There’s alot of unmentionables happening in my life right now and timing has not been as kind as i’d like it to be. I do hope and expect to get some time back soon, and i’d like to try to actually post more than before! (My condolences).

I think that anyone that’s read anything from me is starting to get a bead on the Pomeroy luck. In this case, buying a domain name and tying into my blog…only to lose time and not be able to contribute to it. See? THAT is vintage Pomeroy. Truly.

Obviously you may be curious to know what kind of unmentionables that I may be going through.

Well, know this:

1.    I don’t have a disease. Although whenever a mosquito bites me I immediately check for symptoms of Malaria.

2.    I’m not leaving my family and joining a musical. (Sidebar: I hope the producers of Grease don’t call…)

3.    I’m not held against my will. Other than to my career and to every friggin Real Housewives show on Bravo, which my wife adores.

4.    I’m not dead. (Although I do think it would be hilarious if I die before I post this).

I miss everyone muy mucho. But the Senor’ will be back soon!

Sans poncho.

Whether or not you like/agree with Barack Obama… it seems to me that his election alone has bridged another gap in how people of different races act and feel around each other. I’ve seen a sense of pride with many people since his historic win, and I think that this part of his election is a great thing. It shows that we’ve made a big step as a country in the right direction.

In my case, I can honestly say that I’ve never been someone to be prejudiced against any race. I am a city kid who was raised by a city kid. My mother raised me not to look at any person differently than another. (Well, accept scumbag people… she had a different idea of how to deal with them). I’m thankful that the only people that I grew up to fear was the people that thought it was a good idea for me to end up in a gym locker.

(Sidebar: It’s too bad I didn’t take my Nana’s advice. She showed me how to do a “Roxbury Uppercut”. This was the act of kneeing someone in the balls. Thank you, Nana.)

I always get a kick out of Stephen Colbert saying that he “doesn’t see race”. Obviously, he’s taking a shot at people who say this, and this isn’t possible. You always “see” race… but the question is how do you VIEW someone?

I got a job in Boston when I was 18 and I worked with people from all over the world. For me, it was a great introduction to understanding people better. Even though I’d met people who spoke many different languages and their skin was every shade of color from Pomeroy to Darth Vader, I had more in common with a lot of them than I’d imagined. When you have the fortune to be able to be that close with someone on a day-to-day basis, their color/background really starts to disappear. They just become a brother/sister to you. I guess working there was the closest thing I had to joining the military. People are just people, and living with them teaches you that.

After a while we would all hang out together regularly. We played basketball more than anything. Although I was a passable player in my neighborhood, I was the weakest link playing in urban settings with these guys. As a matter of fact, I remember one time we only had 9 people to play. I ended up on the team with 5, being the last picked. (Just like junior high all over again). Well, the captain was making defensive assignments for his team, and at the end said, “Just let Jazzy run around”.

(Sidebar 2: My nickname then was Jazzy Jeff).

But I got a kick out of the fact that they determined that I didn’t need to be defended. Just let me “run around”. Hilarious.

All of this reminds me of a story that I file under “Dumbest Things That I’ve Ever Done”. Needless to say, that folder is pretty friggin big by now. It’s hard to recall all of the times I made a fool out of myself.

My boss’ wife was having a surprise birthday party for him and asked me to attend. I was honored that I was invited and really wanted to go. I didn’t have a car because I didn’t get my license until I was 26. (Another story). I asked my cousin to come with and we took the train in to the city and walked the rest of the way. The house was on the Dorchester/Roxbury line, which was considered a tough part of Boston at the time. (Hence, nana’s ‘Roxbury Uppercut’).

When we arrived, it was easy to see that we were the only white guys at the party. There was one Mexican kid too, if memory serves. In a situation like that, you can start to understand what it must be like to be the only black person at an all-white party. My wife experienced this as well when she lived in Japan. It gives you perspective.

Now, I knew a lot of the people there. And we had a rapport from working/hanging together all of the time. It wasn’t uncommon to even make race jokes to eachother. For instance, I’d be asked to go out to play basketball, and I’d reply with something like “Oh, I can’t make it… I have that White Supremacy meeting tonight…”. And they would take similar pokes at me. It was the relationship that we had. However, not EVERYONE at the party knew of this, natch. So I probably should not have done the following act.

This African-American guy comes in mid-party. I think he was my friend’s brother-in-law. He was a tough looking guy. He had a mean face and was wearing one of those Jim Brown African leopard skin pillbox hats. I don’t know his real name, but he went by the nickname “The Count”. I know this, because he’d almost throw his hand at you and ANNOUNCE it with each handshake. Kind of like this:

“COUNT!”

“COUNT!”

And then, he came to me…..

“COUNT!”

That’s when I thought I’d be funny and do this….

“1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9….”

At first I thought I made a good funny….

But it didn’t take too much longer to realize the faux pas that I’d just made, and so began the awkward moment….

