Aint Afraid of No Ghosts. AM Afraid of the British Pound.

So, I'm an idiot.

I just blew $100 on accident.

This all started last weekend when I watched Ghostbusters 2 while I was folding my laundry. Without telling a long, drawn-out story, I got nostalgic and decided I wanted to play the Ghostbusters game on PS3. So I impulsively hopped online to buy it. That game came in on Thursday. I've been playing it like gangbusters, and last night I decided to hop online to see what kind of Ghostbusters toys were for sale on eBay.

When I was a kid, I never had the officially licensed plastic proton pack or the PKE meter. And I found them online. So just screwing around, I put in a bid for $30 for this proton pack and PKE meter that I never had as a child. Impulsively. I didn't think I'd win the auction, because there were tons of other auctions for similar pieces that were going for upwards of $100.

I just got a message telling me that I'd won the auction. SWEET!

But I hadn't bid in dollars. I had bid in British pounds.

Oh well. Kind of a pain in the ass, but nothing terrible.

But I did the math, and its almost $40. Nothing terrible, but I thought "dammit, I just lost $10."

Then I looked at the price for shipping.

For shipping to America, this thing costs me $45.

Damn it to hell!

That was my first thought.

Then I looked again.

45 POUNDS! Not dollars!

So its more like 60+ dollars for this goofy toy.

TRIPLE DOG DAMN IT TO HELL.

So, for the low, low cost of $100+, I'm getting a toy that originally cost less than $20 that my parents never thought I needed.

Now I'm thinking I'm going to strap this bad boy on and never ever take it off.

New York City never saw me and my proton pack coming.

I'm going to get at least $100 worth of fun out of this thing....

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItemVersion&item=320533818998&view=all&tid=0

(to be continued)

I Just Forgot What I Was Going To Blog About

Oh well.

Random notes:

• I'm working on the perfect Memorial Day Weekend mix cd to share with friends, lakeside...shirtless. Holla at these nips. The actual track listing takes a long time to develop and then trim, but then sorting it out in the right order also takes a while. It is a long process that requires the utmost dedication to cosmic sonic fuzziness.
• Land of the Lost was a much better movie than most critics gave it credit for. It was never meant to be taken seriously, or as an action comedy. Instead, if you watch it as Will Ferrell and Danny McBride dicking around for 2 hours with the back drop of a 1970's stoner camp series, it fills that role 100%. It's a movie that I hold up there with Anchorman, Talladega Nights, and The Foot Fist Way. (I also recommend Observe and Report if you haven't seen it yet).
• Its probably too early to say, but I think I'm going to enjoy a full week of vacation time in Kentucky with friends, family, lovers, and maybe a hater or two.
• Some new music that has me grooving something funky: Mux Mool - Skulltaste, Sleigh Bells - Treats, Dan Black - Un (thanks Dave), Broken Bells - self-titled, Gorillaz - Plastic Beach, and the new Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band album (thanks Duncan).
• Iron Man 2 was good, and it has made me geek out on Marvel movies past (Incredible Hulk) and future (Thor, Captain America: The First Avenger).
• Wasabi-coated-anything is delicious. Granted, I've only had wasabi peanutes and wasabi peas....but I imagine you could feed my wasabi-covered-toenails and I would inhale them.
• Reading Kurt Vonnegut opens my mind to the weirdest dreams at night. I can't explain why. It just happens. I'm half-way through Mother Night right now, and I'm seeing the weirdest things when I sleep.

That is all.

You now return to your regularly scheduled program.

Dear God

Dear God,

I love my parents. I seriously do. Without hesitation I can tell you that I would do anything for them.

But seriously. This apartment is not big enough for the three of us.

Tonight I got pulled over by a cop because I didn't have my vehicle emissions test stickers on the front of my windshield. Not because I was speeding. Not because I ran a yellow light. Not because I sped up and ran over an innocent-but-gelled-up-Guido-child. But because I didn't have updated vehicle emissions test stickers on my front windshield.

A random, young cop that did not have a Jersey accent politely pulled me over because he found me, a needle in the proverbial metropolitan haystack, without a sticker that showed that my two-year-old-car does not pollute as much as a 13-year-old Buick LeSabre does.

