Degenerate Road Trip: Part 3

Charles and I are still in Flagstaff, and we have no fucking clue why. Anyone who has ever seen “Stand By Me” will recognize the dialogue exchanged between Gordie Lachance and Chris Chambers that perfectly summarizes our unending time in “Flag”:

Chris: I’m never gonna make it outta this town am I, Gordie?
Gordie: You can do anything you want, man.

We’ve repeated this mantra to each other hourly as we struggle to pack up our shit and get back on the road. As I write this, Charles sleeps on Mike Smith’s bed, recovering from a night out with several of Flagstaff’s most reputable citizens. I’m sitting at Mike’s computer trying in vain to compose a post that is intelligible. Clearly, we both possess a single-mindedness that can be stopped by nothing.

For any of you Chuckblog readers who have never been to Flagstaff, Arizona (and I presume that there are many of you), I’ll do my best to accurately describe it:

1. Hippies. Everywhere. Fucking disgusting!
2. Six inches of snow in May. Charles and I woke up and looked out the window, looked at each other, and cowered under the blankets like 7-year old school girls. I would have been less surprised if I woke up on Mars.
3. Mike Smith knows everyone. If anyone you’ve ever known ventures through Flagstaff, tell them to say that they’re tight with Mike Smith. It’ll guarantee free drinks and a cursory blow job from a show-pony.
4. Find Paul at the Pay-N-Take. The Pay-N-Take is a bar/convenient mart that will completely change your opinion on capitalism. Paul is the owner/manager that could have talked Hitler out of the Holocaust. He handed out Pay-N-Take T-shirts like they’d fallen out of the sky. All the while, he whispered to us about the great rivalry between Georgetown and Villanova during the mid-80s. We’ll never know if Paul was using any drugs the night we were there, but for the sake of humanity, I like to think he wasn’t.
5. This town loves idiotic bar video games. If you’re low on friends just drink till you forget your middle name, saddle up to the photo-hunt video game in the Monte Vista Hotel and make sure you have at least $40 in singles. It’ll surely be a night to remember.

Chuckblog would like to thank 7000 feet of altitude for making us disgustingly sick.

Degenerate Road Trip: Part 2

Tommy and I have been in Flagstaff, AZ for the past few days, crashing with our good pal and fellow Gibraltar Girl, Mike Smith. The experience has been full of highs and lows thus far, but overall the degenerate road trip has been a smashing success. Here are some of the highlights:

Attending a major league baseball competition. Tommy’s family – led by Miss Jan and Doctor Dan – graciously bought us tickets to a baseball competition between the Los Angeles Angels and Dodgers. I clearly have no clue what’s going on in the world of sports, causing me to choose my favorite team of the game based according to a very objective criterion: team name. Since I’m a devout Catholic (ZOMG!), rooting for the Angels is much more appropriate than favoring the Dodgers, which elicits a mental connotation of draft-dodging. I was compelled to stand behind the Angels on both a spiritual and patriotic level. More importantly, however, Angel’s player Vladimir Guerrero looks like rapper, Lil John.

I apologize that these two images cannot accurately compare the physical attributes of the two men, but I would have done the world a great disservice by not posting a photo of Lil John snowboarding. It might possibly be the only documented proof of any black man – let alone a rapper – on a snowboard.

Sneaking into the Doheny Blues Festival in Dana Point, CA. Although neither of us have any interest in blues music, we felt obligated to sneak into the $75-per-ticket festival like idiotic high school kids. The festival was held on a beach by our hotel, set off from the public by a high chain link fences. We devised the ultimate break-in strategy: a running jump onto the seat of a bike chained to a fence post, allowing us to vault ourselves over the rest of the fence and onto the other side. We accomplished the feat without any problems, but were spotted by a heavily-tattooed/pierced security guard. Upon reaching us, the Ork-like man seemed perplexed by our status as two adults. It’s only logical for him to assume that we were simply overgrown children. Thankfully, his confusion led to a mere warning: “I mean, come on guys, do you have to be so obvious?! Don’t do it again tomorrow.” We had no intention of doing that again tomorrow. In fact, we hadn’t really planned on doing it the first time around.

