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By Sean Patrick
Lately I have been seeing a ton of Top Ten lists about the past decade: Top Ten Sports Teams, Top Ten Songs, Top Ten Movies, etc. Recently it was suggested that I should create my own Top Ten list of the decade. After thinking it over, I’ve decided to make a list of…
SEAN’S TOP TEN THINGS HE THOUGHT WOULD HAPPEN TO HIM BY THE END OF THE DECADE, BUT DIDN’T
10. LOSE MY PASSION FOR LFO MUSIC - When I was 18, I was a closet LFO fan… and by closet fan I mean that my closet was full of the finest LFO paraphernalia. At the time I felt that this was just something that every adolescent boy went through, and I was sure that the obsession would fade. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. Today if hear an LFO song I morph into a thirteen year old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert: I faint, I cry, and because I’m so aroused, I feel like I’m finally on my way to becoming a woman.
9. HAVE A BACHELORS DEGREE IN FILM DIRECTING - So close, yet so far. I was twenty four credits away from becoming the next Steven Spielberg, and here I am today, sitting in a robe at 3pm wondering when I’ll have to start prostituting myself to pay rent. Although I didn’t get my bachelors in film, I did get a degree in English which, unless you are going to be a teacher, is about as useless as a Happy 33rd Birthday card for Brittany Murphy.
8. I WOULD LIVE IN THE CITY OF SCHAUMBURG - Again, so close, yet so far. Two miles separate me from one of my greatest childhood ambitions. What little boy doesn’t dream about living in Schaumburg, Il? They have Gameworks, Portillos, and a baseball team belonging to the illustrious Midwest Northern League, the powerhouse of the upper-middle northeast Single A Baseball Division. If I lived in Schaumburg I could attend four Schaumburg Fliers vs. Fargo-Moorhead Red Hawks baseball games a year! But because I live in Roselle, Schaumburg’s drug addicted younger step-brother, I don’t feel welcome.
7. I WOULD OWN MY OWN MINI-VAN - When I was eighteen, I was riding around in my parents’ black 1990 Ford Aerostar mini-van. Besides its lack of reliability and frightening carbon dioxide emissions, it was the perfect automobile. I was sure that in ten years I would own one myself. I don’t. I drive a regular car. It’s very embarrassing for a twenty-eight year old to have to drive around in a vehicle that is not a mini-van. All I can say is, I’m sorry my former eighteen year old soccer mom spirited self… I’ve let you down.
6. I WOULD BE A SELLOUT - Because of the fame that I predicted I would have, I figured that I would be asked to be a spokesman for various products… and I would accept every single offer. Car batteries, blank cd’s, chicken wire, door knobs, scissors, air pressure… I wouldn’t care. But that didn’t happen. Instead at twenty eight I’m the posterboy for career suicide.
5. I WOULD STOP GETTING ACNE -
nope
4. I WOULD HAVE AN EXTENSIVE AND FASHIONABLE WARDROBE -
nope
3. I WOULD RUIN MY CAREER AT A LIVE AWARDS SHOW - Whether it be from making loud farting noises during an emotional acceptance speech or laughing out loud during the “In Memorium” portion of the Golden Globes, I anticipated damaging my film career at an awards show. You think Kanye was bad? Imagine me at the 2009 Oscars interrupting Heath Ledger’s grieving family to announce that, “I’m really happy for you, and I’m going to let you finish… but Josh Brolin in Milk gave one of the best supporting actor performances of all time!”
2. I WOULD HAVE A CELEBRITY ENTOURAGE - Since I was going to be a filmmaker, I figured I would be surrounded with celebrity friends. Adam Sandler would be my golfing buddy, Bill Murray would be my poker buddy, and Johnny Depp would be the guy who got me into cocaine. Yet here I am, at twenty-eight, and the closest I’ve gotten to making a celebrity friend is when I creeped out Taylor Hicks… and I’m not even sure if he’s considered a celebrity anymore.
1. I WOULD BE WEALTHY BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMS - How far I am from that prediction became very clear to me yesterday, when I got all Oprah’s-favorite-things-excited after winning $4 on a scratch off ticket.
boo yah
Happy New Years Everyone!
By Sean Patrick
On a Friday during my first semester at the University of Illinois, my friend Courtney and I had made plans to see the second best 80s metal cover band in the midwest:
Hairbangers Ball 2
Panama: The Story of my 80s Mishap
Hairbangers Ball is an 80s cover band that frequently plays around the Chicagoland area. Right before I left for school, my older brother took me to one of their shows. It was amazing. Within an hour the lead singer was on stage pouring Jack Daniels into my mouth. Aside from seeing LFO at the Allstate Arena, that was the single best concert experience of my life. So when I heard that their back up band was coming to U of I, I knew that I had to be there. And I also knew that I had to go with Courtney because she was a huge 80s rock fan… so much so that she showed up that evening wearing an 80s snake skin jacket.
