Steve's Peeves: Stranger in a strange land

I came home today exhausted, like I usually am on Mondays. My body and 4 am do not get along.

Like the 80-year-old man I am, I napped ... for about two hours. And man, my subconscious was in overdrive. Vivid dreams pulsated in my sleepy projector brain. I dreamed about dreaming about losing my teeth. And I was losing my teeth to some sort of Smoke Monster-esque evil force that caused my teeth to jar loose. It only had power over me if I allowed it by ending my dream's dream. So when I decided to ignore the evil force, my teeth came back.

To summarize, my dream self dreamed about losing teeth to an evil, shadowy force. The dream self inside my dream self knew I had to get up from this dream within a dream where my teeth were becoming loose.

Yeah, intense.

Also, I dreamed about stuffed reindeer that walked upright and I could not tell between two identical ones -- one an enemy and one a friend.

I unfurl this belabored lede in a roundabout manner to explain my brain's proclivity for overreaction this afternoon. My old enemy had reared its fangs once again. This enemy has haunted me since I first came onto this earth.

People.

More specifically, strangers.

Below I will list some strange encounters I've had with strange strangers who have weirded me out strangely.

First, back in December before my trip back to Rhode Island, I exited a pet store with a Christmas present for Jelly. A black van stopped by me in a darkened parking lot. A guy came out of the passenger side door and offered me an entertainment system.

Naturally skeptical of this stranger in a black van offering me goodies, I declined. He persisted. I persisted in my rejection. So I walked on to my car and the van followed me.

"C'mon, man. It's right in the back. Great set. I'm just trying to be nice."

"Thanks," I said firmly and politely. "But I'm good."

"It's right in the back."

"No thanks." This time with force. Perhaps it was the inflection of my authoritative voice or my intimidating physique, but the black van drove off at last, most likely to find another victim to cut into tiny pieces and eat for breakfast.

Second incident. Just last week I was walking along a busy street on a beautiful, absolutely perfect Florida afternoon. Suddenly, another car slowed down to my left and a man with spikey hair, probably late 20s, leaned out the window and hooted and hollered like a construction worker watching Jessica Alba stroll by. He wasn't alone. Whoever else accompanied him in that car also whistled. I think the guy even puckered his lips. It happened pretty fast. The car drove on, unable to stop in heavy traffic.

At least when a woman is objectified in such a manner, she can think to herself, "The opposite sex finds me so attractive they can't contain their urges." I can only credit myself for a.) inspiring a car-full of mischievous heterosexual hoodlums into a joke or b.) inspiring a car-full of roving homosexual hoodlums into cat-calls.

Either scenario is not uplifting.

The third incident. I'm driving in Boca Raton and I stop at a red light. A car full of youths ask me where Wakefield plaza is. Plazas are a dime-a-dozen in South Florida. So I told them I had no idea. They weren't done.

"Hey, man. You do drugs?"

"Uh, no."

"You want any?"

I just told you I don't do drugs, idiot. "No thanks." I then stare straight ahead like a mannequin, the red light refusing to change colors.

"I've got a whole bunch of shit here." He then listed a bunch of drugs I'd never heard before. Mind you, this took place in broad daylight. I continued to stare straight ahead. A passer-by on a bike distracted them long enough until the light turned green and I turned into Paul Walker from "Fast & Furious: Part IV: Speed Kills."

The last, and most minor incident also occurred in Boca. I was going to the most fancy movie theater I've been to in years to see "The Kings' Speech." This theater had valet parking. It also had a cheap matinee ticket. So as I'm walking up to the outdoor booth to purchase my admittance, a portly teenager in glasses stared me down the whole way. I grew suspicious of him just feet away from my car.

He kept staring at I kept walking toward him. I walked past him and he turned and gave me a dumb-ass glare, like I was only dressed in orange underwear. On that day, I wasn't. I happened to be wearing my Jim James band t-shirt. Perhaps he was so astounded to see someone in that shirt he couldn't speak.

I waited in line and he continued to stare. I summoned all my powers pretending to ignore him from that point on. Once I had my ticket, I speed-walked into the theater. Watching previews of that horrible looking Matthew Perry show sure beat this weird kid.

I ask, "What in the name of Rachel Maddow is going on with people?"

When you sit back and wonder at the origins of my stranger-phobia, don't forget these stories.

Steve's Peeves: The Grammys suck

I have nothing against Taylor Swift, but how does she take home four Grammys? I've heard these songs. Not my cup of tea, to say the least. And the Grammys almost never honor, or even nominate, bands that I like. Nirvana never sniffed anything and they were only the most important band on the 1990s. Pearl Jam won one Grammy ... for Spin the Black Circle, which might be their 321st best song. Led Zeppelin? Zilch.

