Schlomi-WOW!

"You're gonna love my nuts."

That's what Vince Schlomi told me late one night. I was tired, confused and perhaps drank one "Diet 7-Up" too many, but I heard him loud and clear. He then went on to tell me that I was going to "slap my troubles away".

Had I known then what I know now, I would have laughed so hard that I would have wet my pants. Twice over.

For you see, Schlomi had foretold his own downfall in a way that could easily fit a high school English teacher's example of foreshadowing. Perhaps you mindlessly stumbled upon his mugshot at some point over the last 24 hours...

... although it's more likely that you stumbled upon one of his infomercials, much as I did that late night. And if you're anything like me, you'll be saying "Wow!" every time you hear this story.

As I burned the midnight oil and the evening wound to an end, the episode of Family Matters that I had found myself entrenched in took a brief break, at which point Vince approached me and offered me something he called the "Slap Chop". Normally I don't go for stuff like that, but he seemed like a cool guy, so I heard him out.

He told me I could be slapping my troubles away. "The more you do it, the finer it gets!" How can I argue with that?

As he spent two minutes pushing this "lifestyle choice" upon me, I realized that we had met before. It was a similar time, late in the evening and after a "Diet Dr. Pepper" or two. He tried to sell me some piece of shit towel called the ShamWow!

I knew that name and overly aggressive sales pitch sounded familiar! "You following me camera guy?" How did he know my profession?!

So here's the point... it came to my attention today that my late night buddy Vince, or Schlomi, as I know him, recently came into a bit of trouble. Really a victim of circumstance, if you ask me.

I mean, who among us can't say they've found themselves in a South Beach hotel, where their prostitute bit their tongue and wouldn't let go, forcing you to beat her down and call the cops. That's never happened to you? Well, me neither, but it certainly made for a rough Schlomi outing.

"Use it on your car! Your dog! Your RV! Use it to mop up your hooker's blood! Olympic divers use it!"

All I can say is, "Sham-WOW!"

Oh, and that I've been wanting to beat that guy up since the first time I saw one of those damn 2-minute commercials. Judging from his booking photo, looks like his hooker beat me to it.

UPDATE

Be sure not to miss the remixed version of his Slap-Chop commercial. I can't get enough of this:

Lil' Drummer Boy

Day to day, life is full of slow, repetitive tasks. As a result, most of us make an effort to break the mundane repetitiousness of everyday life, whether it's through adventures, friends, booze or work.

But then there are those who are all about repetitive tasks. Take Russ Prager, for example- a local drummer who decided to take it upon himself to break the world record for drumming. After previously holding the record (and losing six months later by some guy who only beat him by 15 minutes), he returned ready for business.

He wasn't only going to beat the previous record of 1o2 hours of consecutive drumming (with a 5 minute break every hour- which could be skipped and accumulated to allow for a 20 minute power nap after 4 hours), he was looking to destroy it.

Any schmuck could drum for 102 hours. Heck, nerds around the world play Guitar Hero for longer than that. But Russ was here to play, and play for keeps.

Shooting for 120 hours, or five days, Russ set out to do something that had never been done before... then kick it in the nuts and carve his name into its forehead. I caught up with him during the final stretch, and boy, was he running on fumes.

Yes, the man rounded out 12o hours like it was nothing. Well, he was fairly incoherent by the end of the endeavor... both hands had cramped into immovable claws, and he almost fell over a few times since my arrival, but damnit he made it. Mind you, he wasn't exactly cranking out any Metallica covers, but damnit he was drumming!

Upon completion, he declared that he was going to "Go to the bathroom, eat a steak, and take a nap".

Russ Prager... Taking daily repetitive tasks to a new level, and making something of himself as a result.

Now if only I could figure out how to break the record for watching the most consecutive hours of 24. I'm gonna need a lot of beer and Smart Food.

Blocking Molly

I've always been a fan of a good concert. Nothing beats pounding some beers and listening to some quality musicians belting out a catalog of killer tunes.

Back in my high school days, I hit up a Vans Warped Tour or two, and they were pretty sweet. For $20 or so you could get a full day of music out on a pier in San Francisco, in the shadow of the Bay Bridge. Mixed with a slew of unknowns, you'd get some big timers on the stage- Green Day, NOFX, Pennywise, Bad Religion. Often times I'd recognize a band's name and swing by to check them out... out of curiosity more than anything. And more often than not I was disappointed by a bunch of scrubs that didn't know how to put on a show.

