Category Archives: General

Getting funky

Tear the roof off, we’re gonna tear the roof off the mother, sucker. Tear the roof off the sucker…

I’ve found my blog posts that mention Mexican hookers seem to have great stats. This story is not about Mexican hookers, but I promise that if you indulge me and read on that I will find a way to include Mexican hookers in this story somewhere, somehow. Seriously…

I haven’t written a lot lately. Maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you haven’t. Either way, I haven’t written a lot lately. I just haven’t felt like it. For me that’s weird. Oh well.

I guess you could say I’ve been in a funk the past couple weeks. I like being funky, but I hate being in a funk. The words are different by only one letter, but elicit two totally different feelings in me. One feeling I love. The other? Not so much.

I guess you could say that my funk is mutli-faceted. There’s a reason for that. I don’t easily get in a funk. I’m generally a pretty happy person, so it takes a lot to get me off my game. I guess I’m just going through that “funk phase” right now. I’m sure that it’s just a phase. I hope it’s just a phase. Please be a phase!!!

Why I’m in a funk: Part one

My job sucks. I get up every morning and go to work with a positive outlook. I really do. Once I get there, however, my outlook becomes less and less sunny. Sometimes the sunny disposition goes away quickly, while other times it takes hours for the fun to go away. I try to make my job not suck, but it does. I work for a guy who changed my pay plan, but never really made it clear that he changed it. I happened to notice it one Thursday when I opened my check. Nice.

The owner and I were supposed to sit down and have a serious talk about things before Christmas. He kept pushing it off and pushing it off and the couple times we did sit down, all he did was recap the last time we sat down, then say, “I need to get going. Let’s finish this tomorrow.” But tomorrow becomes next week, which becomes next month. The bottom line? The full extent of our conversation has yet to happen.

The owner of my company is very old school in the way he does business. He brought me on because I know automotive Internet sales very well. I set up and ran a very successful Internet Sales department at the dealership I worked at in California. He acknowledges this fact to other people. When we have conversations they typically start like this, “I brought you in because you know what to do and you’re the guy who can get this going the right way. We’re way further ahead now that we were in October when you got here. So…here’s how we’re going to do this…” WTF, yo?

I need a better job for Drama Queen (D.Q.) and myself and I’m looking for one. My problem is two-fold. Part one is that there are not a ton of decent jobs available in the Buffalo area right now. The second part is that I’ve done the car thing so long, that it’s hard to get potential employers to see past that.

I’ve got management, sales, customer service and communication skills. Why is it so hard to get those skills across to employers? I sure as hell don’t know. I also hate having to work every Saturday. It sucks for Drama Queen to be alone on Saturdays and I wish I could find something where I could be around more.

I’ve found one potential job, although it will require weekends, which I’m not thrilled about. It will pay substantially more money, which I am thrilled about. I guess we’ll see what happens. If I do get it, I will have to be gone Mon.-Fri. for two weeks to do some training. That could pose a problem, as I have no clue what I would do with Drama Queen those two weeks. I’m not going to worry about that until I actually get the job offer, which is supposed to come next Friday. Please keep your fingers crossed.

My funk: Part two

O.C.B. (Drama Queen’s mom) dropped me a line a couple weeks ago. It’s been a year without any contact and to say that it surprised me would be an understatement. She asked about talking with Drama Queen and said that she has seen the blog and that she’s happy that I’m happy in my relationship with The Phone Sex Operator (P.S.O.). I believe O.C.B. when she says this but I’m a bit concerned about her tracking me down and she’s been pretty much MIA since right after we talked. I’m obviously concerned about D.Q. and how she will react. When I told her about her mom, she said, “I guess I could talk with her.” She didn’t seem too enthusiastic, but I think she kind of wants to.

My funk—The Final Piece:

Part three of my funk has to do with P.S.O. She’s had a lot going on in her life. I’m not going to go into any of it because frankly, it’s no one’s business but hers. I will say that she’s got a ton on her mind and she’s not feeling well. It’s not something as simple as a cold or the flu, but it’s not anything that seems like it will be serious.

Combine her stress with the not feeling well and she too has been in a bit of a funk lately. She needs some space right now to get to where she needs to be and where “we” need to be. I get that. I really do. I’ve been trying to give her the space she needs, but I guess it hasn’t been the easiest thing for me to do. Why?

I’m living in an area where I don’t know a lot of people. I knew two people when I moved here in September, but they were only acquaintances and they have their own lives already in full swing. I don’t do much with either of them and I really haven’t met many other people to socialize with. These two are now my friends, but not what I would call “good friends”.

I know the parents of one of D.Q.’s friends, but the dad is going to school full time and working, so between school, homework and work, they really don’t have much time to do anything. That pretty much leaves P.S.O.

As you may recall, I just mentioned that she has been going through things in her own life and needs a bit of space, which makes it kind of difficult for me to talk my stuff out with a local good friend/best friend type of person.

The two good friends I have back in California are great guys, but not the kind of people that are into a lot of “sharing”. The few times we’ve had deep conversations, booze has been involved and it’s been face to face.

Please don’t take any of this as bitching or complaining because it’s not. This is just a statement of fact and some cheap therapy for me. Getting this out on virtual paper helps me see things as they are and will hopefully help lift me out of my funk. Plus it has the possible added bonus of reminding P.S.O. that I really do get it and that I’m not just an insensitive douche bag. I may be a douche bag, but I’m not insensitive. I love her a lot and I’m sure that she still feels the same way.