What an idiot.

Have you ever done anything that stupid? I thought I was going to be fucking keelhauled. I was petrified!

Lucky for me, my pals jumped in to save me with the other partygoers to explain that I wasn’t a raging bigot.

And as the party wore on, people started to realize that I was just a jokester and not as bad as the form I’d shown earlier. Wow, I learned my lesson.

I think that the best example that night of myself demonstrating that I wasn’t a racist was when I asked out this girl I’d met at the party. She kind of looked like Downtown Julie Brown:

I was crushing on her all night. After I shared my affection to her, it turned out that she wanted to have NOTHING to do with me. It was JUST like the many white girls that I’d expressed interest in those days who also wanted nothing to do with me.

See? We’re truly equal after all.

(Sidebar: What would a fella like ME be doing in a place like THAT? Hmm…)

You’ll see a list of movie sequels there that have come out or are scheduled to come out soon.

Am I the only person annoyed at the lack of originality this decade? It seems to me that film, music and television have really taken it in the shorts more than ever as far as quality goes.
Music has a lot of those phony-baloney hipsters who all sound the same. TV has been hurt the most in the sitcom area. I can’t believe that enough people watch 2 ½ Men to keep it on the air. I just don’t get it.

The worst of these is the movies, of course. There has been a share of good stuff, sure. But just think about all of the shit that has come out in the last few years. Sequels, remakes and my personal favorite… re-imaginations. What the fuck is a re-imagination? I’m going to take your original idea and change things, thereby making it my idea. Is it possible to sit back and accept accolades (not that there would be any) for something that you didn’t even come up with? For instance, did Planet of the Apes REALLY need to be redone? And to no surprise of mine, it sucked out loud. There aren’t many films that make me want to drop my pants and run around the theater in disgust. That one did it.

(Sidebar: How many of you are thankful that you weren’t there seeing it with me?)

I think I may make a movie about a family during the Dust Bowl and call it “The Grapes of Wrath-eroy”. You’ll love it.

One movie (from those listed) that made me do a double take was National Treasure 3. Are you kidding me? I was astounded that anyone would want to see the first one.

“On the back… of the Declaration… of Independence.”

How many more times did you want to hear that line from the ads?

You may wonder why I would be critical of a series that I’ve never seen. Well, you should know that I HAVE seen it. In my regular NIGHTMARES! (Along with spiders, clowns and Hasslehoff). Nick Cage has stunk for so long now. Other than Adaptation, I don’t think he was good since Leaving Las Vegas.

Here are some more sequels that have come out, or are supposed to come out:

Rambo – Really?

Indiana Jones – Awful. Oh I hated it with a passion.

The Mummy

Saw 5 – 5?? I missed insulting 4??

Hellboy 2

X-Files

Terminator – I may prefer it if they cut in Christian Bale’s rant in the movie somehow.

Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants – Embarrassed that I know this. Before you know it, I’ll let you know when the Gilmore Girls movie is coming out.

Transformers – A Pomeroy rule: If Michael Bay makes it, it will most likely never be seen by me.

Ocean’s 13 – Give me a break.

Spider Man 3

Shrek 3 – With all that’s good and holy, I fucking hate Shrek.

Fantastic Four 2

Rush Hour 3

Pirates of the Caribbean 3 – Yeeeecccch!

Bourne Ultimatum

Evan Almighty – MAKE me.

Live Free or Die Hard – Series totally dying hard.

And let’s not forget the Potter films. How old is that cast going to be by the time the 7th movie comes out? I think that they should consider having Daniel Radcliffe grow a full beard for the last film.

They’ll probably still want to make an 8th film, knowing them. Maybe I’ll throw my name in the hat for the lead. They could call it “Gangly Pom-roy and the Goblet of Swedish Fish”.

 
The poster for it could have Lord Voldemort shooting a lightning bolt under my ass.

“Yeeeeeeouch!!”

And finally you have the remake. Can you believe how many there have been? Especially in the horror genre. And almost all of them did NOT need to be made. Observe:

Alfie – Why?

The Omen – Why?

The Stepford Wives – Why?

The Amityville Horror – Why?

Mr. Deeds – A-whoop-i-dee-DOOO! (In Sandler voice).

The Longest Yard – I never thought I’d say you can’t remake a Burt Reynolds movie. Oh, and A-whoop-i-dee-DOO again!

Shaft – Sacrilege!

Black Christmas

Carrie – Why?

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Last House on the Left – The first was a creepy remake, and it certainly didn’t need to be remade AGAIN. Wes Craven doesn’t need help.

Bad News Bears

Dawn of the Dead – I admit… I liked it. But don’t you dare compare it with Romero.

The Fog – John Carpenter doesn’t need help.

Halloween – John Carpenter doesn’t need help.

