I am the world's Nerdiest Person

apart from some friends of mine...Next to them, I am the world's Nerdiest Person.

Ok. That's too broad a statement. How about, the Nerdiest person in Baltimore...no, met some nerdy bastards down in Fells last night...Let's say the Nerdiest person in Parkville! Now that's a stretch. I know one guy who's just hopeless.
I am the nerdiest person who "officially" lives in my house!
That I can accept.

And why am I so nerdy? Just the very word said with an American drawl sounds so.

I love History. And History loves me. History is my Porn. Can History be Porn?
Let's just say I don't sneak off to the bathroom with my account of Nazi spies who were actually Allied double agents. (Notice how I take pains to capitalize historical entities) But it's close.

When I dug into the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, (the biggest fucker I ever dove into) I used to couple the read with a little Chinese at the Jade Garden Buffet (which got the City Paper's best Buffet 2007 by the way). I couldn't open that damn book without getting the craving for that Chinese! And worse yet, if I ate Chinese, I wanted to be reading that damn book!

This book was a good 1300 pages of rich, detailed history. And NO, it had very few pictures.

And here we are today, where Tim and I are planning a trip to Europe. Not to see Big Ben or the Eifel Tower, (cause we've actually seen those loads of times) but we'll probably be touring Normandy, the Ardennes, Berlin, Munich, Auschwitz, Moscow, and if time allows, Stalingrad. And we won't be in any fancy nightclubs, boogying with the local Mädchen, девушки, or filles. For one, even though the museums and sites will be closed by 5 o'clock, I'm certain we'll be spending each evening preparing for the next day's sight seeing with a little historical read. LIKE HELL!

We're still cool, and we will do cool things. Cooler things than any of you can imagine! But I'm still a nerd.

Can you tell where this is from?

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the little old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

Be Nice to Construction Workers

It was last night. Kent and I had just finished listening to the live recording from the Recher Theatre at Jim's place, and my whiskey buzz was going away. Cleveland had a 7-run 5th inning vs the Red Sox, and I was happy. Jim was getting tired and I didn't want to be one of those guys who just hung around. Trust me, we get those ALL the time .

My dad (Lee Roy the Ice Cream Boy) (Operating Engineer Roy Lee Hutchison, SR) has been working the night shift Downtown for the last few days or so. On a whim, I decided to stop by and visit the old man. I couldn't remember the street intersections he told me he was working, but I had a vague idear. I get out of the truck on Light Street and I don't know where to begin. But I hear this pounding of an industrial hammer, and I think "What a loud, son-of-a-bitch." I follow the sound. There's me dad in his Gradall, tearing up the streets of Baltimore.
I started taking pictures of him on his equipment. The flash from the camera ruined my surprise, but he didn't know it was me at first. Thought I was some damned tourist.

How strange to be hanging out with my Dad in the middle of the street at 11 at night.
And how nice it was to see him playing in the dirt. When we were kids, he'd let us have the day off school and let us go into work with him. Tim loved it, but I was such a Nervous Nick and only did it twice in my whole life. He'd have us on the Bulldozers, Tractors, Gradalls, everything! We'd bang shit around all day with a hard hat and all!

All I'm saying, apart from give peace a chance is: Be nice to Construction Workers. One of 'em's me pops.

Here's a song written for him, inspired by his Marine Corps days as an Ice Cream Man.
It's called Lee Roy the Ice Cream Boy. And Tim sings too! We had Bob the Builder in mind when we wrote it. Turn that into a British Ice Cream Man. And you've got a hit kiddie show! SOMEONE MAKE IT A SHOW! MY DAD'LL BE A STAR!

You Tore My Playground Down!

Had the pleasure of helping with a move yesterday.

As I was following the caravan of cars and boxes to their final destination, (until they need to be moved again)we passed by the streets where I used to live as a little kid. Amanda's new apartment (for this is the gal we were moving) was but a few streets past mine, so after finishing the haul I took a little trip down memory lane. I didn't even stay for pizza, that's how exciting this was for me.

Some of you may have grown up in the same old house, and years and years have gone by and you don't really notice too much a change. So much has changed between the time I lived there and today. Apart from growing four times my size, becoming a dapper young man, and becoming a model citizen of my country (for which I always planned to be), it seemed so tiny from when I remembered it last. I expected that, but it hit me.

I always wondered why my mother would let us roam the neighborhood for hours, trusting us to be safe and not cause any trouble. She could practically spit from our house and hit any of us at any corner of the 'hood. And then we knew it was time for dinner. Kidding. My mother can't spit that far. Though she does hold the Arundel High School record.

I remembered friend's houses and the shit that we got up to. I remembered the mean, old bastard who wouldn't let us play baseball in the field next to his house, and I remembered the woods behind the playground where my brother Chris tied up a kid to a metal chair, and tortured him by leaning him over a pile of stinging nettles. I now remember my first naked lady, sipping on RealLemon and looking through this guy's SCRAPBOOK of playboy centerfolds. That was enterprising of him now that I think about it. You have to sift through all that writing to get to anything good nowadays.

But gone is the playground. I listened to "Kokomo" on a friend's radio there. I learned that spitting was illegal there. I learned the word "gullible" there.
But most of all, I was a kid there. And they took it away. And here I am torn about it, as if I was just coming back after all these years to meet up with Casey, David, and Tim to have a go on the swings. They should have called me first. And I would've told them to kiss my ass.

There aren't any more woods or playgrounds. Just a plain, old football field. I guess the kids in the neighborhood will find something else to do. Where do kids play anymore?

a Penny saved is a Dollar lost / The Lady in Red

Ok, some jackass just rode by on a little motor scooter which may as well have been made by Fisher Price. He's not as hard as I hope he thinks he is.

I envy you fuckers who have full time jobs. While most of you might be in a temporary position, you're at least on the climb. Your friend Matt however is a college grad making $8 an hour recording recitals at the University. My last paycheck was a whopping $24.39. That may have paid the rent 200 years ago, I'm afraid I'll be drinking a 30 of BEAST this evening.

This should inspire me, but it doesn't. Fools & Horses is doing well by comparison, and we manage to throw all our earnings back into the pot, save for a small small percentage that ends up in our pockets. But right now we have more money going out than coming in. The account is frequently overdrawn, and I may start losing hair. I've got a lot of it, so I could be wrong. Pray that I am.

Demoed a few goodn's last week that I hope we can use.
My favorite is a song about an ex from high school. I feel a bit like John Cusack from High Fidelity. I can't speak too ill of her, as a lot of time's gone by since she destroyed my heart.
Glad she did though. So every now and then, the night of her senior prom comes back to haunt me. We were on a lovely "break" from our relationship on the week leading up to the prom and I was entirely gutted. However, one little shred of hope left to me was this prom. So I dappered myself up quite nicely, swallowed hard and went for it.

Limo ride was nice, dinner was crap (but it always is), and the company was surprisingly warm. They may have known she was done with my ass by that point and were just being kind. Either way, I felt things were on the up. Then she disappeared. I was left alone at her prom for the remainder of the evening. I managed to find her once, and we danced to that high school classic "lady in red."

So this doesn't sound as remotely horrible as it was, but believe me. I was a hopeless, hopeless case. And she broke up with me officially through e-mail the next day, but I'm over it! Or am I?(chuckle) I really am, it's just sometimes the feeling of what I felt comes back to me every now and then, and I get inspired to write about it. So this latest one is called I am the Ghost. And I'll play it now if you like PLAY ME BITCH!