I understand the Grammy Academy has the same listening capabilities as Helen Keller and we never see eye-to-eye. I've long accepted this fact. But Taylor Swift's songs seem like the soundtracks for those terrible ABC Family shows starring 16-year-olds who own horses or those terrible Disney shows with the obnoxious laugh tracks and the precocious, annoying little kids. And she wins four Grammys, including the big one, Album of the Year.

Am I as out of touch as Andy Rooney? I might be.

She now has as many Album of the Year awards as the Beatles (which says more about the Grammys than Swift).

By the way, Kings of Leon won a Grammy for an album released in 2008. How does that work?

I have never understood this award show, except for the "If you perform during the ceremony, you win at least one award" rule. They do love their singer/song-writers and the old favorites. If Tony Bennett or Stevie Wonder released an album with them humming "Happy Birthday" 12 times, it would get nominated.

Bitching about award shows is standard fare. The Oscars certainly missed the boat a few times. Al Pacino never won for the role of Michael Corleone. Citizen Cane was snubbed. Saving Private Ryan, too. Brokeback Mountain losing to Crash. At least, if you look back in time and see the nominees, you have a clue as to what the best movies of that year were. Same with the Emmys. You get at least a clue.

Not with the Grammys.

Think of all the bands and albums they've missed out on just in Rock. Led Zeppelin, Neil Young and The Who never won Grammys (discounting achievement awards). Going back to Nirvana ... they release a song that revolutionizes music - not just rock music - in Smells Like Teen Spirit. Nevermind ushers in a new era. How many albums and songs can make that claim?

So Nevermind was released in 1991. Maybe it wasn't eligible for the 1992 Grammy for Album of the Year, which went to ... Natalie Cole. Sure it would get its just due in 1993. Instead, Eric Clapton won for an unplugged album! This would be like giving Tim Wakefield the Cy Young last year over Zack Greinke. Clapton's accoustic version of Layla, a song which was decades old by then, won Song of the Year. An acoustic cover of a decades-old song beat out one of the most influential and popular songs in the history of rock music.

Or, more succinctly, just another year for the Grammys.

Check out this link I found, which details some of the most insane Grammy decisions of all time. It's funny how pathetic some of these snubs are.

Anyway, good for Taylor Swift. She genuinely seems like a nice person and I'm starting to sound like Kanye West. Don't worry, I will be sure to congratulate her when she wins Best Director at at the Oscars in several weeks. It's not her fault. Apparently, everyone loves her. She has four Grammys. And Kurt Cobain never had one.

Bill's in town

This is my 100th blog post. In celebration, I plan on using some salty language. You've been warned.

Bill Maher came to Northeastern while I was there and yet I did not go. Since then, I've regretted it. Friday night I finally made amends, traveling down to Miami beach to see Maher at the Jackie Gleason theater.

He was fantastic.

This is a (mostly) family blog, so it will be tough to relay what he said. He went off on the usual subjects, from Republicans to drugs to marriage and, of course, religion. I'll paraphrase a few of his memorable jokes.

On Scientology: It's gotta take some massive balls to tell another human being what happened 12 trillion years ago. And not even talk generally, like the earth was cooling. No, you know the name. 'Zenu. 12 trillion years ago. End of story'

On the Rapture: Jesus has been dead for 2,000 years and has yet to come back. Of course, these nuts think he's coming back ... in their lifetime. "He wants to meet me! Hey Jesus, Bob Feldstein here. Big fan. I know you must be real busy but if you can just give me one autograph."

On married men: I knew these guys before they were married. They used to be mustangs. Now they're like the horse in central park with the blinders on, just walking all day in a circle.

And I hear them on the phone in the airport. "Hi, I'm checking my bags. Hi, I'm sitting down now. Hi, I'm going into the plane now. Love you. Love you, too. Love you more." Why don't you just put on a husband cam so she can see what you do every second of every day, you pathetic, pussy-whipped piece of shit."

On relationships: Men and women don't have mutual fantasies. Your fantasies bore us. Our fantasies offend you. You fantasize about a charming prince on a white stallion galloping in a meadow and picking you up and promising you his undying love. We fantasize about cumming on your face.

On Tiger Woods: If his wife was black, that driver would not have gone through his back window. It would've been through the back of his head.

On Republicans: It's unfair to say the Republicans hate black people. They also hate Mexicans.