Escape From New York – John Carpenter doesn’t need help, and this is one of my all time favorites. Although, John Carpenter needed A LOT of help for making Escape From L.A. (You can find that on my worst sequels ever list, to come out later).

Friday the 13th

House of Wax

Wicker Man – Hello again, Nick Cage.

The Invasion

Walking Tall – Puh-LEASE.

The Hills Have Eyes 1 & 2 – Wes Craven doesn’t need help.

When a Stranger Calls

Prom Night

The Hitcher

Willard – Actually not bad.

The Manchurian Candidate – Why?

The Birds – WWHHHHYYYYY?!?! Why fuck with Hitchcock???

Rollerball – Que?

Poseidon

The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 – John Travolta is the only actor I can think of along with Nick Cage that is throwing his solid early work to the wind for the worst shit ever recently. Also, why does this need to be remade?

The Day the Earth Stood Still – Keanu Reeves… need I say more?

King Kong – Why? And, BLEEEEECCCCCCCHHHHHHH!!!!

Fahrenheit 451

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Ok, Depp is human I guess.

The Ladykillers – Pomeroy rule # 2 – Coen Brothers always get a pass, and this wasn’t bad.

The Evil Dead – More sacrilege… but since Raimi’s involved, I won’t kill it yet. YET.

I know that Hollywood is all about business. And that’s what sucks the most. Film is art, and should be made by artists. I have a belief that if you make good product.. you will get money for it.
Mel Brooks had balls when he gave The Elephant Man to the then-unknown David Lynch to make. He recognized that Lynch was truly an artist and visionary (after seeing Eraserhead) and he made a great movie.

I’m so thankful for independent film. It seems to be the only venue left for original ideas, and celebrity doesn’t drive it. I was hoping that after the Oscars after 1996 (when 4 out of 5 of best picture nominees were “independent”) that Hollywood would wake up. How’d that work out?

By the way, this blog is actually a remake from one of my first blogs back in 2008. Maybe I should have called it “Istanbul Part 2”.

Pat is one of the best photographers I’ve followed on here… or anywhere for that matter. It’s funny to think of someone that takes crystal clear shots of a sunset or a building with just the right amount of light, or pictures of an everyday item making it seem abstract, communicating with a guy who takes pictures of himself acting like a retard. But hey, that’s life I guess.

You will not regret a stop by her page, I assure you.

Anyhoo, here is my offering to her series.

To ask me if I have any regrets would be like asking Elton John if he had any musical soundtracks. Where to begin?

My first thought was this:

“yee-hoo.”

What the fuck was I thinking? Well, my mom was dating a country singer at the time. He was a nice guy for sure… but he was a little annoying too. He was one of those guys that brought his acoustic guitar everywhere. You know the type. You’d be at a party and all of a sudden the guy would pull out the thing and break into song. There was always this look of bemusement on everyone at the event, because what kind of dick would like himself that much to start singing out uninvited?! PARTY-FOUL!

Well, he did treat my mom well and he bought me the hat.

(Sidebar: I wanted a Millennium Falcon… but I got the hat instead.)

So I wore it for my 5th grade picture… and everyone from the bullies to my best friend took shots at me all day and beyond.

This all could have been avoided if I got what Star Wars item I wanted, or had the foresight to take the fucking hat off!

Ah, well.

One of my biggest regrets ever though, was selling this:

That’s right, folks. That is Amazing Fantasy # 15… which I’m sure ALL of you know is the first appearance of Spider-Man.

That was on sale in the mid-80’s for $1000.00 at a local comic book store. That price is crazy considering what one of that quality is worth now.

I was working as a dishwasher at a restaurant, so I wasn’t exactly raking it in. One day I decided that I wanted to buy the book and the store allowed me to put it on lay-away. So every week over months and months I would go in and put down $10-$20 towards the cost of the book. And I will never forget the feeling I had at 16 years old or so when I made my last payment and walked home with it in my hands. I went into my room and opened it up to smell it first. (I do this with all old comic book purchases… old comic book smell is in my top 3 favorite smells). Then I read it in full. I read it several times previously in reprinted form, but never the original. I stored it away for safekeeping afterwards and life was good.

(Sidebar: Until I went to school the next day and ran from kids trying to kick my ass, that is).

In 1989 I rented my first apartment. Unfortunately, I was WAY over my head in expenses. At that time I didn’t know jack about finances and how to budget. It got to the point that I always had an empty fridge and would let my phone get disconnected. I’d only turn the heat on when I really felt I needed to be warm, just to stay in the apartment. What a dope I was.

I even left my beloved Kraft Mac & Cheese in favor of Prince Mac & Cheese because it was 10 for $1 instead of 6. Grim!

When push came to shove, I finally had to sell a lot of my stuff to pay off some bad debts that I rang up. And I sadly had to part with that wonderful book. The worst part is that I sold my entire collection for less than that one book itself. How much does THAT suck?