Acknowledgment of My 80s Music Devotion
Before I go on with the story, I want to make it clear that I am a fan of 80s music. It’s delightful. However, I am not the biggest 80s rock fan that you’ll find. I enjoy the music, I enjoy the transgender outfits the guys wore, and I really enjoy hearing about the drug problems they all had. However, there are other musical genres that I appreciate more, and my knowledge of 80s metal pales in comparison to others. Sure, I know most of the big 80’s hits and have a few Bon Jovi cds… but when track 9 off of Warrant’s third album is being played, I have no idea what it is.
Side Story
Before we headed to the venue, we decided to stop at a bar along the way to do some pre-drinking. While we were there, Courtney bumped into a guy she knew. Since it was so long ago I can’t remember what he looked like, but I do remember that he was sporting a beautiful brown leather jacket. I was fascinated with it. When Courtney left to go get a drink, I had to let him know how much I admired it.
“I like your coat.”
After I said this, he looked at me with a devastated face. Then with a somber voice he responded.
“It was my grandpa’s.”
…………..
oops.
Anytime your first attempt at small talk leads to an emotional declaration about a recently deceased relative, it really discourages you from asking anymore questions. So after having the shortest conversation in the history of our country, we sat there silently until Courtney came back.
The Concert
The venue that the band was playing at wasn’t very big. This was good because it made it easy to get up to the front row even though there was a pretty decent crowd. After me and Courtney grabbed a drink, we headed towards the stage to get the best spots available.
When the band first came out on stage, I knew it was going to be a great night. Why? Because the snakeskin pants that the lead singer was wearing perfectly matched the snakeskin coat that Courtney had on. It was like witnessing the reunion of long lost twins. He quickly spotted Courtney’s coat and pointed to his pants to signal that he noticed the match. All was grand.
The first hour of the show was a good for me, but not great. Although they played some songs that I knew, a pretty fair amount of their set list was unfamiliar to me. I put up a front like I knew all the songs, but I was struggling. In fact, I put up such a good front that when the female singer was belting out yet another song that I didn’t know, she put her head by mine and the microphone between us so I could sing along with her. Unfortunately I had to just stand there silently with an uncomfortable smile until she took the mic away and found a guy that actually knew the song. Although it was a tad humiliating, I was fortunate enough to get the chance to redeem myself in front of everyone.
After playing a couple more songs that I’d never heard of, they started playing “Panama” by Van Halen. I was ecstatic to finally be rocking out to a song that I was familiar with, and I displayed this excitement with constant jumping and fist pumping. The lead singer noticed how much I was digging the song, and when it got to the chorus he gave me the microphone.
For those of you who don’t know, right before the chorus hits in “Panama,” there is a break in the singing, a guitar riff, and the lead singer yells, “PANAMA!” It’s brilliant.
I couldn’t believe I was getting the chance to sing the chorus. When the microphone was put up to my face, I grabbed it, looked into the lead singers eyes, and belted out, “PANAMA!!!”
Boom! I had redeemed myself! Everyone around me now knew that I was a huge 80s fan, and the mishap earlier was all a fluke. But after my moment of redemption, I immediately sensed there was a problem.
After passionately screaming “PANAMA!” into the microphone, the lead singer took it away from me and gave me a funny look. Then he continued singing the words, “What goes around, comes around.”
“What the hell is he singing?” I thought to myself. Then it quickly hit me.
“Oh shit! I sang the wrong song!”
He was singing “Round and Round” by Ratt, a song that I’d maybe heard twice before in my life, and a song that, to me, sounds exactly like Van Halen’s “Panama.” I had been given the keys to the 80s rock kingdom, and I blew it. My lack of 80s knowledge was exposed to all the people around me, and for the rest of the show I stayed away from the front of the stage.
To this day, if I hear “Panama” or “Round and Round,” I wait til the chorus until I start singing along. Actually, if the song turns out to be “Round and Round” I just turn it off, for not only does the song invoke painful and humiliating memories, but it also kind of sucks.
By Sean Patrick
I always hated the grab bags we would have in grade school. Not because I always got a bad gift… but because I always got the exact same bad gift during my entire elementary school career. It’s the single worst present that can be given to a child, because when it’s wrapped up it looks like it could be awesome. Yet it is anything but. I’m talking about…
The Roll Up Sled
First off, don’t let the look on this kids face fool you: he’s not having fun. His mom ordered him to smile for the camera. After he refused to do so, she threatened that he would not receive Christmas gifts if he didn’t show his teeth, prompting him to give the performance of his lifetime and appear to be excited to be riding the worst sled ever created. Even though I wasn’t present at the time this photo was taken, I know that there is no other logical explanation as to why this kid has a happy look on his face.
Back to the constant disappointment I felt during the grade school grab bag
It was the same every year. If you were a boy, you would buy a gift for a boy, and the girls would do the same. We were never assigned to a certain person, we were just told to bring in a gift a boy would like that was around $10.
