BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 6 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Goin’ To The Chapel…

So, in the previous installment we established that Tom Hanks wasn’t available for my bachelor party. Neither were Tawny Kitaen nor Adrian Zmed. I’ve never forgiven any of them for that, and it is largely why you will never see us together in public, or private, for that matter. Well, that and the fact that we don’t know one another, but that’s just one of those small details… On with being “mobile”…

As all men are born knowing, there is a certain code that must be followed with regard to bachelor parties… really… it’s built right into our genetic makeup. But, anyway, all men know if you are tapped to be your buddy’s best man when he takes the plunge you have been telling him not to take ever since you were old enough to understand the ramifications… (Whew… that was a mouthful… Deep breath…) You know, inherently and without any outside influence, it is a moral imperative that you take your buddy out and get him completely and totally f*cked up. Preferably, the night immediately before the wedding.

Now, women have caught on to this in recent years. No doubt because they are generally a whole lot smarter than men give them credit for… (yeah, I know, ending in a preposition… it’s a blog… cut me some slack)… To be honest, women are generally a damn sight more intelligent than men, period. But let us not digress into a discussion about my submissive side and E K’s collection of handcuffs, leather items, and stiletto he… Err… umm…

Just ignore that last part, okay?

So, anyway, since you ladies know what’s up with that crap, you have had a tendency to put the brakes on the time honored tradition, insisting instead that the bachelor party be held a week or so prior to the event so as to allow for recovery time.

Well, Kathy didn’t do that. It’s not that she was oblivious to anything. I mean, after all, she’s friggin’ brilliant and it’s virtually impossible to get anything over on her. It requires an entire government conspiracy, unmarked helicopters, tranquilizer darts, and James Bond to pull even a shred of wool over her eyes. (Although, if the 007 in question happened to be the Pierce Brosnan incarnation, E K would probably be going by some “Bond Girl” name like Kitten McSharpclaws, and I would most likely be finding myself suddenly single and crying in my beer… Yeah, E K is all about that guy. I have no idea what she sees in him… I mean, it’s not like he’s insanely handsome, intelligent, philanthropic, faithful to a fault…Oh wait… he is… never mind.)

So, anyway, E K didn’t put her foot down on anyone’s neck. Not right then anyway. She’s definitely stepped on her share since, but not without just cause, believe me. Even though she has nicknames that seem as though they belong to some kind of psycho woman, they are really and truly all in fun. She is one of the most even tempered people I know, and I’m not just saying that to score points with her. Trust me, scoring points with E K requires a hell of a lot more than a handful of pretty words…

And, speaking of points, (like how I did that?) the point here being, she allowed Scott to plan the bachelor party for the night immediately before the wedding. October 31 was falling on a Saturday that year, so Friday night was on for the festivities. Kat was going out with her Matron of Honor, (remember Erin?), and some other ladies for a nice dinner, and whatever women do at Bachelorette parties… yeah, I know, I’ve seen some home videos… But, as it turned out E K and her friends didn’t go that route. She was exhausted and after dinner and a couple of drinks she came home and went to bed. Or so she maintains…

Me however… well, that was a different story. Scott arrived in a rented 12 passenger van. He had already picked up a few of the guys, and we made the rounds to pick up the rest. In the back of this van was a cooler… In the cooler was beer… something on the order of 48,000 beers… No kidding. The damn thing never became empty and, at Scott’s direction, neither did my hand. What I mean is the moment I would finish a beer, someone would reload my hand. If I wasn’t drinking fast enough, they found a way to get me to slam whatever brew I was holding so they could… Yeah, you guessed it.  Reload.

Once everyone was on board, we made the rounds of several bars in the Saint Louis area. As would be expected, these bars all featured scantily clad, young, busty, leggy, flirtatious waitresses. And, at each stop the mantra became, B-52!

Nope, not the Love Shack,  Rock Lobster, Channel Z folks… I’m talking about the drink. A triple layered shot of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier and Kahlua… sometimes set on fire. AKA a Flaming B-52…

So, at each and every bar we would begin the stay with a round of B-52’s… Although, to be honest, I think it was less of a round and more of a pair… I was always presented with one, and whoever else in the group got tapped to drink with me that “round” to make me think everyone was getting trashed, and not just me.