And then he politely ticketed me because I had my GPS in the center of my windshield instead of the "lower-center of the windshield or lower dashboard area" of my windshield.

And that rage that slowly turned and fired inside of me was only amplified inside of me because my father was in the passenger seat. And this rage was triply amplified because I had just explained to my parents that I needed to get a new vehicle emissions test sticker for my car, but I could not get one because I didn't have a NJ driver's license, and I didn't have a NJ driver's license because I don't have proof of residence in NJ, and I don't have proof of residence in NJ because my landlords still haven't sent me an updated lease, and...............RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!!! <forgetaboutDuncanandhisinabilitytogetanewjobIjustgotaticketbecauseofsomeoneelse'sinabilitytobeadecentGodfearinghumanbeingcompletelydeficientofcompassionandcommonsenserrrRRRRAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!>

At this point my hands started to shake (to be honest, this happens every time I get pulled over), and I wanted to open my door and step out of my car and walk towards the police car JUST to see what would happen if the cop freaked out and decided to taze me. I was ready to be that redneck on COPS that just wanted to talk but ended up getting pepper-sprayed, tazed, and handcuffed...shirtless, of course.

[See, this is what happens when my friends talk about this stuff. It slowly gets absorbed into my conscience. Osmosis. I absorb what I accept as decent actions of my friends. You all talk about tazing civilians, and suddenly I wonder what would happen if I, of clear and decent mind, decide to play Devil's Advocate and run and just antagonize the boys in blue.] Again, all of my emotions were amplified because my dad was in the car with me. If there is anyone who I want to impress with my sweet driving skills (and delicious bass-catching skills) its my dad. For whatever 1950's coming-of-age, impress-my-dad reason, its my dad.

So, $200+ later....

Actually....let me back up.

My dad and I went to Target tonight because my mom decided to reorganize my apartment. My dad and I left for approximately 20 minutes to fill his tank up with gas and then figure out how to sync his new iPod up to the Kia Soul. This took all of APPROXIMATELY TWENTY MINUTES. When we got back, my mom was midway through a redecoration of my apartment. What I found out after this 20 minutes was that my bar needed to be in my dining room, my pictures all needed to be re-hung in a different arrangement, my couch *obviously* needed to be tilted at an angle, and my chair/throne needed to be in a different corner of my living room. My book case needed to be re-arranged closer to my TV, and my TV needed to be in the center of the wall it was on, and so it goes.

AND I needed another book case, a plant stand, and a floor lamp.

To be fair, my mother has a knack for rearranging rooms and making them better. "Unlocking their potential." And I have given her permission to rearrange whatever she wanted to. I just didn't anticipate her trying to accomplish all of this while I was out of the home.

So my dad and I were on a mission after dinner to go to Target to buy the new furniture.

I would not have been on the road tonight, sans an updated vehicle emissions test, -WITH- a GPS in the middle of my windshield, if I didn't need a bookcase, plant stand, and floor lamp.

So I got home, sufficiently miffed at having TWO tickets for no other apparent reason than passing an eagle-eyed cop with nothing better to do than collect tickets from innocent bookcase buyers. I started to put together a floor lamp and a plant stand while my dad put together a bookcase. In case you were wondering, plant stands from Target are pieces of sh!t, and they fall apart at a moment's notice.

Moment: Hey, what are you doing?

Notice: Nothing much, how about you?

Moment: Watching "Dancing with the Stars." Did you know that Pussycat Doll Nichole is from Louisville?
Notice: I did! Did you see how she's so serious-looking all the time? Its like, "You're the lone Pussycat Doll in a rotating cast of Pussycat Dolls which consist of dancing, quasi-talented singer/smilers. Lighten up."

Moment: I know, right?

Notice: DROP ME

Moment:

I feel really gay for having just typed that.

My dad was hard at work putting together a new bookcase when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Dad: Paul, you have company.

Me: No I don't

Nobody, for the two months that I've lived here, has ever knocked on my door.

Tonight proved to be the exception.

Dad: Paul, someone is knocking on your back door.