On the day before Christmas vacation we would bring our gifts in, and each year I would immediately spot the large tubular present and pray to God that it wasn’t assigned to me. Actually that’s not true for every year: in kindergarten everyone wanted to pick this gift because of its size, and because we had no idea what it was. In our minds that could have been a bazooka, and what 6 year old wouldn’t want to be playing with an oversized war weapon? So that year I felt very lucky to be given the first pick of the grab bag draft. But after opening it up and seeing what it was, the prosperous feeling quickly went away, and after playing with that piece of crap for two minutes I knew, even at the age of six, that this was the worst gift I would ever get.
Here’s the problem with the roll up sled
Here are the numerous problems with the roll up sled
First thing’s first: the roll up sled doesn’t work. Plastic glides on snow, but the plastic used to manufacture the roll up sled doesn’t. It defies the law of physics. When I get on a sled, I assume that I will go down a hill at a somewhat accelerated pace. I’m not a thrill seeker, nor was I as a child, so I don’t expect to be traveling at 94 mph. But when I’m sledding I do expect to get to the bottom of a hill faster than I can walk to it. That doesn’t happen with the roll up sled. In fact, any kid that attempts to stay loyal to the roll up sled and slide it all the way to the bottom of a hill either dies of starvation or goes insane due to sleep deprivation.
Another problem with this piece of junk is that the roll up sled does exactly what it’s title suggests: it rolls up during a sledding session. Take another look at the kid.
He is barely on that thing! About fifty percent of the sled is already out of commission, and he hasn’t even travelled eight feet! Every inch he goes down the hill his ass gets an inch closer to being in the snow, and within seconds the sled will be rolled up into its original cylinder shape and he’ll be sitting in the snow, depressed and determined to live in a tropical area when he grows up.
The final flaw with the roll up sled is also my favorite part about it: it breaks immediately. After two attempted trips down a hill, it rips (since all of my plastic containers have been in the Milnamow family for many generations, this again makes me wonder what kind of plastic they use to manufacture this sled). Typically a child is upset when their toy breaks, but with this toy children are delighted at it’s demise. It’s like watching a villain in a Disney movie die. The kid is no longer obligated to associate himself with this embarrassing novelty, and can now move forward with his life free of guilt.
Back to my childhood
As I said before, after kindergarten I knew that I never wanted a roll up sled again. Yet for the next six years of my life, my grab bag gift was always a large devilish cylinder disguised in pleasant Christmas paper. I know what you’re wondering: why not avoid the gift? Well, after being rewarded with the first pick in kindergarten, I put up an impressive streak of getting the last pick every year after. And since every kid was trained to avoid the large cylinder gift as if it were Keanu Reeves movie, that was always the present left for me. 
By Sean Patrick
As is common in the Chicagoland area, the winter and early spring of 2006 was extremely cold. For citizens of the Windy City, it’s like every year we’re sentenced to a two and a half month prison term, where going outside for more than a minute at a time is just not an option. The end of January and the early part of February are the worst, and I’m guessing that it’s around this time that most people find themselves watching more television than usual. Me and my girlfriend Jackie are no different…
At the time, Jackie and I didn’t have a particular show that we found ourselves routinely watching. We were like television orphans. Then one night we decided to watch American Idol during one of their audition episodes. The decision to watch the show wasn’t anything outrageous for either of us. Although neither of us were very big fans of American Idol, the audition portion always offers up some quality entertainment. No one proves that better than this guy…
But once the audition portion of the show was over, we would typically stop tuning in. This year however, Jackie had declared that not only was she a fan of the gray haired gentlemen who auditioned in Vegas, but he was also going to win.
The more I watched this guy, the more I became a fan as well. Since no one else on the show struck our interest, we decided that we would watch American Idol every week until he was eliminated. Because I’m a Cubs fan I have no faith in anything that I root for, so I was sure he wouldn’t make it into the top twenty. But he did.
Even though he made it to the top twenty, I was sure he wouldn’t make it to the top ten. But he did.
Even though he made it to the top ten, I knew there was no way he’d get to the finals. But he did. I was shocked. All the disappointment training that I’ve gone through over the years was not being put to good use.
Because we had invested so much of our time rooting for this guy, we became very passionate about him winning the glorified karaoke contest… so passionate that I would vote for him multiple times via text message, even though I didn’t have an unlimited texting plan. I was slowly but surely turning into a fourteen year old girl.
The night of the finals we had our own little party. I actually had butterflies in my stomach, which is when I knew this obsession was going a little too far. At the end of the American Idol Season 5 finale, the winner was announced… and to our delight, the founder of the Soul Patrol was declared the winner. The man I’m referring to is none other than Taylor Hicks.
One Night In Taylor: Our Meeting With an American Idol
Two and a half years later I found myself in front of my computer at work. Jackie and I were still together and neither of us has tuned in to an episode of American Idol since. Our entertainment preferences had matured immensely, and the shows that we now favored watching were much more geared towards adults, i.e. The Hills and Laguna Beach.
