Better Watch Out Cuz I’m Gonna Say F@&%

Nerds are cool. And the best part is, girls love ‘em.

I don’t get it. It’s like we’re reliving the end scene of Revenge of the Nerds all over again. Poor Stan Gable. He just stood there all made up wearing a cheerleader outfit when Betty Childs left him. How embarrassing.

“What are you babbling about? What brought about this revelation, Alex?”

Well, I’m glad you asked. See, last night I went to the John Mayer concert in West Palm. The performance was amazing. It was the last show of his Summer Tour and he did it right. Plus, he had Ben Folds (minus the 5) opening for him and that kid blew up the spot.

If you’ve ever seen Ben Folds, you wouldn’t think of him as a dude musician. In fact, I’d liken him more to a printer salesman. But, au contraire. The guy plays the piano with one hand and busts on maracas with the other. Then, he follows up that funky lil’ number with amazing crowd participation – he makes an entire venue, comprised of 15-year old girls, their parents and ME sing on key! What the hell? I never sing on key… not even in the shower… or in traffic alone in my car with Styx blasting through my bottom-of-the-line stock stereo system.

Lady. From the moment I saw you... standing awawawawallll alone…

So picture it. All this is going on. I’m about 4 double vodka cranberries into the night and I’m jamming out to Louis Skolnik and his corduroy jeans. (Whoever gets the Louis Skolnik reference needs to identify themselves so that I can give them a treat.)

So here’s where it gets beyond cool. As Skolnik rips through his last song, out comes John Mayer wearing a pair of Buddy Holly’s and takes over on the piano. Skolnik gets up off the piano and grabs a guitar. Guitar guy moves over to the mic and starts belting out over and over again:

“You better watch out cuz I’m gonna say F@&%!”

Are you kidding me?!?! I’m having the time of my life. I’m making friends (Alan, his wife and his gorgeous 20-year old daughter who’s studying broadcast journalism at UM). I’m hugging people. Jamming to the one magical line that gets repeated over and over again:

“You better watch out cuz I’m gonna say F@&%!”

Everybody... You better watch out cuz…

Ok. You get the picture.

It was a truly amazing concert. But it made me realize something. I suck for not knowing how to play a musical instrument. (Place your skin flute joke here.)

When I was a kid, my parents put me in sports and karate. Those were my extra curricular activities. Music wasn’t really an option. And now, as I lay in bed on those lonely nights, I’m paying for it.

I mean, I can dance ok. I can remember useless facts about useless topics. I can throw a curveball. I can throw a spiral. I can make 10 straight free throws. I can put a nice sequence of curse words together to make one descriptive blue comment. Hey, I can even talk dirty to girls and get away with it (some of the time). But that’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.

And being as how hitting all those damned free throws hasn’t gotten me anywhere in life, perhaps I should take up the clarinet. How many of you know any disgruntled and lonely clarinet players? Ok, maybe a bad example. But, hey. At least he has his music.

Ahh, who am I kidding? I’ll never be a Skolnik pounding on the 88 keys. I’ll never wear a pair of Buddy Holly’s and wale on a guitar as thousands of under-aged girls scream my name and ask for my autograph as I’m featured on the latest cover of Tiger Beat.

Musical instruments and me just don’t mix. We’re like peanut butter and tomato sandwiches. I’m thinking I’ll just stick to what I do best. I’ll get up and scream…

“You better watch out cuz I’m gonna say F@&%!”

Save the Drama Fo’ Yo’ Momma

I don’t get it. I really don’t.

I’m a classy guy. I’m a gentleman. Ask any broad I’ve been with and they’ll tell you I’m nothing but class. Aces, even. But for some reason, me and the dames – not a good mix lately.

Is it because I’m getting older and I tolerate less crap than say a 26-year old? Perhaps.

Is it because I hate games? I know what I want and I go after it? Could be.