Coming back from the dead in Vegas. Vegas loves natural born losers. Tommy and I are natural born losers. If my logic is correct, then these two givens lead to the conclusion that Vegas loves us. The last time we visited the dreaded city together was last summer, when we willingly gave our money away all night long then bunkered down in a hotel room during the day with the blinds shut and lights out, huddling together like frightened animals. We blame it all on the Cursed Pyramid, more commonly known as the Luxor hotel and casino.

A majority of people don’t believe in black magic, but trust me, evil is at hand in the Cursed Pyramid.

Thankfully, this time around we stayed far, far away from the unholy place and opted for a room at Binion’s hotel/casino in Old Vegas. Unfortunately, the reach of the Cursed Pyramid extends throughout the entire city of Vegas. At the Golden Nugget, we quickly lost all of our money in blackjack and roulette. When we left the casino, I knew we were close to hitting rock bottom when Tommy turned to me and stated, “If I ever become a low-life wandering the streets of Vegas, please come save me.”

After wallowing in our sorrow and having a few drinks at Hogs and Heifers (don’t ever go here, BTW), Tommy had some kind of strange epiphany. He declared that we should make one final attempt at redeeming ourselves in blackjack, which was all the motivation I needed to give it another go. We sat down at a table occupied by some friendly middle-aged women and a rad dealer, and our ultimate redemption ensued. We won back our previous losses and actually knew when to walk away this time around. Leaving Las Vegas is kinda like scrambled porn; after seemingly endless minutes of static, you get that one moment of clarity that makes everything right in the world. This was our money shot.

Heckling tourists at the Hoover Dam. On our journey from Vegas to Flagstaff we passed over the Hoover Dam, which shows the view of a bridge being built across the canyon. Tourists fascinated with the  construction stood all along the Dam taking pictures of the work-in-progress. With a cigarette drooping out of his mouth, Tommy rolled down his window and kept screaming “HOLY SHIT!! LOOK AT THAT BRIDGE!!!!”, blatantly mocking people for standing around in 105 degree heat while taking snapshots of a glorified construction site.

Cliff jumping in Arizona. After arriving in Flagstaff our host and good friend Mike Smith coerced us into hiking through the woods to jump off rock cliffs into a freezing cold pool of water. Since I filled my life quota for nature outings during my time with the US version of The Hitler Youth*, I was unenthusiastic for the expedition. It turned out to be surprisingly fun. Contrary to what I learned in Deliverance, I guess that hiking into the middle of the woods on an unmarked trail doesn’t always lead to rape and murder.

*The Boy Scouts of America

Attending an 80’s night at some bar in Flagstaff, with the following great acts occurring that night:

• We approached the dance floor as if the fate of the world depended on the intensity/stupidity of our moves. People either loved or hated us, with most falling into the latter category. Two lesbians applauded us for being openly gay in public. They were shocked when we told them that we were actually straight, but still commended us on our moves.
• Tommy accidentally stole a 21 year old girl’s license. Oops!
• Upon requesting Eddie Murphy’s “Party all the Time”, the DJ gave me a look which said “Are you fucking joking me?! Of course I have Eddie Murphy’s ‘Party all the Time’!”. The song came on about 2 seconds later.
• I woke up the following morning with a perfect red lipstick imprint on the shoulder of my Sonic Youth t-shirt. I have absolutely no clue how it got there.

Along the way, Chuckblog has pleaded with people to visit www.scottbrundage.com. Even the girls with hairy underarms we met in Flagstaff.

Degenerate Road Trip: Part 1

Yesterday was the official start of my degenerate road trip with Crab. I’m already dry-heaving, which is probably not the best sign, although I’m still optimistic about what’s to come. We’re in San Clemente, CA, where the sun is shining bright in what seems like the Promised Land. Although most people might be out on the beach, we’ve holed ourselves up in a hotel room with the blinds closed, much more interested in watching Jerry Springer, Saved By The Bell, and other such televised masterpieces while nursing our hangovers.

We’ve made a pact to maintain a sense of moral integrity during the trip, so we kick off each morning with a confessional and Bible reading. The confessional consists of Tom instructing me to “Tell me your sins my son”, to which I admit all the bad things that I’ve done in the recent past. After my laundry list of offenses is verbalized and Tom states “your sins are forgiven”, he picks up the Bible, turns to a random page, and points to a passage in a similarly meaningless fashion. He reads the passage and we draw from its wisdom.