Paul: Well, hell, answer it.

At this point, my downstairs neighbor is at my back door for the first time in two months. I have talked with him many times, chatting about sports or the weather or cigars or the city, and at LEAST 50% of the time I check with him to make sure I'm not making too much noise upstairs. And ALWAYS he insures that he, nor his wife, nor his 10-month-old son Dave can hear me at all.

His name is John. His wife's name is Danielle. His son's name is Dave.

I hear Dave every once in a while crying about things babies cry about. I have only heard Danielle one time. I hear John often because he has the kind of booming voice that could be singled-out in the crowded NYSE.

On the eve of the first night I stayed here alone, I heard Danielle for the first and only time. John and Danielle had gotten into the kind of shouting, door-slamming fight that led to the police responding to the kind of domestic disturbance that required me to put on pants and come make a statement at the front door. I heard Danielle screaming things like "&^$& YOU!," and "HELP ME!," and "WHAT THE &%@#?!" through the floor. I heard John even clearer responding to these questions and statements. Later that night I witnessed Danielle get escorted away in police cars. Later that week I watched her move back in. Later than that, even, I heard John responding with the kind of adult statements, through the floor, in the booming kind of voice that only comes from a man when he's receiving oral sex.

Since then, John and Danielle have been a model couple.

And we chat about everything. They are truly my favorite neighbors. We talk and laugh about lots of subjects.

I've never had the nerve to ask what happened on the night of March 9th (the night of the screams and fight and police), but I admit that I considered moving back to KY that night, paralyzed from fear, because I thought everyone in NJ was either a wifebeater or an abused wife. And I want nothing to do with either.

-----------

So anyways, John (the supposed wifebeater) was at my backdoor (no jokes) asking if everything was alright. He was talking to my father because I was in the midst of putting together some God-forbidden cheap-Chinese-manufactured plant stand from Target. My father insured John that all was good. I popped my head into the back door to show John that I was indeed alive and well and not suffering any torture sessions from the hands of any Mafia.

I assume that John thought some violent torture was being conducted by the Mafia upstairs from his apartment.

I make these assumptions, because any time there's something I come across that is inexplicable, I blame it on the Mafia.

For as long as I've lived here, with the exception of when Pat, Dave, and I moved myself in here, this apartment has been really quiet. It's always been just me up here. Working and cooking and cleaning and gaming and lounging up here. Occasionally writing self-flagellatory blogs about my experiences, but overall being a quiet neighbor.

Neither John nor Danielle were used to hearing three sets of feet operating up here, and I'm sure they weren't used to hearing someone re-arrange furniture up here, nor were they used to the banging and clanging and hammering that are associated with putting together new furniture.

So John made his way upstairs for the first time since I moved here to check "to make sure everything was ok." I don't know if he assumed I was midway through a fight, through a violent gang bang, torture session, or what. Nor was I sure how he was prepared to intervene.

To me, the sound of putting together a plant stand and a bookcase are completely remarkable and distinguishable. Apparently, to my downstairs neighbor, they were worth checking out.

John got his satisfactory answer, and he left back to his downstairs apartment, assured after meeting my father, that we were ok.

My parents at this point, took on the position of scolded children.

And for whatever reason, this completely exhausted me. I'm writing now, half-awake and half-asleep, but 100% agitated. I'm just bothered. I don't love anyone any less. I'm not any different. Just tired and temporarily agitated.

I was $60 in the hole already for buying cheap furniture from Target that I didn't really need, and now I'm at least $200 in the hole from the Bergen County Police Department. I have irritated my neighbors, and I have made my parents feel guilty for trying to make this apartment a better place.

I fell asleep almost a dozen times typing this.

I don't know that I love anyone as much as my family. They operate on a plane that exists separate from the rest of the world. I will tell anyone that I love my friends and will sacrifice anything for them, but my family is on another level.

That being said, "I need my space." I need to be able to walk around in my boxers again. I need to be able to load my refrigerator the way I want it. I need to be the only person with access to my bourbon and beer. I need to be able to make my own schedule and not drive when policemen are looking for vehicle-emissions-test stickers or GPS's. And I need to be able to not watch golf tournaments or Dancing With the Stars or the Amazing Race on my tv.