Is it because every woman I meet isn’t willing to meet my meager demands of a college education; sanity; a high libido (highlighted by amazing kissing techniques); a sense of humor (preferably an appreciation for dumb comedies because I’m all about stupid fart jokes); an affinity for sports and not thinking that yelling at the television when something doesn’t go your team’s way is considered “weird”; a sense of style; and above all else, patience? Endless amount of patience? Oh yeah, she’s gotta be hot too.

Is that too much to ask?

Look. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all about meeting her half way. I love doing things that guys aren’t supposed to do. For example, chick flicks. Love them. Don’t get me started on Untamed Heart with Christian Slater and Marisa Tomei. The way he loved her with his baboon heart - that’s unconditional love. And what about Hope Floats? The scene with Sandra Bullock wearing the sundress and the cowboy hat. I need a DeBeers catalog and a bottle of Jergens.

Snuggling / Spooning? Where do I sign?

Pillow talk? Absolutely. Well, as long as she can go through an entire sentence without using the word “bro” and will order the pizza because those little details really do it for me.

Shopping? You got it. I’ll gladly hit the mall with you. There are some limits, of course. Just don’t take me to Sawgrass during a Dolphins game. That’s grounds for dismissal.

The point is, I’m a flexible cat. I’ve been working out so I’m kind of cute. Seriously, I am. I have boyfriend written all over me. I have a career, I own my home, have good credit, a college education, no criminal record and I know how to treat a lady.

So, again, I ask. WTF? Where are all the ladies that cry like Mary Magdalene when they don’t have someone to hold after watching Grey’s Anatomy?

I’m not about to go looking for you in a club. You won’t find me standing on the outskirts of the dance floor watching you as I compete with other guys for your attention. Clubs today are like a human version of Hungry Hungry Hippos (best game ever).

Am I venting? Yes.

Why? Because.

Honestly, I don’t know if I want a relationship. I don’t know if I want to get in deep with someone. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I DON'T want someone who pisses me off. Save the drama fo’ yo’ momma.

I guess my point is if you’re hot, watch SportsCenter, like fart jokes and don’t say “bro," come over this weekend for a special double feature screening of Untamed Heart and Hope Floats. We'll order some Papa Johns and partake in a healthy game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Damn, that sounds like a good time.

The Night I Almost Met Chaka Kahn

So I have this good friend who’s the consummate name dropper. I mean everyone from Stevie Wonder to Steven Segal to the drummer from Marcie Playground. He knows them – he knows them all. He’s hung out with them. His daughter calls Billy Squire “Uncle Billy” for cryin’ out loud!

But of all the name drops, the one that stood out the most was Chaka Kahn. Why Chaka? Well, I’m glad you asked. This lady represents the 80s – a time in my life where everything was right with the world. When I was a child all I had to worry about was my homework being done; whether or not I got a hit in little league because that meant pizza after the game; and more importantly, if the coyote caught the roadrunner.

Plus, Chaka had a jam on the Breakin’ soundtrack. Ahh, I can see Turbo and Ozone poppin’ and lockin’ now.

Fast forward to July 24, 2007 and guess who’s playing on B.B. King’s Blues Tour at the Ft. Lauderdale Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. If you guessed Al Green, you’re right. If you also guessed Chaka Kahn, ding! You’re right, too.

So at about 5pm Daddy Name Drops mentions to me in passing, “Yeah, I’ve gotta go over to the Hard Rock. Chaka’s playing tonight and she hooked up tickets.” (The quote is more of a paraphrase because I was hungry and light-headed and only heard Chaka – tonight – Hard Rock.)

What the? Am I hearing this correctly? You have tickets to see Chaka tonight? Are you taking me?

Of course not. He was taking a woman instead – an ex girlfriend. I can understand that. At the end of the day, no matter what anyone says, hoes before bros. No way around it. It’s a rule. In fact, I think it was part of the original 15 Commandments. But as anyone would know from watching History of the World, the last 5 Commandments didn’t make it down.

HA! As fate would have it, the winds of change stormed through and scrounged up an extra ticket for me. Yes! Can you believe it? Daddy Name Drops would get us up close and personal with Chaka.

