The Madeline Albright Story

I assume the statute of limitations has run out on this one, so it's now safe to share with the world.  This happened between the summer of my junior and senior year of college - and it is 100% true.

At the end of my junior year of school, I won an internship out in Washington D.C. to work for some pretty hoity-toity alums, the Taggarts (doin' fine!).  The Taggarts were lobbyists for pretty much EVERYONE - they were equal opportunity marketers.  If you needed an opinion swayed, let Bill and Judy Taggart go to work for you.  The internship was barely a step above unpaid, but I also had to foot all the expenses myself.  Needless to say, I would not be living in the lap of luxury all summer.

Undeterred, I went to Washington D.C.   I had arranged to stay on campus at American University, which had the following:

* easy access to the Metro rail line
* a McDonalds right across the street
* the nicest homeless people in our nation's capital
* a rule that prohibited alcohol on campus

That last one was what eventually led to the greatest story of my life.  But it takes a few minutes to get there.

One of the benefits to living on campus was that there were several other students who were serving their internships around Washington well.  My first roommate was named Leonardo, was a full-fledged Cajun (I could understand about 9% of what he said), and an absolute ass magnet.  This guy scored more chicks than KFC.  He was also polite enough to go back to their place most of the time, as our 15x15 dorm room was not conducive to putting the moves on the hussies he picked up.

Our dorms were also co-ed - which was a HUGE shock for this small-town Catholic school attending kid from Missouri.   We were barely allowed to have girls in our room during visitation hours - and we had to keep at least a shoe in the door to keep it open.  Swear to God.  If you got caught with a girl in your room and the door was closed, you were busted.   So, I was a little surprised when the beautiful (I mean BEAUTIFUL) Sarah Zygata came strolling out of the bathroom in her barely-there towel while I was headed to take a shower.  Sarah was...uh...proportionally-incorrect.  She was stunning, and built like Barbie.  She was the highlight of my day every time I saw her.  Unfortunately, she's not involved in this story any longer.

Down the hall, there was a guy named Hassan.  Hassan was a BIG dude - like 6'7", 320 pounds.  He was from Iraq, and had the dark skin/light eyes look that made him popular with the ladies as well.  One of the guys at Hassan's office, Jeff, (he worked for a Congressman from Pennsylvania, but I can't remember his name) was throwing a party.  At his townhouse.  In Georgetown. All the food and drink were being provided.

Hassan asked me if I wanted to go.  Now remember, I'm making $6.25/hour living on a dry campus - and I just got asked to go drink free beer, eat free food and hobnob with some of Washington's power players.  When Hassan asked me, all that was remaining was a smoke outline of my body as I ran down the street in delight.

We went to the party, and it was phenomenal.  I got a little "over served", but apparently made a good impression on Jeff, because he invited us to crash at his place that night.  Georgetown isn't that far from American, but I was happy to save cabfare, as all Washington cabbies should use a gun and ski mask when they drive you around - that's how much they rob people.

After a while, Hassan and I decided to walk to the Georgetown bars (it wasn't far - about 2-3 blocks).  We closed them all down, and decided to head back to Jeff's.  Then the wheels came off.

They all look the same, right?

Have you ever been to Georgetown?  Have you seen the townhouses?  They kinda look like this - all stacked together, and they look eerily the same.  You can tell where this is headed.

As we walked back, Hassan realized that he wasn't sure where Jeff's house was.  Since alcohol makes me smarter, funnier, richer and a better dancer, I announced to pretty much the entire District of Columbia that I knew where we were supposed to go and walked down the street.

We got to the house, and all the lights were off.  I started ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door, yelling for Jeff to wake up and let us in.

The next thing I know, I am face down on the ground, and I can feel a foot on the back of my neck.  I try to move and hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.   I stop trying to move.

"Who are you?!?" bellows a voice.

"I'm Mr. X, and this is Hassan." I say.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just trying to get back into Jeff's house, man.  Who are you?" I ask. (Alcohol makes me braver, and stupider, apparently).

"What are you doing here?" repeats the voice.

"Dude, seriously - we're just trying to get into Jeff's house."