Christmas was soon approaching, and I was struggling to come up with a gift idea for her. After going down many dead ends, I decided to check the Ticketmaster website. Nothing they had on their homepage really struck my interest… I knew Jackie wouldn’t want to go see The Chicago Bulls play the Toronto Raptors, or attend the DePaul Gymnastics Expo. But before I left the website, I decided I would toss a Hail Mary and see if by chance Taylor Hicks was coming to town anytime soon. I don’t know where the idea came from, but I rolled with it. Low and behold, the former American Idol was putting on a small concert in Chicago on January 17th.
He was going to be performing at a bar called Martyrs. Martyrs is a good sized bar, but it’s not too big where it would be difficult to see the stage. I knew that if we got there early enough we could get a pretty good spot. So I bought the tickets, and a month later we were off to see our American Idol.
When we got to the venue, we positioned ourselves very close to the stage. We also positioned ourselves very close to the bar. That night in particular there was a $2.50 special on MGD cans, which is an unheard of price at a concert in the city, especially on a Saturday. Needless to say we took advantage of the deal, and when we cashed out four hours later we had racked up a $55 bill. When you do the math, that is way too much beer to be consuming in a four hour period, especially since we had already been drinking heavily beforehand. However, if it wasn’t for that beer special, we would have never met The Man.
At around 11pm, Taylor hit the stage. He was about eight feet away from us during the show, and we were having a blast. After two hours of singin, dancin, and playing cowbell, him and his band said goodnight and exited stage right. Jackie and I thought the show was over. After we had already gotten our coats on, someone informed us that he would be coming back for an encore, a thought that MGD prevented us from having. So we went to put our coats back and return to the performance area.
When we were hanging up our coats, a member of the band walked out of the bathroom and through a swinging door located right next to the coat hangers. That’s when MGD made the first of many bold choices for us that night: we would follow him.
We walked through the swinging door and found ourselves in an empty kitchen. Confusion spread through our brains. How did this guy disappear? Were we in a labyrinth? After a few moments of investigation, we noticed a stairwell that went up. MGD gave us another great idea: we should go up these stairs.
As we ventured towards the upstairs area, we couldn’t stop giggling. We knew this was getting ridiculous… but we had yet to be stopped by any sort of security, so we ventured on. That’s when MGD helped my brain come up with a flawless alibi. If anyone were to ask me why we were backstage, I would tell them that my father was the president of the Maxwell House Coffee Corporation. That way, I would sound distinguished and worthy of being in the backstage area. I loved the excuse so much that I wanted to get caught so I could use it.
When we got to the top of the stairs, there he was. Taylor Hicks and his entire band stood before us, and they were getting ready to go back downstairs for the encore. As they descended towards the staircase, me and Jackie wished them all luck. Taylor was the last to pass us, and as he walked by I wished him luck as well. “Thanks man!” he said, and then gave me a masculine fist bump, a gesture brought to us by the Obamas.
We couldn’t believe it! Because of MGD, we had mustered up the courage to sneak back stage and meet Taylor Hicks. It was amazing! But at that point we found ourselves in an awkward position… we were alone in Taylor Hicks’ dressing room.
All of his entourage had followed him, and we were all by ourselves. So we did the one thing that any star crazed fan would do in a celebrities dressing room: we started eating the free food. We snacked on humus, carrots and celery, and washed it down with bottles of water. I must say, I was a little disappointed in the spread, but I was in no position to complain. At this point I should have been arrested.
As we chowed down on the free grub, we could hear the encore below. It sounded great, but we didn’t care. We were VIP’s courtesy of the Maxwell House Corporation and loving every second of it. After about ten minutes the music below us stopped. We realized the show must be over, but before we could plan our next move our favorite American Idol walked back into the dressing room and sat right next to me.
We were both in a state of shock. In all of my years of drinking MGD, nothing productive has ever come out it. Yet here I was, sitting next to Taylor Hicks while an assistant fanned him down. It was like sitting next to Cleopatra.
As he sat there catching his breath, I decided to make a move. I said to him, “Great show!”
He replied, “Thanks man! What’s your name?”
“I’m Sean.”
“Hi Sean, I’m Taylor.” Then he shook my hand. He went through the same routine with Jackie.
So here we were… hanging out illegally in Taylor Hicks’ dressing room with him sitting next to me, stealing his food and beverages, and struggling to think of something to talk about. After a few moments of silence, I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“You know, I spent about seven dollars and eighty cents in text messages voting for you on American Idol.”
That was the only thing I could think of saying. Fucking MGD.
After making this comment, Taylor looked at me for a moment. Then he asked, “Was it worth it?”
I looked him in the eyes, and in a more serious tone than I’ve ever taken with anyone in my life, I replied…
“Absolutely.”
I believe it was me telling the winner of the most popular show in America how much in text messages I spent on him that made his assistant realize we weren’t supposed to be there. I also ruined my alibi, for if I was a real Maxwell I would probably have an unlimited texting plan. Either way, that’s when his assistant said that we should probably leave. We were in no position to but up a fuss about his request, so we complied. We said goodbye to Mr. Hicks and he told Jackie and I that it was nice meeting us.