I still regret that… not just for the money. But for the significance it meant to me at that time in my life. It was the first time that I saved up for anything. I know I had to sell it. But there is a part of me that saw myself as a bum sitting in an alcove in Boston somewhere holding onto my Amazing Fantasy # 15.

That said, the only problem with that scenario is that it would have a WHOLE different smell, and certainly fall out of my top 3 favorite smells.

See? I fell better already.

… two can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number since the number 1”    - Harry Nilsson

Am I the only one that finds that bathroom business is irritating?

It’s like doing your taxes. You have to do them, and you’re happy when they’re done, even though you’ve lost more than you’ve gained. But you just wish it didn’t have to happen at all. However, unlike tax time, bathroom business happens every DAY!

(Sidebar: That’s one audit I wouldn’t want to attend.)

Even more annoying is dealing with some of the chuckleheads that you run into using public restrooms. Already, using “public” with something that should be private is NOT good in my mind. I don’t like retail, much less this debacle.

Firstly… would it KILL you to wash your hands? I am amazed how many people don’t clean their hands after flailing them all over a disgusting landscape of germs. It’s like a germ kegger! And when you have OCD like myself, you start to think about all of the people that shook your hand and know that odds are some of them didn’t wash theirs before they shook yours. In effect, you’re shaking more than their hand now. If I wanted to handle another guy’s schlong I at least would ask for a date first. Who knows? Maybe I like him.

By the by, that’s a good thing about having an OCD friend, which can sometimes be annoying. We all wash ourselves really well. So don’t worry, you won’t be handling my undercarriage if we meet.

I guess you could say that there are two major categories to deal with in the scary subject of public restrooms.

Number 1:

I’ll admit that urinating is pretty easy as a guy. However, I don’t like BECAUSE it’s so easy, some commercial venues decide to keep it too simple. Like, caveman simple.

The old Boston Garden was one of the worst. There was a big round trough and guys all stood in a circle and pissed in the middle. You’re trying to pee between periods of a Bruins game and all of a sudden you’re nearly in a circle-jerk. It was awful.

And that reminds me of the urinals at Nantasket Beach. The urinals sat back to back, with NO walls above them. So essentially, you’d be peeing and a guy would go to the one across from you… and you’d be looking at eachother in awkward manner.

The only thing separating the two of you from having a homoerotic moment is about 8” of porcelain.

Number 2:

When you’re talking about dropping your pants in public, I’m already concerned. (Unless you’re Kate Winslet, then I have to say I am perfectly ok with that). But when you add the idea that you potentially have to sit or hover over a seat that has rested who KNOWS how many asses before yours… It becomes truly scary to me.

I am on the road for work all of the time, so I have to deal with this often. And some of the restrooms out there are really frightening.

I sometimes wish that I had one of those wire harnesses that Tom Cruise had in Mission: Impossible.

I would be able to hover over the aforementioned dropoff spot, then swing around and do a cross-legged cannonball launch:

It’s brilliant, no?

Of course, with my friggin’ luck the wire would snap and the worst case scenario finally makes itself known to me:

Maybe I should stay on my feet.

One way I could lighten up the moment for myself…. When nobody is looking…

I’ll plie’.

(Sidebar 2: I know… I know… I can’t do a plie’ at all. But in my defense, do you realize how hard it is to take a picture of yourself acting foolish in only 3 seconds from a laptop? Maybe the arabesque would have been easier.)

Another thing that I hate is the “showdown”. I’m not grand at letting myself fly in a stall when I’m surrounded, if you catch my drift. So when someone comes into the stall next to me, I usually try to wait the other guy out. But every now & then… I find a true adversary. Another guy who wants to wait ME out. You end up both sitting there quietly until one of you finally gives in. It can go on for a while.

I have lost a few of those bouts by the way, but I know I’ve won more than I lost. I usually celebrate with the raising the roof gesture in the confines of my stall:

“Oh yeah…. Oh yeah!”

After the win, you dispose of the many layers of protective paper you’d stacked, flush the toilet with your foot and kick the door open to depart. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

So, if you ever end up in a stall next to me, would you let me win please? And promise me that if you’re going to touch me in some way that you’ll WASH your hands first? Do we have a deal?!

How about we shake on it?

Hands, that is.

READING

I was given one of those Birthday Books recently… you know the astrological guides to the day of your birth. The first piece of insight on my day from the author is “Why are you totally misunderstood?”

Staying in that theme then, would it surprise you to realize that I’m a textbook workaholic… who was a TERRIBLE student?

I hated school and academia for my entire time in it. I didn’t love the idea of following one person’s idea of what I should learn, particularly if the subject was something that I couldn’t care less about. I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt this way, but I may be the only one who stood by my mislaid convictions and be a complete a-hole at school.

Even in 5th grade I had a sour outlook on life and school. I recently found this drawing I did, circa 1981:

I don’t know about you, but I don’t read too much “caring and sharing” in that humble delineation.

