learned was that your handwriting can give you away.

The Best One Liners of Brady Anders

1. "One shot, one kill."  I was in Austin visiting at my cousin's house.  Brady came over with his very pregnant wife.  We were talking to him about the baby and all of the preparations etc.  We asked if they knew the sex of the child.  He said  with a broad grin that it was a boy.  We all knew that he really wanted a boy so we all gave him hearty congratulations.  In response to our congratulations he got straight-faced and said, "One shot, one kill."  Implying that he got the boy on the first attempt, as if he had planned it all along like some kind of sniper.
2. "Fat Jake"  Jake is anything but fat.  Brady coined one of his many nicknames.
3. "Cro Mag rendered her useless."  Brady was telling my cousin about a friend of his who is this pretty big dumb guy they called Cro Mag (like Cro Magnon Man) who, apparently, is hung like a hippo.  Brady said that Cro Mag had a girlfriend who was this really nice, sweet girl.  That is until Cro Mag got a hold of her and rendered her useless.

There's another Brady story that bears mentioning here.  Brady, Robb, my brother Matt and I all lived together at Robb's house for a while.  During that time we had some legendary parties.  We were preparing for one of these parties when Brady and I went to pick up kegs of beer.  We had a favorite place to buy kegs that we referred to as the "Dink Mart" because it was run by this Vietnamese couple.  (My apologies for the slur.)  Many of you familiar with Austin will know this place.  It's the Shell station on Lamar just south of 38 1/2 Street.  The woman who owned the place was really saucy, told it like it was and didn't take any shit off of anybody.  Her husband was this wiry hard-working dude who literally ran around the store doing everything that his wife told him to do.  She ordered his poor ass around like a massa.  I've never seen a worse case of hen-pecking as I did with these two.  The woman was quite attractive and "Charlie," as we called him, was just a regular looking guy so I guess he was paying for the upgrade.  The whole scene was quite entertaining and was the main reason we went there.

So anyway, Brady and I show up to get the keg and we go up to the counter and ask to see the prices and selection of the kegs they stocked.  The Vietnamese woman produced a binder with the information in it.  We looked at it for a while and decided to get one premium and one shitty beer so we ordered Shiner Bock and Natural Light.  This fiery little Vietnamese woman proceeds to berate me for picking Natural Light.  "Why you wan' Natty Light?  That cheap beer!  You mu't be Freshman!"  "Wha?" I said, caught completely off guard.  "Natty Light taste like watah.  You should get Heineken.  Only freshman drink Natty Light."  Composed, I answered, "Look lady, I am a SEASONED beer drinker.  We're getting Natural Light because it's economical.  Where are the taps and the cups?"  She screamed back,  "Taps and cups!!??  Wha?  You think they free?  You try scwew me!!  You mu't be on swim team!!"  "Huh?" I responded, "I don't know what you're talking about."  Charlie peeked around a corner to see what was going on (I suspected he had witnessed many scenes like this with his wife haggling with  frat guys and UT students).  "Honey, these boys try scwew us!!" she cried.  "Wait a minute," I said, "are you saying that the taps and cups are extra?"  She snorted, "Wha?  You t'ink they free?  You mu't be on swim team!!"  "What's with the swim team?" I asked.  "Swim team try scwew me!!  Dey take taps and don' pay!!"  ( I gathered that there had been a disagreement when some members of the UT Swim Team had purchased a keg from this woman recently and she was still bitter about it.)  I was feeling pretty beaten down by this point, so I just told her, "Look, if the cups and taps cost extra that's fine.  Just tell us how much it is and we'll pay for it."  Pleased, she rang up the cups and taps (and ice) with a satisfied smile on her face.  Even though convention is to throw the taps and cups (and ice sometimes) in with the price of the keg and the deposit I didn't begrudge her.  She drove a hard bargain but I was entertained the whole time so what the hell.  As soon as we'd paid she screeches, "Hooooonnneeeeeee!!!  He'p me!  He'p me!"  On cue, Charlie comes running around the corner out of nowhere, at rickshaw pace.  She shouted some orders to him in Vietnamese and he runs off and returns with a dolly and goes immediately into the cooler to retrieve the kegs.  Now, I'm not one of these "I paid so I should be able to just sit back while this poor sumbitch loads my stuff" kind of guys.  I help out when I can.  Bourgiousie sensibility I have not.  Brady was the same way.  So the two of us go back to the cooler to see if we can give Charlie a hand loading the kegs.  (Kegs are fucking heavy, in case you didn't know.  They contain 16 gallons of beer.  Water weighs 8lbs/gallon so the weight of the beer and the keg together probably weigh at least 150lbs - more than one regular guy can handle comfortably.)  By the time we got there Charlie had already loaded BOTH of the kegs onto the dolly, one on top of the other.  Brady and I looked at each other in amazement. 

We led him outside to our waiting truck and when we turned around he had two 20lb. bags of ice stacked on top of the kegs and was holding both taps and a bag of cups with his other hand.  We had no idea when he had time to grab the ice, taps and cups, but he did.  Charlie was an amazing worker.  I lowered the tailgate and Charlie made like he was going to lift the kegs into the plastic trashcans and then lift them into the truck BY HIMSELF.  Brady and I were like, "No, no, man - let us help you."  Charlie never said a word the whole time we were there, but I secretly think he was grateful for the help.  We got the kegs into the truck, tied down and squared away, thanked Charlie and drove off. 

In the truck on the way back to the house Brady and I laughed like hell about the spunky Vietnamese woman and how she worked poor Charlie's ass off.  To this day when Brady and I see each other our greeting is, "Hoooooonnnneeeeee!!"