How To Survive A Home Invasion

I live in a supposedly safe neighborhood in the suburbs of Virginia, but on a chilly Saturday afternoon this illusion was shattered. It was 4pm and I was taking a nap, exhausted after having been awake for two hours that day, when I was roused from my slumber by the apartment door being opened. The footsteps grew louder as they moved from the hallway to the living room, the kitchen, and, ultimately, the bathroom, which is located adjacent to my bedroom. I then heard the bathroom door slam shut followed by the ding of the toilet seat being lowered.

At this point most people might start to panic, but my first reaction was more of annoyance at my nap being disturbed. In my groggy state, I probably figured that one of the Mexican laborers employed by the complex just needed a quick bathroom break. After the swoosh from the toilet my confidence in this theory rose before being dashed after hearing the distinctive spray of moisture pelt the tile walls that encase the tub. Using my toilet was one thing, but apparently a shower is where I draw the line, so I got out of bed and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Hey man, what are you doing in my bathroom?" I yelled, until a slew of non-sensical gibberish erupted from the other side. It was at this moment I decided I needed help, so I grabbed my cell phone and ran outside to call 911.

911: Arlington 911 what is your emergency?

Me: There is an intruder inside my apartment.

911: Okay sir. Are you still in the apartment?

Me: No, I'm outside. The intruder is in the apartment in my bathroom.

911: The intruder is in your bathroom?

Me: Yes, he's taking a shower.

911: A shower (mumbles)...What was he doing before taking a shower?

Me: He was...he was using my toilet.

911: Oh.

(Silence)

Me: Can you send somebody?

911: Um, yes, we'll have somebody over there right away sir. Stay calm.

Ten minutes later I was joined by two squad cars in the driveway. Four officers emerged and made their way to meet me. Three of the officers were overweight, middle-aged women, and the other was an elderly gentleman celebrating his last day on the job.

Once I updated the officers on the situation, they decided that "we" should check it out. Following police protocol, I led the officers into my apartment where we encountered a middle-aged African gentleman emerging from my shower, clothed in nothing but one of my towels. In his right hand was a half-empty beer from my fridge. Obviously comfortable in his surroundings, he glanced at us and indignantly asked, "What are you doing in my father's apartment?"

The four officers looked at me until I took the opportunity to remind them that this was in fact my apartment, and they should probably apprehend the intruder. They moved in to corner the invader and were met with resistance. A struggle ensued and the result was the four officers and the now naked intruder rolling around on my carpet until they could restrain him minutes later.

Still naked, but handcuffed, the perpetrator was escorted into the hallway while the retiring officer cracked penis jokes (My favorite: What does a man with a twelve inch dick eat for breakfast? Answer: I normally eat bacon and eggs). One of the female officers then re-entered the apartment with a camera to survey the damage.

She took photos of the used towel and the empty beer bottle left behind on my white rug. We moved into the bathroom, finding that the man had mangled my shower door and used my toothbrush, which created two more Kodak moments. Then the officer's face froze, and I could see her eyes reluctantly move down to my toilet, at which point she hesitantly asked, "Is that from you?" I looked down and my toilet seat was completely black. I dejectedly replied "no," and stood with shoulders slumped as the officer snapped the photo.

I signed a couple a papers and answered some standard questions before the officers decided it was time to escort my new best friend to the station. Along with memories, they left me an empty beer bottle, used towel, broken shower door, a shared toothbrush, a rug dry humped into submission by a naked African beneath a thousand pounds of sweaty cops, not to mention a toilet seat that all the bleach in America couldn't whiten.

Next time I'll probably just lock the door.

[Home Invasion] [Police] [Toilet]

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A Straight Guy Reviews Dancing With The Stars

I know I'm a little slow when it comes to keeping pace with the latest TV juggernauts, or the "water cooler" shows that people are always discussing, dissecting, and downright obsessing over. For example, I've never seen more than a few minutes of 24, The Wire, House, Entourage, Sex and the City, The Office, Friends, American Idol, and, to my great embarrassment due to my Italian American heritage and Jersey roots, The Sopranos.

Part of the reason might be that I still love 80s TV. To me, the greatest show ever aired was Airwolf on NBC from 1984-87. The premise was brilliant, revolving around a top secret government super weapon that was part helicopter, part jet. And who is the perfect person to pilot this expensive and lethal piece of state of the art equipment? Why none other than Stringfellow Hawke, a role capably managed by raging alcoholic Jan Michael Vincent, only a few short years before he started crashing his car into private residences.