Walking out of the backstage area made me feel like a genuine groupie. Tons of women were by the door as we walked out, all asking if we knew Taylor… to which we replied, “Of course.” I’m sure they thought to themselves, “They must be associated with the Maxwell House fortune!”
We gathered our coats and left the bar, stopping only so Jackie could buy a Taylor Hicks t-shirt.
Thank you MGD. For everything.
By Sean Patrick
I’m not a fighter. I never have been. I wouldn’t say it’s because I’m a coward or anything. I think it’s more that I’m just scared to death of getting my ass kicked…
OK, so maybe I’m a coward. I don’t mind. My nose is already weird looking enough, the last thing I need is for it to get broken during a fight. It’s because of my cowardly ways that until the age of 22, I never found myself in a physical confrontation. That all changed one rainy night in the land that God forgot about.
I was in DeKalb, Il visiting a friend/student at Northern Illinois University. Me and my cousin Scott, whose identity I will hide by calling him Not-Scott, had come down on a Saturday evening to enjoy the celebrated DeKalb night life.
The night started out great. We were having some drinks and sharing some laughs at our friend Not-Jamie’s (whose identity I am hiding) apartment. After a while, she suggested that we go to a party that was taking place in her building. We went there for an hour or two, and after being all partied out, Not-Scott and I decided to go back to Not-Jamie’s apartment.This is where things got interesting.
For reasons unknown, at this point of the evening I was carrying a Magic 8 Ball around with me…
I’m not sure how I got it: either I had it the whole night and originally took it from Not-Jamie’s apartment, or I took it from the party thinking it was a goodie bag gift. Regardless, I found myself intoxicated at 1 am in DeKalb with a Magic 8 Ball in my hand.
As Not-Scott and I were walking towards the apartment door, we passed by a group of three guys and two girls that were outside smoking. One of the guys was wearing a Kobra Kai T-shirt…
The Kobra Kai Dojo was the villainous karate school in the Karate Kid movies “that taught an unethical, vicious form of martial arts” -wikipedia. Since me and Not-Scott watched The Karate Kid together numerous times when we were growing up, we were impressed with the T-shirt choice. So Not-Scott said, “Kobra Kai’s! Hell yeah!”
Typically when you offer someone a compliment or comment on how much you admire their vintage 80’s T-shirt, the response is something along the lines of, “Hell yeah!” “Thanks man!” or “You know it!” Not in DeKalb. Instead, the guy said, “What the fuck did you say?”
A little taken aback by the hostility, Not-Scott innocently said, “I like you Kobra Kai T-shirt.”
It’s possible that the first time he was complimented, the Kobra Kai thought Not-Scott was being sarcastic. But this time the innocence in Not-Scott’s voice nearly brought me to tears. There was no doubt that his T-shirt was a big hit to this stranger who was complimenting it, and his initial response to the homage must have been a mistake. But to the surprise of both of us, he responded with a “Fuck you!”
We both stood and stared in awe for a couple seconds. We were so used to compliments leading to friendships, but at Northern Illinois University compliments were fighting words. I would hate to see the riots that take place at their etiquette classes.
“Why are you mad?” is what I asked, to which he replied, “Fuck off.” His friends started getting into it too, cussing at us and acting macho. It felt like we were in West Side Story, only with tougher language.
“You guys are weird,” I said, and Not-Scott and I walked away towards the apartment. As we were walking they continued to yell at us, and because we thought this was kind of fun we yelled back at them as well. I wish to this day I could remember what I yelled at them. I’m so bad at smack talk that I’m sure it was something like, “I bet you’ve never even seen the third Karate Kid!”
As we got to the door of Not-Jamie’s apartment, I conjured up a plan (keep in mind, it was late and I was intoxicated). My drunken brain had figured out the perfect way to resolve this conflict. With Not-Scott already inside, I took my Magic 8 Ball… well, I guess it wasn’t mine… but I lifted it up, cocked my arm, and threw it in their direction. Then I walked into the apartment and closed the door behind me. Problem solved.
Actually, chucking 5 pound toys (brought to you by Mattel) at total strangers resolves nothing. In fact, it kind of makes things much worse. Within a minute they were pounding at the front door. Feeling that the conflict was over, I had no problem opening it and pleasantly greeting them. But in front of me stood three Kobra Kai’s, all in their fighting positions.
“Why did you throw a beer at my girl?!?” the leader demanded.
This confused me. I didn’t remember throwing a beer at anyone. In fact, I don’t think I would have just carelessly throw a beer away, especially at the age of 22.
“I didn’t throw a beer at your girl.”
“One of you guys threw a beer at my girl!”
I thought to myself, “Did Not-Scott throw a beer at his girl?” Then I remembered what had just happened a minute earlier.
“Ooooooh! I see! I didn’t throw a beer at your girl, I threw a Magic 8 Ball at your girl!” Mystery solved!
But this was a terrible answer. All three Kobra Kai’s looked furious. But because I was intoxicated, I didn’t know what the problem was. That’s when it happened. Out of the blue, the least vocal of the three, who was standing in the middle of the trio, stepped up and slapped me in the face.