"This is NOT Jeff's house!" shouts the voice.

Oh shit....I'm almost afraid to ask the next question.

"Who's house is it?"

"This is Madeline Albright's house!" says the voice.

Double oh shit...

"Secretary of State!" whispers Hassan.  Glad to see he's contributing.

Now, as in any drunk group, someone has to be the brains of the operation.  I elected myself.

"I know that - shut up!" I say to Hassan.  I tell the guy with the size 13 shoe on the back of my neck that I made a mistake, and ask who he is.

"Secret Service! Now who are you?"

My "oh shit" meter has gone to "overflowing septic tank" levels.

I eventually explain to the Secret Service agent with the Glock pointed at my head that we're just two drunk college kids who were lost.  I  don't know why the Secret Service were guarding Ms. Albright that night, and the agents (all eight of them) didn't seem inclined to tell me.  It also didn't help that I had the biggest Arab in Washington D. C. with me, trying to break into a cabinet member's home.

After being questioned....and questioned....and questioned....the Secret Service realized that we were not threats to national security.  We were also not threats to walking home (getting federally funded weapons pointed at your head will sober you up REAL quick), but they gave us a ride, anyway.  They advised us to stay out of Georgetown for a while, and to have a nice night.

By far, the best story of my life.

                





 

Horrible Inventions

I'll see you in hell.

Have you seen these things?

They're awful. Freaking horrible. Whoever invented them should be strapped to one and rolled down a mountain. Not only do they suck for regular shoppers, but they suck for the parents as well, because your  kid NEVER wants to stay in the novelty cart for the entire duration of your grocery trip, and so they bail out and you're stuck pushing around this long-haul trailer while everyone at the store looks at you like you're an a-hole (and you are). You can't stop your cart anywhere, because then you block the whole side of the aisle for everyone else. Doing a u-turn in the aisle? Not happening. These things are the length of a goddamn football field, and the cart itself is actually much smaller than a regular cart, so nothing can fit in it. It's like the worst of all worlds.

Worst of all, these carts are all  filthy and diseased. Everyone else's little snotty kids have already sat in that cart and wiped their germs all over the steering wheel. I hate them. I wish they had never been invented.

The Patsy Cline Story

As I get older, I start to realize that the details of some of my stories are starting to get away from me.  So, like any good storyteller, I just make up facts at my convenience and worry about the accuracy later.  However, this sometimes blows up in my face when someone who experienced the story with me is listening in, and points out my exaggeration.  So - I need to get these stories written down.  Without further adieu, here's one of my favorites.

The Patsy Cline Story

When I was in college, my middle brother was living at home with my parents and I.  He was in that mid-20's transition of "I have a degree...now what?" stage of his life - so he was paying the bills by working at Eddie Bauer.  That would be fine - except I lived in Bumblef@#$, Missouri, and the nearest Eddie Bauer was about an hour away.

One day, my brother's car wasn't working, so he asked me to take him to work.  Now, mind you, this was an hour drive, and an hour back - but also mind you - I lived in Bumblef#@#, Missouri - so what else was I going to do?  His girlfriend (now wife) was going to pick him up when he was done, so I only had to make the trip once.  With that, I agreed and we got on the road.

The Eddie Bauer he worked at was located in an outlet mall, so after I dropped him off, I noticed a music store.  Thinking that Father's Day was coming up, I decided to swing by and see if I could pick up a gift for my old man.  We had recently introduced Dad to an invention called "compact discs" - and he was like a kid discovering his first Playboy.  I suddenly saw a side to Dad that had never been seen before - one that had interests other than TV and his lounge chair.

So - I decided to get my pop a CD of his favorite artist of all-time.  I walked into the store, did a quick scan of the inventory, and failed to find what I was looking for.  I headed to the counter to ask for help.

The guy behind the counter....wow.  Red hair. Green hair.  Black hair.  Spiky hair.  Braided hair.  Oily hair.  Seven piercings on his face.  God knows how many he had elsewhere.  Ratty jeans, rattier shoes.  Frayed black t-shirt.  Mouth breather.  He smelled like Cheech's backseat.  You know who I mean.  Undaunted, in my ironed khaki shorts and ironed polo shirt, I approached him to help me.  His nametag indicated his name was "Meltdown".  Perfect.

