The Daily Derenger
8/22/2003
"I'm up to 52 pounds lost," said my mom, who had gastric bypass surgery in late April of this year.
I found this out at 7 a.m. this morning while I was walking through the kitchen, throwing a baseball into a professional-model baseball glove.
"I could do this for about 10 hours," I said to my mom, who was prepping for her day, which began with a trip to the gym for a swimming pool workout.
"Why? Is it therapeutic?" she asked.
"I guess it is," I said as I made my way down the hall back to my purple bedroom.
Sometimes I write about the bullshit that surrounds my family and the house we live in, but this makes me proud. The weight-loss, not my playing catching with myself. I always play with myself.
Mom's tried to diet as long as I've known her, and probably even before I came around. She's not been able to exercise in recent years due to arthritis and joint problems and being in overall poor health, which surely can be attributed to her obesity.
She was never excessively obese, though. She was clinically obese based on the standards set by the American Medical Association. Being barely 5-foot tall and weighing 280 pounds when she left the hospital, my mom is now down to 228 pounds 4 months later. Kudos to mom for getting back on the health track.
My only concern now is that she'll lose so much weight, she'll be able to move around more freely. This should be a good thing, right? At times, yes. But it's two-fold. Moving around could have her get rid of all HER clutter easier. OR it could have her picking up more and more stuff, not needing someone to lift and carry things with her re-acquired mobility.
The last thing this house needs is more clutter. Please say a prayer that my mom will use her new body to continue to help others while also helping herself and her home.
Or maybe she'll just build a shop in the backyard to sell some of this shit. That would be great for all, especially giving me more material.
8/22/2003
Man can MTV's Cribs be a depressing show, depending on what 3 people are featured.
In the most recent one I saw, there was Missy Elliot, Puck and Dave Mira. One's a hip-hop singer, the other is a former reality show star (if such a thing exists) and the last one is a BMX racer.
Elliot, who I wouldn't know if she came to the front door with an armful of her albums, had more tennis shoes in her closet than at Footlocker warehouse. Her guest bathroom could easily serve as my spacious apartment. Her cars: a Ferrari, Lamborghini and a Hummer, were too much for me. Pick one of them and I would be perfectly happy.
I figured after seeing Elliot, the show would get more extravagant with better houses and toys.
Then came Puck, still living off his Real World stardom. He lives with his wife and daughter in an average starter-house. The pool has no water; his dresser is piled with miscellaneous shit; the Paystation is broken. I felt okay about myself at this point.
So then I figured that maybe the show would be in reverse order, from best to worse. Maybe they would show Dave Mira in a jail cell with a few comic books and a lunch tray filled with an empty milk carton and plastic spoon from the applesauce entree.
Not the case, though. Mira had a huge house covered with flatscreen TVs, bathtub jacuzzis and a 3-car garage. Then I realized that all Mira did was ride a bike. The bike didn't even have an engine. It was similar to a bike you can buy at Target. It even came with a kickstand back in the day.
Then I turned off the tube and took a nap. That overall depression made me sleepy. I awoke and still was in my mom's crib. Some things never change.
8/21/2003
A friend and I wandered in to a small bar down by the river. There was no van with a fat guy living in it, though. It was a Tuesday night and about 8 people were there.
The nightly special was .75 drafts of Miller Lite or MGD, while other beers were offered in cans only. This can tell a lot about the clientele. And the jukebox selections, too. More so, it can cause you to seriously question your being there, regardless of drink prices and number of Foreigner tunes.
The bartender, a man with a mustache and in his early 30s, sported a tank-top tucked into some rather tight Levi jean-shorts. Again, the questioning as to why this is your watering hole choice for the evening comes to mind often. Had the shirt been un-tucked and the shorts a bit looser, you wouldn't have been so hard on yourself.
I went to the bathroom shortly after finishing my first beer, a Budweiser in a can. I figured why not shell out the 2.25 for something Beechwood-aged. Or maybe I didn't like the bowling-alley-bar-type glasses the drafts were served in.
The signs on the bathroom doors read INBOARDS on one and OUTBOARDS on the other. The INBOARDS had pictures of guys oiled up. The OUTBOARDS had pictures of oiled-up women in thongs. Maybe I'm an idiot and most things point to that being true, but I wasn't sure which one to use. I knew I didn't like what pictures were on the INBOARDS door, but I also thought that I'd like to look like those guys. Maybe if I went in there, I would come out all buff, tan and with flowing Fabio-like hair. However, if I used the OUTBOARDS facilities, maybe I would find me some hot chicks oiling up one another near the urinal.