Now, so you understand, Scott is a responsible guy. After all, a year later he officially became a cop and is probably one of the best cops around… So, he wasn’t drinking booze. He was staying sober so that he could drive, and watch out for everyone else, in particular me, as you will see later…

And so, the B-52 chant continued… with help from the outside. You see, these characters were not at all shy about telling everyone in the bar that I was a “dead man walking,” so to speak. Therefore, I became the object of much fawning by waitresses. (Believe me, I know they were well tipped. I saw the dollar bills flying.) And, there were extra drinks, courtesy of other patrons in the establishment: usually a B-52… Or 3… Or 4… Yeah. Go figure. Although, I must admit, I do vaguely remember something about Kamikaze’s and Purple Hooters. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a hospital detox ward…

By this time it was relatively late, and I had not yet had anything to eat for dinner. But, they had a plan there too… On the way to our next stop on the “get drunk in St. Lou” tour, we swung into the drive-thru of White Castle. Now, I know they don’t have White Castle everywhere, but they have equivalents I believe… For instance, in the south the closest you would find would be Krystal’s… However, if you have no equivalent, and no idea what I am talking about, White Castle, (and the equivalents,) serve these little, square, steam grilled with onions burgers. They have a unique taste, and are a staple for drunken binges. Since they are small, a grown man will generally eat around 4 to 6 of them. Sometimes more, if he’s really hungry. If he’s drunk, usually quite a few more. You have probably heard these burgers referred to as Sliders, or the ever popular Saint Louis moniker, Belly Bombers.

Well, they get the nicknames honestly… You see, they have a lingering effect on one’s digestive system. Especially if one has been drinking heavily. The thing is however, said effect usually doesn’t roll around for about 6 to 12 hours after consumption… See where I’m headed with this?

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of those things I ate that night…

So, anyway… Eventually, as all Saint Louis based bachelor parties tend to do, we ended up across the river in Illinois, smack in the middle of what is called the “East Side”. This is where you find the bars where the waitresses are not scantily clad. Well, actually, the waitresses are scantily clad… but, the other women who work there are mostly naked and swinging around shiny poles… Or wiggling around on your lap… Or sticking your face in their cleavage… Or… Well, you get the picture.

Guess what? We didn’t go into one of those bars. No kidding. I remember it had to do with one of the guys in the group not wanting to go in, and I was so drunk at that point that I backed him up, slurring my way through, “If he ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’…” He didn’t make any friends of the other guys that night, trust me… Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against me that I backed him up, because they knew I was so trashed that I had no clue what I was saying. Besides, they also knew that it was all their fault that I was out of my head drunk in the first place… Well, not all their fault I don’t guess, but that they had been the primary contributors, that’s for sure…

Instead, we grabbed a table at one of the big dance club type bars and sat  there drinking beer. At least, that’s what I think I was doing. Everything was kind of moving in slow motion, including the music and sound around me. It was much like that part in the original Terminator movie when Arnie comes into the techno dance club on a mission to off Sarah Connor…

I do remember that at one point I hauled myself off to the restroom to unload some of the drink my kidneys had finally managed to process, and while becoming acquainted with the urinal someone stuck something in my back and demanded my wallet. Being trashed I just replied, “Yeah right. Very funny.” (Although, I suspect it probably came out more like, “Nyabnigh, furrvffblee nubby.”) Still, in response to my slurred words, whatever it was in my back went away, and that was the end of it.  However, I later found out that some fool had watched me bob and weave to the restroom and decided I’d make a good target, and that unbeknownst to me I was actually being mugged. However, unbeknownst to my mugger, Scott,  (remember him, the 6 foot 6 cop?) had followed him. So, when the whatever in my back disappeared and life went on without incident for me, what had actually happened was that Scott yanked the idiot up and bounced him off a wall.  All without a word. Kind of like Chuin rescuing Remo at the statue of liberty… Yeah, more obscure movie references… I just can’t help myself…

But, see, I told you he was looking out for me…

By now, it was oh-dark-thirty… really… I have no friggin’ clue what time it  actually was. All I know is we left the bar, dropped off some of the guys, then went back to Scott’s place with the crew that was left, and had Pizza. Yeah… Pizza. Don’t ask me. It was there and I ate it. Oh, and there was more beer involved. Yeah… a lot more beer.

At some point in the wee hours of Saturday morning… well, I think they were actually beyond “wee,” because we weren’t all that far from sunrise… Scott drove me home.

Now, here is something I didn’t mention earlier: All I had in my pocket was my ID. No wallet, no keys, no cash, no nothing. Scott knew this.