"Hey, do you have any Patsy Cline albums?" I asked.

Meltdown breathed through his mouth. He didn't move.  I mean he DID...NOT...MOVE.  Just stood there, staring straight ahead.  I was about to ask again, when he finally came to life.

"Patsy Cline?"

I am unfailingly polite in these situations.  Almost to the point where I am almost mocking the person.  In this case, I was obviously  toying with him.

"Yes sir...Patsy Cline.  Do you have any?"

Meltdown stared at me for a second, looked around the store, saw that it was empty, then transformed before my eyes.  Swear to God - it was like watching Mickey's broom spring to life in "Fantasia".  Gone was the dull-eyed burnout - here came Meltdown, the business man.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Patsy CL-IN-NE!" he said, turning the songstress's last name into a three syllable word.  He then came from behind the counter and started walking to the back.  I assumed he was going to get a disc from the storage room - but that's what happens when I assume:  I make an ass out of me and...me. 

He got to the back door and motioned for me to follow.  Remember, I'm from Bumble#$@k, Missouri - I help hitchhikers, lost dogs, saggy-mouthed methheads - whoever needs me, I'm there.  I walked into the back room, and it was like stepping into Ravi Shankar's wet dream.

There were black lights, lava lamps, incense burners and bongs everywhere.  I mean bongs were EVERYWHERE.  I think he lived there - no joke.  As I was trying to take all of this in (my mind was whirling), Meltdown picked up a fisherman's tackle box.  He set it in front of me and popped it open.

Inside was a DEA agent's career bust.  Red pills.  Green pills.  Weed.  Cocaine.  Mushrooms.  Some sort of fish paralyzer.  This thing looked like Willy Wonka's Wacky Factory.  It was actually kind of impressive.

"So whatta ya want, bro?" Meltdown asks me.

My mind still hasn't caught up with what is happening to me.  So I reply with the first thing that comes into my head.

"A Patsy Cline album."

Meltdown says, "I know, bro - what do you want?", indicating towards the tackle box.

"I really want a Patsy Cline album."

Meltdown and I both figure out what is happening at the same time.  He has just tried to sell drugs to the world's dumbest buyer, and I was trying to buy music from the world's dumbest drug dealer.  A perfect storm of stupidity.

We quickly excused ourselves from the scene, and I made some mumbling promise of keeping my mouth shut and left the premises.  I got about halfway home, and realized that I had forgotten the CD.  I figured it was okay that I walked away - Patsy Cline is awesome, but she's not worth doing time over.

Dream Street

I usually don't read too much into dreams - maybe because I die or come close to death in approximately 90% of the ones I remember.  The strange ones are just that - so strange that I can't comprehend them.  Occasionally, though, I get a DOOZY - and it's one that sticks with me.  For instance...

The other morning, I woke up pissed at my wife.  Not annoyed - PISSED.  I have no idea why.  I had a good night's sleep.  Alcohol was not involved the night before.  Work was not on the agenda, as I was enjoying the weekend.  However - wow...I was UPSET with my better half.  I had dreamt something about her that made me mad...but I could not (and still can not) remember what it was. 

She's been mad at me after dreaming before - including once when she slugged me right above my ear in her sleep (at least she SAID she was asleep...hmmm....), and once when she ripped the leg hair off my body.  That hurt like a muthaf****.  Again, I am taking her at her word that she was indeed asleep.

But I have been able to shrug off her sleep-induced anger.  Common sense finally comes back into the picture, and she realizes that ethereal me wasn't responsible, but corporeal me was indeed a loving, caring husband.  This time, though, I couldn't shake my upsetting feeling.

I need to start writing this stuff down when I wake up.  Trying to remember a dream a few days later is as fruitless as trying to empty the ocean with a thimble.  Maybe tonight I will dream my usual dream of lovely, naked....Marge.

(Bonus points if you caught this last reference.)