Luckily my buddy had been there in recent weeks, so he pointed me in the right direction. I was an OUTBOARDS kinda guy. Then I figured that, as a guy, I have something that sticks OUT. The INBOARDS types have something INside. If people take OUTS and rub them near INS, a good time will be had by all.
I then headed out of the OUTBOARDS room and back to the bar. As I was awaiting for 2 Lite drafts, concerned more about my wallet than the frickin' glasses, I overheard a man and a woman talking.
"We'd been drinking all night," she said to him, in more of a story-telling fashion.
"I finally told him to come already so I can get my beer."
I wasn't sure if the 2 were dating or simply friends catching up on old times. I do know that when the lady longs for a beer during sex, someone needs to have a talk with the guy. He might be using the wrong BOARDS.
And that's why I love living in Joliet.
8/19/2003
Well, you’ve read about how a comic can spend a day on the road. Now here’s how one can spend a day off at home. Or at least his home for the day.
(It’s rather explicit and lengthy. Make sure you have time to take it all in. And thanks for reading. Check out my journal about meeting Sharon and Ozzy, too.)
You spend the night at a friend’s place. It’s a good friend who you haven’t seen a lot of in recent months. She’s in love and spends a lot of time with him. He’s a great guy and lucky to have her.
You crash on her couch and fall asleep almost instantly. You’re exhausted from the night before of partying too late as well as working all day the next day and drinking again that night. You’re not an alcoholic; you just have a job that that enables you to drink while working.
You awake around 8 o’clock. She has a real job that needs her there by 9 a.m. It’s hot in her place so you’re not getting that much sleep plus the sun is shining brightly through windows that have no drapes or blinds covering them.
Her place is a condo she bought a few months ago. You helped her paint some of it and admire your work every time you walk through the entryway, the lone area you painted. This place, although not that big, is much bigger than her last place, a tiny studio apartment.
“Is it okay if I turn on the news?”
“Sure. It’s your place. Don’t worry about me,” you say graciously, since you’d be sleeping in your car otherwise.
The news has on footage of Ozzy Osbourne singing at Wrigley Field the day before. You were there working and met his wife, Sharon, but only caught glimpses of him. Even though you are still considerably groggy, you throw on your glasses to see what else is on.
Your friend blow-dries her hair for what seems like an eternity. You know her hair’s short so you raise your head off the couch to see what exactly she’s doing. You really can’t tell and after all, you’re bald and thankful for not wasting that kind of time.
She invites you to eat some breakfast or anything else in her place. You thank her again and then she makes her way for the door. You ask about a spare key and she gives you her set, since the spare is broken.
You watch a little more of the news since Sharon Osbourne is going to be in studio to plug her new TV talk show, airing on the same channel you’re watching. The interview doesn’t seem to go that well. Sharon’s answers, although honest and humble, are short, contrite and not too revealing. The 3 on-air personalities appear to scramble for more questions to fill the time. You see this and relish at the opportunity to be famous and interviewed, knowing full well there will never be a lull while the cameras are rolling.
You make your way down to your car with the hopes of there being no parking ticket on it. You’re halfway in a no-parking zone but the sign has faded and not much of the wording it legible. You friend said her boyfriend always parks there and has never gotten a ticket.
“If he gets one, his defense will be that the sign couldn’t be read at night,” she told you the night before. You thought that was a good enough reason so you parked there, too.
On your way to your car, you notice a few open spots closer to her place. They are not near any no-parking zones so you figure you’ll park in one of them. However, you get to your car and realize that you’re parked on the other side of her building. You decide to drive around to the opposite side in hopes of finding some street parking right near her place. And there one is, directly under a tree to shade your car from the sun.
The news said it will be sunny all day with temps hovering in the mid 80s. It’s one of the more beautiful days of the summer. Not humid in the least bit and nary a cloud in the sky. But you know you have serious amounts of writing to do and may not see much of the outside world on this day. You cherish the time you have outdoors as you fiddle around in your car.
It’s 9:04 and you turn on the car -radio to find that your favorite talk show host is back from a 2-week vacation. Even though he opens the show with stories about the golf he played while on vacation, you still enjoy every word he utters. You aren’t very good at golf and don’t really like it so talking about it or hearing others talk about it is usually very boring. However, his wit, sarcasm and brilliant speaking skills are something you have always admired whether he talks about golf, walking his dog or his fear of flying. You marvel at his abilities and wish that you one day had an iota of his talent. And maybe your own show, too.
