Kids in a bar... or wherever the hell they want to be.

I live in a fairly nice neighborhood where the HOA so graciously charges only a metric shitload to handle trash pick-up and maintain the grassy areas where the neighborhood children can play.

So why is it that every single time I drive home there are children playing football and soccer in the middle of the street? And how does my neighborhood have the ability to breed so exponentially that in June the number of kids in the street totals about sixty, but then by the end of August my neighborhood looks like Woodstock for midgets? The only difference is that instead of listening to Jimi Hendrix they're listening to the ice cream truck play "Silent Night" on 95 degree days. There are probably more drugs here, too considering the amount of anal sex twelve year olds are having these days.


Actual view from my windshield.



Listen, I want to like your children. I don't want to drive to the grocery store and have the words "Darwin's work" come out of my mouth every time a bicycle comes out of nowhere and bounces off the hood of my car. I don't want to come back from work and feel like the only way for me to avoid running my car through a gauntlet of sticks and taunts is to put a plow on my Malibu and eliminate the gauntlet altogether. I want your kids to live through the summer because my lawn isn't going to rake itself for three dollars - split between a dozen kids... dog crap and all. It's amazing - by the time October rolls around.

And since when did "in traffic" become a perfect place to leave a bicycle, a skateboard, or a razor scooter? Since when was a bicycle worth anything with both tires removed and the chain being used for what I can only assume is a game of 6th grade Running Man? What happens when these kids get their hands on fire?

Where are the parents?? Do you want your kids to end up like this?


Your kid.


Last night I was at my local bar watching the Washington Capitals kick the shit out of the New York Rangers. (Kevin Pierce Likes This). A girl who could not have even been twenty one herself actually said the words "I'm babysitting" when asked if the toddler she was with was hers. Shortly after this the little girl began "gettin' low" up against a garbage can filled with cigarette butts and empty Corona bottles. She then shoved her head up the shirt of her babysitter and proceeded to motorboat her while she sipped a pineapple and vodka cocktail. At least she had the decency to decide that it was time to go home at 10:30, but I swear to God another woman came upstairs with a baby hanging off her shoulder as soon as babysitter-of-the-year left. I can only imagine what the actual parents of that child were doing to make a smoky bar on a Friday night the better option for a five year old. I'd say they may have been playing tackle football in my street at the time, but I've never seen a parent out there once so I know that's not possible.

I suppose what may be needed are fundamentals. I'm not a parent, but I'd say that there are three places a little kid shouldn't be. 1) Bars. 2) The middle of the street. 3) Too dead to rake my lawn....

Parenting : no license required.

River Myst, bitches.

Ogdensburg, NY... A google image search yields the picture you see above. It's in far-Northern New York. It's about as far north as you can get without a passport by the time June 1st, 2009 comes around (so if you're 18 and you want to get hammered in Montreal, it's time to get your passport.) I'm 29 and I could drink in your mom's lap if I wanted to, so this news really means nothing to me.

Anyway, enough about complicated travel document requirements and passports to your mom. We're here to talk about wine, but first I'd like to offer a tad more information about the region.

Ogdensburg, NY is located halfway between "Honey, Are We Lost?" and "Holy Shit, I Just Saw a Six Year Old With A Rifle, NY." Until recently they were locally famous for having a sign by their dollar store that read "City of Ogdensburg," but as of 2007 they have a sign, a dollar store AND a winery. It's also the only place I've ever been where there is designated parking for Amish wagons at their Wal-Mart. So watch your step because there's a 30% chance of horse shit in the lingerie department.

So when my mother came down to DC to visit me earlier this month I was impressed - as always - by the generous gifts she brought. These included two six pound bags of cheese curd, two bags of pretzels, and a bottle of table wine from River Myst; the new local winery. My wife and I don't drink an awful lot of wine so it admittedly sat on the counter for awhile. When I look at that bottle and see "Ogdensburg" on it I really can't believe it didn't come in a can (or with a free puck of skoal), but I've been having enough trouble sleeping lately that I figured I'd give it a shot.

So here I am drinking this grape juice from River Myst and I'm writing about wine. I can't believe this shit isn't Welch's. It's sweeter than a chocolate-covered winning lottery ticket, but it has to have a higher alcohol content than an Amy Winehouse urine sample because my ass is suddenly kicked, and I'm a pretty big dude. I'm a pretty big dude who is about as much of an oenophile I am an olympic long jumper. I'm a pretty big dude who would rather have one Jreck Sub than a case of the world's best wine. Seriously, I'm a huge dude. Don't fuck with me.

But I can tell you that this wine is fairly refreshing, and like most other alcoholic beverages it makes you feel better about yourself. So if you're a woman, then drink this wine on your fat days. If you're a man, then drink this wine when your wife is having a fat day and into her sixth consecutive hour of "Jon & Kate Plus 8." If you're a parent, then give this stuff to your kids when they're going ape-shit. They'll ramp up hard, but they'll love the taste and then they'll hit the ground before you get back from the dollar store. And finally, if you're transgender, then drink this wine while watching "Jon & Kate Plus 8" on your fat days.

This winery is owned by a retired State Trooper, so it's cop wine. After having a couple glasses it's pretty clear that he'd rather you get hammered at home than be on his roads or his god-damned lawn. So here's to you, Officer LaMay. If it wasn't a federal offense to send alcohol to Maryland via USPS then I'd ask you to send me a case, but I'll probably never be in Ogdensburg again. I haven't been there in three years and I've still got horse shit on my tires, so I'll just say thanks for the juice.

*Editors note - this post is pending hang-over review.

His Name Is Kurtis

"Tell him you want him to finish a beer in four seconds and he will keep trying until he does it" - Brandon

"I have video of him smashing a fucking Heineken keg can on his head until it dented" - Innocent anonymous bystander

"He's turning thirty the day after the barbeque." - State of Vermont birth records database

T-shirt pattern by Jackson Pollock

Brandon - my brother - found this guy somewhere. Details are vague, but this guy should have his own traveling shit show. His name is Kurtis.

I've never met Kurtis. The only Kurtis I know has been immortalized in static and live-action film while engaging in heroic feats of "jackassery." Most images I've seen of this living legend are party photos taken in a time-lapse fashion. These aren't nature shots of dew slowly retreating from the tips of grass blades in the morning. Nor are they of a rare sea turtle egg hatching. These are far more explicit and carnal. Consider that a warning. Proceed with caution.

Kurtis' montages typically document his PBR-fueled adventures from first beer to unconsciousness. From what I can tell they last approximately 26.2 minutes (aka - a "Kurtis Marathon.") One can typically tell how far Kurtis is into the event by the following:

3 minutes : Beer Fangs

"Beer fangs are for pimps."

Five Minutes : Ambition

Ten Minutes : Seasonal

(Depicted - winter)

Fifteen Minutes : Time Travel

(Kurtis returning from duty as a trucker in 1997. Note 6 lb cell phone souvenir.)


Twenty Minutes: "Baby Please"

"No seriously, come here... I'll show you them."

Twenty-Two Minutes : Certain Defeat?

Twenty-Three Minutes : "Aww hell no"

Twenty Seven Minutes : Fallen Hero

According to the locals, Kurtis regenerates and emerges days later more powerful than before. Much like Jesus, but with a smaller t-shirt.


Special thanks to Brandon for a lifetime's worth of photographic documentation and - of course - Kurtis.

PS - Don't eat me (or try to drink me) on Memorial Day.