Ultimately, I would never trade the time I have with my parents.

Except now.

Please, God, help them get to North Carolina safely. And then please let them drive back to Kentucky safely.

And most importantly God, please let me decompress and deflate back into the space that used to be my apartment.

I miss my parents already, but please, travel safely, fast.

For David

My blood brother David recently brought it to my attention that he thinks I talk to much about farts and butts.

My mature, thoughtful response to this is the following:

Family in Town

My parents got up here last night. It took them just at 13 hours (including 5 stops for bathroom breaks and dog-walking).

It is awesome to have them up here and to share some of my new places with them. They shared my reaction of being starstruck with things that I now look at as commonplace. "Look at all this traffic!" "Where do all of these people live/drive to/shop/go for coffee/etc.?!" My dad, too, had the hell scared out of him when he was following directions to my apartment but found himself on a ramp taking him to the George Washington Bridge. Granted he had been driving for 13 hours, and he had four Mountain Dews in his system, but my mother tells me his hands started shaking when he got to that point. Bless his heart. I remember freaking out and telling David to check the directions at least a dozen times before I calmed down when we exited before crossing the bridge into Manhattan. It's not a mean place at all, but there's something distinctly terrifying about the thought of driving into a Metropolis for the first time.

He's also claustrophobic. I understand the bumper-to-bumper traffic freaks him out, too. I was showing off Hoboken today, and he got pretty freaked out when we were on a ramp to the Holland Tunnel. The thought of bumper-to-bumper traffic AND being underground in a tunnel made what's left of his hair stand on end. I felt bad, but it was also kind of funny.

I'm always learning different things about my parents. They, like most people I know, were worried about me moving up here by myself, and they continue to worry. They worry to a lesser extent now that they see I have a fitting apartment and know my way around.

However, my dad and I stayed up pretty late last night, drinking beers, catching up. He very rarely gets emotional, but last night he told me that he really misses me. Mom has hinted that he lets it slip now and then that he feels lonely without me around. Last night was the first time he's just come out and said it. But just like *THAT* he changed the conversation to something else, something completely unemotional or delicate. That is a quality I have always admired in him, but its also pretty scary. One of those blessing/curse situations that I am noticing more and more.

Later in the conversation, Dad and I were talking about moving for work. He told me that there is no way he could ever have uprooted and moved away like I have. That felt like a victory to some unspoken competition we've had since I have grown up. "I did something my dad could never do." AWESOME. There's probably something oedipal about the fact that I value this fact so much. I don't care, though. I'll enjoy this sensation while I have it.

Mom is mom. She's a breath of fresh air. Whenever she's around her children its like she's ingested her weight in extacy. She's just completely wired with love. Its endearing, and if anyone else acted the way she does, I would find them completely obnoxious.

Today has been a New Jersey day for them. I took them to Hoboken, Liberty State Park, and then around my neck of the woods. Tomorrow we're going to the city, and I'll show off some of the things I like about the Hudson River Valley area. And then Monday we're going to have a hodge-podge of things to do.

My only complaint so far is that they didn't bring the bourbon from Kentucky that I asked of them. To be fair, I only e-mailed them about it on Thursday, and they didn't get the message before they left on Friday morning. Oh well....just one more thing to look forward to for Memorial Day weekend.

Pablo's Life Lesson #672

I'm going to start something new for the blog: Pablo's Life Lessons.

It's just going to be a collection of the kind of crap that springs to mind when I'm on a long road trip. The kind of musings that need to be broadcast, but, because I'm on the road on the way to a sales visit, I have to bottle.

You're welcome, internet.

PABLO'S LIFE LESSON #672:

If you rub your butt cheeks around someone else's face they are both humiliated and limited in retaliation. Chances of defeating an opponent by rubbing said buttocks in said face are increased by 80%.

I learned this in high school compliments of the WWE's Rikishi Phatu (a.k.a. Junior Fatu).

