The first EKG test was “abnormal.” Doc kept staring at the results, confused. I asked what “abnormal” meant and he said, ”according to this, you either had a heart attack or you are having one right now.”

I had a really scary hour or so until they took another EKG and chalked the first one up to a fluke.

“We don’t think the wires were hooked up properly. I think you’re fine. Sorry about that,” he said before giving me the ok to leave. “We’ll give you a call if the lab results come back and indicate anything serious, though.”

Haven’t heard a word, so I’m guessing everything is fine.

Anyone else have any fun “you are going to die…wait…whoops, the chart was upside down…you’re fine” stories?

P.S. When I searched google images for “heart attack,” 25% of the results were of scantily clad women holding giant cheeseburgers. (U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!)

#worstpostever

In high school, I was in a band with my friend, Todd Verdin. We were a trio and our first real gig was at a local music festival in the lot of a Waffle House in upstate South Carolina. “Wafflepalooza” featured nine local bands, performing in order of terribleness to tolerableness beginning at noon.

We went on promptly at noon.

Until booking this gig, we called ourselves “Sterile Darryl and the Syphilis Reaction.” We thought it was a funny name. The owner of the Waffle House did not think it was a funny name and insisted that we change it.

“My customers don’t want to see or hear those words while they eat our food,” he told us.

Todd’s father suggested we change our name to “Sterile Darryl and the Eunuchs.” We didn’t know what that meant, but “eunuch” sounded nearly as funny as “syphilis,” so we went with it. I don’t believe the owner of the Waffle House knew what it meant, either, because he went with it as well. And so it was. The band we created in a 90/10 effort to get chicks/play-music was named “Sterile Darryl and the Eunuchs.”

Eventually, we discovered what it meant to be a eunuch and we argued incessantly about which one of us of was “Sterile Darryl” and which were the “Eunuchs.” Being sterile was bad, but not as bad as being a man castrated early enough in life to “have major hormonal consequences.”

At Wafflepalooza, I dropped my pick just prior to the guitar solo in our first song. I motioned to Todd, our drummer, and Joe, our bass player, to keep playing while I retrieved another pick. Clearly, I got my rock band gestures mixed up because, instead of continuing to play, they stopped altogether. Slowly. Painfully. And with judgmental looks on their faces.

I’d like to believe that we got better after that first song, but my parents have a vhs tape of our performance. I saw it a few years ago. The quality of the recording is poor, but not so poor that you could mistake the steady stream of people leaving the lot for anything other than a steady stream of people leaving the lot. We were the first band to play and we were driving the crowd away.

I’ve yet to sit through the entire performance, but what I saw proved my memories to be true. In spite of the awful sounds and scenario we created, we had an extraordinarily good time.

Our chords were wrong, our timing was off, our vocals were shrill and dissonant, but we smiled and danced through each song. I like to think our friendship served as a shield from the pain we should’ve felt at that moment and that’s what kept us from throwing down our instruments and running away crying that day or any of the other countless ones that came and went over the years.

It’s late, though, and I know that I may just be getting sentimental.

When Suburban Rob Zombie (SRZ, for short) neared the bottom of the hill, he hit a bump. The skateboard stopped but SRZ propelled forward and hit the pavement like he was in a belly-flop contest at a pool party. Luckily, SRZ missed landing directly in the intersection, thus avoiding further injury by being run over by passing cars. He picked himself up, looked to see if anyone saw the fall aside from the guy staring at him like the OMG cat (me) and then limped back uphill to get the skateboard.

Click here to view the embedded video.

He started to get back onto the skateboard, reconsidered and tucked it under his arm and walked it down instead. After a few more steps, he sat on the curb and began checking himself for injuries, not as a guy who’d just hit the pavement face-first at 20 mph, but casually and coolly as if he was yawning and stretching. He checked for blood on his head by running his fingers through his hair like he was Christian Slater (obviously not the the Christian Slater from Gleaming the Cube since that Christian Slater never took spills). The light didn’t turn green for at least 2 minutes after the guy fell so I just sat there watching and wondering when SRZ would give up trying to look cool and give in to the pain and humiliation of wiping out on the street. Not until the guy in the Mini Cooper drives away, apparently.

Click here to view the embedded video.

He picked it up, strummed it a couple times and said, “Actually, mine is signed by every artist that performed on Hope for Haiti, but otherwise…same one.”

He strummed it again and the pick slipped from his hands and bounced out of reach under a sofa.

“I owe you a pick,” he said as he put the guitar down and left the room.

We got stuck at work pretty late earlier this week. We ordered dinner and a couple of us gathered in one of the larger offices to eat. A few minutes in, a coworker decided to video chat via IM with his 11 year old daughter since he wouldn’t be home to say goodnight.

Our supervisor didn’t know about the video chat when he walked into the room. He saw my coworker with food and jokingly said, “Oh I got something for you to eat.” He then gestured as if he was ejaculating into my coworker’s mouth. My coworker’s daughter asked, “Dad, what is he doing” and the supervisor froze in place, horrified.

“I was just trying to have dinner with my little girl, man,” my coworker said.

The supervisor was genuinely embarrassed. He leaned into the frame and waved apologetically to the little girl. “Hey, I’m really sorry. I’m a reeeeeaaaaal asshole. Sorry. Seriously.” He left the room, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I almost felt bad for him.

“So that’s my boss,” my coworker said to his daughter.

“Is this weird,” I asked. “It feels weird.”

“It might be. Personally, I don’t think we need pictures of any living relatives. If we want to see what you look like, we’ll visit you.”

“Exactly.”

“If you’re dead, though, then you get a picture on the wall or the mantle. That’s your reward for dying.”

That’s a kickass reward, but I’m crossing my fingers that all goes well and we get to take the pictures down after they leave.

Pic via www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com

I just noticed this on the fridge at work. Made me laugh.