barrydalive

LEARN HOW TO F*#@ING MERGE!!!!!!!

i’ve lived all over the good old us of a.  born in virginia, went to school in wisconsin.  spent a bunch of time in colorado, wyoming and new orleans.  driven across interstate 80 more times than i care to remember (i can still smell nebraska).

but across america’s highways and byways, no one holds a candle to the piss poor drivers in good old californ-i-a.

time for Driving with Barry, a 4 part series.

Part 1:  How to Merge.

1.  determine that you have enough time and space to safely move over into the next lane.  note:  that means 1 lane at a time.  being in the far left lane and saying “ooh!  there’s my exit!  in a quarter mile!  five lanes to the right!  better get on over!! look out, other drivers!”  does not qualify as safe.

2.  put on your signal.  if you’re going to the right, you put on the right signal. (it’s pretty shocking how often people get this wrong.  if you’re 90 and the kids can’t get you to give up the keys, and you have the ‘as a matter of fact i do own the road’ mentality, i can get down with that.  i’ll be the same way.  if you’re asian, you also get a pass.  i swear to god there is a genetic deficiency.  i’ve only known 1 good asian driver in my whole life - big ups to lisa pisa).  but if you’re eating, putting on makeup, on the phone or for the love of god TEXT MESSAGING, you deserve a big fat kick in the teeth.  (i swear, for all the kicks in the teeth i threaten, i need some roundhouse lessons.  where is chuck norris these days?)

3.  check your mirrors.  be aware of your blind spots.  the mirrors are those reflective surfaces on the sides of your car and above the dashboard.  you know, where you CHECK YOUR NOSTRILS FOR DEBRIS.

4.  if you can get over with a safe margin of distance between you and the cars in the lane in which you’d like to move, go ahead and slide in there.  (safe means more than 9″, boy racer).  or wait until the next car passes if you see an opening  coming down the pike.  this might take awhile:  that’s ok.  sometimes a nice driver will even blink their lights to signal that it’s safe for you to head over.  if they do this, MOVE OVER.  don’t look back and forth between your lane and theirs for the next hour and a half, trying to decide if you have the mental and emotional fortitude to make this most simple of maneuvers.

5.  once you’ve successfully navigated your way into the next lane, turn off your signal.  (you’d also be surprised how often this step is neglected).

notice, in no place in the 5 steps i have just laid out, did i say you should, in 65 per hour traffic on a windy bridge with heavy traffic, SLOW DOWN TO 17 MILES PER HOUR.  hear that, california?  now, i understand that the next lane may be going slightly faster or slower than your own, and you therefore have to adjust your speed.  common sense would tell you that.  but apparently, common sense has abandoned california, because i see this bullshit piece of crap driving EVERY FUCKING DAY.  (quiet, peanut gallery.  i know the rest of the country thinks california is full of aimless hippie douchebags, but there are so many transplants here we’ve been able to inflict our will on the natives).

here’s what i see:  car in next lane over.  car puts on signal, and immediately slows to half it’s original speed, waiting for a mile long opening before even considering moving over.  i hang back, wave them over, flash my lights, even slowing down myself at times (against my better judgement), which automatically screws the guy tailgating me, which screws the guy tailgating him.  they still won’t take the plunge.  after 3 or 4 minutes of this, i speed up to pass this moron at the allotted legal speed.  only then, once i am dangerously close to his bumper, does he finally decide to make his move.

thanks, asshole.  i brake, but not so hard that the tailgator kills me, but enough that i can avoid rear ending the offending dumbshit.

i then (safely) get out of his lane so i can pass him, obscene gestures at the ready.

then i notice something that catches my attention.  dude is driving a really nice car.

you’d think someone with an $80,000 mercedes would be a little more careful.  a little more aware of his surroundings.  but no.  in fact i notice that the majority of completely inept drivers are driving a) expensive, ominous looking sedans, b) priuses (those lunactics are the WORST) or c) ancient subarus/volkswagens/volvos, which actually can’t go fast or may have been built before the invention of turn signals and therefore are exempt.

now, if you drive a car like mine, you could be a little more feckless.  a bit daring, if you will.  the kind of car that has been missing the front grille for 4 years.  the kind where dudes conistently stop you in parking lots and offer to do some ‘body work’ for you (maybe they weren’t talking about my car, though.  hmmm).  the kind where the turn signals stop working when you put your foot on the brake  (maybe that has something to do with my advocacy of maintaining speed when switching lanes).  

yes, if you are driving a beater, you can be a bit of a renegade.

