Week of the Geek

Yes, it's that time of year again: Comic-Con. Every summer during the end of July, San Diego hosts the biggest Comic convention in the world. Nerds, Geeks and Celebrities alike show up to promote the latest in paperback, film and television alike. Some even elaborately dress the part, parading as characters ranging from Doctor Strange to Ramona Flowers to Jay and Silent Bob's own Cockknocker. In order to acknowledge the event, I ask you to enjoy the following pic of this guy...The Fat Flash.

This guy couldn't outrun my mom. He even looks bewildered, like the photographer just snuck up on him. My favorite part though is the cop's uniform hanging behind him. God, I hope this schmuck is an officer of the law.

Conversations with Girls, #1: The Beer Bottle

I've been on a lot of dates. I can't say whether that's a good thing or not, but regardless, I've built a library of stories from these experiences. This column is dedicated to the more kooky women I've had the pleasure of sharing a few drinks with. ...God bless you, I'm really glad it didn't work out between us.

When: 2003

Where: A Hair Salon in Downtown Cleveland

All I remember of this girl was that the whole night was the result of a set-up by some friends that were trying to prove to me that they're really not my friends at all. She was a hairdresser and they thought it'd be clever for me to make an appointment with her at the end of her shift, then head to the lounge next door for a drink when she was done. Like the sucker that I am, I did. The conversation in the chair went something like this:

Crazy Woman with Scissors: Any big plans for the weekend?

Me: Yeah, I have some work to do on my house then just hanging out with friends. It should be pretty low-key, but that's cool. How about you?

CWwS: Oh, low key is good. I wouldn't mind having a low-key weekend this time around. As long as it's not like last weekend, I'll be happy.

Me: Why, what happened last weekend?

CWwS: Oh, not much. ...Well, I think I really hurt someone. ...No, I'm sure he's okay, but it was freaky.

Me: What do you mean you really hurt someone? Like, broke up with a guy or something?

CWwS: No, nothing like that. (snip snip) No, I mean I think I may have put someone in the hospital. I'm pretty sure he got really fucked up.

Me: ....

CWwS: Okay, but it totally wasn't my fault. I mean, okay, here's what happened. It soooo shouldn't be a big deal, but whatever. So my friends and I are out dancing and whatever. (snip snip) And there's this guy. Well, he tried this line on me, something stupid. I don't even know what it was. Like I had pretty eyes or something. It was just...stupid. So I just hit him over the head with a beer bottle.

Me: Wait...you what?

CWwS: I know, right? Have you ever seen anyone get hit over the head with a beer bottle? It's not like it is on TV where they just fall down. Nope, not at all. There's blood. Like, gushing blood. And the glass, it just, well it just sticks in there, like little daggers.

Me: (staring at her scissors with growing paranoia) Uhh....I don't--

CWwS: Okay, but in my defense, I really didn't know it was going to be like that. You know? Like I said, every time I see it happen on TV or in the movies, the guy who gets hit doesn't bleed. He just falls down, or doesn't do anything at all. Like 'John What's-his-name' in that college movie...Animal something-or-other

Me: Animal House

CWwS: Yeah! He just stood there and he even hit himself! This guy...no way, man. He just fell backwards, put his hands over his face and just started screaming. Like this; AHHHhhh! Aghhhhhhh! (she actually mimicked him screaming in pain). It was awful.

Me: Uh huh.

CWwS: And you know the worst part?

Me: God, no. What?

CWwS: I actually felt the glass cut his skin, you know? Like the edges of the bottle just dug in there and totally ripped open his scalp. I felt it. So weird... (At this point, she kind of trailed off, stopped cutting my hair and stared off into space for a few seconds.)

Me: Umm? Hi?

CWwS: What? Oh yeah. So anyway, we just grabbed out stuff and bolted. That's messed up, right?

Me: (nervously) Totally, yeah.

CWwS: So that was my weekend. Nuts, huh? Hopefully I won't be doing any more of that any time soon. Haha.

Me: (even more nervously) Heh heh, ...Let's hope so.

CWwS: (frighteningly sarcastic and wielding her scissors toward the mirror) So you better be nice to me... Haha...

Me: ...oh, don't you worry.

The rest of the time I was in that God-forsaken chair, I sat in awkward silence, not knowing quite what to say for fear that she'd take it wrong and plunge those scissors into my jugular. She, on the other hand, seemingly took no notice as she finished my whack job of a hair cut, whistling to herself the entire time. Needless to say, I skipped out on drinks afterwards, mumbling some excuse about having to finish up some office work for a deadline. I also walked away from her sporting the worst hair cut I've ever gotten in my life.

I went back to a friend that worked in the same salon a week or so later, specifically on a day that she wasn't working, only to find out that I just missed her being fired. They fixed my hair the best they could, at no extra charge. I've never gone back.

Pizza

Recently, I've been getting somewhat experimental in the kitchen. I like it. Sometimes it's fun. Other times, I create a disaster. Regardless, most of the time I'm the only one judging the end product so the failures seem a bit more few and far between. ...As far as everyone knows.

A few nights ago, I had a girl over for dinner. I asked her if she liked pizza, she said yes, and from that point forward until she arrived, I believe I set her expectations at level "laziest guy ever." Not so, as she was led to believe. My dad bakes a lot of homemade pizzas, and he's actually gotten pretty good at it, to the point where his friends have suggested on multiple occasions for him to open up his own shop, so if I learned from anyone, I learned from him. Using that experience, I decided to get experimental that night and set out to make a Brazilian pizza. I have no idea what this would entail, but it sounded cool and different. So I did some research on Brazilian gourmet and came up with the following toppings. To quote the intended, "This is [expletive] amazing."