As far as I can tell, the relationship with P.S.O. is good. We both still have “in a relationship” on our Facebook pages and we’ve recently made mention of things that we want to do together in the coming months. We’re going out tonight and I’m looking forward to that. We’ve only seen each other once in the last couple weeks and I know that I’m looking forward to a big hug and a couple nice kisses.

At the beginning I promised you Mexican hookers, so here goes. Once P.S.O. and I get out of our funks and back to us both being crazy happy in love, I would really like to take her to Mexico for a few days (with the money I make from a new job). She’s never been to the Pacific side and I’m thinking that a few days in Cabo would really do us some good.

If and when we do that I think that we should definitely hit a couple of the hooker bars and keep tabs on a ho or two so that we can come back with some fresh new stories of Mexican hookers for you, the loyal reader. I have no need for the services of a prostitute, but in the name of research and entertainment I will observe them from a barstool.

J.R.

P.S. What does my opening bit have to do with my funk? Absolutely nothing. The words are the opening lyrics from Give Up The Funk by George Clinton and give up the funk is exactly what I want to do right now!!!

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For more Mexican hooker stories check these out:

Tijuana with The Kings Fan

Drinking in Cabo San Lucas

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Filed under General, Phone Sex Operator

Breaking up: “How To” & “How Not To”

I was rocking the argyle and in the 1980’s that may have been enough to push me over the top.

The Actress was my first girlfriend and my first breakup.  And my second breakup.  And possibly my third breakup.  I don’t remember for sure if we broke up two times or three times.  I was kind of a douche bag back then and I’ve tried to push some of those douche-y memories aside.  What I do know is that I was stupid for ending the relationships with her.  I was young and stupid. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

I said that I was a douche bag back then, but the reality is that I can still be a douche bag now.  If you don’t believe me, when you’re done with this, go read I’ve Seen Better Days.  But back to my story about The Actress…

The details are fuzzy but I remember that she was very cool and she was totally into me.  I was into her, but not in the literal sense of the word.  We never had sex.  I’m just saying…

I’m not totally sure why she was into me, because I wasn’t overly smooth and I was a bit of a dork.  I did dress nice, so I had that going for me.  I was rocking the argyle and in the 1980’s that may have been enough to push me over the top.

I don’t remember why I broke up with her the first time.  I know that it wasn’t for someone else because between The Actress and the Actress again I didn’t date anyone.  Maybe it was a fear of getting close or maybe it was my lack of self-esteem.  Maybe I though that I wasn’t going to give her the chance to dump me.  All I know is that I was stupid for doing it and that I basically just disappeared with no explanation.  Then magically I reappeared a few months later and wanted to start dating again.

We dated again for a while and just like the shampoo bottle says, it was just lather, rinse, repeat.  The Actress is a smart chick, so I’m not sure that she would have stood for a third time after I broke it off the second time for no good reason.  All in all, it was young love at its finest.  And it its worst.

The Actress was my first breakup but she certainly wasn’t my last.  My latest (and hopefully the last breakup I ever have) was a woman I dated in Canada for about five months.  I haven’t written about her yet, but in the near future you will start hearing about Teacher.  Her breakup story is interesting to say the least.

Teacher teaches violin and runs a music school.  She also plays violin and viola professionally.  She is a very talented woman and I thought that we had a pretty good time together.  Obviously not.  After dating for five months I received an e-mail at 11 PM basically saying that she was no good at long term relationships and that we could go on and date for another year, but because she was no good at long term relationships that she would probably just end it anyway, so she was just going to end it now.  Good luck.  Have a good life.

I had just crawled into bed that fateful night when my iPhone buzzed with a new e-mail.  Suffice it to say that when I grabbed the phone and put on my glasses, that is NOT what I expected to see.  It all worked out for the best because I moved back to the United States and I ended up meeting and falling in love with The Phone Sex Operator.

In between The Actress and Teacher there were many breakups—some where I was the breaker-upper and others where I was the one getting the shaft.  One girl comes quickly to mind, but I don’t think you can really call it a “breakup” since we had only gone out twice.

The two dates we had were pretty good and we decided to go out on New Years Eve.  This was sometime in the late 1980’s—1988 or ’89 probably.  I had tickets to go see Barry Manilow at the Universal Amphitheater and I invited this girl to go.  (I’ll pause momentarily while you snicker at the fact that I had Barry Manilow tickets…)

So, I invited this chick to go see Barry Manilow and she accepted.  She was going to school at a small local college and she was living in the dorms.  We spoke on the phone December 30 and she was looking forward to going out the next night—or so she said.

I don’t remember what I was wearing that night, but I’m sure it was pretty stylish—after all we were going to see Barry and he was hot at the time.  Plus it was New years Eve and looking good is just how I like to roll.

I drove to her dorm to pick her up, went into the lobby and hit the intercom button for her room.  Her roommate answered the intercom and was quite surprised to hear me on the other end.  She was even more surprised to hear that I was there to pick up her roommate.