I’ve never been slapped in the face. I didn’t think guys got slapped in the face by other guys. I stood there in shock for a moment, and then did the only thing I could think of: I leaned forward, extended my arm, and slapped him back. It was like we were declaring a duel, only our slap fight was the actual duel.
After I slapped him, I immediately burst out into laughter. Even drunk I realized how ridiculous this whole scenario was. It was then that Not-Scott, acting as my Mr. Miyagi, moved me out of the way, shut the front door, and locked it.
I was on the floor laughing at the fact that my first fight was a slap-off. But the guys outside wanted my blood, so they kept pounding on the door. Not-Scott became as protective as a mother bear, and he quickly picked up a butcher knife and got into a crouch position in case these karate experts got inside. “They’re not coming in here!” he declared.
At this moment I laughed almost to the point of unconsciousness.
The guys kept pounding and pounding, and eventually went to the windows and started pounding on those as well, nearly breaking them. It was like the end of the Thriller video.
The pounding went on for over an hour, but after ten minutes of it we got bored of the spectacle and started watching television. When they would pound louder, we would just turn up the volume to drain them out. They pounded for so long that eventually we fell asleep to it.
The next morning Not-Jamie’s roommate told us how she got home late and the guys were still pounding on the door. They were people she knew, so they apparently ended their witch hunt when she got there and went on their way.
Around 9 am we said our good-byes, thank yous, and sorrys to the girls and left the apartment. Right before we got to our car, I noticed on that the ground was my Magic 8 Ball, completely covered in mud. I laughed to myself and thought about taking it home with me. However, since it was so filthy I decided not to pick it up…
…but I like to think that if I did, my fortune would have said, “Slap Fight.”
By Sean Patrick
In a crowded bar, there is one thing that can cause a crowd to erupt into a unified outpouring of jubilation: a perfect song played on the jukebox. I’ve been to a packed bars where hundreds of smiling faces are singing “Sweet Caroline” in unison, and other bars where “Hey Jude” causes the whole crowd to belt out “Na Na Na’s” in every direction. It’s a beautiful scene.
On the other side of the spectrum, I’ve also been to bars where a song is played that causes the bar patrons to become pissed off. These are typically the kind of songs that I request.
When making my song choices, I always seem to find myself selecting a song that I think about 3% of the people at the bar will enjoy, and that 3% typically only includes me and the people I came with. Yet I play it anyways because, a) I kind of like the song, and b) I know how funny it will be when people outwardly complain about it and ask who the dickhead was that paid money to hear it. Since these are some of my favorite moments to have at a bar, I wanted to list my Top Five favorite songs to play on the jukebox.
#5 Who Let the Dogs Out? – Baha Men
Nothing pumps up a crowd like the tune that Rolling Stone Magazine listed as the 3rd most annoying song ever written. When the song comes on, the question isn’t “who let the dogs out?”, it’s “who is the asshole who played Who Let the Dogs Out?” It’s pretty hilarious.
I think what I love most about playing this song is that it’s original purpose was to pump people up at sporting events, yet it does the exact opposite. I think it’s because of it’s Jamaican theme. No offense to the Jamaican culture, but their songs don’t energize me to thrive in sports, or partake in any sort of physical activity. Bob Marley was a great political activist, but when I hear him sing “Get Up, Stand Up, Stand Up For Your Rights,” the melody makes me want to sip on a Pina Calada on a beach rather than partake in a political revolution. It’s probably because of the presence of the steel drum.
What I also like about the song is the use of expression, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” It seems like a harmless catchphrase when sung by The Baha Men, but when it’s asked in a real life setting it typically means bad news. If someone approaches you asking “Who let the dogs out,” and you are the one who let those dogs out, then guess what? A group of dogs are lost and/or dead, and it’s all your fault. It’s like being asked, “Who gave great grandma the keys to the monster truck?!” Uh oh.
#4 Nothing Compares to You- Sinead O-Connor
What a lovely ballad. This song is best used in bars heavily populated with men, particularly lonely men who find themselves to be this way because of the way they mistreated women during their lifetime. They go to the bar to escape their women troubles, yet my song choice quickly reminds them of the bald ex-girlfriend that got away.
At a pizza parlor in college, my friend and I put five dollars into a jukebox and requested the song twelve times in a row. The jukebox was unplugged after 2 1/2 straight times of the song being played. It was the best five dollars I spent throughout my entire college career.
#3 Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton
Holy buzz kill. This is one of the saddest songs I’ve ever heard, and should only be played at funerals. In fact, it might even be too sad for funerals. Needless to say, playing it in a crowded bar depresses everyone in the room, possibly because most bar patrons haven’t heard it since they tragically lost their step-brother.
Me and another friend of mine once had a competition to see who could play the saddest song on a jukebox at a bar in Iowa. I don’t recall what my pick was, but I do remember that this song was hers. While being played, the bartender actually said out loud, “This song is sad,” making my friend the clear winner of the contest.