I remember my wonderful teacher in 5th grade came to our apartment to discuss me. I was totally embarrassed about this, living in the shite-hole that I did. But he was a genuine example of a teacher that cared about me.
It turned out that the highlight of that visit was him being introduced to my sister Heather. She is my autistic sibling who I’ve talked about before. Well wouldn’t you know that she ran up to hug him, then pushed away from him just as quick and started yelling “PEW! YOU STINK LIKE B.O!!! PEW!” He tried to soften the moment by saying “No I don’t sweetie… no I don’t”. She was waving her hand and arm in front of her nose as if it would remove the smell and replied “YES YOU DO! PEW!!!!!”

Actually, that moment may have been a metaphor of my life in school when I think about it. Teachers = BO to me. Hmmm.

For the most part I came out ok I think. Though, I didn’t start using the word “mine” until about 12 years ago. My friend would make fun of me because I would reference something as “My one”.

WRITING

I was a statement kid. I missed a lot of school thinking that I was sending a message to the faculty for some reason. And I got worse the older I became. I thought that if I were loud enough of my disdain I would change the way that schools thought. What a dope I was, huh? Maybe it’s because I missed so much school.

I started in Quincy Vocational Technical School (where I was eventually tossed from) thinking that I wanted to be an electrician. Since I’m not a handy person, I have no fucking idea why I thought that this would be a good fit with me. I’m the guy who looked in the toolbox for the right-handed screwdriver. The rest of the school body, and even some of the teachers considered the Vo-Tech kids to be idiots.

“Hi… I go to the Vo-Tech and stuff”

One teacher introduced himself and told us that we would have to be ready for a POW… It could come anytime. What was a POW, you ask? A POW was the Puzzle Of the Week. A WORD FIND! We had word finds as a weekly test! Heck, I like word finds… but what the hell would one learn from a fucking word find?? We took advantage of it though. Every time the guy took out a text book on social studies, we started pounding on the desks and yelling “POW! POW! POW! POW!”. He would finally concede and say “Ok… you wanna do a POW? We can do a POW”.

The guy could never get my name right either. Since day 1 he would call out: “Jeffrey Pompro?”

I would reply… “It’s Pomeroy”.

Weeks later…. “Jeffrey Pompro?”

Me: “It’s POMEROY” amongst classmates laughter.

Month later…. “Jeffrey Pompro?”

Me: “here.”

ARITHMETIC

Another weird rule that the Vo-Tech had was for science class. For some reason they had a rule that you had to take two years of science class… but only had to pass one. And, one of those years had to be Biology. So I decided in 9th grade that I would take General Science and pass it… then in 10th grade take Biology and fail it! And that is precisely what I did.

My Biology teacher did not care for my well thought out strategy, however. I could be wrong, but I think he hated me. He tried to embarrass me in front of the class, but it never worked… mainly because I didn’t give a shit. He had a bad lisp and was almost spitting at me certain days. I remember one day he approached me:

“Mithter Pomeroy…. Why don’t thyou do any work in my clath?”

Me: “I don’t like biology”.

Him: “You don’t like it?”

Me: “Yeah… why do I care what’s inside a cell? I like cells. I have a lot of them. But I don’t care to know what’s in them.”

Him: “Well Mithter ‘I don’t like biology,’ you will come after thchool every day until you finishth your homework, underthtood?”

Me: “Yes!”

Of course, I never went. Not even once.

I think the time that he lost it the most was with the grasshoppers. He came in one day with a large white pail. When he opened it, this awful smell filled the classroom. He then passed out gloves to the kids, and soon after he dropped big, black grasshoppers in front of the students. He wanted us to measure these disgusting things. Why the fuck do we need to measure a grasshopper? What possible benefit to my education in science could this offer?

The tables sat two people, and you were usually a lab partner with that person. My lucky “partner” was a popular cheerleader who may have hated my guts more than the teacher. She would sit next to me and cross her legs away from me. I saw her back more than anything. Anyhoo, when I looked around I noticed the guys putting on the gloves and the girls were writing the answers for the team. So Princess Positive hands me the gloves and says, “You measure, I’ll write”. These may have been the first words she ever spoke to me, mind you.

Me: “I’m not measuring those fuckin’ things”.

PP: “You don’t expect ME to measure them??”

Me: “No… You don’t have to measure them. I’m just telling you that I, for sure am not measuring them. You can do whatever you want.”

We started fighting over it and the teacher whisked over and said “WHAT is going on over here??!!” She stated her case… I stated mine. My case was that I didn’t care, as usual. I wish you could have seen this guy’s face… if he had heat vision, he totally would have melted my face. Finally, he went over, grabbed some rocks, and almost threw them on the table at yours truly. I was startled and looked up at him.

Him: “WILL YOU MEATHSURE THESE?!?!”

Me: “Ok… I’ll measure these.”