This morning his finger landed on a section from the book of Proverbs, Chapter 24, Verses 3-4, which reads:

Through wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; By knowledge the rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches.

Indeed, this trip is a journey to attain wisdom and understanding. And if I’ve learned anything so far on our voyage, it’s that I want all the rooms in my house to be filled with riches. Like, a shit load of riches. Furthermore, my riches must be only of the precious and pleasant variety. So, we’re off to a good start with the Lord.

Life on the road can be pretty taxing, and the last thing we need is a deficiency of essential nutrients like vitamin C. In an effort to raise awareness concerning the ongoing scurvey epidimic sweeping the nation, we’ve made it our personal cause to consume at least one vodka and cranberry juice each morning after confessional and Bible reading. This particular cause enables us combat the horrifying effects of scurvey while simultaneously allowing us to conquer another illness that inflicts millions of Americans: sobriety.

Then we turn on the television and watch shirtless rednecks compete in a spelling bee to win the heart of a grotesque, scantilly clad woman on the Jerry Springer Show.

Yesterday, we did actually make it to the beach where we lasted at least 5 minutes before we wandered across the street to purchase several cans of Sparks. Then, we settled down on the sand with our malted energy drinks and discussed a wide range of important topics:

• Interplanetary Alien/Human Relations
• Similarities Between Women’s Bathing Suits and Women’s Underwear
• The Undeniable Importance of Both Women’s Bathing Suits and Women’s Underwear 
• How Come That Asshole Gets to Drive on the Beach?
• Should I Go Jump Off the Pier?

Although neither of us did jump off the pier, I think it’s safe to assume that Scottbrundage.com would. After leaving the beach, we continued consuming alcohol for the next 13 hours at various establishments, namely a bar called Goody’s. As in, Goody-Goody Gumdrops. Soon enough, we mysteriously teleported to the bar next door without realizing it, where we met up with Heather. I met Heather on myspace via my pal Gerry No Game, and she was super cool – simply for tolerating our rambling jibberish. Thanks Heather! I’d say it was a successful start to the trip.

Absence Explained, Math Girl RIP, Road Trip

Chuckblog has been out of commission for the past week, and I feel that an explanation is in order. Last week was my final week of grad school and work, which meant that I was devoting every waking second to concluding both activities on a high note. Since finishing, life has been one non-stop party in celebration of my freedom. I feel that this is a great opportunity to step away from the computer and gather material for future Chuckblog posts. Don’t think I don’t care, because I love you all more than I love my own children.

My relationship with Math Girl also expired last week. We both knew it was only a temporary fling, as I’ve been planning on moving out to San Francisco for quite some time. I recently got accepted into law school out there, so I will be officially moving away from the East Coast in late July/early August. Math Girl – thanks for the great couple of months. I’ll miss you. Amuirin – I’m now single and ready to take our relationship to the next level.

Finally, in 2 hours I am flying out to the LA area to meet fellow Chuckblog writer, Crab (Cursedpyramid). From there, we will be driving cross country over an approximate 2-3 week span. We will try to post from the road, as I’m sure the trip will be full of stupidity. Also, if anyone can hook us up with a place to crash somewhere between Austin and DC, swing me an email. We’re more entertaining than circus freaks.

Love, thanks

Chuck

Top 8 Most Inaccurate Car Names

Until recently, I hadn’t owned a car since I was in high school. As such, I hadn’t devoted much attention to the various names and models that we all see on the road, daily. But lately, as I’ve sort of inherited a vehicle that makes other drivers gawk and laugh at me, I’ve become acutely aware that most model names are completely misleading, if not total lies.

1) The Buick Regal- There’s absolutely nothing regal about driving a fucking Buick. In fact, if you’ve purchased a Buick in the hopes of seeming regal, I’m pretty sure that you’ve already resigned yourself to a life of unregalness.  Though, to be fair, perhaps Buick had a different genre of car buyer in mind when they finally decided on Regal. You know, the kind of guy that shows up at the dealership wearing a Burger King crown and a t-shirt that reads: The King of Crappy Car Owners! 

