This HBO special aired in 1992, the year I graduated from High School, and believe me when I say, my freshman year of college, I watched this nearly 100 times. George knocks it out of the park with classic routines about the War in the Gulf, Universal Similarities, The Airlines, and The Environment. Enjoy!

Anyway as I was saying…

I’m one of those people who never gets sick. However, once every year or two, the “never” turns into “hardly ever” and today is my day to pay the piper. I stayed home from work on account of a sore throat, runny nose, heavy eyes, and some pretty gross congestion. What a perfect opportunity to catch up on a little blogging.

The only real blog worthy event of these past few months was probably my recent trip to NY for Thanksgiving. Every time I go back, I kick myself in the ass for leaving in the first place. The good news is I got to spend some quality time with my family.

The flight over was very turbulent and I had to sit next to some guy who played with his penis for 5 hours. Like, he didn’t just adjust himself repeatedly, he literally rolled his penis between his fingers through his pants the whole flight. Maybe I should feel lucky he didn’t ejaculate. Either way, I was happy to get off the plane. I ran into a two hour weather delay in Baltimore. Surprisingly, however, the flight from Baltimore to NY was much smoother even though I was in one of those propeller type planes.

My family planned to have the traditional Thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday instead of Thursday. So when I arrived at my dad’s house, I was treated to a great meal, highlighted by Grandma Blanche’s stuffed cabbage. I’d been fiending for some stuffed cabbage for about 2 years now. Just writing about it makes me want some more. So good!

Thursday night, we went to Caffe on the Green for the official Thanksgiving Dinner. In attendance was yours truly, my two brothers, Justin and Jordan, Justin’s girlfriend Michelle, Dad, Helene, Blanche, Uncle Steven, Cousins Andy and Phillip, Steve’s girlfriend, Grandma Blanche, and Dad’s gay friend Jeffrey. Jeffrey recently emerged from the closet, but considering he looks and acts just like Christopher Lowell and has the voice of Harvey Firestein, I’m sure no one was all that surprised.

Dinner was very nice (I had the fish), however Helene prepared a banquets worth of pre-dinner snacks right before we left for the restaurant, so I could barely finish dessert. I did give it my best shot. The evening’s notable moment came when Helene (my step-mom) was having a discussion with my brother Justin about what he wanted to do with his life. She told him that whatever his thing was, whatever he wanted to pursue, it should make him happy, and she wanted him to be happy too.

What made this a classic moment was, by some comedic force of nature, the entire restaurant seemed to go quiet right after Helene finished her sentence. So what everyone there recalls was a sudden silence, followed by Justin’s response, which was “What if my “thing” is just hanging out and having anal sex with Michelle all day?” Because just seconds earlier, the restaurant was bustling and exceedingly noisy, Justin practically screamed his remark across the quiet room. The entire place spun around and stared at our table with horrified looks of shock and disgust. The reaction at our table was mixed. Jordan and I thought it was hilarious. Grandma, not so much.

Friday I spent most of the day helping my Dad and Helene tag merchandise for an estate sale they were running. Although it’s kind of creepy rummaging through dead people’s belongings, it’s also fun trying to piece together what kind of lives they lived. After a long day of work, we capped off the evening with some amazing Korean food.

By the way, my father happens to be famous at every restaurant in New York, so if you’re ever there, just say you know David Schneider, and they’ll give you a free glass of water. Seriously though, my dad and his wife are like local celebrities. When we go out to eat, everyone knows who they are, and they get free food. It’s incredible really. One Italian place we went has a dish on the menu called “The David and Helene”.

Saturday was more Estate Sale stuff, and we also went to the Mercedes dealership to test drive a few cars (unfortunately not for me). Jordan joined us for dinner at some sushi restaurant where my dad embarrassed me by letting the waitress know I was single. The funny thing was, before we got there, my dad informed me that she was single as well, but once she saw me, she miraculously had a boyfriend. When my dad introduced me, she said, “OH Meesta David… dis yaw numba won son? Oh.. I’m too old faw heem. Prus I would haf to reeve my boyfriend fust. Ha ha ha ha!”

Saturday night, I went into the city with my brother Jordan to celebrate his friend’s 21st birthday. After drinking 40′s on the LIRR like a bunch of thugs, we went to some Romanian club where all the women were smoking hot and all the guys they were with were… well… Romanian. They all wore tight American jeans with pointy shoes and were very… um… interesting dancers. We had our own interesting dancer in our group so we were able to take on all dance challenges and emerge victorious. I was even able to simulate Romanian dancing to the point where I was mistaken for one of the brotherhood. One guy in particular put his arm around me and spouted off several Romanian phrases to which I responded “Noooo!” I figured “no” in English is the same as “no” in Romanian. It seemed to work because he just laughed and walked away.