There was this huge sigh from the class then, half of the guys holding these smelly grasshoppers next to their rulers.

After this incident, he sat me in the back of the class with the other kid in the class who was failing. He was this huge kid that looked like a gorilla. We called him Grape Ape. The funny thing was… when I first sat with him, we both gave eachother this look of understanding and acknowledgment of our mutual goal. (Or lack thereof). Ah, I miss Grape Ape.

I have so many more stories of my history. Or, even when I skipped History to go to McDonalds. But I will stop the bleeding for now.

I would love to hear your stories if you have them!

This was my one.

Anyhoo, speaking of weird places, I found myself in one a couple of weeks ago.

My friend was taking me for a rare night out. This guy has been my friend since 2nd grade! If you put that into perspective this means I knew him before I knew how to multiply numbers, knew what Atari was, or knew what an erection was. (Thankfully, I know what all of those things are now… some more than others, depending upon who’s in the room.)

Well, we’ve been taking eachother out for our birthdays for many years now. It’s more for tradition than anything at this point. This year, my request of venue needed to include a viewing of Watchmen. This was a big viewing for me because of the major crush I’ve had on the story for a large part of my life. I’ll leave it at that for now. This is mainly because I don’t want to display the full amount of geek over here. Although, it may explain why I was locked in a gym locker in junior high.

I always turn my phone off in a theater. I figure, even if someone died they won’t be less dead after a movie. Even a long one like Watchmen. However, I do worry every time I turn my phone back on in the case I get scary news. Until that night, I’d never gotten a voice mail beep when turning the phone back on. But alas, this time I got the scary beep. I immediately checked the message while we were getting back in the car and it was the wife. I will paraphrase her message:

“Hi… it’s 8:30 and we’re about to go to bed. I just wanted you to know that I closed the kitchen and playroom doors because there’s a bat in the kitchen. I didn’t want you to open the door and get surprised. Good night!”

I had to listen again because I wanted to make sure that she said a BAT got into our house. This totally sucked… I’ve never had any experience with bats that didn’t hit baseballs. Plus, I knew I wouldn’t get home until 1am… the last thing I wanted to do was deal with a fucking bat in the house. My wife hates rodents, so rodents with wings are huge on her hate list.
I heard later that she realized that a bat was in the house when my 4 year old daughter said:

“Look mommy… it’s a black eagle!”

(Sidebar: One of my fantasy baseball teams is now affectionately known as the “Black Eagles”).

I’m not sure if it was because of the idea of saving the wife, or wanting to be a hero after seeing Watchmen… but I mustered up the onions to challenge the bat when I got home. Not that I knew how to do it, mind you.

When I got home I started to search for tools that may help me snag the fucker. I ended up grabbing a tall, rainbow colored duster and a pet taxi that was once for my beloved cat. (RIP, Sedona). Then I went to work.

Of course none of the lights were on, so I was already gritting my teeth in fear. Sure, I WANTED to be a superhero…but most superheroes look more like this:

…and LESS like this:

So I shook the duster around to simulate my head… which I thought that the bat surely wanted to buzz when I came in the room. Nothing. I then turned the lights on and didn’t see anything at first. Then I looked over at the window and there it was. It was hanging upside down in my window, the little stinker.

(Sidebar: Why don’t bats get head rushes from sleeping like that? If I do that too long I forget how to spell my name for 2 minutes!!)

I sneak up to Sleeping Ugly, open the cage door…. And quickly swept it down onto a table, holding it down under the duster. It’s wings came out from either side of it, and I almost lost my shit. As a matter of fact, I may have shrieked… I don’t remember. I wish I could have taken a picture of the rainbow hued duster holding down two scary jet black wings. Eeeesh!
But I was able to sweep it into the cage and shut the door before it could fly at my face. I brought the cage outside and opened it, then ran back inside. I didn’t want to kill it; I’m not big on killing unless I have to.

Afterwards, I went into my office and started softly shouting “yaaaaaay”! Then I played the theme to Superman by John Williams. (Is that wrong?)

Before bed, I wrote a note and put it on the door for the family to read the next morning. It read:

“Daddy caught the bat… yaaaaay…. Now can I sleep in?”

(Sidebar: I did. )

You know, after you accomplish something like this… even if it’s as silly as this was… it does give you confidence. I would have no problem taking on another black eagle.

Or even that kid from junior high. Although, I think I’d need a bigger pet taxi.

Actually, I usually have to pose as a normal person. That is, until it comes to the LAW. I always find myself being a law-abiding citizen, from not breaking any big laws, to not stealing a photocopy from one of my clients. It’s the one part of my life that is straight it seems. The biggest reason for that? I am NOT built for jail. I think it’s a credit to anyone to know who they are, what they can do and what they CAN’T do. I CAN’T do jail.