I can honestly say that I've never attempted to give someone the stink face. Although I can't say there haven't been times in the office where I overcome an opponent and want to do itafterwards. The tricky thing about the stinkface is that it must be done during a competition. And, as you can imagine, there aren't many workplace settings where your opponent is exhausted, sitting in the corner of a turnbuckle.

Oh well. Maybe someday. We can all dream, can't we?

Please note: the stink face is not to be confused with The Gas Face, another derogatory gesture. The gas face was first brought to my attention by 3rd Bass, influential hip-hop act of yesteryear.

Derby and Beer

Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby back home. This is the first year that I haven't been around to celebrate with friends, and it was kind of hard to wrap my head around the experience. That's not because I was lonely or bored. I couldn't wrap my head around it, because I had wrapped my head around trying some of the canned beer I found.

Ever since college, when I wrote a paper on the history of Louisville Breweries, I've been fascinated with regional beers, from the expensive microbrews to the inexpensive, aged

macrobrews. In Louisville, Falls City was the last holdout of the regional macros. And when I got into this phase of wanting to "taste historical beer," I bought six packs of the beer for as long as I could (until the beer lost its contract with the brewery that had been making and distributing it).

Here I am enjoying it at a tailgate with friends.

Throughout college and ever since, I've tried to find new beers wherever I go. Like I said before, sometimes macro-, sometimes micro.

My dad says I get this from my grandfather, who always had some sort of regional lager in his workshop beer fridge. I think some of that trickled down to my dad, too, because even though he keeps solid craft beers in his beer fridge, he always has some Busch Light there, too.

Anyhow, since I've been here in New Jersey, the doors to Pandora's Box have been re-opened for me. There are loads of new beers up here for me to try, and loads of old, regional beers that the locals have successfully hung on to.

Yesterday, I had my obligatory bourbon, but after that I felt like a change of pace. I didn't want any of my hefeweizens or ales or other complex beers. I just wanted to indulge in the basics. So that's what I did. On my last trip to the liquor store, I scored six packs of some beers I hadn't seen outside of this region.

And I couldn't just let them sit in the beer fridge for too long! So I had a sampling of what some refer to a "yard beers." I don't know if that designation came because they taste so good after working hard in the yard, or if because you can drink them by the yard without ever filling up (which was my experience yesterday and into last night).

Schaefer's I had before, and its a solid, corn-y traditional lager. I like to refer to these as "working man's beers." And Schaefer fit that mold pretty well. Carling Black Label was really smooth, and not as watery as the other offerings. Gennessee is kind of flat. Nothing terrific or terrible about it. And Schmidt is kind of bad. Hate to say it. However, none of these are tremendous by any means. They're all just....you know....they're THERE.

Of course, there's no comparing ANY of these working class beers to the King and overall mack daddy Beer Supreme: the one and only Champagne of Beers, Miller High Life!

Pat and I drank so much of this in college that I'd say it probably constitutes 25% of the liquid in my body to this day. If you cut me, my blood probably has a hint of the delicious nectar that is High Life. Hell, I should give credit where credit's due, Miller High Life got me into and out of loads of sticky situations! I wouldn't be who I am today without it. Considering my brain floats in a juicy High Life concoction up in my noggin, it wouldn't be fair to try and compare this to any other beer. Sorry.

That being said, yeah, I'll probably bring some of these new regional beers home with me the next time I'm headed to Kentucky, just to share with everyone else. The entire situation reminded me of the Blind Beer Taste Test that the guys and I did a couple years ago. It would be interesting to see how these beers would stack up against the others we had.

The only drawback from trying these beers is the blowback. And by "blowback," I mean I've been farting uncontrollably. And the hits keep coming. Any guy that went to college and enjoyed beer has heard an attached legend to whichever beer they adventured with the most. My dad has stories about Schlitz, Blatz, and Pabst, each one referencing the type of damage the beer inflicts on one's guts. And today I'm suffering from over-exposure to "working man's beer."

When I get into the passionate throes of experimenting with liquor, there's always a consequence attached. Last night I passed out on the living room couch waiting for SNL to come on. I woke up sometime around 3 a.m., probably surprised by the volume of my own fart. Its gross, but that's life in "the biz."

However, I'll perservere. For science!