Why was she surprised?  Her roommate had moved home that morning.  Apparently she had known about it for quite a while.  She was transferring schools and when we were talking on the phone the night before, she was in the midst of packing her stuff in boxes and waiting for her dad to come get her.  What a bitch.  I even brought the chick flowers.  Did I mention that she was a bitch?

Mine aren’t the only decent breakup stories.  I hit up my fans and readers via Twitter and Facebook and a few of you were nice enough to send yours along.  Thanks to those who did.  Here are a couple of good ones that I received.  My friend The South African (who actually lives in South Africa) sent me this one:

I used to be a soldier for the previous government. In later years I met a girl and we started going out and at some stage I showed her some confidential military material, which, may I add, was not confidential anymore.

After a couple of months I had enough of this nympho.   I wanted a normal girlfriend but she wouldn’t let go, even though I said it is not going to work out.  Eventually I had to do something drastic in order to get rid of her.  When somebody accidentally broke my car window, I told her she must sit down and listen to what I had to say.   I told her the broken window was a warning sign.  I explained that I’ve done some ‘special work’ in the forces and there is a price on my head.

By that stage the new government was in full swing, which was perfect timing for me! I told her she might be in danger if she keeps hanging out with me and I needed to go away quickly and that she could have no contact with me!  After a lot of crying she finally let go.  Oh I felt like a dog!!

I must add that she eventually met Mr. Right, but she still tells me on Facebook that she loves me til this day. Maybe she was my Mrs. Right.   I will never know.   Young guys will be young guys.

So that’s how they roll in South Africa.  Blame the government and call yourself a secret military operative.  Nice work bro!  He’s not the only one with a good story.  My high school buddy, Sir Lancelot, threw me this gem:

A buddy and I used to practice what we called the “Witness Protection Program”, which was to just completely disappear. The girl(s) would eventually figure it out. Although it was tense, it had a 100% success rate.

One example: I called my buddy to go out drinking on a Saturday night – his answering machine came on, but it wasn’t his voice. It was the recording “I’m sorry, but the number you reached has been disconnected..” He put it on his answering machine as a “Witness Protection Program” dump. I saw through it, but the girl didn’t.

Other acceptable ways to use it: Unplug your answering machine and don’t answer the phone. (This was waaaaay before caller ID) It worked within a few days and you could go back to your old ways quickly.

Oddly enough, the only woman I got a story from was The Phone Sex Operator.  Hers was good.  So good in fact, that it deserves a blog post of its own.  I’m going to save that for another day.

If you have a good breakup story that you want to share, please feel free to do so.  One of these days I may just get a case of writers block and can use them!

J.R.

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Filed under Dating, General

Drinking in Cabo San Lucas

He was pissed and asked, “Who are you gonna believe, a Mexican prostitute or me?”

Rewind to 2005 when I was living in California.  I was the Internet Sales Manager for a small, successful Chrysler-Jeep dealership, was writing part time and had just started doing some radio.  My Internet sales team was crushing the retail guys month after month.  My group of 5 was putting out as many or more cars every month as the retail crew of 10 was.  I was making money.  Life was good.

On April 1 the owner announced a sales contest for the retail department: whichever team of five sold more cars during the month of April got to go to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for three nights during May—all expenses paid.  Nice!

I informed the owner that I wanted my crew in on the contest and was told absolutely not.  The idea of the contest was to get the retail guys motivated and he already knew that my crew would easily beat each team.  I told the owner that I wanted to go on the trip as a reward for all the money my staff made him each month.  He thought about it a second and said no.  This was a retail contest and he didn’t know that he could afford to send me along with them.

I was not taking no for an answer and I countered back with this question, “If my team can sell more than the retail department AND if we can out-gross them, can I go?”  He finally relented and said ok, but we had to have more cars and higher gross.  Fall short by one car or by a dime and I wasn’t going on the trip.  Suffice it so say that my team had a record month and in mid May I was packing for three nights in Cabo San Lucas!

There were seven of us going on the trip—five sales guys, the General Sales Manager and myself.  We met at the dealership on a Tuesday morning and were driven to the airport for the short flight to Cabo San Lucas—the southern-most city on the Baja Peninsula.  We landed, grabbed our bags and headed to customs.

Mexico has a very scientific way of figuring out which bags get checked and which ones don’t.  As you go through the line at customs you push a button on the bottom of something that looks like a stoplight.  If it lights up green, you get to go on through.  If it’s red, they search your bags.  I consider it to be technology as its finest.

Everyone got the green light, except for The Comedian.  I call him The Comedian not because he was funny (he really wasn’t) but because he did stand-up a couple times a week at open-mic nights and occasionally he pulled a gig at a bar where they paid him $20 and threw a couple drinks his way.

His bag was searched and we grabbed the van we had waiting to take us to our hotel.  I was set to room with The Comedian.  This was going to be an interesting trip.  The Comedian was a total horn-dog.  He spent the entire 25 minute van ride from the airport telling us all how we was gonna be getting laid every night and how the senoritas weren’t going to be able to resist him.  We all begged to differ.   I had no plans to get laid in Mexico and I wasn’t dating anyone back home.  I was an American Free Agent and I figured I would lay low and just take things as they happened.

We got to our room and no sooner was my bag on the bed then The Comedian was asking if I had an empty Red Bull can.  I turned and looked at him with a bit of surprise and asked if he was serious.  He apparently was totally serious and I told him that as a matter of fact I did have an empty can in my pocket.  “Really?”  He asked.  “No,” I replied.  “Why the hell would I have an empty Red Bull can in my pocket?”