We had a late night snack at a Cuban sandwich shop (deee-lish!!! by the way), and then decided to go to a strip club to look at boobs. Unfortunately we ended up with the only cab driver in Manhattan who didn’t know where any strip clubs were other than the most expensive one in the city, Scores. It cost $30 just to get in the door and we all chipped in to get Mark, the birthday boy, a special on-stage dance in his boxers. We were promised a bottle of champagne as part of the package, but we were totally horse fucked on that deal. The worst part was when the DJ announced Mark’s name to go on stage, he introduced him as the “21 year old virgin”. Ironically, Mark happened to really still be a virgin, and thought we told the DJ to say that. Needless to say, he was terribly hurt and pissed off. I yelled at the club manager, but got no restitution. We didn’t stick around too long after that.

By the time everyone was back in their beds, it was after 6am and the sun was clocking in for another day. I spent most of Sunday watching TV and recovering from pretending to still be in my 20′s. Grandma Flo showed up in the afternoon with Aunt Marilyn. Grandma just turned 81. Happy Birthday Grandma!!!

Monday, I flew back to Arizona without incident, and the gentleman I sat next to kept his hands off his penis the entire time.

Sooooo I got a new job. Actually I got two new jobs. The full time job is working for a web development company which builds websites for attorneys. The other is a weekend gig as a chauffeur / activities coordinator for a luxury, independent living, retirement community. Both jobs are great by the way, and I discovered I really love old people. I drove a group to the Cat Show last Saturday, and called BINGO on Sunday. Don’t be jealous.

Anyhow both jobs are in North Scottsdale, and since I had been living in East Mesa, 20 miles away, I decided I should look for a place closer to work. I started checking Craigslist, and after only a day or two, I hit the jackpot. Here’s the ad:

*************************************************
Date: 2006-06-14, 2:22PM

Room for rent in two bedroom, two bathroom condo. Room comes fully furnished, with 1 queen sized brass bed, 1 set of dreeser drawers, a desk, and 1 nightstand. Room has local telephone service and cable. Room has walk-in closet with organizer shelves. Room also has his and her sinks, vanity mirror, and private bathroom. Room has own private patio with sliding doors and private outside storage closet with lock. Condo has washer and drier in unit. Rent includes all utilitys and renter will have full house privilages. Please contact Jools at 480-XXX-XXXX. Will except couples for a hundred dollars more. I am looking for someone A.S.A.P.
*************************************************

Fine, she cant spell, but the place was in a great neighborhood, literally across the street from my chauffeur job, and less than 5 miles away from my full-time job. So really it was practically a no-brainer.

So I called Jools and scheduled a visit to check out the place. When I got there, I noticed there was furniture everywhere. Well everywhere where there shouldn’t have been furniture. For example, there was bed in the breakfast nook, two dinette sets in the living room, and random end tables, shelves, and upholstered chairs scattered here and there.

Me: “Whats all this furniture doing here?”

Jools: “Well, I bought the place from the lady that was living here before, and she sold it to me with all the furniture in it because she didn’t want to move it. We just moved in and now we have extra furniture and we need to get rid of it. In fact, we have more furniture in storage which we’ll get out once we sell this stuff.”

Me: “Who is we?”

Jools: “My friend Rob.”

Me: “Well where does Rob sleep?”

Jools: “In the other room.”

Me: “Where do you sleep.”

Jools: “We share the room, but were just friends.”

So we continued the tour of the house and we came to the room I would be renting. On the plus side it was a very nice sized room, and was pretty much how the ad described it, except for the fact that it was disgustingly filthy. Dominating the entire room was this monstrous king size bed covered in sheets that looked like someone wiped their ass with them. Yes, I know the ad said queen size bed, but as you’ll soon find out, not everything was how it was first represented.

Jools then showed me the bathroom which was even dirtier than the room. Every inch of it seemed to be covered in mounds of hair, wadded up toilet paper, soap scum, and more filth.

Me: “Why is this room so dirty?”

Jools: “This is where the lady stayed, and she left the house exactly how she lived in it.”

Me: “Well if it’s ok with you, I’d like it cleaned up before I move in. Also, I don’t want any of this furniture.”