2) The Dodge Dart- Seems like a misnomer on two counts. I’ve never driven a Dart, but the machine seems a bit clunky, like it couldn’t dodge or dart a large building if it had to. It certainly didn’t dodge or dart away from a stupid, repetitious name.

3) The Chevrolet El Camino- El Camino translates from spanish to “the road.” If you want your “road” to translate into “only one passenger and shitty gas mileage,” then this is the car for you. Enjoy riding with your only friend while you both consume the rest of the Earth’s oil resources!

4) The Volkswagen Golf- Who knows what the fuck these crazy Germans were thinking! If you want to sell golf carts to lazy Americans, you have to label them “Golf Cart.” I don’t speak German, but I can pretty much guarantee that Volkswagen Golf doesn’t directly translate into Golf Cart. Which is shamefully misleading. They look like golf carts. And everyone who drives one looks like they play golf.

5) The AMC Gremlin- I swear to God I saw a Gremlin on the road the other day. As a child of the eighties, I instinctually threw water on it to see if was a true Gremlin. Unfortunately, this Gremlin didn’t transform into a tiny, evil monster that reproduces at will and terrorizes small towns during Christmas. Dissapointingly, the car retained it’s same bizzare shape and ridiculous color scheme.

6) The Ford Focus- The irony is that anybody who has any fucking focus at all doesn’t buy a Ford Focus. Are there car buyers who can’t think outside the box and imagine a scenario where they’re still alive three years down the road? Because that’s about the time that your shitty Ford Focus is going to stop running and you’ll be hitching rides to work.

7) The GMC Yukon- The Yukon is a Canadian Territory that lies between the Northwest Territory and Alaska. From my experience, no one who owns or drives a Yukon has ever driven to or been in either Canada or Alaska. The GMC Yukon was designed specifically for trips to Hardee’s and Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Who knew?! The brilliant minds at GMC, that’s who. Sometimes driving through the tree-lined, spacious streets of an American suburb requires a car bigger than your house!

8 ) The Pontiac Firebird- The Firebird might have once been a respectable car in the sixties, during it’s first run. However, for those of us who grew up during it’s 80s and 90s reincarnation period, it was laughable at best.  Slapping a large illustrated bird on the hood of your muscle car made it neither fiery or capable of flight. On the other hand, the car was particularly adept at conjuring mullets, stone-washed jeans, and Bachman-Turner Overdrive cassette tapes.

Chuckblog wonders if www.scottbrundage.com would rather drive a Batmobile or a solid gold Waverunner?

So what else?

Metal, Goths, Vodka, and Vomit

As you might have deduced from last night’s post, this morning was one of those mornings when I walk into the bathroom, took a good, long look at myself in the mirror and ask the question “Chuck, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Last night, I was chilling on the couch watching a documentary on the Vice Lords street gang, planning on getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for final paper writing all day today. When the documentary ended, an idea popped into my head – ‘Chuck, you should do the exact opposite of going to bed early and getting a good night’s rest’. I laced up my sneakers and headed out on a quest of stupidity.

If all te raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops

so tonight wasa social experiment. i was pretty much ready to got to bed, then decided to walk to the nearest bar ant get as drunk as possible. this bar was weird. there wwere some crazy goth bands playing the whole time. a lead singer was wearing eye makeup and shit. i dunno, just wasn’t my scene. fairfax VA really sucks. someone threw up all over the dudes bathroom, so we all had to use thewomen’s. it was weird for a trilosecond, but then it made perfect sense. so what else?

Disheveled Guy: A Middle-Aged Embodiment of Chuckblog

When I sat down on the bus for the shitty last leg of my hour+ commute home from work yesterday, I watched two men in suits board the vehicle. I was seated at the front half of the bus where seats line the perimeter, and one of the men sat beside me while the other sat directly across from him. Although both dressed in business formal attire, the two men had starkly different appearances. The man sitting next to me looked shabby. His top button was undone while his cheap tie hung down a solid inch from his collar. Complemented by his wrinkled gray suit, 5 o’clock shadow, and slightly messy hair, the man looked like a disheveled professional, in stark contrast to his immaculately dressed counterpart.