"Got a License to Confuse"

Well, I survived Halloween, just barely. Who knew that an all you can drink at a bar would serve Classy huge goblets of 75% vodka all night and that these goblets would in turn make her fall into the bushes?

One more Halloween related event to go which is going to see . . . And you will know us by the Trail of Dead at House of Blues on Halloween night, and barring any concussion rendering boot blows to my head in the mosh pit, I will be on the home stretch to my ten year reunion come Wednesday.

Another brilliant reunion preparation idea. I have a friend that did not go to my high school that is going to my reunion. He has been debating whether or not he should be honest and let the other attendees know that he didn’t go to our school or if he should go with the more hilarious option of pretending that he is actually someone that went to our school.

Since I always opt for hilarity, I think the second option will be spectacular for all parties involved. To assist him with achieving success with this endeavor, success equating to making as many people as uncomfortable as possible (awkwardness, anyone?) and entertaining my friends and me for the majority of the evening with his antics, I will do the following:

I will closely examine my senior yearbook and find someone who looks similar to my friend. I will cross reference the picture with the attendees on the Evite list in order to prevent any sabotage of the plan. Two Tony Titones does not a good reunion make.

He has requested that I find ten people from my class that I know some dirt on or just some random details. I then need to blow up their senior pictures (thanks to Dr. Ken for letting me use his senior photo) to 8x10 size placing their name underneath as well as five bullet points containing the factoids he needs to memorize. He will memorize these items, names, and faces during our pre-party. They may be memorized during a drunken haze, but I believe that any permutation of name/face/fact that he can remember will result in comedy gold.

For instance, “Hey, insert name here, I am sorry that you won that clown car of a Geo Metro at the senior picnic. Didn’t I see you drive up in that today?”

“Wassup, insert name here, I feel bad that you didn’t win as prom queen, to make up for it do you want to go make out in the corner?”

“Yo, insert name here, didn’t I see your name in the police blotter? Nice work!” (Proceed to try to get a high five)

This reunion is shaping up to be the event of the century. Well, okay, maybe of November, no wait, I’m going to see Morrissey, My Morning Jacket, and have a trip planned to NYC. Let’s just say hands down that it is going to rule!

Not standing tongue tied in the corner . . .

My ten-year high school reunion is three weeks away. While it is not considered an official reunion, it’s actually at a local bar (a really heinous one) and has been organized by four of the popular girls in high school (funny how my friends and I still think of them in those terms, but c’mon they are still referring to themselves as the Beautiful Girls), I’ve decided to go through some intense preparations for the special event. I like to call it my survival conditioning.

1) Participate in a yearbook reading party with my BFFs where we look through our yearbooks and the comments. I can already check this one of my list, phew! It was a surreal experience reading over the comments I wrote in my BFFs yearbooks and the ones they wrote in mine. Although it’s been ten years, we are pretty much the same people with the same sense of humor. Well, except for my junior year. All I have to say is who writes a morose poem in their BFF’s yearbook? I must have been listening to too much of The Smiths at the time.

2) Learn the Little Superstar dance. I’ve started to utilize some of his moves on the dance floor already, but don’t have the whole routine down. One night a group of friends and I decided that we were going to do the entire routine at the reunion.

One friend claimed the Charleston part of the routine, to do only that part is simply not allowable. Either you are in for the entire routine or you will have to sit on the sidelines and spectate.







3) Craft an elegant story about my illustrious career as a “Cats” the musical backup dancer. See that’s me, bottom row, right.


4) Throw a reunion night pre-party where we will get blitzed. Nothing like proving to your high school nemesis that you’ve moved up in the world than showing up drunk to your reunion!

5) Practice my meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meows and claw dance (see #3).

6) Build up my puking stamina (maybe #4 will help?).



7) Convert the cassette copy of my last high school radio show to CD for mass distribution. Okay, maybe not mass distribution, but I may know five people that will humor me with a request for it.

8) Find more childhood and adolescence pictures of my BFFs to display on our refrigerator for all in attendance at our pre-party to see.

9) Survive Halloween.


10) Make more business cards from VIP’s Gentleman’s Club. While walking to the train from Lollapalooza this summer I found one of their discount cards on the sidewalk. When people at the reunion ask what I do for a living I will tell them, “As a matter of fact I just got a new job!” I will then whip out the VIP’s card and tell them not go on amateur night because they will not see me there.

Just Like Heaven . . .