I asked why he needed the can and immediately The Comedian whipped out a bag of weed from his suitcase.  Dude brought marijuana from California into Mexico on a plane and was gonna make a homemade bong!  “How the F did you get that through customs?”  I asked him.  Apparently he had the weed in a Ziploc bag and the bag was wrapped in tinfoil, which was in another Ziploc bag, which was stuffed inside a jar of Vicks.  He said the menthol smell would mask the weed odor and he was pretty proud of himself for getting it through customs.

The leader of the pack was our GSM, El Jefe.  El Jefe was a nice guy and a bit of a party animal.  He was a little on the hefty side and very goofy.  He enjoyed regaling us all with his stories of what he and his wife had done the night before along with the details of how and where.  On a normal day it wasn’t fun to listen to, but it was even worse when he spent three solid days drinking.  I tried to put as much of it out of my mind as I could, but suffice it to say that when we returned, I probably could have given her gynecologist a complete run down on her inner workings and been pretty accurate.

The last full day in Mexico we took a four-hour booze and snorkeling cruise.  For the low price of $15 each we went on a boat for four hours and saw the tip of Baja (which was kind of cool) and they took us snorkeling.  As an added bonus, we had all the Dos Equis that we could drink.  Let me just say that seven car guys can put away a lot of beer in four hours.

After the cruise we made it back to the hotel, got cleaned up and went out for a nice dinner.  We were grubbing away when El Jefe announced that after dinner he had a special bar to take us to celebrate our last night in Paradise.  I drank just as much as everyone else that day and I found it odd that I was the only one who thought the scenario sounded a little iffy.

Of the seven of us, four were married and three (including myself) were single.  When we arrived at the bar we each got a beer and El Jefe gathered us in a group and announced that this was the best bar for getting laid in all Cabo and that whatever we wanted that night was on him.  I looked around the place and my first reaction was that it was not nearly as classy as the place in Tijuana and that the women in here seemed to be of a below average look.  WAY below average!

The only two that decided to take El Jefe up on his offer were The Comedian and El Jefe himself.  Each picked out a woman and they were off to some unknown place.  The rest of us laughed at how stupid they both were and kept drinking (on El Jefe of course).  15 minutes later El Jefe came strolling in through a door and had a big smile on his face.  I asked him how it went, considering that he was married and all.  He got a serious look on his face and informed me that he would never cheat on his wife, so he just got oral sex.  Freakin brilliant!

It was another 15 minutes before The Comedian came back from his rendezvous and he too had a huge smile on his face.  He started telling everyone how he “nailed her hard”.  I looked at him for a second, and then went over to one of our group who was Mexican.  I told him to go ask the hooker what happened and he came back and informed me that nothing happened because The Comedian couldn’t even get it up!

That of course was information I was unwilling to keep to myself and I informed him that I knew what happened, or rather didn’t happen, in the room.  He was pissed and asked, “Who are you gonna believe, a Mexican prostitute or me?”  It was a unanimous six-of six.  Each of us believed the ho.

There was much more drinking that night and when it was time to leave for the airport The Comedian was still in the room, trying his hardest to smoke every last bit of what he brought with him.  Once back at the dealership everyone wanted to know how the trip went and of course the first story was how The Comedian couldn’t get it up with a prostitute.  The weed story remained our little secret.  Until today…

J.R.

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My first date in Canada

Do you have some American in you?

When I moved to the Toronto suburbs in January of 2009 I had some very high hopes for myself as far as dating goes.  I figured that I was gonna roll into town and every woman was going to want a piece of the bald American.  I was the suave guy doing the morning show on a brand new rock/alternative radio station and I figured that the chicks would be all over me.  I was to be “J.R. in the Morning” and when the ladies said that they wanted their J.R in the morning, I would reply with, “you can have J.R. in the morning, in the afternoon AND in the evening!”

I thought a lot of things.  It doesn’t mean it all happened.  Or any of it for that matter.

As I mention in a previous post (Oh Canada), the station never even went on the air, but for the first six months we thought we were only getting delayed, so I still had my hope of one day owning the province of Ontario—at least my little part of it.

Before I left California I already had my lines planned out.  I remember hanging out at a New Years Eve party with Bone and his wife Mama.  Mama’s dad, The Carpenter, was there too, as was her sister, The Artist.  I was laying out my game plan to them and telling them how it was going to be.  In all fairness, I was drinking a bit that night.  But I still believed most of what I said.

My new favorite pick-up line was to be, “do you have some American in you?  No?  Would you like some?”  I was also going to go with, “Hi.  I’m J.R. in the Morning, but you can have me anytime you want…”

I was boning up on my Canadian.  I made sure to say “touque” instead of beanie.  I threw the word “eh” into as many sentences as I could.  I remembered that when I went to the Beer Store I should order a two-four.  You have to say “a two-four”, because as I learned, if you order a case (24 beers), they look at you like you just spoke Russian.