not that i’m implying i drive that way, though.  no siree.  i was trained in the sacher/gibbons school of automotive operations.  the sacher side taught me control.  i’m in charge of this tank, dammit!  i will not be pushed around by this 2 ton bag of bolts!!!  i’ll handle curves deftly!!!  i understand the rules of downshifting!!!  i can actually change the radio station without causing a 4 car pile up!!!  and then there’s the gibbons side.  be aware of your surroundings.  try to anticipate the moves of your co-road warriors, and be prepared!! (this is hard when the other people in the road have apparently never operated a vehicle without a heartbeat).   i swear to god, my mom’s farsightedness is really impressive.  in the good old days, on road trips, she could sense the fast food 1.7 miles ahead and run interference before we started screaming for milkshakes.  her tactics also include calling people “joker” and “mister” when they misbehave on the road.  i clearly take after dad in that respect.  “fucking jackass” is far more satisfying.

anyway, i just had to get that rant off my chest, especially in lieu of the new law which will be adopted on july 1st.  california is getting on the ‘hands free’ bandwagon with regard to cell phones.  if i see a bunch of bmw’s on the road whose operators are driving without their hands on the wheel (a total possibility.  i’m not even kidding) i’m calling chuck norris.

is flippin’ awesome.

my roommate has the whole series on dvd.  i started with season two.  i think i remember someone, somewhere saying that’s when it got good.  i’m watching the episode where toby gets curious about why the vice president is behaving in a campaigny manner, and leo and bartlett have to tell him about the m.s.  you know in the beginning, when toby is trying to figure out what hoynes is up to?  and he’s bouncing the ball around?  i got goosebumps.  no shit.

this year my blog will take on some of life’s toughest questions.

for example:

how come there are so many bottle opener keychains when you’re not supposed to drink and drive?

thoughts?

my older brother aj once said that i have an opinion about everything. which is complete bullshit. there are plenty of things i’m ambivalent towards. i just don’t talk, write, or think about those things. so there, bro. put that in your pipe and smoke it. or make it into tea and drink it, or whatever you people do down in LA.

anyhow, recently i started making lists of the things i am the most opinionated about. essentially, a love/hate list. and i thought i would share it with you, my readers (mom and jessie).

let’s start with hate. in no particular order:

I HATE:

when women that are younger than me, or even close to my age, call me “hon.” if you are not a female relative over 50 or a waitress in a diner over 50, i suggest you refrain from calling me hon. in fact, the next 22 year old skank bartender who calls me hon is going to get a barryzito in the face. ok maybe not that dramatic, but your tip is going to take a hit, no doubt.

the douchebag from the ups ‘whiteboard’ commercials. partcularly his douchebag haircut. and i’m not alone in this. adam? right? you’re with me on this, remember?

sweaters that are too short or have 3/4 sleeves. gross.

hot feet. cold feet are no picnic either, but hot feet are the worst.

tapered pant legs. vomit.

soul patches. (see ‘love’ section for acceptable facial hair configurations).

cat dander. yes, your kitty is adorable. now keep it the hell away from me.

when people say ‘chipolte’ and ‘expresso.’

CILANTRO.

anything that tastes like licorice. anise. fennel. jaegermeister. blackjack gum. ouzo. sambuca. you get my drift.

towers girls.

jason varitek.

castor oil.

when girls in close proximity spin their heads around in mock surprise/excitement because some whitehat just walked in the room, and their ponytail smacks you in the face.

wagner. i’d rather listen to ace of base for 12 hours straight than one movement of wagner.

ok, that’ll do it for hate. i’m sure i’ll come up with more later. maybe i’ll do a yearly love/hate in case anyone forgets how opinionated i am.

now, for the hot sauce.

I LOVE:

the smell of just blown out candles and matches.

tim tams!

manual transmissions (automatics are for pansies. i know you feel me on this one, right mom?)

wisconsin.

sundays.

full beards.

sand dollars. actually any dollars are pretty sweet but mermaid money is the bestest of all.

hops. ipa’s are mvp of the beer world.

oxtails.

jabberwocky.

butter.

tadpoles. especially the word tadpole. a close second to the word ‘twilight’ in the great words realm.

earl grey tea.

finn’s.

sleep.

sports.