Walking through the Vietnamese area of town the other day to pick up lunch, I became surrounded with some sweet sounds that seemed to be following me and getting louder as I came closer to my destination. At first, I thought, or rather I wished, that it was some roller disco crew skating down the busy street in their full out regalia, boom box and all, but no, it was something better.





What was blaring the tunes was a middle aged man jamming some Jeffrey Osborne, James Ingram, or Billy Ocean while he plowed down the sidewalk on his rascal scooter (And when I say plowed down, he had that baby on full tilt. People moved out of his way as if he was going to murder them). I wasn’t sure what song he was blasting, this has been bothering me for the past few days, but I think I was so in awe of the man and his ways that for an instant I couldn’t focus on the music and with my jaw dropped I had to stare.

I thought to myself, is this really happening? Am I in heaven where people can cart their lazy asses around on motorized scooters and inundate people with the auditory selection of their choice? Where can I pick up one of these scooters? Will heaven grant me the chance to play Salt-N-Pepa’s “Supersonic” on 11 while I travel around in the open air at 15 miles per hour?

All I wanted to accomplish that day was to pick up a fantastically delightful Vietnamese sandwich for lunch, but straight up street entertainment/fantasy was in the stars for me. I wonder what will become of Mr. Rascal Jammer when winter arrives? Will I have to wait until the first thaw to hear some sweet lite FM soul pass me by on the sidewalk? I can only hope that I don’t have to wait that long!

Do you think it is inappropriate if the next time I see him I ask for a ride?

The Sporting Life

Classy is a bit of a jock. Me a tomboy? Who would’ve thunk. While I must admit that I am fairly decent at softball and currently playing on two teams, I am not super talented in the flag football arena. I play on a flag football team currently and I am okay, but what I lack in talent I make up for with mad smack talking. For instance, I told a fairly girthy opposing team member the only time he was fast was when he came out of the womb.



I had a game last week and caught a pass a bit downfield. This was a milestone for me! Usually, when the ball comes in my direction (usually a very short pass)I yell some profanities with the hope that they will magically assist me with catching the pass. This strategy works surprisingly well quite often. But, enough about me, I need to get to the highlights of my most recent game.

The football team I play on is brand new, as in half of us met for the first time the first night of our game. Needless to say, we did not gel well at first and it took us way into the second half to get it together and even then we were only partially together. We played against a team that opted to not play co-ed soccer because the guys on the team got too intense while playing. They decided that flag football would give them their sport fix and keep them out of jail for assault. Well, let me tell you, football didn’t provide them with the zen-like calm that they needed. I can recall at least two instances in which I was sandwiched between two of their players. These players really liked to defend players that had no chance of receiving a pass and liked to jump down on said players and hit them in their noses with their elbows.

I guess that some members of the opposing team believed that in order to play your best in recreational football it is necessary to sport professional grade gear for better aerodynamics or something. There was a dude on the opposing team that was wearing very tight, I don’t know, Under Armour tights, with NO shorts over them. This stylistic choice left very little to the imagination, and I mean very little. Classy, on the other hand, likes to attire herself in gear that must meet the following requirements; it doesn’t smell too rank and must be a thrift store purchase. It’s a very sophisticated system, I know. I was very excited when I got to choose the team’s t-shirt color. I had three choices orange, yellow, or purple. They didn’t even have to say anything after orange. It was Chicago Bears orange, my fav!

One of the other team’s players during the end of the game (keep in mind we were down like a gazillion to goose egg & this dude had NO reason to take the following actions) decided to run full force across the field to block a pass and jumped into the air like a possessed jaguar. Well, Mr. Xtremo upon landing rolled on his ankle. He was in some pretty intense pain (only fitting for an intense guy) and one of my teammates rushed to his aid and calmed him down.
When he said, “It’s okay, I’m a doctor.” I’m not sure that everyone believed him. They might have thought he was pulling a George Costanza on the beach. Like George, my dear teammate did a nice job taking care of his patient.

Now, what was the ultimate highlight of the game? During the first half of the game, one of our male players mapped out our next play on a female player’s upper body. While this was occurring another teammate and I loudly said a “Whoa, hey there!” and were looking at each other with the expression of what the hell is happening on our faces.


The cartographer did not even try to stop his work and for the rest of the evening we kept on saying that we were surprised he didn’t illustrate some curling action around her naughty pillows.




My female teammate did not remember any of this occurring (perhaps she was too traumatized by the whole affair), but when I refreshed her memory she said, “Oh yeah, he totally touched my boobs!” Oh, what will our future games bring? One can only imagine.