He helped me out of the van, dragged me up to the front door of the house, propped me against the porch railing, then rang the doorbell and ran just like a kid who had just set fire to a sack of dog-poo.

However, he didn’t go far… He stood in the front yard to watch the show.

A few moments later a very sleepy E K pulled open the door and just stared at me with one eye. Without a word, she turned and headed back to the bedroom while I literally crawled into the house…

No matter how many years have passed… And I do mean to this very day… I can still hear Scott laughing his ass off out in the front yard…

At a later date, E K made it perfectly clear to Scott how she felt about my condition upon being returned, and moreover, the method by which I was deposited upon the doorstep. She takes a very dim view of her possessions being mistreated whenever someone borrows them. I think it hearkens back to her high school years… Something about her Drill Team Uniform never being returned by the girl who borrowed it… (And believe me, I’m not real excited with that girl either… I mean just imagine, E K in a drill team  / cheerleader uniform… But, I digress…)

It was after the evil one had delivered her cold and calculated admonition that Scott fessed up, and told her the original plan had been to wait until I passed out,  strip me down to my skivvies, tape a quarter to my forehead, write his number on the back of my hand, and put me on a Greyhound Bus bound for Chicago… Of course, part of his plan also involved driving to Chicago so he could be there to watch me get off the bus and wander about aimlessly, before he finally loaded me up and hightailed it back to Saint Louis, arriving just in time to deliver me to the wedding…

Good thing I never actually passed out, until arriving home that is, because there were some unforeseen events in our very near future, one of which was only a few points shy of being catastrophic in relation to the upcoming festivities.

Besides, 6 foot 6 or no, E K would have killed him and fed his carcass to her cats. Guaranteed…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: The Wedding Suit…

So, here I go with one of those probably not so popular opinions again, but you know how I am, so there you have it…

On with the show…

There I was this morning, working on cup ‘o java number 3 and watching the news. Well, not the news exactly because the local broadcast had officially handed off to the network, so I was watching The Early Show. For me, that particular bit of news/feature programming is preferred over any of the others. It’s really all a matter of personal taste, I suppose, but I happen to think Harry Smith is a real kick in the ass as well as a good reporter. Dave Price is downright funny, and probably the most honest nationally broadcast meteorologist out there. Russ Mitchell is a hell of a newsman too, and on top of that I used to rent movies to him when he was a local anchor and I managed a Video Concepts store at Northwest Plaza, so I also happen to know he’s a hell of a nice guy – or he was back then, anyway. If that weren’t enough, there’s Maggie Rodriguez and Julie Chen. Very good interviewers who also happen to be a visual bright spot in my day, if you get my meaning… But, that’s another story I suppose.

Anyway, back to the impending opinion. As I sat watching this chosen bit of media, I was greeted with a story about Facebook. Yes, I realize that is probably a dirty word around here, what with this being my Myspace blog and all, but hey, they exist. No two ways about it. And, as it happens my publicists insist that I have a page there too, so I do. But, I digress. You see, it seems that Facebook has had the unmitigated gall (in some folks opinions) to remove from their site, pictures of women breastfeeding. Not ALL of the pictures mind you. Just the pictures that show an entire breast being bared.

Now, if you look at the terms of use agreement – that’s the little thing you are supposed to actually READ before clicking “yes I agree” – it would appear that legally, Facebook has every right to remove these pictures as they are, in point of fact, a violation of their content policy. So, no harm done. No foul. It should be all good.

But no, apparently there are a bunch of people up in arms about it. All good too. Disagree if you want, just remember that it doesn’t mean Facebook has to listen.

So anyway, The Early Show had a couple of folks on this morning to “debate” this issue. Well, I’m all for healthy debate so I watched. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. You see, it seems that the debate was really no more than a couple of folks with some creds (the kind which would mean virtually nothing to your average Joe on the street under any other circumstances) spouting why Facebook is “wrong” by removing these images. Okay, so not much of a debate where debates are concerned…(as we know, an actual debate requires that both sides of an issue be represented) But, that really isn’t my point here. (Yeah, you know me and my tangents…) What is my point, however, is the fact that these “debaters” seemed to be missing the overall picture here. Kind of a “can’t see the forest for the trees” thing. Move that big rock sticking out of the ground so I can see the mountain. Can’t see the sunset because of that big ball of fire in the sky.

Get what I’m saying? Good.