You find some things to do in the car to keep busy so you can listen to his show. You know you can’t hear the show at your friend’s place because AM-radio doesn’t come in on her stereo and her clock-radio only gets one AM station, not the one you listen to. Doesn’t matter anyway, you need to write. Listening to the radio and trying to write simultaneously are impossible. You organize your trunk and backseat, which both often serve as closet space in your nomadic life.
Your cell phone’s battery is dead. You need to re-charge it and figure to do so while listening to the show. However, the adapter is broken and won’t snap into the phone. You can either hold the phone and adapter together or get something to hold it for you. Usually a rubber band works but there are none around. There were a few in your car for this very purpose a couple of days ago, but the sun exposure dried them out and they snapped. You try to look for something else to work. A bracelet made of some exotic small beads sits around your stick-shift. You undo it and try to put it around the phone. It’s too stretched out and won’t do the job. You then take the air freshener off from around the steering-wheel-adjusting-switch and hope that the elastic string will be strong enough. It’s not. But the phone now smells good.
Like the pack-rat your mom is, you search your car, knowing that there must be something to use. You look in your apron from work yesterday and to your surprise, you find a panty liner. You then remember that you found 3 of them, still in their package, in one of your suites you were cleaning up. You peel the paper off and use the adhesive side to hold the phone and charger together. It works just fine and you call ABC to tell them you’re the new MacGyver. You know people won’t believe you so you pull out your video camera to record the creation, the air freshener now attached to the panty liner as well as the phone. All calls will smell fresh and be absorbent.
You head back up to your friend’s place and hook-up your computer to begin your journal entry from meeting the Osbournes. While the machine is warming up, you look for your friend’s stash of porn. You’ve known her for a while so it will only be a moment ‘til you find the videos. She has no cable and with your need to write, that’s good. But you know she’s got the porn, you’re just not sure where it’s hidden.
Being a guy, you think that nobody can hide porn better than you. However, you can’t find hers. You search high and low, knowing that it can’t be too high since your friend is barely 5’2”. You look under the bed and find the cat. You ask for her help and she just looks at you as if to say, “You sick bastard. Leave me alone. I’ve enjoyed life without you for a while. I’m not about to tell you where mommy hides the smut.”
You go as far as to look above the fridge in the cabinets that she could only reach with a step-ladder. You know there would be so sense in her putting it up there near the toaster and holiday napkins. Porn is often times a spur-of-the-moment decision so you need it available at all times. Still not knowing where it is, you gaze out the window with a distraught look.
The cat wanders out from under the bed with almost a “you lame asshole” expression. She eats a few pieces of dried food and returns to her lair.
You then sit in deep thought on the couch as to where the stash could be. You look through the pile of movies in the small entertainment center, but nothing doing. You look in the VCR with hopes that you could be so lucky. Nope. You then take each movie out of its case, thinking she may have used “Beaches” or “Waiting to Exhale” as a cover for “Anal Intrusion VI” or “Beaver Patrol.” You find nothing here either.
You contemplate ‘using’ the “Buns of Steel” or “Denise Austin’s 20-minute Workout” if nothing is found. Besides, Denise Austin sounds like a porn star name anyway.
Befuddled, you decide to call your friend at work.
“I give up. Where’s it at?” I ask.
“Where’s what?”
“Where’s the porn? I’ve looked all over and can’t find it.”
(She giggles a bit.)
“It’s in my storage unit.”
“Why in the hell’s it in there? You always have it ready, sometimes even loaded for me.”
“My mom was in town a few weeks ago and I haven’t moved it back. What about the Internet? Can’t you use that?”
“The connection is slow and my machine sucks with porn. I knew you had some.”
She tells you where the keys are to the storage unit. You assure her you know which one is hers and that you know how to turn the light on. In reality, you didn’t really listen to her directions. You figure you’ll manage on your own. How hard can it be, right?
You walk down the hall to the storage unit and open the door. It’s dark inside and you realize you don’t know how to turn the light on.
“Hey, it’s me again. Sorry. How do you turn the light on?”
“I just put someone on hold to take your call.”
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
She tells you where the switch is and you kick yourself for not looking outside the door. The light is on a timer and you turn it on. You look at the storage space you think is hers. You remember putting some stuff away there back when you helped paint. You can even see cans of paint in there so you are sure it’s hers. But there’s one problem; it’s a combination-style look and doesn’t need a key. You think maybe she forgot that you didn’t know the combination. But then you also know that she’s smart enough to tell you where the keys are, so why would you need a combination?