#2 Any Song by Annie Lennox
I don’t think I need to explain.
#1 Your Body is a Wonderland – John Mayer
I don’t know what it is about this song, but if I’m in a public setting, I need to hear it. If I’m in a public setting surrounded by sketchy looking older dudes that possibly could and would murder me, I really need to hear it.
The scarier my surroundings are, the more I find myself needing to hear this love ballad. If I’m sitting next to a man wearing a leather vest and no shirt underneath, I need to hear the expression “Bubble Gum Tongue.” If the guy across from me has a face tattoo, I want nothing more than for us to share John Mayer’s request to “Discover me Discovering you.” If a man whips out a gun at the bar, I won’t run away… I’ll run to the jukebox so we can listen to the John-man confess, “I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillowcase.” I’ve spent more money on playing this song on jukeboxes than I have put into my 401K.
Playing any of these songs on a jukebox is a great icebreaker. For example, when someone demands to know who the homophile is who played Annie Lennox on the jukebox, you can say, “I’m the homophile! What’s your name?”
By Sean Patrick
I just got back Saturday night from a week long trip with my gff Jackie to Canada. We camped all week around the Toronto area, and visited such landmarks as Niagara Falls, Canada’s wine country, and whatever unoccupied baseball field that the Blue Jays play at. After this memorable getaway to our friendly neighbor to the north, I wanted to share some things that happened to us, as well as some differences I noticed about our red flag-ed step child.
My first experience on Canadian soil was when we stopped to get gas. I walked into the bathroom of the gas station, and what do I find written above the stall? “9/11 was an inside job!” Looks like Charlie Sheen has been tagging bathroom walls up north. (http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/2632130/Charlie-Sheens-911-rant-rocks-US.html)
Canadians say “a-boot.” They will deny it up and down, but they do. Our first day there, we stopped at a convenience store, and since they didn’t have beer we asked where we could buy a twelve pack. The answer? “A-boot 15 minutes south.” I almost peed my pants. It was like finding out that Santa Claus is real. A couple days later in Toronto, we met a guy who had recently visited Chicago. He mocked the Chicago accent, which is when we mocked the fact that Canadians say a-boot. “I have never heard anyone say a-boot, and I’ve lived here my whole life,” he replied. An hour later this same gentlemen says, “We went to a bar in Wrigleyville at a-boot noon and it was packed.” That time I actually did pee my pants a little.
Winning the Canadian Football League championship is about as significant as receiving a Nickelodeon Kids Choice Award.
We had no idea what the drinking age was in Canada, but our entire time there we had never been carded when buying liquor. At the Blue Jays game, Jackie went up to a beer vendor, who was surrounded by signs and wearing buttons that said, “We ID under 30!” After she wasn’t carded she asked, “What’s the legal drinking age in Canada?” His response: “I don’t know.”
Because of their bromance with the metric system, Canadian gas is distributed in liters, not gallons. So when you roll up to a gas station and see “.92,” don’t get excited… it converts to over $4 per gallon. It’s sneaky… it’s deceitful… it’s Canadian.
The first camp site we were at was douched with stray cats. By Tuesday, we were one of the only couples left in at the huge provincial park, and since we cooked food every night, we attracted wildlife and ended up being surrounded by thousands of stray cats.* I felt like a creepy middle aged woman.
We saw George Clooney. We joked about seeing him the whole trip, and since he had a red carpet premire in downtown Toronto we were actually able to catch a glimpse of the gray haired heartthrob. To be honest, he’s really not as cute in person. He’s cuter.
At the first movie we saw, a middle aged lady fell down the stairs during the ending credits. It would have been funny, but she fell so hard she started bleeding from her head, making it more hilarious than funny. Unfortunately because it happened in Canada, she will have to wait six months for their health care system to provide her with a band-aid.**
Canada hides their black people.
Beer is expensive. It was $18 for a twelve pack of cans. I’m used to the price of Old Style cans, which you can get a twelve pack for simply taking a urine test. But the best part about the beer we bought is that the color and design of the can makes it look like a Canadian Dr. Pepper, which made my little brother almost open one up twice. 
Fun fact: 80% of the Germans living during the 40’s didn’t know that Hitler was persecuting the Jews, which is why they continued to support him. I know this because an old Canadian-German lady sitting next to us at a theatre told us within the first few minutes of our conversation. I usually wait at least a couple days after meeting someone before I discuss Hitler, but she dove right in before the water was even warm. Canadian small talk doesn’t fuck around. But I guess you have to respect people who say whatever it is that’s on their mind.
Both one and two dollar currency in Canada is in coin form. A one dollar coin is called a looney and a two dollar coin is called a twonie. So if you get three dollars in change, you get two coins instead of the three bills you would get here. Because we are American and are used to coins being of lesser value and somewhat of a nusience, we would give these coins away to homeless people not thinking of their worth. I think we unknowingly gave one homeless guy around $9. He seemed as joyous as a successful business woman.
Overall it was a great trip, and I truly enjoy and respect our northern neighbor, no matter how goofy their numeric system may be. In fact, we plan on going back in a-boot two years.