Jools: “Oh of course it’ll be clean. It’s just that we just moved in and I haven’t had a chance to get to this room yet. And I’ll get rid of the furniture. No problem.”

Me: “Great! Another thing, I notice you have a small TV in the living room. I have a big screen which I was thinking of selling, but maybe I should just bring it with me.”

Jools: “Don’t bother, I have a 50 inch in storage, and once we get rid of all the old furniture, I’ll move it in here. That small TV came with the house.”

Me: “Oh ok, then I’ll sell it before I move. One last thing, I noticed you have a full-size bed in the breakfast nook. If that’s an extra bed, maybe I’ll sell my current bed, put that one in my room, and you can sell the king.”

Jools: “OK sounds good to me.”

So, I told Jools I’d take the room, and her and I spent the next few minutes getting to know one another. Jools told me she was originally from New York, so, according to her, we were bound to get along great. She said she was in a band, she was a chef, and she also ran her own clothing business. “Have you ever heard of 4Hate0 Apparel? Like the area code? 480? Get it? Get it? 480? 4Hate0? Get it? That’s my business.” Got it.

So, that was the short version of my first visit, but if you’re a fan of my writing, you know its also a set up for the total unraveling of all my expectations.

After I left Jools, I headed home and immediately put my couch, dinette set, TV, coffee tables, and bookshelves up for sale, and within 24 hours, everything was sold. I hadn’t planned on selling my bed right away, but the person who bought my shelves was looking for a bed too. I had to sleep on the floor a few days, which I don’t recommend doing.

The night before moving day, I decided to stop by the new place with a pizza in order to introduce myself to Rob, and to make a little nicey-nice with the new roommates. Rob seemed nice enough: younger guy, not too quick witted, but whatever. Before I left, I took one last peek at my room to make sure it was ready for move in. It wasn’t. It was still full of furniture and shit and dirt, but Jools assured me that she would get the room cleaned out before I got there.

The next day, I spent about 8 hours packing, loading the truck, and cleaning my old apartment. I showed up at the new place during the hottest part of the day, exhausted, sweaty, and smelly. I hoped since I brought over a pizza the night before, they would be eager to help me unload the truck, but I was wrong. Rob said, “I’d help, but I had a hard day at work, and I’m really beat.”

Jools, however offered to help. First, she went outside with no shoes on, picked up one pillow from out of the truck, and slowly padded back into the apartment. She put the pillow in my room and flopped back down on the couch. “PHEW!!! It’s fucking hot out there!” And that was it.

Oh yeah, guess what? The room was still filled with furniture, and covered in filth, but at that point, I had no choice but to move my stuff in. It took me a few hours to unload the truck and find a temporary spot for everything. When I was done, I returned the U-Haul and went back to my old apartment to pick up the kitty.

The very first thing I wanted to do once I got back to my new place was take a shower, but there was no way I was going to get in there without scrubbing the shit out of it first. I grabbed my cleaning supplies, and turned on the shower to start rinsing off some of the grime. I reached up to adjust the direction of the shower head, and CRACK!!! The whole fucking shower arm popped off, ripping a giant hole in the wall! Water sprayed out of the opening all over the bathroom and behind the drywall. As fast as I could, I turned off the water, and called out for Jools who came meandering in to see what I wanted.

Me: “Hey Jools! What the fuck?!?”

Jools: “Oh shit! Ill call the handyman tomorrow to fix it. Good news is, we don’t have to pay for it.”

Me: “Why don’t we have to pay for it?”

Jools: “Well the owner pays.”

Me: “You said you were the owner.”

Jools: “Well actually, my dad is financing it with the owner, and until its paid off, the owner pays for repairs.”

Me: “Oh.”

So, you’d think Jools would offer to let me use her shower instead. She didn’t. I found that very strange at the time, but it would all make sense soon enough. I ended up sleeping on the dirty sheets, on the dirty king sized bed, in my dirty clothes, and went to work dirty the next day.

I called Jools from work at 8am and asked her if she called the handyman. She said she did, and he told her he’d be over in a few minutes to fix it.

At 4:30 pm I came home from work, the shower was still broken, and no one was home. A few minutes later, Jools walked in the front door, spotted me, and said, “Oh, didn’t the guy come back yet?”

Me: “What guy?

Jools: “The handyman.”

Me: “Come back? From where?”

Jools: “He was here and I guess he needed to get his tools or something.”

Me: “No, no one came back. I thought you said he was coming at 8 am. What time did he leave to get his tools?”