BTW…The Beer Store is the name of the province owned outlet where you have to buy your beer.  You can’t go into a regular store and purchase beer (or wine or liquor).  It’s a very communistic society and alcohol is expensive as hell.  A 12-pack of Molson Canadian is around $20.  I can buy a 30-pack of the same stuff in New York for  $20!  To get your beer you walk up to a counter, order what you want and they shoot it out to you on a conveyor belt.  That part is kind of cool, but the rest of it sucks.  Back to the dating…

I was looking forward to being the local rock star.  I was hip.  I was single.  And I was more than ready to mingle!  “Look out Canada,” I exclaimed.  “J.R. is coming!”  I landed at Pearson in Toronto, cleared customs and soon enough got smacked in the face with a huge dose of reality.

First off, the Canadian chicks that I met were for the most part, NOT the hot puck bunnies that I imagined them to be.  A diet consisting mainly of poutine (French fries with gravy and cheese curd), pizza, wings and beer kept a large percentage of Canadian ladies warm for the winter, if you know what I mean!

Second, they were not as enamored with Americans as I thought they would be.  I guess it’s because I was just outside a major cosmopolitan city like Toronto.  That and the fact that they can drive into the U.S. in 90 minutes, probably makes it less of a novelty than I hoped it would be.

Finally, I know that it’s hard to believe, but maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t as “all that” as I thought I was.  “What the hell, eh?”  I asked my friend Sam the Canadian.  I figured that I would be pulling chicks left and right and that my iPhone would be filled with phone numbers and e-mails from hot chicks.  Not so much the case.

I did have a few sporadic dates before I met Teacher, a woman that I went out with for a few months and one that you will begin hearing about soon enough.  The first woman I met online was a preschool teacher and she lived about 40 minutes from me.  She didn’t have a car or a license and said that she never had one since she lived and worked in the same neighborhood and that the subway ran right past where she was.  I thought it was a bit odd, but whatever…

I picked her up for the first date and we went to a local pub for some food and a couple of drinks.  There were two things about me that she said really impressed her.  Three actually.  First was that it was a Saturday night, the Leafs were on TV and I paid attention to her and not to the game.

The second was that I was paying attention to her and not to the other women in the bar.  I told her that I was out on a date with her and I wanted to get to know her so why would I not pay attention?  She pointed out that there were women in the bar way hotter than her and I told her that there was nothing wrong with the way she looked.  She was right though, there were way hotter women in the place.  But I was on a date with her, not with them and the reality was that my best chance at any physical contact that night was with my date and not with the hotter ones.

The third thing that impressed her were my eyes.  She said I had really nice, really blue eyes.  Sweet.

The night was more or less physically uneventful and we decided to go out again the next weekend.  During the week she and I spoke on the phone a few times and as Friday approached, her conversations became more and more, uh, colorful.  I asked her what she wanted to do and she said that she would like to come see my house and that we could hang out and watch a movie.  I assumed that “hang out and watch a movie” was code for something else and I was getting excited.

I picked her up and the first thing she said upon entering my car was that I should not be expecting anything to happen tonight because she was not that kind of girl and that she was not going to give it up on the second date.  I looked at her for a second and asked, “what about the third date?”  She looked at me and playfully said, “Maybe.  Why?”

I told her that if it was just a matter of playing by the rules that I thought we should go to Tim Horton’s for coffee and after coffee that I could take her home, circle the block and come back and pick her up.  Since I dropped her off and was picking her up, technically that would be the third date.  She was less than impressed with my logic and said just to drive to my house and we would watch the movie.

We got to my place, opened a bottle of wine and hit the couch.  We started talking about our family heritages and she mentioned that she was mainly Portuguese.  I paused for a second, took a deep breath and asked the question I had been waiting to ask.  “Do you have some American in you?”

J.R.

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Tijuana with The Kings Fan

“Dude.  I think this is a gay bar…”

It had been almost a year since Original Crazy B**** (O.C.B.) moved out and I became a full-time single dad of a five-year-old girl.  My daughter wasn’t known as Drama Queen back then; she was just a sweet redheaded five-year-old.  I hadn’t dated at all since O.C.B. moved out—It was pretty much my choice.  I just hadn’t felt like looking and quite honestly, I had been out of the dating world so long that I really had no game.

The Kings Fan called me at work one Monday morning and asked if I could get my mom or brother to watch Drama Queen over the weekend.  “I think so,” I replied.  “Why?  What’s up?”  “I’m taking you out,” he told me.  “We’re going to go out and have fun and we are going to get you laid.  Tell your mom you’ll be back Saturday afternoon”

At 5:30 on Friday Kings Fan pulled into my driveway and I hopped into his black Jeep Wrangler and we headed south on the 405 freeway to Tijuana.  It had been a while since I had been to TJ and I thought a crazy night south of the border sounded like fun.

Kinger announced that we were going to park on the U.S. side and walk over.  It’s OK to drive your car into Mexico if you’re heading south into Rosarito or Ensanada, but if you ever want to see your car in one piece, do not park in Tijuana.

We walked over the border and immediately were bombarded with kids selling Chiclets and women peddling crappy fake gold.  We decided to hit Avenida Revolucion because that’s where most of the safe action was.  We agreed there would be no donkey shows but he kept insisting that I was going to get laid that night.  I had no problem with that but I was a little skeptical.

I asked where we were staying and he said that he had no clue but that we would find someplace.  I said cool and we jumped in a taxi and headed into TJ.  We got out of the cab and scanned our options.  We were both pretty hungry so we grabbed a couple of tacos at a cart about half a block up.