Vincent's right hand man and co-pilot on these adventures was Ernest Borgnine. In my humble opinion, you can keep Maverick from Top Gun, Borgnine is the greatest co-pilot in entertainment history, and there is nobody I'd rather have letting me know there's a heat seeking missile on my tail at twelve o'clock then the stout former McHale's Navy star and current 91 year old AARP member.

In spite of this nostalgia for 80s TV, I felt the need to expand my horizons, to branch out and soak in the sweet nectar that is a modern television hit. So I decided to tune into Dancing with the Stars on Tuesday night for the ladies competition. Being secure in my masculinity, and having taken a free salsa class from the world renowned dancer Rosa De La Hurricana at the Landmark Mall in 2005, I felt confident that I could handle watching an hour of one of ABC's hit programs.

In reality, I struggled through fifteen minutes, and finally shut off the TV in disgust after a close up of Steve Guttenberg, who was either an enthusiastic audience member, or one of the male contestants.

On the positive side, there were a lot of exposed nipples throughout the show, unfortunately, they all belonged to dudes. I am not a homophobe, but for the sake of diversity is it to much to ask for there to be one straight guy on the program. All the men were either clearly flaming, or had an indecipherable European accent, which in my mind also makes them gay.

As far as the ladies themselves, I caught the performances of former Olympic figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi, deaf Academy Award Winner Marlee Matlin, and rock royalty Priscilla Pressley. I have no idea what dances they did or what music accompanied them, however, I do know that I would probably have sex with all three, even Priscilla, who at 64 remains a definite GILF.

Looking back upon the experience, I am glad that I got at least a brief glimpse into the world of modern entertainment, where lavish sets and high resolution pictures are buttressed by non-stop hype machines saturating the market. That said, I don’t think I'll go back anytime soon, since I can always catch a show from the 80s on re-runs or DVD. Say what you want about the quality of Airwolf, outside of the occasional shot of Ernest Borgnine in a wife-beater, it’s always nipple free.

[Dancing With the Stars] [The Wire] [Entourage][Sex and the City][The Office][American Idol][The Sopranos] [Airwolf] [Jan Michael Vincent][Ernest Borgnine][Maverick] [Top Gun] [Marlee Matlin][Priscilla Presley][Kristi Yamaguchi]
[Steve Guttenberg]
[GILF]

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I Got Beat Up By Pauly Shore

I was in Los Angeles over the weekend for work. It's a hazy twilight, and before the sun can disappear beneath the downtown smog one of my co-workers suggests grabbing a drink. Being tourists, we decide to go to the only place we've heard of from TV and Motley Crue videos; the Sunset Strip.

Although Google Maps says the trip will take 15 minutes, we get there in an hour, which we would later learn is actually decent. I get out of the car and am quickly bombarded with the aroma of posh restaurants serving tiny plates of intricately laid out cuisine to groups of effeminate guys in sports coats and incredibly hot women in fuck me heels. I am starting to like it here.

My co-worker and I walk, and the further we walk, the more the Strip starts to change. Slowly the trendy boutiques and bistros are replaced by grimy rock clubs and leather themed clothing stores. Joe Cellphone and his sport coat are no more, as punk rock kids with pink Mohawks and socially conscious t-shirts now own the territory. The women are still incredibly hot.

Being two lawyers in ties, we glance at the surroundings, and then quickly retreat back to yuppyland. We are standing outside of a bar called the Saddle Ranch when I notice a comedy club next door. As my eyes scan the ascetics they stop on a small, mousey figure in a blue shirt leaning against the railing of the club's deck.

"Is that Pauly Shore?" I blurt out.

My co-worker gives me a look that suggests he doesn't give a shit, but I am determined to confirm my initial impression. I begin walking towards the deck and my co-worker follows me. When I get to within a couple feet the figure by the railing turns to face me.

I will never forget that look. He was definitely older, with a receding hairline and large black circles under his eyes, but he still had the same smart ass smirk. There was no longer any doubt, I was in the presence of the original Weasel himself. Soon Pauly is joined on the deck by a tall, incredibly beautiful blonde in a tight top. Call me slow, but I'm starting to see a theme in LA.

My co-worker and I stand and stare. Pauly and his gal pal finally notice us, and they don't look pleased.

