There’s a running joke (one for which I don’t particularly care) between my parents and myself. It involves the last thing any child wants to hear from their parents—the story of my conception. Here’s what I wrote in February of this year on my old blog:
Often times, your personal traits and characterstics are from sources unknown. Maybe you have an inkling of a clue as to where or what formed that trait, but for the most part, you are who you are and it’s hard to tell where you got *you* from. If there’s one aspect of my life where I do know the source, however, it’s my hair-trigger gag-reflex aversion to Bruce Springstein.
About a month ago, my mom called me. We were just chit-chatting about whatever, and she says to me “Hey, did you see the Bruce Springstein is doing the halftime show at the Super Bowl?” “Yeah, so?” Well, I guess it’s just different for me, but I was excited. You know…you were conceived after a Bruce Springstein concert.” “I’m getting off the phone now.”
I was doing well last night. We had won free stuff at the bar, and I had drank enough by halftime to almost, *almost* forget about that little tidbit my mom had shared with me. Hell, I was even watching the halftime show. And then my phone rang. “Hello?” Mom and Dad: “TRAMPS LIKE US! BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUNNNNNNNNNN!!!” I proceeded to spend the rest of the game drinking at a furious pace in order to try to force the image of my conception out of my head. GROSS.
I’ll just say that I ended the night with a $90 bar tab and a cab-ride home. Mission: accomplished.
Well, as I mentioned vaguely in my haikus a few days ago, I got a turntable for free, and am now spinning some sweet 33’s on a nightly basis. As it turns out, Ross had some old records stashed away somewhere including such great hits as “Smurfing Sing Song” and “The Smurfs All-Star Show” to name a few. And when I say “a few others,” I mean Springstein’s “Born to Run” album. When I came in last night, he had “Born to Run” cranked up as loud as it would go. I think I had told him the aforementioned story before, and he was doing it to spite me because I said I’d be running around the apartment naked when Carolyne, his girlfriend, gets here on Tuesday. Suffice it to say that I tore the record off of there with a classic SKREEEEEETCH on the record player. Not that exciting, I know. But I’m running on fumes in the funny-stuff-to-talk-about department. Man, don’t you hate it when comics recycle old material?
OHHOLYSHIT! I saw a Delorian the other day. I don’t really have anything else to say on the matter other than that I was disappointed that he wasn’t driving 88mph.
Alright, it’s time to regroup. I’ll come back with something more entertaining tomorrow. And how, here’s your moment of Zen mustache.