The girl working the cart was pretty cute and Kings Fan asked her in Spanish where a good bar was.  I guess I should point out that Kinger was born in Mexico but was raised in L.A.  He has family in Mexico and in fact his wife, Hot Latin Mama and son, G.I. Joe were both born and raised in central Mexico.  My point being that he speaks and reads Spanish very fluently.  This will be important information to have in a couple of paragraphs.

We headed into the bar and grabbed some Coronas.  The place was OK.  A bit touristy for my tastes, but not too bad.  There were some cute girls in there but it was mainly a sausage-fest.  After we had our next round I told him that I wanted to get out of there.  “We could drink $5 Coronas in Long Beach,” I said.  “Let’s find someplace a little off the beaten path where we can drink cheaper and we can feel like we’re in Mexico.”

He agreed and we headed out the door and around the corner down a side street.  About a block down we saw a window painted with a huge bottle of Tecate.  The size was equivalent to a 40 oz. in America and the sign announced “25 pesos” (about $2.50 U.S.D.).  We decided to go in and headed straight back to the bar to grab our Tecate.  We found an empty table and start sipping the cerveza fria.

About 60 seconds later, at almost exactly the same time, we both set our beers down on the table and looked at each other.  “Dude,” I quietly said.  “I think this is a gay bar.”  “What makes you think that?”  He asked sarcastically.  “Uh, I think it’s the chick with the beard and chest hair wearing a tube top,” I said.  “What about you?”  He pointed out that there were two guys kissing behind me but he implored me not to turn around and look.  As the only gringo in the place I had no problem heeding his advice.

We decided that the best game plan was to quickly chug our beers and get the hell out.  So we did just that.  Neither of us looked at the sign on the way in, but I made a mental not to check out the name of the bar on the way out.  It said “Los Chicos Golpean” which translated means “The Boys Club”.

We headed back out to Ave. Revolucion and I was hungry again so we found the same taco cart and I grabbed a couple al pastor (my favorite).  Kinger said something to the hottie in Spanish and he said that she knew just the place for us to go.  He said that he was sure that I could get laid in this place.  After our last experience I wanted to make sure that he was talking about a woman, so I looked at the taco chick and asked, “Chicas or chicos?”  She looked at King and said something in Spanish.  He replied and she laughed and said, “chicas!”  Esta bien!

W went into the bar and I was impressed.  It was loaded with women wearing tight, low cut clothing, most of whom were pretty damn hot.  We sat at the bar and I looked around as he ordered a couple beers from the bartender.  As the beers were placed in front of us, King looked at me and said, “It’s my treat.  Whoever you want.”

Suddenly it hit me.  The reason there were so many hot chicks was because we were in a hooker bar.  It was attached to a “motel” and the women were in there picking up guys and then servicing them next door.  I politely told him that I appreciated his gesture but that there were not enough condoms in the whole country for me to get it on with a Mexican prostitute.

He said he understood and that we would just sit, drink and blow off some steam.  Not two minutes later an attractive redhead with a decent set of fake cans came up behind me, rubbed my head and said “Hi, papi.”  I politely told her that I wasn’t her daddy and that I had no money.  Right on cue, she smiled at me and headed down the bar, trolling for her next lay.

Around 2 AM we decided to call it a night and found a non-whorehouse motel across the street.  The rooms were $10 each and we grabbed a pair and agreed that we should sleep on top of the blankets.  The next morning we woke up and found our taco hottie back at work.  We grabbed a few more and Kinger related the story of the night before.  She looked at me and told me that I was probably very smart.

After the tacos we hopped another cab, crossed the border again and headed home.  I’ve never been back to Tijuana since that night but I’ve hit Ensanada and Rosarito several times (once with Kings Fan) and every time I drive through TJ I get a smile on my face and tell my passenger that I know a good bar where we can stop at for a cheap beer—just off Avenida Revolucion.

J.R.

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I’ve Seen Better Days

Now if I could just find the rewind button…

Tuesday ended on a high note and Wednesday started with a ton of promise.  The day ended poorly, but as you continue to read, you will find that it was mostly my fault.  Here’s the deal…

Tuesday night The Phone Sex Operator (P.S.O.) came over for dinner.  She moved into a new house last weekend and it was stressful on her.  She arrived about 15 minutes after I got home and I was putting the finishing touches on some Cuban roast pork, black beans and lime rice.  I had a cold Corona waiting for her when she walked in the door and after a nice hello kiss, she hung out with Drama Queen (D.Q.) for a few minutes talking about this and that.

After dinner (which she said she really enjoyed) we all chilled on the couch watching American Idol and soon it was time for D.Q. to go to bed.  She said good night and P.S.O. and I finally spent some much-needed quality time alone.  It was really nice to snuggle with her on the couch.  When it was time for her to leave I asked her what time I needed to be at her place in the morning and she told me a little after eight.

I offered to help P.S.O. by staying at her house Wednesday morning to wait for Time Warner.  She had a short week at work since Monday was a holiday and she was taking Friday off to run me to and from some minor surgery I’m having.  I knew that my waiting for the cable guy would help her out and I was happy to do it.