LOST!!!

maryland blue crabs.

vicodin.

phish phrys.

new zealand.

frisbee.

modigliani.

ok that should cover it for this installment.

phew. i feel better now. i needed to get that off my chest. everyone have a wonderful friday.

hey pam, remember at work last week, when i got all heated when you said higgs might not start on monday, and i stamped off in a fury like a 4 year old who didn’t get a jello pudding pop after dinner?

please excuse my behavior.  i was under sniper fire.

and pops, remember how we were at that show and i thought it sucked so i made us leave and then they played your favorite song?  and jimi hendrix came back from the dead to play with them? 

oops.  sniper fire, brah.  not at all heady.

and mom, remember a while back when i was 6 or 7 sheets to the wind and let trrr drive your gti? and well, uh, you know.

i was actually under sniper fire.

hey mae, remember when i hid from you outside finn’s when all you were trying to do was put me in a cab?  and i wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding because the helium balloons i had stolen from the gym on the corner were sticking out from my hiding place?

sorry about that.  sniper fire.

oh and shan, remember at your wedding when i dropped my keys in the lake and had to bribe your friend jordan to give me a ride to the airport and i missed brunch and i had to pay $350 to have the rental towed from grand rapids to minneapolis?

sniper fire.

hey jeanette, remember in high school when i told your mom you were drunk because i was scared but then you got grounded for like, a month?

SNIPER. FIRE.

clearly, sniper fire is a real problem in this country.  in fact, i can’t remember the last time i made a mistake that wasn’t due to sniper fire.  well don’t worry everyone.  i have a solution to this problem.

all i need to do is get a gun and some binoculars, and then i can snipe the shit out of everybody.  hooah.

i’ve never met a vitamin that didn’t smell really, really rank.

what’s the deal with that?

since i haven’t had a good night sleep in, oh, i don’t know, 8 months, i’ve been trying all sorts of remedies.   some legal (exercise, chamomile tea, lorazepam, cotes du rhone, reading about storm drainage), some not exactly legal  (ak-47 from west county- so far the most effective means of knocking myself unconscious)- you get the picture.  some of my heady friends said to try valerian root.  so i got some of that too.

last night i took a valerian, as i had a big day today and needed my beauty rest.

as soon as i opened the bottle, i thought i was going to vomit.  and after i swallowed it, i had to wash my hands like 3 times and break out the lavender lotion to get rid of the reekiness.

then i started thinking (bad idea when you want to pass out) about how all vitamins are really, really offensive to the olfactory senses.

comments? thoughts?  anyone know of any vitamins that smell like pumpkin pie?

or more importantly, anyone know how to sleep like you did when you were a kid?  i’ll try just about anything at this point.  except ambien.  it makes people into zombies.

am i the only one who notices that when john thompson does basketball commentary for georgetown basketball games (like he is right now for the ncaa tournament) he only talks about georgetown?

it’s like the other team isn’t really there.  they could be playing another sport altogether.  or wearing banana hammocks.  or have no legs.  and he’d still be like “yup.  you gotta look out for jackson.  he’s georgetown’s only senior and he’s a great offensive power. ”

the other team just dunked in georgetown’s face, and the crowd is going wild, it’s the sickest dunk ever in the history of basketball.  and john thompson’s like “georgetown’s defense is having some real issues here.  they need to get back like they did all season.  this is really out of character for them.”  no props for the other team.  no recognition for the shellacking they’re laying down on his beloved hoyas.   just excuses.

i’ve been listening for an hour, and i don’t think he’s even mentioned the other team.  if he didn’t have other dude there to throw their name around once a quarter, i’d have to look at my bracket to see who gtown is playing.

i mean i know you coached there and your kid is coaching now, but jesus.  it’s like the madden/favre obsession.  get a grip.

happy zombie day, ladies and germs.

i ask myself this because despite my own often misunderstood fashion sense, i have determined that i absolutely have the right to mentally critique others on their personal style (or lack thereof).

there is a local watering hole near my current residence. let’s call it shinnegan’s.

at this fine establishment is a bartender. one of the ornery brand of bartender, who recoil at the suggestion that they concoct any drink with more than two ingredients (ice counts as an ingredient- as i’m sure you can imagine, this is NOT where i look to procure the one and only barryzito).

so this bartender, we’ll call him sheffrey, has a strange proclivity towards ping pong. not playing it (although i assume he does that too), but watching it. not watching it live, no sir, but on tv. not just on tv (as if that isn’t weird enough), but on recorded compilations that he has somehow procured, which have highlights of the great ping pong battles of the modern era. i mean, who doesn’t want to watch the showdown between ping pong juggernauts japan and yugoslavia from the 1976 world championships? sheffrey has favorite players, he can name signature moves “that’s the famous pavolovsky defense!!” shef wipes tear from eye “it’s a beautiful thing to behold.”