On presidents: Don't think if I make fun of Obama I'm making fun of all black people. When I made fun of George Bush all those years, it wasn't aimed at all retards.

On stress: Stress is a normal part of life. It's nature. Ever see animals? Look at a squirrel. It's the most stressed-out animal on earth. "I know I'm gonna die. I know it. I just want this acorn but I now I'm gonna die." (Mimics chewing an acorn and nervously looking in every direction.)

On people being offended by his religious stuff: They tell me religion does no harm. Really? I guess they're right, if you don't count most wars, 9/11, the Inquisition, the Crusades, stonings, oppression of women, blacks, homosexuals, Jews, beheadings, suicide bombers, human sacrifice, mutilation and molested children.

Obviously, he's not politically correct. But that's part of his charm. There were many more great bits to which I can do no justice. He brought the house down, except for the one woman in front of me who seemed to be sleeping and another old lady who left when he started talking about "pussyboners." (A female version of an erection, in case you didn't know.) What was she expecting?

Time for some bonus Steve's Peeves time.

On my way down to Miami, some woman started honking at me for not taking a right on green. I couldn't go because if I did, I would have killed or hurt two pedestrians. She ends up passing me seconds later and gives me the wide-eyed look of the Pissed Off Driver. I usually don't do this, but I flipped her the bird. Sorry I kept you from your destination an extra three seconds. I know you were on your way to something very important.

I ended up parking ten minutes away and walked through the Lincoln Road strip of flashy clubs and restaurants. If you know me, I don't like to be bothered when walking around. No one cares about that, obviously. People are always asking for money or a signature to save the seagulls or something. I literally had to run an obstacle course to miss all the pests on my walk to the theater.

You know how restaurants will put a good looking person, usually a woman, near the display menu? Well, every single place on Lincoln Road seems to have one. So just because you're a cute blonde, I'm going to want to drop 50 bucks on lobster bread? Is there anything else in it for me? No? Didn't think so.

They were like pesky mosquitoes at dusk. They wouldn't go away. When you swat one away, another takes its place. Very, very annoying.

Anyway, a fun night. I finally saw one of my favorite comedians live and he came through. He even gave me a new word in pussyboner. Not sure I could ever use it in an appropriate manner. And he called Sarah Palin Cruella De Vil, which the crowd loved.

I can't wait until Real Time comes back. Maher's voice is a needed one. The airwaves suffer without him.

Steve's Peeves: Tooth aches

It's time for some exiting dental talk.

I've had three allografts since 2007 to repair my gums on the lower part of the mouth. That's all you need or want to know. I went to the dentist about twice in my life growing up so I'm catching up now with my dental plan.

They cut into my gums, add tissue and then stitch it up. It's a bloody procedure that causes some pain, discomfort and forces me to eat soft food for two weeks. So no pizza. No apples. No potato chips. No sandwiches. Nothing that needs serious chewing to digest.

Yes, it's quite an annoyance, but I can live with it. What I can't live with is the stitches. As I type, they are flailing about in my mouth like a drunk driver in Miami and it is driving me nuts.

The stitches are right at my bottom front teeth and the tip of my tongue. And for the past 48 hours I've been fighting these annoying stitches. I can't stop. I try my best to ignore it and focus on the task at hand, like reading an AP wire story on Shaq twittering about football or the whiny, cry baby Ravens bitching once again after a loss to the Patriots. But ... I ... can't ... stop. It's like that itch that won't go away, this tangle of stitches in my mouth.

For this reason, I'm going back to the periodontist tomorrow to have this problem solved once and for all. Either stitch it back up or tear them out. Those are the only options. For my sanity.

While we're on the subject, the periodontist wants me to see an orthodontist. Yeah, I have two crooked teeth and the periodontist thinks I need that fixed. When I was about 10 or 11, I heard the same thing but we did nothing about it.

But the thought of braces ... doesn't excite me.

Imagine me as the Joey Galloway of social creatures. I've dropped the ball on many occasions and I'm older than many of my peers. Now tie one of Galloway's arm's behind his back. Then tear one of his legs off. And throw him in a shark pit. That would be me with braces. Just slap and A/V shirt on me and kick me in the balls while you're at it. By the way, with braces I probably wouldn't need those either. So kick away.

I'm a man! I'm 27! I can't go around looking like Neil Goldman. I said as much to the periodontist and he told me there are other options besides metal mouth, though they're more expensive. Still, the fact that this might be necessary ticks me off. It's fifth grade all over again. Give me a Goosebumps book and the Technodrome for Christmas.

And some new front teeth.

Three Peeves in a pod

"World famous ice cream!" reads the menu at a local establishment.