"Is there something I can do for you?," Pauly says, his voice lacking the exuberant tone and syllable stretching inflection of his MTV days.

"No," I reply.

"Then why don't the two of you stop staring and turn around," Pauly says.

My co-worker starts to leave, however I stand my ground in an aggressive posture. I’m not sure whether it was the stress of adapting to a new environment or being told off by the star of Bio-Dome, but Pauly’s words leave me incensed.

"Fuck you, you no talent has been," I say, stunning myself and my co-worker, who is now about three feet behind me.

And this is when Pauly goes from mildly peeved to straight ballistic.

"Okay, now we have issues," Pauly says while hopping over the railing and running towards me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see my co-worker take off. I begin to raise my fists in a defensive posture, but I’m too slow, as Pauly leaps high in the air and brings his foot crashing down into my chest.

The force sends me straight onto my back, and I can see Pauly standing over me. Without any wasted motion he grabs my collar, lifts me up over his head, and then slams me against the brick wall of the comedy club, where he begins punching me in the face with lightning fast jabs and devastating right crosses.

I grow increasingly dazed, and blood starts entering my field of vision. Every once in a while I can see a sadistic smile on Pauly's face, or hear him ask me in profanity laced language whether I've learned my lesson, whether I've learned that the Weasel is far from a 90s novelty act.

At this point, I am no longer trying to defend myself. I am simply in survival mode. I finally fall to the ground, where Pauly's starts kicking me.

"Alright, he's had enough Pauly!" the blonde from the deck shouts.

"Shut up bitch, or you'll be next," Pauly retorts, as he continues pummeling my ribs with his size 5 Men's shoe.

“How do you like that buddy-y!?” “How do you like that!?” Pauly howls, as his words usher me to unconsciousness.

8 hours later I wake up in the hospital. The doctors tell me I've got a bruised sternum, 2 broken ribs, a concussion, and a nasty gash over my left eye. According to their medical expertise, I'm going to be released in another day or two.

The cops also pay me a visit. The Chief is the first fat guy I've come across out here, which makes me think he's from the East Coast. He asks me to tell him my story for a report. When I finish recounting to him everything I've said to you, he looks at his note pad in disgust and shakes his head.

"Pauly Shore again," he mumbles to himself before slowly heading out into the hallway.

I lie back into my morphine induced bliss and close my eyes. I love LA.

[Pauly Shore] [Sunset Strip]

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Why Do Old Black Women Love Me?

I love the ladies, but my relationship with the opposite sex has been notoriously rocky. From my long period of forced celibacy-some people refer to this period as the 90s-to the good times that stretched from October to November of 2006, I have always tried to maintain a positive attitude during both moments of bounty and need.

This attitude includes being open to different types of women, regardless of race, ethnicity, or religion. When it comes to maintaining this spirit of opportunity, I find that among my friends I fall into the middle of a pretty wide continuum. For some of my boys, they will reject a girl based on an exhaustive set of criteria that Heidi Klum would have difficulty meeting. For others, a pulse and feminine gender seem to be the only key factors, as these walking Ellis Islands are loathe to turn away a willing partner, and should wear shirts reading, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses."

While my experience has taught me to avoid stereotyping, I can't help but notice that there is one group of women who really seems to love me, and that's mature black women. Over the last few years, smitten black beauties with some extra miles on their tires have bought me free drinks at restaurants, snapped my picture for holiday cards, and giddily squeezed my biceps as though they belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his pre-Last Action Hero Days.

The fervor is such that if you locked me in a house with Della Reese, Oprah, Toni Morrison, and the cast of Waiting to Exhale, there would be so many cat fights and hookups that Flavor Flav would be embarrassed. Thus far, no other girl, much less group of girls, has come close to matching this level of affection.


Even after years of observation, the reason behind this infatuation remains a mystery. If I had to speculate, I would say that the source might be my very fair, milky white skin tone combined with my clean cut, conservative attire. I think this look may be highly appealing to black women who grew up in an era before rap impresarios and moguls, when white men in suits were considered the epitome of wealth and success. Or maybe I'm simply mistaken as being albino, its hard to say.

Whatever the cause, I sincerely appreciate the attention, and hope the phenomena continues well into my nursing home days, so that I can at least get some senior center action prior to the great beyond. Until then, my only wish is that women in other demographics start taking notes on how I should be treated, because while black is beautiful, there's still a whole rainbow of girls out there.