it’s slightly disturbing that sheffrey enjoys this bizarre obsession at home, but what can i say? what a man does in his own domain is truly nobody else’s business. but it becomes my business (along with the rest of the shinnegan’s patronship) because he insists on watching them WHILE HE’S WORKING IN THE BAR.

there’s perfectly good baseball on. football is about to get rolling. we could watch GOLF, for christ’s sake. but no. it’s the women’s team finals, and korea came to PLAY.

so i’m at the bar, doing the crossword puzzle, waiting for some reinforcements to show up, and i can’t help but start watching. at first, i find myself riveted. the facial expressions alone are enough to keep you interested. but since there has probably never been a more repetitive sport on television, EVER, after a while i start noticing the player’s clothing.

jesus christ. the humanity.

i’m watching korea play some now-defunct eastern european dictatorship, and i’m like “man.”

not like “man, this is awful.” more like “man.” because the commentary tells me i’m watching a women’s match, but you could have fooled me! but before i go into a personal tirade of judgement, i realize i need to check myself.

no seriously. the thought really occurred to me that i was being really unfair.

they’re from unified korea.

in the 80’s.

they play PROFESSIONAL PING PONG.

what did i expect, a runway show? this was the social equivalent of a tractor pull. these broads were doomed.

at least they were good at table tennis. they kicked backwardistan’s ASS.

which could be a challenge, since being a consultant seems extremely vague. it’s just not clear what consultants actually consult on. sometimes there is some additional information attached, like ‘real estate consultant’, but even that is sort of murky.

“should i buy this house?”

“no. that will be $500 dollars.”

the dictionary definition of consult suggests the giving of advice or co-deliberation. is that all there is to it? shit, i can do that with a blindfold on and my arms tied behind my back. while underwater.

i mean, these ‘consultant’ types seem to do pretty well for themselves. and there doesn’t seem to be any formal education required. i don’t remember a bachelors of consulting being thrown around at the old uw, that’s for sure.

so i now officially throw my hat into the consulting ring. go ahead, ask me anything.

“do you think that guy’s cute?”

“no. to what address should i send your bill?”

or,

“will you check this for me?”

“you spelled unnecessary wrong. there are two ‘n’s.  i’m going to need that check by tuesday. i’m WAY overdue for a pedicure.”

better yet,

“do you understand the theory of relativity?”

“what do you think? i accept cash or paypal. sorry bro, no personal checks.”

this is what i imagine the life of a consultant consists of.

i’m having my business cards printed immediately.

p.s. happy birthday jameson.

with myself.

seriously. i cause myself more bodily harm than anyone else ever could.

me and the ladies went to catalina for a quasi bachelorette throwdown for minnesota shan. i thought we’d be sort of roughing it. not so. the rangers carried our gear to TC5 (our super plush tent cabin), then they brought us firewood, and invited us to a dance party at the bar (you heard me, the bar). one of them, the girl one, took a particular liking to yours truly. i do have a special touch with the ladies, i have to say.

anyhow fast forward to the next day (that night was sort of x rated. my mom reads this blog). and i wake up with an elbow the size of a softball. you’d think with all the 5 star amenities, i could make it through the night without collateral damage. no dice.

me: ouch.

tina: how’d you get that?

me: i think i fell down on the way up the hill after the dance party.

shan: naw, it was probably when you fell down on the dance floor.

maria: which time?

shan: the second time.

tina: maybe you got it when you were climbing up onto the other tent cabin next door?

shan: or dancing on the table?

tina: my soccer ball rolled down the hill into some cactus.

me: who’s that dude in our cabin?

and so on.

the next night, back in LA, we go out for dinner and margaritas. fast forward to the next morning (that night was sort of x rated. my dad reads this blog). i wake up with a weird rash on my face. it’s like scabby town all around my mouth and nose.

me: what the fuck is on my face?

shannon: herpes.

me: seriously, what is this? i think it might be impetigo, the dreaded flesh eating face disease. my little bro used to get it when he lived in the woods.

shan: you might be better off with herpes.

tina: i wonder if it has anything to do with drinking 7 really salty margaritas and passing out with saltchunks all over your face.

hmmm. turns out tina’s pretty smart. the pharmacist was like “it’s dry skin. here’s some cortisone. idiot.”

okay she didn’t call me an idiot but i know what she was thinking. since i was thinking basically the same thing.

i think i’ll join a support group for battered women.