"World famous pizza!" screams one hole-in-wall pizza place.

This has bugged me for a while. Businesses always screech "world famous" this or "world famous" that. Are people traveling the globe to eat ice cream in Coconut Creek, Florida? A calzone in Margate? I doubt it.

I wouldn't even mind if a famous local place used the "world famous" line, like Iggy's with their great doughboys. But if no one really knows about you, you can't be world famous. There have to be some rules -- even some truth -- in advertising. Otherwise, we would lose our soul.

If I called this blog "world famous," you would laugh. First, because it would be "World Famous Famous Last Words," which is just cumbersome. Second, my site gets as many hits as Ceasar Crespo (rim shot!).

One day, I hope little pizzerias, ice cream shops, cafes and all the rest will recognize the fraud they are perpetrating on the American public.

***

Damn kids! Get off my lawn!

And turn down your car radio while you're at it, you rapscallions!

The other day I was in my modest car driving to work. I was at a stoplight and a car rolls up behind me booming his loud music. The bass pulsated through my vehicle to such an extent that my rear view mirror was shaking, like the puddle in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex approaches.

I will never understand why some people want everyone to hear what music they're listening to in their cars. When the bass is that loud, it just ruins the song anyway. I know it's "cool" to crank up the bass, but have some consideration. When I can't hear a thing from my speakers, then that's a good indication the music is too loud.

And if this makes me sound like Grandpa Simpson, then so be it.

***

Ever watch a crime movie or TV show? I'm sure you have. So you know when the detective arrives at the murder scene, walks into the room and winces just a bit before he or she sees the mangled, bloody body waiting for them?

That's me anytime I venture into the men's bathroom at work. These lavatories have produced some grisly -- and I mean GRIZZLY -- scenes throughout the years. Scenes of unimaginable horrors. Scenes that will stick with me for a long time.

These instances are easily avoidable of course. If the men who work in my building flushed the toilets more than 50 percent of the time, I would not walk into the bathroom with my hands over my eyes.

You'd think the guys would know that flushing the toilet is a good thing. Hopefully they don't assume their moms will come in afterward and pull the lever for them. But no .... they leave me and many others some gruesome surprises.

I've seen some things, man ... I've seen some things ...

Please. Pretty please. Pull the lever when you're done, because if I see one more crime scene in those toilets, I could become as grumpy and wisecracking as Law & Order legend Lennie Briscoe.

"We've got a DOA on this one. Ugly scene," says random cop.

Lt. Sears surveys the horror. "Wipe this for prints then clean it up."

"Yes, sir," cop says.

After cop walks away, Sears cracks, "And I thought I had a crappy job."

DUN DUN

Steve's Peeves

South Florida has plenty to offer. It was a beautiful 70 degrees on Wednesday. There are beaches galore and cute little lizards everywhere.

But the local radio down here displays a heretofore unheard of level of atrociousness.

Take a trip down the car radio dial down here and try to find new alternative/modern rock. Just try. If Spanish radio is your thing, you're in luck. Crappy conservative talk radio? Got it! Fire and brimstone, repent for your sins radio? Plenty of that. Rap, hip-hop or pop? Things are good. If you want to hear the latest in current rock music, buy satellite radio because you ain't ever finding a song from this decade on the dial.

OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating. If you want to hear the latest dreck from Nickleback, then you're in luck.

(I swear, sometimes I'd rather drive into a telephone pole or a canal than listen to the latest shit soup from Nickleback. My God, their songs are terrible. And I mean shoot the radio and pour acid down your ear terrible. And you guessed it, the one rock station I can find down here plays them all the time.)

Perhaps I was spoiled by WBRU while growing up in Rhode Island. Say what you want, but they were pretty good in playing new songs. I don't know how they are now, but they are miles ahead of anything I can find here.

I don't mind Guns n' Roses, but this isn't 1988 anymore. No need to play them four times an hour. Same thing with Ozzy Osbourne or Billy Idol. I don't want a Wayne's World playlist. I want a mix of good songs from the past and new songs ... like songs recorded this century.

"Buy satellite radio," you are surely thinking. I could pay for it, in theory, but the last thing I need is another bill to pay each month, especially now that I will not be getting a raise this year. I'm a cheap journalist. What more can I say?

So this leaves me playing CDs all the time. When I finish one I'll tune in to the radio station to give it another shot, hear a Beastie Boys song from 20 years ago and go right to another album I own. As a result, I am woefully behind on current music. Surely the Internet provides plenty of remedies, but I miss driving the car and hearing good, modern music on the radio.