I woke up early Wednesday morning in a great mood.  I was still on a high from our time together last night and I was looking forward to seeing her, if even for a few minutes.  After making sure D.Q. was up and getting ready for school, I hopped in my car and headed down the Thruway.  I rolled into Tim Horton’s near her house and grabbed some coffee just the way she likes it.  So far so good.

When I arrived, she was in the bathroom drying her hair and getting ready for work, so I headed into the living room and was looking around a bit.  The last time I saw the house a lot of things were in boxes.  She now had pictures and knick-knacks on the shelves and I was checking them out.

Remember at the beginning I mentioned that I was a complete a-hole?  Well, here it comes…

She came out into the living room and I kissed her and asked her how much flexibility she had in the time she had to leave for work and what time she thought the Time Warner guy would really show up.  She told me to behave and that she really needed to get ready to leave.

She walked over to the bookshelf and was showing me some pictures of her family and explaining the significance of each one and I put my hand on her back.  As I rubbed her back I noticed that she had no bra on and I made a comment about “The twins not being strapped in.”  She wasn’t thrilled at that comment (nor should she have been) and continued to show me things.  That wasn’t the only crappy thing I said that morning and it was far from one of my better moments.

We looked at a book of pictures from when her daughter was a baby and I did enjoy looking at her things and I do want to know more about her and her family and about what’s important to her.  I certainly didn’t show it on Wednesday morning, but I am interested and I do care.  I was just a complete douche and an utter tool at that moment.

I ruined her morning and I really hurt her.  I wasn’t intending to hurt her, but I did.  When she left the house I knew she was upset and that made me feel like crap.  I sat on the couch trying to read the book I brought, but it was slow going.  I kept beating myself up for what I had done, so I whipped out my BlackBerry to send an e-mail apologizing.  We traded a few  more back and forth over the next couple hours and I told her that her feelings are very important to me and that I didn’t want to add to the stresses and pressures of her life, but rather I wanted to be an enhancement to her life.

She e-mailed back that she loved me but that she was hurt and that this would not be THE defining moment in our relationship but rather A defining moment.  We traded a couple more e-mails that morning and the long and the short of it is that I am apparently going to do a strip tease for her at some point in the near future to Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry.  I guess I need to get practicing!  I think that’s the least I can do to make up for hurting her.

The Time Warner guy came and went and I headed to work to deal with a myriad of stresses there.  After work I went home to Drama Queen.

D.Q. has a school orchestra concert tonight and needs to have black pants and a white shirt (or a black dress) to wear for it.  She doesn’t have anything that fits her, so last night we went out to get her something.  The long and short of it is that she was being extremely snotty and rude.  After trying on a couple dresses, I handed her a pair of black pants and a white shirt.  She started to get really snotty about them and I told her that if the ‘tude continued that we would just go without getting anything and that she would not play in the concert, which BTW accounts for 25% of her grade.  I did tell her that if she doesn’t play that she was going to go watch and that I didn’t care how embarrassed she was.

She got snotty again and I walked out of the store.  I sent the teacher (and her counselor) an e-mail explaining the situation.  D.Q. is pissed at me and told me that she wants to go live with someone else.  She’s also been telling me that she hates me, to which I respond, “Get in line”.

Ironically enough, as I was typing the last paragraph, the orchestra teacher called me to tell me that he wants her to come play and to wear whatever she can.  He said that the orchestra is a team thing and it’s almost exactly what P.S.O. told me in her e-mail to me a half hour ago.  I love that she can tell me when I’m wrong and isn’t afraid to share her opinion on things.  I totally need that.

Yesterday was a crappy day, but today seems to be getting off to a better start.  I didn’t sleep well last night but I heard from P.S.O. this morning and she ended the e-mail with “xoxox” so I’m guessing that she still loves me.  I continue to feel crappy about the way I treated her yesterday and I’m not going to forget it, but I won’t dwell on it.  D.Q. is going to play her concert tonight and that’s probably a good thing.

I’m heading to Tim’s for some coffee (and maybe a few Timbits).  I also think that I’ll throw on Sunny Hours by Long Beach Dub All-Stars.  That always seems to make me feel better.  Tomorrow will be a good day.  I have my surgery and I get to spend the day with P.S.O.  I promise that there will be a very good story about the surgery down the road.  A really good story.  Now if I could just find the rewind button…

J.R.

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Oh Canada…

I was bent over by The Fat Man


I like to think that I’m a good father.  Do I make mistakes?  Hell yeah!  Do I have the best intentions?  Absolutely.  I always want the best for Drama Queen and myself and my goal is for her to have the best life possible.  Does that mean that she always has the best clothes and all the nice things she wants?  No.  But I want to make sure that she is happy, grounded and always know that I love her.  As you read this story, please keep that in mind.

A year ago at this time, January 15, 2009 to be exact, I boarded a plane in Los Angeles and headed to Toronto to begin the single biggest adventure of my life.  This adventure actually began in November of 2008, when I was doing my humble little radio show on KLBC in Long Beach, California.  Now that I think back, it really started back in April of 2008, so let’s go back there.

I was broadcasting college baseball with my co-host and broadcast partner Wes The Sports Guy when I found out that there would be a new minor-league baseball team in Long Beach.  They were called The Long Beach Armada and they were playing in the independent Golden Baseball League (GBL).  I gave the team a ring and inquired as to whether or not they needed broadcasters.  They did and Wes & I landed the gig.