*When I say thousands, I’m using the metric system. It actually converts to four.
** This statistic courtesy of the Fox News Network.
By Sean Patrick
Earlier today when I was riding my bike, I passed my grade school friend Jarod’s old house. Whenever I see that place, I am reminded of the time that I punched his little brother in the belly.
It was the year I was in third or fourth grade, which means I was probably about nine years old. It was a Friday and my friend Jarod had me over for a sleep over party, an event we had been excited about for weeks. Jarod lived with his parents and his little brother, whose name I think was Josh. Josh was about four years old at the time, and unfortunately for him, he was being annoying as shit.
For reasons unknown, Josh kept insisting that we play fight. When I think about it today, it’s likely that play fighting may have been something that he would do frequently with his dad and/or his older brother. But at that time I didnt have a little brother that wanted to play fight, and if me and my older brother were ever fighting it wasn’t out of playfulness, making this scenario quite puzzling to me.
For several minutes Josh kept innocently egging me on, and I kept wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. Now up to this point he hadn’t made any sort of contact with me, so although he was annoying, I didn’t really have a legit reason to strike him. But then Josh started hitting me. It didn’t hurt, but I didn’t want him to do it anymore, so I politely informed him that he should stop before I hit him back. Of course he kept hitting me though because he wanted me to (softly) hit him back. I reached my breaking point. After he hit me once more, I wound up and punched him with all my strength right in his gut, instantly knocking him to the floor.
Nine year olds are a lot bigger than four year olds, and I in particular was kind of big for a nine year old, and he in particular was a pretty tiny for a four year old. I’d say I outweighed him by about sixty or seventy pounds. By rule even professional boxers with that much weight difference are not allowed to fight each other, and yet I decided that regardless of our size difference, punching his frail four year old frame as hard as I could was not only necessary, but also deserved.
After falling to the floor, Josh laid there motionless. Jarod, who had never tried to stop his brother from hitting me, looked at me with a shocked expression. The look on his face can only be compared to the expression A.J. Cowling must have had on his face the first time he saw O.J., after O.J. allegedly (allegedly = actually) killed his wife and wife’s friend. In a frightened tone, Jarod said…
” You weren’t supposed to hit him hard…”
“He told me to!” was my only defense.
At that point the little guy sprang back to life: he got up from the floor, let out a bloodcurdling scream, and ran downstairs to his mom yelling, “Sean hit me!” My friend Jarod said he was going downstairs also, most likely because he was afraid to be alone with me after my sickening display of aggression. I told him I didn’t feel like going downstairs (translation: I’m scared to death to go downstairs), and he quickly descended to the downstairs area without me.
Here I was, a nine year old with a bad boy mullet haircut, left alone in my friends house because of my dangerous temper and trying to plan my next move. I thought maybe I could hide until either things blew over, or they moved out. But because their upstairs wasn’t very big, the cops (who I was sure were going to be called) would easily find me. I also contemplated jumping out the window, but my fear of heights wouldn’t allow me the balls to do so. My only choice was to take it like a man and go downstairs, leading to one of the most visual memories from my childhood.
I walked slowly down the stairs, and when I got to the first floor, I saw my friends mom cradling her youngest boy in her arms and yelling, “BREATHE! PLEASE BREATHE!! OH MY GOD!! BREATHE!!” Josh, who wasn’t screaming anymore, appeared unconscious. It was like a scene out of Apocalypse Now. I avoided eye contact and ran to their basement. Luckily the mom thought this might be the last time she saw her child alive, so she focused on him and didn’t notice his potential murderer stroll by.
I was sure I killed the kid. From the basement I could still hear her yelling frantically, and luckily after a while I could also hear Josh screaming again also… which on the upside meant that the kid was now breathing… but I still wanted to be nowhere around any of these people. But since I couldn’t escape from the house, I came up with the next best plan a nine year old could conjure up: I would pretend nothing happened. It was brilliant. I turned on the television they had in their basement and started watching Roseanne. That’s when Jarod and Josh’s dad came down.
In an attempt to not look suspicious, I sat there ignoring his presence and laughing at all of the jokes on Roseanne. At that time I thought it worked great, but looking back I’m sure I was laughing at jokes that were way over my head: jokes about Dan and Roseanne’s financial shortcomings, Jackie’s sex life, and Darlene’s first period. These things were nothing I would have understood, yet I laughed hysterically at each and every one of the jokes. I probably looked guiltier than Hugh Grant.
The dad sat there for a couple minutes without saying anything to me, which made me think that either I had pulled it off and he didn’t think I did it, or that everyone had completely forgotten about the whole wacky ordeal. The latter was a little tough to believe since I could still hear screaming from the upstairs, but there was hope. That hope was destroyed when the dad calmly asked, “Did you punch Josh?” I didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “I don’t remember.”
For the life of me I cannot recall what happened after that. I don’t remember what he said next, or what we did at the sleep over. What I do recall is that I kicked that four year olds ass.