To boil it down, they more or less based their case on a few convoluted points, which on the surface were sound, but in the grand scheme of things left out the real questions behind the issue. And, in one instance, the “point” didn’t even make sense (at least to me it didn’t).

In short, here is what they had to say, and more importantly, where it got kind of weird – in my eyes, anyway:

1) Apparently the estimated 1.4 million folks who have Facebook pages “feel” that they OWN Facebook.

2) We cannot allow the opinions of a few to dictate the morals of the masses.

and

3) Breastfeeding is a natural act.

Yo’kay…

Number One: Let’s start with the fact that they might want to make that estimate 1.4 million MINUS one, because I know for a fact that I do NOT own Facebook. I have never paid their light bill. I have never maintained one of their servers. I haven’t swept their floors. In fact, I have never even been to their offices. All I have is a page on their server. That’s it. What’s more is that it is a page – storage space and bandwidth – they provide to me, free of charge. Free. I don’t pay anything for it. Nada. Nothing. I am getting to play in THEIR sandbox on a complimentary ticket. Sure, they make money by tossing web ads at me, but hey, they have to make money somehow… If they didn’t there wouldn’t be a sandbox for me to play in… for free. By the way, Myspace does the same thing – free page, toss ads at you. Oh, and just so everyone is aware, I don’t own them either. I’m also pretty sure that unless you own stock in the parent company, those of you with a page here are in the same boat with me. We use their service. We don’t own it. It ain’t rocket science.

Now, I will give you that these 1.4 million deluded souls may think they “own” Facebook because they feel they created the content. But, here is the fundamental flaw in that thinking – your content doesn’t appeal to the masses. Just to your little social clique, and not even all of them. This is also not to mention that just because you have eleventybillion friends on Facebook or Myspace, doesn’t mean they look at your page on a regular basis. Here’s a newsflash and y’all may hate me for this but guess what? Of my “Myspace Friends” there are only around a dozen whose pages I have visited more than once. You see, I actually have a life and stuff, as I am sure 99.9% of the rest of you do… So, give me a break. The folks who created, finance, and maintain Facebook own Facebook. Not 1.4 million souls using it as free hosting for their personal webpage.

Hence, Facebook makes the rules, you follow them when you are there. That simple.

Number Two: Anyone reading this ever hear of the FCC? We are already letting a handful of folks dictate morals to the masses – but, be that as it may, let’s get real – Facebook isn’t dictating any morals. They are saying, “my sandbox, my rules.” It’s really that simple. I know… Friggin’ amazing, isn’t it?

The “debater” bringing up this particular point went on to say something about Facebook being caught in the middle between the few people who complained about the images and the gazillion people who protested them being removed. He said that if anyone can complain about anything, then everything becomes taboo. Well, not really. That only happens if you listen to the complaint and act on it. He may have a PhD that I don’t, but hey, sometimes you need to cut the crap with the Piled High & Deep and just use a bit of common sense.

Now, yes, I will admit that the listening to and acting on the complaint of a small group was probably the point he was trying to make about Facebook, but honestly, it doesn’t look like that is what happened to me. It looks like someone violated the rules and someone pointed it out. Kind of like, “Hello, police department? There’s someone cooking up meth in the garage across the street.” Yeah, I know, that example is a bit extreme, but you get the idea.

Let’s look at this logically – If I have 5 people complaining about something, and 100 people complaining about the folks who are complaining, and I am trying to run a business, I am going to make the 100 people happy. The five people aren’t paying my bills. The 100 people are. There is a rule in the business world of which some folks are not aware and it is this – sometimes your best course of action is to not try to please a customer who is costing you money. You cut them loose. Send them somewhere else. So, why would Facebook kowtow to a small group? It’s not really likely that they would. They are simply enforcing rules that were already in place to begin with… Were they maybe a bit lacking in enforcing them before the issue was called to their attention. Who knows? With 1.4 million pages, that’s a lot of real estate to police. Perhaps they just hadn’t gotten to it yet, but eventually would have. That is why, just like our local police, they depend on the citizens of the community be vigilant.

Now, do I think the people reporting this infraction are a bunch of idiots who have nothing better to do than screw with other folks? Yeah, pretty much. But, that’s not the point. Whether we like tattletales or not, the rules were broken and action was taken. ‘Nuff said.