But there was one that I came across back in 2000 that really made an impression on me. After sitting through such hack-jobs as Reel Big Fish and Sum-41, I had no high hopes for a band calling themselves Flogging Molly. They were probably gonna play some punk crap that sounded like garbage (not Garbage) and tempt me into calling it an early day. Oh boy, was I ever wrong.

This rowdy bunch of Irishmen (and women) hit the stage in full force, sporting (among the traditional punk rock insturmants) a fiddle, an accordian, a banjo and a tin flute. As they pounded Guiness after Guiness and pelted out anthem after dunken anthem, I found my young self to be in awe of their grand performance. I've never been much of a fan of punk music (or folk music), but these guys kicked ass, and it was undeniable.

If you've never heard of 'em, this one's a personal favorite:

Following their killer performance, I helped stack the line to purchase their new album (Drunken Lullabies, still one of my favorite CDs) and got the full band to sign it. Mind you, I'd never heard of these guys an hour earlier.

A decade or so later, you might imagine how my ears started burning when I heard their name shouted out across the newsroom. Many of the old-timers had no idea who they were... "some punk band" that "liked to drink and do drugs". At least, that's the impression that they got from a newspaper article declaring that a local community college was trying to get them to come and play, despite the objections of several on the student council.

After playing a few tunes to a newsroom ready to string these guys up for being a bunch of immoral no-good-nicks, they found that their brand of musical drunken numbskullery was pretty darn good, and many asked to borrow a CD or two.

As it turns out, the student council members that were working to deny the band's ability to play on campus happened to be a crew that we were familiar with. It was the same crew of student council members that declared a harsh stance for Prop 8 (the gay marriage ban) a few months back. Mind you, this isn't a private or religious school. It's a public community college.

They refused to offer funding for the musical event because the band is "known for cursing, for doing drugs, and drinking- getting drunk on the stage". While the business plan projects thousands of dollars of funding to book rental programs and scholarships, it very well may not happen because these guys are... well... a rock band.

While the primary opponent to the concert admits that he's more into "church and choir music", he's willing to allow a Christian band onto campus in order to "help teach students how to be gentlemen".

Sometimes... you have to wonder if people just like to pick fights wherever they can. If you really want to raise a religious fuss over Prop 8 (even though it's not a Christian school), that's one thing... but trying to block a rock band because they swear and sing about drinking (I've never heard anything about drugs)? It's on a college campus. Just try to go through a day without hearing about drinking and cussing. Give me a break.

If Flogging Molly does eventually make it to town, I'll be there with a pint in my hand (and perhaps a No on 8 sign in my back pocket). If you can't drink and cuss on a college campus, then where the hell can you do it? Mexico? Please.

Where the Beer Flows Like Wine

Workin' the 9 to 5 can be stressful. Everyone has one of those days where they come home to find that you've got no food, you've got no job, and your pets' heads are falling off. You feel like you've gotta get out of this town, but where? Where are you gonna go?

I'll tell you where. Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where the beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talking about a little place called Aspen. (I don't know Lloyd, the French are assholes).

Well, I didn't quite make it to Aspen, but I did manage to high-tail it out to Colorado to meet up with the fam for a few days away from it all.

Flying into Denver, I found that Colorado wasn't quite what I had imagined. After leaving a series of Sierra snow-dumps, I had imagined that the Rocky Mountains would force me to trudge through mounds of the stuff. Not so much. After a two-hour shuttle ride to Beaver Creek (Vail's lil' step-brother), I finally arrived and was ready to start forgetting about the pets' heads falling off with a lil' nectar of the gods.

Day 2, I awoke at the ripe hour of 6:30 AM (5:30 pacific) to cash in on an offer to open the mountain with the ski patrol. While the late night left me with some regrets, they were immediately forgotten once I made it to the top of the hill to discover a gorgeous day.

I figured it'd be nice to get an early start on the mountain, but this was awesome. The ski patrol provided a guided tour through each of the recently groomed runs long before the place even opened. It was like having the mountain closed off to yourself, and it almost made me feel like I was someone important.

I got a solid pair of days boarding the Rockies, and truly enjoyed my first adventure to the Coors Light State. I was lucky enough to hit sunny, fifty degree weather (and avoid a major storm in Sacramento), which I just can't argue with.

After four days of boarding over the last two weeks (including last weekend's adventure), I've returned to Sac with a twisted ankle, a jacked-up knee and a back that's seen better days (plus a wallet that seems a lot lighter than it used to), but I'm not about to complain. It gave me flashbacks to my younger days of adventuring through New Zealand... living out of a suitcase, sleeping on hotel floors, and being beat to hell by my own stupid ambitions. But damnit, it feels good.

I just wish it happened more often. To be continued?