And no, Nickleback doesn't count.

It just really grinds my gears.

Steve's Peeves

A big "Fuck You" goes to my apartment complex. At the ripe hour of 8:30 in the morning, I awoke to the wonderful sound of a chainsaw not more than 10 feet from my bedroom window. They were trimming the palm trees, apparently, and they continued to do so for a couple of hours.

This wasn't the first time, either. I've long grown used to interrupted sleep, since my slumber hours conflict with 75% of the country's population. I'm lucky if I can get more than 5 hours uninterrupted three times a week. Kids playing outside and yelling loudly at 9 a.m. Fine. Power washing the sidewalks at 10 a.m. Whatever. Mowing the lawn at 8. I hate it, but I accept it now.

But a chainsaw? Right outside my window? On the dickishness scale, that's a solid 10.

Maybe I should perform similar loud acts at 2 a.m. I'm wide awake, so why not? Hell, I can do 3 a.m., too. I can buy a drum kit and practice. I can run my own midnight circus with rabid dogs and bears. How would you "regular" sleepers like that? Keep it up, and you may find out one day. Two can play this game.

It just really, really, REALLY grinds my gears.

Steve's Peeves: The Agents of Intolerance

Now that we have a black president, there's only one more civil rights case left for this country to tackle. The one facing white men in this country, a long persecuted group. We get the blame for all the wars, the messed up economy, the corruption, George Bush and David Spade. But that's not the worst of it.

We can't even drink what we want now. We never could.

My roommate recently told me a story about a wedding he attended recently. He enjoyed a Michelob Ultra and guess what? He got shit for it. They called it a "girlie drink." They questioned his manhood. I empathized. I've been under this fire as well from certain Agents of Intolerance.

It is true, I've been known to enjoy a margarita. They taste good and I do not apologize for it. I even enjoy the taste of hard lemonade. I've never tried an apple martini, but I bet it pleasures the taste buds. For this, I've been ceaselessly attacked by gangs of frothing fundamentalists who would deny my right to drink what I want.

These Agents of Intolerance would have us men drink nothing but Budweiser, Coors, Miller, Pure Piss and Speckled Hen. Sam Adams is a "manly" brew and I like it. The others, I could take them or leave them. In the case of Speckled Hen, I prefer to just leave them. Heck, even Sam Adams has a Cherry Wheat beer I like. Is that girly? Should I hand over my man card?

I know you are nodding the nod of injustice. So I see how it is. Girls can drink regular beer and therefore be cool. They can also drink the tasty drinks, have guys pay for them, and enjoy them as well. Meanwhile, hardworking Steve the Blogger goes to the bar to order a drink that won't get his ass kicked. The bartender will nod at my order, pick up a glass, go out into a back alley and drag the cup through a puddle of dirty, moldy water full of cat piss and spit. The bartender will bring it to me and charge 8 bucks for it.

If I'm going to fork over my hard-earned money, I think I should enjoy the taste. There are forces in our society who would deny me this right. I ask you: Is this fair? Does this live up to our ideals as a nation? It does not and it really grinds my gears.

Who will be the Martin Luther King of this movement? Who will stand up for what's right? Maybe I'll do it ... after 24's season ends of course. One thing at a time, people.

And for the Agents of Intolerance (you know who you are), you are on notice, Stephen Colbert-style. If you ever criticize or confront me with your puerile prejudices again, I will fight you. I don't care if you are male or female.

That would be the manly thing to do.

Steve's Peeves

Here's a new segment I'm revealing where I will rail against the small injustices of the world.

Does Steve's Peeves sound dirty? Perhaps. But it rhymes.

These have been annoying me quite a while. If you want to post on this blog, you have to type in some confirmation code. If you want to post a video on Facebook, the same thing pops up. They infest all corners of the Internet like rats at 90 Byner Street. It's usually a string of random letters grouped tightly together and they snake to and fro, making it tough for an elderly person like me.

I just want to post some witty comments. Why the hassle? Sure, there are useless, please-die-already douchebags who sit at their supercomputers just thinking of ways to hack into MySpace accounts or send stupid emails. Illegible confirmation codes won't stop them. The U.S. Army will. Ship these Cheetos-crunching morons to Gitmo and make this world free for open and convenient Internet use.

Or the powers that be could just make the codes ... you know ... ACTUAL WORDS.

Instead of this: ref 12pdokrewr4546)8g fgh

in some random snake formation in an ancient Mayan font that not even Blogger can provide, do something like this ... DESTINY ... or SALAMANDER or CIANCI. The English language has plenty of words, so use them!

It just really grinds my gears.