[Waiting To Exhale] [Toni Morrison] [Della Reese] [Flavor Flav] [Last Action Hero] [Ellis Island] [Heidi Klum]

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I Beat People Up In My Sleep

The period when you first start sleeping with someone is a fascinating time in any blossoming relationship, and I'm not talking about just the sex. I'm talking about the actual sleep. The reason being that when you’re sleeping, you have no idea what's going on, and no control over what you’re doing. In some ways, falling asleep beside a person can be an act of greater intimacy and trust than the sex itself.

In my current relationship with Mandi, we are now at the point where we spend two to three nights a week in the same bed. What is it like sleeping with me you ask? Well, according to Mandi, I have a few quirks.

One is that I like run in my sleep, as I will lie flat on my back and vigorously move my legs in a cylindrical motion for ten to twenty minute intervals. If that weren't enough exercise, she has also informed me that I occasionally throw punches while running, some of which have actually hit her in the head and arms. Although I was initially skeptical of this claim, Thursday morning I saw the fresh welts with my own eyes.

While I am sprinting and engaging in nocturnal fisticuffs, Mandi is not exactly lying motionless beside me. She has this habit of turning her body every five minutes, starting on her back, moving to her side, re-positioning to her stomach, before finally returning to her back. The problem is that she frequently takes the covers with her, wrapping them around her body like she was in her own little cocoon. I know this because I frequently wake up freezing in the middle of the night, and will look over to find her in the midst of a rotation, as the blankets that used to be mine tightly coil around her frame.

The two of us sleeping together must be quite a sight, and I've considered shooting a video. It might not be as raunchy as something from the Pam/Tommy Lee or Paris Hilton genre, but it would have all the elements necessary for internet success, including violence, theft, and a hairy, half naked guy running in his sleep.

[Pamela Anderson] [Tommy Lee] [Paris Hilton]

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Mom Told Me To Visit A Psychiatrist

I called my Mom yesterday for one of our bi-weekly chats. The conversation normally follows a pretty standard format, where Mom checks to make sure that I am fulfilling the basics laid out in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, from eating to sleeping to avoiding laying on the couch while wallowing in my own filth. I then dutifully respond to her queries with a quick, monosyllabic answer along the lines of “yes” or “fine.” At this point, Mom will embark upon a ten minute tirade over the house’s chronically leaky roof, cursing my father who designed the roof, our comically incompetent Indian roofer Ganesh, and God in his role as the creator of moisture.

Apart from the fact that conversations with my Mom have changed little since I was sixteen, the call yesterday was interesting because after complaining about the roof, she took the discussion in an unprecedented direction.

Mom: Do you think it would be helpful if you talked to someone?

Me: I am.

Mom: No, I meant a psychiatrist, like Frasier.

Me: Uh.

Mom: Their not just for crazy people anymore. Maybe you’d feel better.

Me: Hmm.

Mom: Believe me, I’m going to have to visit one if this stupid roof keeps leaking…

Mom’s suggestion was disturbing because, like most parents, she has always viewed my idiosyncrasies through a rose colored prism. This meant that when I was growing up, my weight problem was attributed to “husky genes,” my deficiencies in school were the result of “not being challenged,” and the many stains that appeared on my bedspread during puberty were simply “toothpaste.” These past denials tell me that if she came right out and mentioned a shrink, she must think I’m pretty fucking nuts.

It also hurt because I really don’t want to let her down. As her only child, I am the sole measure of whether or not she was competent at child rearing, a task our society regards as an adult’s most important responsibility. Conversely, if a family has ten kids, and three are a success, then the parents would be batting 300, a percentage normally sufficient to have a player enshrined into the Baseball Hall of Fame. For Mom, I’m her one swing, which is why I’ve actually considered her proposal.

My personal assessment is that I do not need to visit a psychiatrist, a conclusion I reached after a day of self reflection and a few moments staring at my WWTCD bracelet (What would Tom Cruise do?) However, I do need to change the way I communicate with Mom.

In particular, I am going to try to listen to her inquiries, and respond with thoughtful and complete answers that actually stretch into sentences. I am going to ask her questions, and move beyond topics such as my eating habits and laundry status. I am also going to fire Ganesh, and replace him with someone who can actually fix the roof, which will hopefully help both Mom and I maintain our sanity for a long time to come without the need for professional intervention.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

[Frasier] [Tom Cruise] [Abraham Maslow][Baseball Hall of Fame]

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