A couple weeks into the season I was approached by a guy named Sam from Hamilton, Ontario.  Sam was producing a weekly TV show for the GBL on a new Canadian cable network and he wondered if Wes & I would like to host it.  Long story short, the TV show never happened because the network didn’t make it on the air before the season was over, but Sam seemed like a cool guy and Wes and I had him on our show as a regular guest.  At some point early on I introduced him as Sam The Canadian and the name sort of stuck.

In early November of 2008 I received another phone call from Sam.  He told me that he knew a guy (The Fat Man) who was starting two new radio stations in suburban Toronto.  One was a country station and the other was to be rock/alternative/AC.  Sam was going to be the morning guy on the country station and he wanted to pitch me as the morning guy for the rock station.  He asked if I was interested and I said I was, as long as the situation was right.

I was offered the gig hosting the morning show and I was assured that the necessary visa paperwork was in the works and I was to start working at the station on February 2, 2009 and the station was to go live on February 9, 2009 at 6 AM with J.R. In the Morning.  I arrived in Canada a couple weeks early to get situated and to get an Ontario drivers license, get a car, a place to live and so on and so forth.  The Drama Queen (D.Q.) was going to fly out with my mom on February 13.  I wanted her to wait a few weeks so that I could get settled and find a good school for her.

I got my new license, got a car and was excited and ready to get to work.  I showed up at the station at 9 AM on February 2 ready to go and found no one there.  Sam and I hung around for a while and decided to go Tim Horton’s for some coffee.  We came back a few minutes after 10 to find The Fat Man just arriving.  Fat Man and I sat down and chatted a bit about what he expected from me, how long my commercial breaks were going to be, when I had to break for news, etc.  Other than that, the show was pretty much mine.

I went into my studio to think about what regular segments I wanted to do and how this was all going to work.  I was understandably nervous, but knew I could handle the job.  On Friday (three days before I was to make my Canadian radio debut) we were informed that the CRTC (Canada’s version of the FCC) was holding up our launch for a few days because of some paperwork glitch involving our antennae.  I was frustrated, but I knew that such things occasionally happened with new stations in the U.S. so I didn’t think too much about it.

That same day I also found out that the paperwork for my work visa actually wasn’t in the works and that it needed to be started right away.  I asked what the hold up was and The Fat Man said very matter-of-factly that the immigration lawyer needed $3,500 to get my work visa and that the station could not afford to pay it, so if I wanted to stay in the country I would need to pay the money.

I was beyond pissed, but what could I do?  I had no job to go back to in California, no place to live in the States and my furniture and all our personal belongings were sitting at the border waiting to be delivered to our new home.  Fat Man explained that he needed a certified check in Canadian funds made out to the station.  I told him that I wanted to make it out directly to the lawyer but he explained that the station had already paid the lawyer but hadn’t anticipated some extra expenses, so either I paid the station back the money or there would be no station to work for.  I was between a rock and a hard place and really had no choice.  I got him his check and kept preparing for my show.

When I found a place to live (the station was renting the house for me) I checked with the school district to see what I needed to register Drama Queen in school.  I was given a list of items and was relieved to find out that I had everything.  She arrived and I took her to school the first day, only to find out that I hadn’t been told everything.  Since I wasn’t Canadian and since my work visa wasn’t finished, I had to pay $800 a month for her to go to public school in Ontario.  I was pissed, but even the Superintendent told me his hands were tied—the Ontario Ministry of Education charged the district the money and someone had to pay it.

I went back to The Fat Man and talked with him about the work visa.  He placed a phone call to the lawyer and said that I would have the visa finished in two weeks.  I enrolled D.Q. in school and figured that I would just eat the $800.

In May I would come to find out, there was no lawyer hired back in February and The Fat Man never paid anyone with my money.  No lawyer meant no work visa, which meant that I was shelling out $800 a month for D.Q. to finish out the school year.  That was $800 in February, March, April and May–$3,200 in all.  He finally did hire a lawyer in May, but it didn’t really matter since the station never went on the air.

The bottom line is that D.Q. and I sat in Canada from January 15, 2009 until September 1, 2009 when we moved to Buffalo.  We were living off of savings and the only compensation I ever received was the rent.  BTW…The Fat Man never paid the last couple months rent and I was evicted in mid-August (with two days notice to clear out) and had to crash with someone the last two weeks we were in Canada.  See what I meant at the beginning when I said I was “bent over by The Fat Man?”

As crappy as this story sounds, it’s not all bad.  I lost a ton of money that I’m trying to get back, but as an American going after a Canadian in Canada it’s not the easiest thing to do.  I made some friends and had some great experiences, which you can read about another time.  If I hadn’t gotten screwed in Canada I never would have moved to Buffalo.  If I never moved to Buffalo I never would have met and fell in love with The Phone Sex Operator.

So boys and girls, the point of the story is this (yes, there is a point):  Sometimes you have to go through crappy experiences to find what you’ve always been searching for.  The bad experiences only highlight how absolutely amazing the good ones can be.  Now that I think about it, I guess that I can consider moving to Canada the beginning of my own personal love story.  The end is yet to be written, but I can assure you that the beginning is pretty sweet!  The End.

J.R.

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