Before I did anything, I cut a thinly sliced Top Sirloin steak into thin strips and marinated them in coconut milk, coriander, and cumin for about an hour. Gross, right? You'll think I'm lying, but not so much. Like I said, experimental. I then made the dough from scratch, rolled it flat into a thin, square shape, pinched the edges and laid it into a greased pan. After that, I spread over the crust a tomato-based ranchero sauce that I got from the Central American recipe isle of the grocery store. I can't remember who makes it, but I've used it as a base for Spanish rice and enchilada sauces. It's got a sweet flavor to it...pretty amazing stuff. After pan frying the strips of steak, I added them first, followed by black beans, a fully diced tomatillo, garlic, mild green chilies, slices of red onion, thinly-sliced tomatoes and all topped with crumbled goat cheese. I threw it in the oven for about 20 minutes at 400 degrees and it was set to go.

Needless to say, if it ended up being a disaster, I wouldn't be bragging about it here. Give it a shot sometime. It was fairly amazing. I hear all the Brazilians are doing it.

I Apparently Have Emotional Scars

The memory of this conversation always makes me laugh. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised being a fairly bohemian individual, employed by a highly conservative firm. I know some of these guys don't always know what to think of me with my paisley shirts, ever-changing facial hair and cowboy boots, but that's okay. I don't mind. I do my job and they're pleased with what I produce, so it's come to be accepted. Great.

A few weeks ago, fully bearded (think Zach Galifinakis or Robinson Crusoe) and shaggy haired (it's about at my shoulders now), I poked my head into one of our sales director's offices to discuss a charitable project I was helping him with. Let's call him Ned. My boss was in there with him. Let's call him Boss. The conversation went something like this.

Me: I need to go over these designs with you. Give me a call when you guys are done.

Ned: Wait a minute.

Me: What?

Ned: Get in here. (I do.) Stand right there and look at me. (I did.)

(This is followed by about 10 seconds of awkward silence. ... I don't like it.)

Me: This is weird.

Ned: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: Huh?

Ned: What are you hiding?

Me: I don't understand what you're...

Ned: You're hiding something. I want to know what.

Me: I'm not hiding anything. What the hell? Boss, I--

Boss: Nope. Leave me out of it.

Ned: Do you know what my dad did for a living?

Me: No idea.

Ned: He was the police commissioner for the city of Cleveland.

Me: Okay.

Ned: He taught me how to read people. After decades of service on the Force, he had this theory about men who grow out their beards.

Me: Yeah?

Ned: He told me, "A man with a beard is hiding either a physical scar, or an emotional scar."

Me: I don't have any scars, Ned.

Ned: Well, not any physical scars, obviously. You're a very good-looking young man when you don't look like Ted Bundy.

Me: Thanks. I don't have any emotional scars either.

Ned: And yet, you have a mass of hair covering your face.

Me: I just felt like growing it out. I like it.

Ned: Men don't just 'like' beards. It's like a big, dead animal. A big, dead animal right on your face.

Me: I do. And no, it's not.

Ned: Nope, you're emotionally scarred. I can sense it. So let's get to the bottom of this issue. Right now.

Me: I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Is it because of a girl?

Me: No, there's no girl. I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Do you have Daddy issues? Mommy issues?

Me: What? No.

This dialog, question/yes & no answer format, went on for another ten or so rounds. My boss, standing silent to the side of us, shifted his neck back and forth, as if he were at Wimbledon. Finally, I cut Ed's little questionnaire clean off.

Me: Okay, do you want to know why I like growing out my beard?

Ned: I already know, but go ahead. Enlighten me.

Me: Sure. When I was little, like five, I saw my grandpa shaving. I thought it was the coolest thing. So I say to him, "Grandpa, I can't wait till I get to shave too."

He looks at me with the most grave, dire expression on his face and tells me, "Kid," because he always referred to me as Kid...never Brian...not once, "Kid, don't ever say such a thing again. Do you hear me?" he warned. "Never."

At this point he puts down his razor and kneels down in front of me, clasping his hands over my shoulders to desperately accentuate his point in a most dramatic fashion. An uncharacteristic gesture for him, I might add.

"Shaving is the bane of my existence," he continued. "I hate it. I despise it. If society and your Grandma would let me, I would never shave again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Grandpa," I replied.

"Kid, promise me you'll never again look forward to the day you start start shaving," he desperately concludes to me. "Because once that day comes, you'll be at it nearly every single day for the rest of your life. Enjoy your pre-pubescent freedom while you have it."

(Ned is looking at me, confidently unconvinced.)

Me: And with that, I decided that I didn't like shaving. To this day, I've grown to hate it. Even when I shave, I don't really shave; I clip. It's just me. He was right. In addition, I don't have a wife and I don't really care what 'society' finds acceptable in the realm of facial hair, so I let it go. And I have fun with it. I can trim it into fu-man-choos and Wolverine chops. I can grow it long, or I can buzz it to scruff. Hell, I could cut my sideburns into a profile of Alfred Hitchcock if I wanted to. I. Don't. Care.

Ned: So you have Grand-daddy issues. Got it. Now go shave your beard.

I tell him I can't, that his wife told me she loved it last night. He laughs and flicks me off. I turn around and walk back to my desk. He still tells me to shave nearly every time he sees me. We're still friends. I still have a beard.

Good to know you, Ned. Because of you, I apparently have emotional scars.