You are now more puzzled than before. You don’t want to call her for a third time in 15 minutes about her stash. You look through the other storage spaces since the wire gates enable you to see most everything. You vaguely remember her telling you what was in her space. You look for something you can identify as hers. You see nothing familiar.
“Maybe it’s just not meant to be today,” you say aloud, accepting defeat in the face of ignorance.
You return to her place and begin to write about Ozzy. Instead of calling, you e-mail her and mention that you’re throwing in the towel in the fight for porn.
Your email reads as follows.
“i give up. really. this time i mean it. your locker has a combination, right? i don't have that and wasn't about to call you again for any more info. i'm resigned to the fact that i will simply have to use the net to get off. i have tons of writing to do, plus i want to workout in your place. i need to be more efficient with my masturbatory habits.”
She replies about 10 minutes later.
“Dude, there is no combination. What do you think the keys are for?”
You’re now feeling like a total moron and are also unsure why she opened the reply with ‘dude.’
You reply to that e-mail.
“are you sure? your locker has paint and shit in it, right? it's the second one in from the door on the left, right? if so, there is a black combo-lock on it.”
You’re certain this is her storage space. You moved a bunch of things for her just 3 months ago. You’re not worried about it any more, though. You manage to take care of the needs and really get into writing your journal entry.
It’s around noon by this time. Since you have a lot to write but type so slow, you know it will take virtually all day to get it done. You had plans to hit the beach with some friends but know that you need to get the entry written. The Osbournes are the biggest celebs you’ve waited on all year and it needs to be finished while the experience is still fresh.
Your friend replies to your last e-mail about an hour later, after her lunch.
“no you fucking nimrod...i said it is the last one on the right!!! there's kitty litter and a laundry basket and toilet paper in it. you are to look for a silver shoe box. the tag on the locker says my condo number.”
You reply.
“you called me a nimrod!!! LOL. that is the best thing since using ‘gnarly’ in 6th grade to describe the new bike route I made one day after school.”
After finding out that you were looking in the wrong locker, you head back to the storage space. You try the keys she had in the drawer marked accordingly for her space. 2 of the 4 keys fit the lock but don’t unlock it. You can’t turn the keys once they are in. You figure you’re just a pussy, though. You try positioning the lock every possible way to get the best angle. Nothing doing. The key will not open the lock. You are now very pissed because you can see the silver shoe box through the gate. You use your shirt to absorb some of the tear your hands are experiencing. That doesn’t work. Neither does yelling obscenities at the lock nor kicking it.
You head back into her place and then e-mail her again.
“that fuckin thing is impossible to get open. the keys fit but don't budge the lock. now my hands are sore from trying to open it. how in the fuck do you manage to get it open? it's just not in the cards for me today i guess.”
She replies a few minutes later.
“Hahahahaha. yeah it's hard to open but it does open. just don't get frisky with my kitty. speaking of, how is my baby? Is she low on food? Is it cool enough in there for you both? You're not going to the beach are you?”
At this point you are ready to kill the cat simply because you are frustrated and pissed about not opening the lock. Her cat is fat and barely does anything active. She is a perfect candidate for the Carney Wilson surgery but your friend thinks the cat is adorable and the best cat around. It’s takes all she can to jump on the coffee table to sit in the direct line of the AC unit shelling out cold air.
Your friend contends that the lock, although tough to open, can be opened. You disagree and continue to write about Ozzy.
You finish the entry and post it on your Web site. You debate about going to the beach and working out, 2 things you’d really like to do. Again, you know your friend doesn’t have cable so there isn’t much on TV. You also know that the same guy who hosts your favorite talk radio show has a TV show on at 4:30 p.m. The only way you’ll see it is to be in the gym by 4:30 since they have cable down there. However, you still want to hit the beach and write about your day spent searching for porn. This gets you going once again and you head back to try a second time at unlocking the storage unit.
In similar fashion as the time before, nothing. At this point, it becomes more about getting the lock opened than getting the porn. You are totally irate and your short temper is running hot. You need to blow off some steam and realize that working out is the best plan. You will just have to miss the guy’s TV show.
The workout room is in the basement of your friend’s building. It’s very nice with free weights, machines and great cardio equipment. You consider using it on a regular basis. You know you need to shed some pounds and get back into shape. Having no steady place in the city to live, you at least know that working out could become a regular thing.