Jools: “A while ago.”

Me: “Then why did you leave and lock the door if he was supposed to come back?”

Jools: “Uh… I didn’t know when he was coming back. But he should probably be back pretty soon.”

Jools sneaked off into the other room, but I could hear her making a call from her cell phone: Beep bop beep beep beep bop bop. “Hi is Bob there? Hi Bob, this is Jamie from 120, there’s a leak in the shower, can you come over to fix it?” PAUSE “Uh I don’t know I think it’s…” PAUSE “Um, I don’t know.” PAUSE “You know what, hold on, I’ll let you talk to Eric, and he can explain it to you.”

So Jools (or Jamie?) came back into my room and handed me her phone.

Jools/Jamie: “Here, it’s Bob.”

Me: “Who’s Bob?”

Jools/Jamie: “The handyman.”

Me: “What does he want?”

Jools/Jamie: “Explain to him what’s wrong with the shower.”

Me: “I thought he was here and saw it.”

Jools/Jamie: “Oh.. no he sent over one of his guys, and I guess they couldn’t explain to him what was wrong, so maybe you can.”

Me: “So the handymen sent over another handyman with no tools in order to report back to the first handyman what the situation was, but he was unable to describe a broken pipe?”

Ok, intelligent readers, you can see where all this was going. Lie after lie after lie after lie. Bob did come over, and I talked to him. It turns out that Jools never called him until I got home from work, and he didn’t have “another guy”. Go figure. He also wasn’t a handyman, but that’s not really pertinent to the story. I ended up paying $125 bucks out of my own pocket for a real plumber to come out and fix it.

I’ll spare you the rest of the play by play for everything that followed, and instead, summarize the rest of the lies Jools told me:

• Jools is not her real name. Not even her nickname. Just made it up. Her real name is not even Jamie.
• She doesn’t own a business.
• She doesn’t work as a chef.
• She doesn’t work anywhere.
• She used to follow a band around, but was never in one.
• Her dad is not buying the house. It’s owned by a real estate investor named Harold in Seattle. Harold has no idea she’s renting out the rooms, but a nosy neighbor called him to let him know that Jools has two men living with her. Now Harold is pissed off.
• She doesn’t share a room with Rob, nor does she share his bathroom. She sleeps on the bed in the breakfast nook and lives in the living room.
• She used to live in my room, and it was her filth that I had to clean up when I got there. Now that I’m there, shes been using Rob’s bathroom without his permission and telling Rob she’s been using mine.
• Rob had no idea she was getting another roommate until I walked in with the pizza the night before.
• She doesn’t own any of the furniture in the apartment, and has no right to sell it. I found this out after I sold the dresser and the king size bed. Now I’m stuck with no bed and I’m sleeping on the floor again.
• She told me she gets $3000 per month because she’s part of a Native American tribe. She told Rob that she is petitioning the Tribe to get her share which is more like $500. Rob and I both think she’s not even Native American.
• It’s very possible, although not verified, that Jools is only subletting the apartment temporarily while the real tenant is away for a few months visiting her brother. Her brother just happens to be the owner, Harold in Seattle. This is only a theory, but we’ll see.

There’s a whole slew of additional lies, but they don’t tie into the story very well, so we’ll overlook them for now.

To top it all off, I came home from work today, and my women’s intuition told me to check the history logs on my computer. Sure as shit, she’s been snooping around on my computer while I’m at work.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t confronted her about anything yet, but Rob and I had a meeting of the minds and compared notes. Everything that she told him is different from what she told me and none of it is true. She’s supposed to be going away for 10 days, so were going to enjoy the peace while she’s gone, and when she gets back, we’ll kill her. Just kidding.

Neither Rob nor I want to move out because it’s such a great friggin location! Were thinking there might be a way to contact the real owner, get Jools evicted, and then take over the lease.

What a fucking headache!

Brothers and sisters, let us pray. Dear Lord, please forgive the New York Yankees who, yet again, failed to show up for the post season. Let your glorious light shine down upon them to reveal the error of their ways, and may they receive your grace and guidance so they may come back next season stronger than ever. Please look after Bernie Williams as he begins his journey into retirement and, if your divine holiness deems us worthy of your consideration, please let Bubba Crosby be traded to Kansas City. Amen.

And that reminds me, since the Yankee’s season is over, I’ll let you know the “mystery” song I posted for the Name That Tune game is the New York Yankee Theme Song, “Here Come the Yankees” composed by Bob Bundin and Lou Stallman in 1967.

