The year is 2012. According to the Mayans, some internet yahoos, and John Cusack, this is our last year on Earth. It is also the year my high school classmates and I turn 30; coincidence? I think not.
First, some background. For whatever reason, graduates of Albany High School remain friends longer than students at most other schools. This seems to apply to all graduation years; it even spans different cliques and racial barriers. I can’t explain it, but I do love it.
Anyway, I am lucky enough to have a group of 20 or so high school friends that I still contact regularly. That number grows to about 50 if you include other graduation years, but for the purposes of this post we’re sticking with the “smoke-free class of 2000”.
For those of you who don’t know me–which at this early of stage of the blog is probably none of you—I am bald. My hair isn’t thinning, it’s gone. Sure I have what I like to dub “the old man ring”, but it ain’t much. Hell, the only combover I can pull off is with my ear hair.
SN: Why is it that us bald men can grow hair everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE, but the one place we want to?
I’m cool with it. My wife met me when my hair was already seriously thin, so no biggie there; and my coworkers all know me as the short, chubby, bald guy; it’s all good.
Since my “30 things to do before you’re 30” post is the most popular item on this fledgling blog I thought I’d do another list.
I was at an anniversary party the other night and I told some folks I was going to write my bucket list. One person remarked that they (bucket lists) have a negative connotation, since they imply that you are near –or at least thinking about—your death. I agreed, and decided that instead of writing a
“Bucket List”, I’d make a “PhuketList”: As in all the things that I need to just say “fuck it!” and do:
I have a confession to make: I used to think my wife was crazy. Not lock her up and throw away the key crazy. More like, “why the hell are you freaking out” crazy.
Allow me to elaborate. Many times when I’m chewing gum, or drinking out of a straw, or simply clicking a pen, my wife will – out of nowhere – ask me to stop.
Asking might not be the right term, more like suddenly shouting. For years I would just laugh and continue on with what I was doing, I mean come on, that’s crazy.
No, I’m not. Although throughout my life people have always thought I was. Why? Probably because I like to act, sing, I’ve always had more girl friends than guy friends and I’m not afraid to share my feelings.
The whole inspiration for this post was a comment made on facebook by an old college buddy. He, who will remain nameless, (although all you have to do is check out my timeline to find out) joked that after reading my “Love, Actually” post he was going to take a six month hiatus from my blog.
While I’m sure my buddy is joking, it’s still interesting that in today’s world–a world where same-sex marriage is now legal in New York State–there’s something “wrong” with a man who expresses interest in anything other than sports and boobs.
1. Fall in love
2. Have your heart broken
3. Travel to a foreign land
4. Quit a job
5. Find a job
6. Give or receive a blowjob (purely for comedic effect)
I’m a chick-flick kind of guy. No, not “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” kind of chick flick – I mean their pants don’t “travel” off their bodies, right? I’m talking rom-coms, which I guess are their own chick flick subgenre.
Give me my wife, a bottle of wine, Meg Ryan, and call it a Saturday night.
My all-time favorite rom-com has to be Love Actually. It’s quirky, sentimental, has a killer cast, and let’s be honest; everything is cooler with British accents.
SN: want a great drinking game? Take a sip (or chug) every time a character in the film says “actually”. It’s A LOT!
The wife and I have watched Love Actually once a year, usually around the holidays, since we first started dating.
We quote the lines: “I HATE Uncle Jamie”, we laugh, we don’t cry, but we certainly snuggle.