Number Three: You are correct. Breastfeeding is, in point of fact, a natural act. It is healthy for the baby, healthy for the momma, and an all around great idea. Hell, my wife breastfed our daughter for the first 18 months. I highly recommend it (no dads, it won’t get you out of those midnight feedings – they have these pump things and human breast milk refrigerates and even freezes just fine… But, you want a healthy kid, right?)

But, guess what? Taking a big ol’ nasty crap is a natural act too. Bowel movements happen. Poop there it is. Everybody poops. I could go on, but I won’t…

Now, I am sure that at least one person is out there saying, “But, Murv, you’re comparing apples to oranges.”

Am I?

Granted, taking a dump isn’t quite the same as breastfeeding a baby, but using the argument, “it’s a natural act” doesn’t fly. Just because it is a “natural act” doesn’t mean it is necessary to display it.

That particular debater also went on to ADAMANTLY qualify her statement with,. “It’s a natural act. It’s not sexual.”

Did I miss a memo? Last time I checked sex was considered a natural act too. So how does that play into this whole equation?

Okay… So before anyone gets up in arms about anything, let me just say this – Y’all know me – or at least my blogs. You know that I am all about free speech. I will defend to the death a persons right to free speech. I have already made it clear that I have absolutely NO PROBLEM whatsoever seeing images of a woman breastfeeding. Sex is good too. I’m not really all about the images of someone taking a dump, but hey, if that’s your thing more power to you.

But, here’s the thing… Freedom of speech is NOT what most people seem to think it is. It does NOT mean that you get to say whatever you want, to whomever you want, whenever you want. It does NOT mean that you get to display whatever you want, to whomever you want, wherever you want.

Freedom of speech protects your right to believe what you want to believe, and to disagree with others, AND more importantly disagree with your government.

It does NOT guarantee you that anyone has to listen, or that you don’t have to obey the rules. It simply means that you cannot be punished (i.e. incarcerated, beaten, tortured, or otherwise jailed) for dissenting in an orderly and peaceful fashion. By that same token, it also does NOT guarantee you that if you call someone a big doody head that they won’t punch you in the nose. Yeah, punching you in the nose was wrong, but guess what? Freedom of speech cannot protect you from an individual you just insulted. To put it simply, the first amendment does NOT grant anyone the right to be an asshole.

Okay, back to the boob thing…

Facebook made some rules. You had to agree with them in order to set up your page. If you didn’t bother to read them before clicking the “I agree” button, well bad on YOU, not them.

Now, they are enforcing those rules. So what?

Buy a vowel. They have every right to do so. If you are so dead set on displaying pictures of you breastfeeding your kid, no one said you couldn’t. They just said that you couldn’t in THEIR SANDBOX. You are NOT entitled to make them bend to your will. If they were in some way truly discriminating against you, adversely affecting you, creating undue hardship on you, or even making funny faces at you and saying nanny-nanny-boo-boo, I would have a different take on the whole situation. But they aren’t. This is NOT the federal government – or anyone else for that matter – restricting your freedoms. This is a private company with rules telling you that you can’t break them while you are using their service (for FREE mind you).

It’s no different than going to grandma’s house and not putting your feet on the furniture. Her house. Her rules. You follow them.

Oh, and by the way… To the debater who said breastfeeding isn’t sexual – basically you are correct from a purely clinical standpoint. But, you are dealing with individuals here and not everyone shares that opinion. You might try looking up galactophilia – it is a fetish centering on lactating women. All of a sudden, for a particular segment of the population who harbor this paraphilia, the images DO become sexual.

But, as can often happen, even I have gone a bit off track… The real question in my mind is this:

Why is it so important that you display to the world a picture of your bare breast with a baby attached to it? Once you are done breastfeeding do you plan to show us pictures of your breasts just for the hell of it? I mean, we’d get a clearer look at them if the baby wasn’t in the way. Or, if you are just trying to show us the baby then don’t you think we’d get a better look if the boob wasn’t obscuring his/her face? Do you plan to show us 57 pictures of junior having strained peas shoved into his face? How about when he/she pukes up the mashed banana all over the dog?

Again, I want to reiterate, I don’t find pictures of women breastfeeding to be offensive at all. I don’t find them embarrassing. And, I don’t find them to be a turn on either. But, I think this whole “you have to let me do what I want even though it violates your rules” thing is all a bit silly.

In my mind, the fact that boobs are at the center of it could be said even if it wasn’t…well…all about boobs.

More to come…

Murv