Like the Yankees, the baseball season is over for me as well, as I will not watch another baseball game until next Spring. The World Series without the Yankees is like a sandwich without the tangy zip of Miracle Whip. Soooooo, it’s on to my next sporting passion: Arizona State University Women’s Basketball!!!

Please control your groans and gasps of disbelief, and save your played out commentary about the validity of women’s sports, because I’ve heard it all before. The women play just as hard as the men, and often with more heart. I love the game, and I will continue to support it even if I am the only non-lesbian paying money to watch it. As a matter of fact, I have two season tickets in row number one behind the scorer’s table at half court.

The only problem is I usually have no one to go with. If any of you can pass my 47 point interview process, show a genuine interest in the game, have never cut off a man’s penis and flung it out a car window, don’t expect me to put out, and can tolerate my company for a few hours, feel free to let me know. Maybe one of you can join me court-side.

Go Devils!

Yes, I know you are all jealous of me.  Hell, I’m jealous of myself!

Mr. Diamond sang for about two and a half hours straight without any breaks, and not once did he try to do a “remake” of any of his songs.  I hate when artists sing their own songs differently in concert. I went to a Sting concert one time, and he sang all his songs using different arrangements, and everyone in the crowd tried to sing along and it sounded like a bunch of first graders trying to sing the national anthem. He even had some dude rap during the break of “Englishman in New York“. It was a travesty.

Anyway, for as old as Neil Diamond is, he was extremely energetic and really worked the stage. Although he really only had one “move” where he extended his arm out, palm up, and waved it across the crowd like he was serving a tray of hors d’ oeuvres.

I will say this, never in my life have I seen so many people unable to clap in unison.  Neil would start a song, tell everyone to clap their hands, and for the first three or four claps, everyone would be ok. Then complete clapping chaos would ensue.  The black dude playing the bongos kept having to stop playing and facilitate clapping seminars where he would exaggeratedly clap his hands over his head to get the audience back on track.  These people had less rhythm than microwave popcorn. It was pretty funny.

Nevertheless, no amount of poor clapping nor embarrassingly horrible dancing in the aisles could ruin the evening. Neil was phenomenal, and I’m so thrilled I got to see him live!

Now I’m not directing my aggression at people who occasionally mention where they’re from as it pertains to a conversation or a story.  I’m talking about people who base their entire existence on being “from New York”.  As if it makes them special some how.  I guarantee almost everybody knows at least one New Yorker who never lets anyone forget where they’re from.

Yeah I get it!  You’re from New York!  Let’s move on with life!

I mean you can’t even order a fucking pizza without every New Yorker within a five mile radius declaring there is no such thing as good pizza outside of New York.   “Pizza?!?  You call that pizza?!?  That ain’t pizza!  You ain’t neva had pizza till you had New York pizza.”  Then they’ll go into some deep discussion about how the big difference is the sauce, or the cheese, or the dough, or your ass, or whatever. Honestly, no one cares! Let me enjoy my shitty Domino’s Pizza in peace.

And it’s not just pizza, it’s the same for any type of ethnic food.  All of it is better in New York.  I actually know a guy who said, “I love German food, but I went to Germany, and you know what?  The food isn’t that good.  It’s much better in New York.”

Soooo if you were planning on going to Germany, don’t bother.  New York beats the entire country of Germany when it comes to German cuisine.

Sometimes, New Yorkers won’t actually come right out and say where they’re from, but instead they’ll talk extra loud and over exaggerate their New York accent in order to draw attention to themselves.  Then they’ll just wait for someone to ask them, “Are you from New York?” Then, they can really pour it on: “Oh, yeah, I’m from New Yawk.  I’m suh-prized you can tell! Ya know I don’ even hee’a da accent anymoor.  When I go back East, dey tell me I sound like I’m from Arizona!”

Another thing that bothers me is how people sometimes use being from New York as an excuse to be an asshole.  “So I told that waitress to take that food and  stick it up her ass.  Hey, I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I’m from New York, and I just tell it like it is.”

I hate to break it to a lot of east coast transplants, but being “from New York” and being a New Yorker are two completely different things.  First of all, real New Yorkers don’t live in Arizona, or Montana or even in New Jersey.  They actually LIVE in New York.  Real New Yorkers somehow make it through their days without giving dissertations on pizza or discussing the authenticity of the Olive Garden’s menu.  They also don’t sit around and marvel at their own accents.  Oh, and believe it or not, not every New Yorker is rude.  I should know… I’m from New York!