“Ain’t nobody. Loves me better. Makes me happy. Makes me feel this way…”

So it’s 8pm and we’re rollin’ out to the Hard Rock. Just Daddy Name Drops, his ex-girlfriend and a gitty little kid in the backseat re-enacting scenes from Breakin’.

After finding parking and grabbing our tickets at will call, I was ready to pop and lock – I even tried to find some cardboard to lay on the floor - to no avail.

We walk in and have floor tickets… in the center… about 10 rows back. I can see everything. The sweat. The hair product. The wrinkles… on AL GREEN’S FREGGIN’ FACE. What the? Where the? Chaka, where you at?

It turns out that Chaka was the opening act. She had already performed. We missed it. We were late. Partly because I had to go to my spinning class. I’m totally addicted to spinning, by the way. I cry like a girl from time to time, but the pain is so worth it. I get such a sense of accomplishment when I finish that class. But I digress…

So there we were at the Hard Rock without Chaka. All I’ve got is 147-year old Al Green sliding around the stage like he was throwin’ down in Memphis back in ’72.

“It’s OK,” I said. “We won’t watch Chaka perform, but at least I’ll get to meet her and take pictures that I can post all over MySpace. This is going to be great.”

(Cue the loser’s song from The Price is Right)

Bomb drop… 3….2….

Chaka has left the building.

Chaka was gone. She left after her performance. This was coming from her sister – Tammy McCrary (step-mother of Darius McCrary – Eddie Winslow from Family Matters).

Apparently, she wasn’t going to stick around and cut it up with B.B. while she waited for Daddy Name Drops.

We were late. We missed her. No performance. No pictures. No MySpace. No pop. Certainly no lock. All I had was a broken heart.

So after all that dreaming. All that driving. All that singing. All that stretching for a possible break dance. Nothing.

We didn’t even stay for B.B. King. I actually wanted to watch him wale on stage. But I was later told that he doesn’t really wale. He just sweats and plays the same three chords over and over again.

UGH!

Back in the car on a Tuesday night. Guess we’re heading home. Damn it, spinning class makes me cry like a girl once again.

I Turned 30. Ugh.

Why aren’t you married yet? What are you waiting for? When are you going to grow up?

These are the questions I get all the freggin’ time. What am I, 30? Oh wait…

Oh my God, you guys – I turned 30 last week. What the hell happened to my life? I’m such a punk. How can I possibly be 30? I don’t know who I am by any stretch of the imagination. I find myself doing things I did when I was 12 – playing Madden till my fingers bleed, eating cereal and PB&J in every meal, watching Tom & Jerry (best episode ever).

Oh yeah, did I mention the fact that I don’t even have a girlfriend? Society, shun me! Stone me, even!

I do, however, have plenty of supporters. They say, “turning 30 in 2007 is not the same as turning 30 in 1987” or my favorite, “30 is the new 20.”

Pfffshhh, right – tell that to my mother.

What the hell, man? Being a 30-year old is title set by society to tell the rest of the world “oooh, you’re a real adult.” And to an extent, that’s true. I can’t get away with things now that I got away with in my late 20s. Or can I?

For example, it’s been eight months since I did my last keg stand (note: months not years). Now that I’m 30, is it OK for me to do a keg stand? Well, I guess that depends on the company you keep. I, for one, am happy to say that my company (many over the age of 30) would find it perfectly normal for me to perform a keg stand. Furthermore, they’ll gladly hold my legs and laugh at me as beer pours out of my nose.

And don’t even get me started on marriage. I’m just fine where I am, thank you very much. Many of my friends have been married and divorced in their 20s. Then what? They’re 30 and they’re right back where they started, save for a kid or two. Dude, seriously.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against marriage. In fact, I’m a huge fan. Many times I wonder if I’m ready for that step. Hey, I wasn’t ready to turn 30, but that happened. Maybe marriage will be the same. It’ll just happen. Then what? Kids? Am I ready to be a father? Am I ready to awaken with a crisp hangover to find adolescent games of Madden, cries for cereal and PB&J and battles over who gets to hold the remote while watching Tom and Jerry?

Hmmm… 30?