2 other guys are in the gym. One is watching “Men in Black” on the TV nearest the free weights. You wonder how someone can be motivated to break a sweat and bench press while watching Tommy Lee Jones converse with insects. You do about a 20-minute workout, which has you wonder why you didn’t just do the Denise Austin video you found earlier.
You head out to your car parked in view of the gym to get something to eat. You have tuna in your trunk and after working-out, it’s a great source of protein. You add some black pepper, hot sauce, spicy mustard and sun-dried tomato mayonnaise to it. Just a little mayo, though. It’s not fat-free.
Immediately after your workout, before you even head into her apartment and before you fix your tuna, you try for a third time to open the storage unit. You guess that maybe the worked muscles could finally help open the lock. Nothing again. This is the shortest and most futile attempt made all day. You head back to her place completely defeated.
You begin making the tuna creation. You crawl under the bed and try to entice the cat into licking the tuna can. You know cats love seafood. She seems very annoyed by your efforts and doesn’t budge. You then head back into the kitchen and shake a can of her treats to get her attention. She slumbers into the kitchen with her belly dusting the floor. She sniffs both the can and the bowl you accidentally placed the tuna in. It sat near where you opened the cans of tuna and you just dropped it in, not realizing it was a dish that needed to be washed. The cat doesn’t even as much as lick a sliver of tuna from the bowl or the can. You chastise her pickiness and even question her place as a feline. You threaten to call other cats, famous ones, like Morris, Garfield and Tom and tell them of her prude and finicky ways. You even give her 2 of her cat treats and she sniffs them and walks away, as if to say, “you’re not winning points with these efforts you bald bastard.”
It’s now 3:30 and you think about going to the beach one last time. However, your horribly uneventful and pathetic day needs to be told to all your would-be fans. You rationalize that tomorrow with be nice, too, and you can get to the beach then. You begin writing about the porn-stash debacle.
In the middle of the writing, you glance over in the kitchen sink and see that the dishes still need to be done. Even though only 2 of them you used, you know that washing them all is the least you could do for your friend letting you stay there. It’s now 4:30 and you keep writing about the day’s events.
Your friend gets home from work at 6 p.m. Her front door is locked and dead-bolted. You make an effort to meet her at the door and unlock it for her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as she opens the door and she glances towards your genital region, thinking you had the extra locks in use to buy time for some self-pleasure.
“I’m writing about the porn search. Wait ‘til you read it.”
Before she can even get settled, you have her try to open the storage lock. You know that if that little girl can open it, something is dreadfully wrong with you. You hand her the keys you used.
“These aren’t the right keys,” she says.
“What do you mean they aren’t the right keys? They were the ones in the envelope,” you say, as you head to where she and the envelope were.
She rustles through the drawer and finds a third set of keys.
“These are the ones that open the lock. Sorry about that,” she says, as you show her your blistered fingers.
In complete shock and disbelief, you drag her to the storage unit to see if she’s telling the truth. Sure enough, she opens the lock easily and shows you where the porn was hiding. She then closes the gate and locks it up again. You take the keys you were using all day on the lock and show her what your struggle was like. You are still stunned at the fact your used the wrong keys all day. You climb the stairs to the roof of her building, stuff the wrong keys in a cannon and shoot them into Lake Michigan. Where you got the cannon is of no concern to anyone. After all, you managed to charge your phone with a panty liner. Anything is possible.
You realize that even though you did nothing all day, your doing that nothing led to some noteworthy story telling and writing. You both laugh at your ridiculous existence. You talk a little bit more then you hop in the shower.
While in the shower, you use some of her exfoliating body stuff. There are 2 different kinds – body scrub and body polish. You’re not sure whether you should scrub or polish first. You’ve “polished” in the shower many times but it never involved exfoliating scrub. That would just plain hurt. You opt for the polish and realize that you now might be a little gay. The polish smells very girly and you try to wash it off with regular soap. You get out the shower and find that some of the polish, made with grains of sand, got knotted in your chest hair. You feverishly run the towel over the knotted area and nothing happens. You chalk it up as odd and figure it’s just a sign of the times.
You briefly talk to your friend while she lies on the couch and watches “Friends.” You gather your things and thank her again for letting you stay. You bid farewell to the cat and walk out the door.
That’s it. Now how did you spend your Monday, August 18th?
8/18/2003
Check out my journal entry from Sunday the 17th. I waited on Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne at Wrigley Field. Makes for a good read!!!
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