Let’s pretend for a second that I WOULDN’T get a shiv stuck in my back on the first night there. Obviously, that is the most likely scenario. But we can pretend, right? Just like I can pretend that my wife would actually give me a conjugal visit if I got locked up! Come to think of it, she may shiv me herself if I ended up in the pokey.

The first immediate problem would be my roommate. I doubt my OCD would go away in time for my incarceration. I may have to have a SERIOUS discussion about the condition of our cell. I mean, does he REALLY need to have all of those clippings of naked women on the wall? And if he does, would he consider at least giving me half of them for my bunk? (Exactly half… I’d sneak an odd one in the toilet if I had to).
And what about THAT? Do I have to poop next to this fella? Talk about an uncomfy situation. I’d have to ask him if he would please do his chin-ups facing the OTHER way, thank you very much.

And I’m a finicky eater. What the hell would I do at mealtime? I might end up becoming an anorexic before having to eat some of the crap I’ve heard that they served in prison. However, it would be a different story on Mac & Cheese day. That I don’t share.

“Step off, mutha-fucka!!!”

And can you imagine me walking up to a large, mean looking dude and asking him when the next showing of Cinema Paradiso would be? Ulp. He may use my head to mop up the bathrooms.

I had thought that maybe I’d have to work out to protect myself. But I’m thinking that this wouldn’t go over too well either.

And there’s always the threat of death at any moment!

That’s why I believe that I’ve come up with an iron-clad strategy to stay alive, albeit not a pretty one.
I would have to find myself a boyfriend! Ideally, a REALLY BIG one! A strong and scary guy who can protect me from the rigors of prison life.

I would probably put out applications to try to land the candidate best for the job. I’d ask important questions like:

1. Have you committed murder?
2. How many people have you murdered?
3. Was an ex one of the people that you’d murdered?

Obviously… question # 3 is a trick question. I do NOT want a man who likes to kill his significant other. That fellow is not MY Mr. Right.

I’d have to do my best to get those applications out there! The best way I’m thinking to get most of the convicts’ attention is to walk up and down C-Block wearing a sandwich board that reads:

on the front. And this on the back:

You know, with my luck I’d probably go and find a romantic! Sheesh.

As you can see, I am not fit to be a prisoner. I’d be as unmatched as Team Angola was in 1992 when the USA basketball “Dream Team” faced off against them.
I can already hear the “NEW MEAT” chant when I’m walking in. So if the only thing I have to do is obeying the law to avoid bad food, no movies and some man-sex… count me IN.

Say, any ideas what to get a 3 time offender rapist for his birthday?

(Just in CASE, Sillies).

All of us here at Pomco thank you for your support.

***************************************************************************

A while back I was talking with a friend about the ménage a trios’ concept… aka the threesome. And let’s face it, when you’re talking about threesomes you’re talking about quality topics of conversation.

I’ve never participated in one and to be frank, I was happy when one woman showed up, much less two. I guess I’m easy that way. Or, more of a loser, whichever you prefer.
I don’t think that I’m a threesome type guy anyway when I think of it. It seems more suited for a guy like this:

When I put thought into the subject, I think that the IDEA of a threesome is much better than the logistics of it. I’d guess the fantasy is more titillating than the reality.

As a dude, the idea of two women at once is sublime. But if it really happened… I can’t escape the thought that I’d be leaving two people disgruntled when all was said and done. After the impending 6-minutes to ejaculation, I imagine that I’d look something like this:

”Um, yeah… so…. You girls wanna get some pizza or something?”

 
I’m not against porn. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t against it for a good 20 minutes a few nights back. But I do think it can give people bad ideas of what is expected of someone. It’s so obvious that it’s make- believe, just like Hollywood in a way. I mean, I’m far from a stud over here… but I’m not sure that any guy can hold themselves in as long as these fellas who have two women slurping on him at the same time. I mean, really.

If that were I in that situation, I couldn’t look at them at all. That would be a certain early release. I couldn’t help myself. And I would have to think of REALLY unpleasant things during the act with the hope to try to contain myself…

“The dentist…..tax audit….spiders……”

”Prostate exam!! Losing a limb!! Carrot Top tickets”

And when it would get close, I’d give it a last ditch effort….

”HOOOOOOLOCAUSSSST!!!!”

It just would NOT be pretty.

And all of this is the idea of being with two women. This doesn’t even get into the hazard of a guy being the third person! Which I think is a terrible proposition for me particularly.

First of all, I don’t want a naked man that close to me at all, much less in a lovemaking situation. I’m not a homophobe, but I don’t want the unpleasant discovery that it wasn’t HER ass that I was grabbing for the last 5 minutes. Yikes!!!!

But the big killer for me is I do NOT like the idea of someone spunking on me, even accidentally.
You know, if the sex is good you’re almost in another place. So what happens if you lose the other guy sometime during the act, and it turns out that he’s standing up next to you about to go?!?!

You’ll hear : “I’m gonna come!!!”

And you’ll turn your head like an idiot…

”Hunnnnhhh?”

And then,

”AAHH!”

Ok. Let’s come right out and say it. NOBODY in this scenario wants THAT to happen. NOBODY.

If you could freeze frame each person’s face at that exact horrible moment, I think it would look like this:

Guy # 1:

Guy # 2:

Girl:

If I were the victim in this story, I can confidently say that I can never see either one of those people again. And I would hope they’d feel the same! If I were the other guy I would want it that way.

Guy # 1: “Hey man… you want to go shoot some pool or something later?”

Guy # 2: “Sorry dude… I came on your face. We’re through, you and me.”

So in conclusion, I have to say that the threesome is not for me at all.

At ALL.

That is, unless Kate Winslet asks me. 

(I’m not a TOTAL idiot).

This is one of the reasons that I enjoy reading blogs. I like the concept of the writer telling a story about themselves and what they do in a given situation, or even just what they write about. It helps me understand who they are as a person. It is the only avenue that will help me learn who they are without being in my life personally.

I also try to convey this concept in what I write. I want to share stories that have happened to me, and how I reacted to them. People that I know personally understand who I am because they know me. They live through my irreverent behavior and quirks and know how much I’ve been crapped on over the years. When I’d told people in my life that my new house was formerly a funeral home, several of them had said: “Only YOU, Pomeroy!”
In the Blogosphere, you only know things about someone that are given to you.

In this spirit, I wanted to write a list of random facts about me. This is with the hope you’ll learn a little more about who I am.

So, here you go:

My name was almost Chester Calvin Pomeroy III. I’m glad the ‘rents rethought that one. To think, my name is Jeff and I was picked on! If I was given that name, I might STILL be sitting in a gym locker!

I grew up in a welfare home in a questionable neighborhood with my mom and autistic sister. There were several winters without heat, and we’d gather around the oven to keep warm. There were many times before “check day” that we’d run out of food. We used to get bread & sugar from a local sources and have sugar sandwiches until the check or food stamps would come in. The sad thing is, I really used to LOVE them. I WONDER where my sweet tooth came from? Hmmm….

Our house was broken into once. Somebody came in to steal what they could, and they slashed up my mother’s bed to shreds. When I got older, I started leaving a baseball bat under my bed in the case this would happen again. To this day (In a nice neighborhood) I still keep my Louisville there. It’s a force of habit.

When I was a baby, my mother sang Beatles songs to me. I wonder if that’s why they became my obsession? I carried on that tradition with my children. Kate’s favorite song was “In My Life,” and Felix seems to enjoy “Golden Slumbers”. Fortunately, they don’t know what a terrible singer I am. My wife doesn’t have the same luxury, unfortunately for her.

I remember our toughest Christmas from my childhood. My mom was only able to get me a little red record player and 2 45’s to play on it. (Sidebar: The two records by the way, were The Beatles Yesterday/Act Naturally and Who Dey? Bruins in the case you were curious).
I was happy opening it but started to cry afterward because I thought that Santa didn’t like me, seeing that this was my only gift. I still feel bad about that, because I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face after saying that through my tears.

In 5th grade, my favorite show was Star Blazers. Throughout the entire year, I drew different pictures of the Space Ship Argo:

After drawing a large group for myself, I started to draw them for my classmates. Why, I don’t know.

My nationality is Irish, French, British and Cherokee Indian. My great grandmother was a full blood Cherokee. The good news about that is that I tan well. I vaguely remember my grandmother sitting at the edge of her rocking chair belting away at her harmonica for me.

My sense of humor was born of two parents: Looney Tunes and the Marx Brothers. Most of the things that I think are funny is because of what I learned from those sources.

I started work when I was 13 years old. I told myself then that I didn’t want to live like we had been moving forward. Other than the summer of 1992, I’ve worked straight through from then until today. I know I’m a workaholic, and I know it’s not good for me. I have to be dragged away from my work, usually by my wife or daughter. I can’t help myself! As a matter of fact, I am usually working while I’m reading blogs/commenting on WordPress.

I must be the only person on Myspace stupid enough to have my real last name up for everyone to see. But in my defense, when I made my profile I thought I’d only be communicating with friends that know me outside of Myspace only. And most of them refer to me by my last name! I’ll make sure to explain that to the FBI after my identity is stolen. With my luck the ID thief will probably be a Nazi pedophile too. I can already see the headline on Newsweek.

I have OCD… And I estimated that I’m an annoying 7 on a scale from 1 to 10. For more details on my OCD, click here and weep. (For me)

Former Hall of Fame basketball player Wilt Chamberlain allegedly had sexual relations with 20,000 women. Me? I had 6.

I am primarily a long-term relationship guy, so that didn’t help my chances in competing with him. He died in 1999, and he’s still leading me 20,000 to 6! At 38 and married, I’m starting to think that I don’t have chance at catching him. However, I am convinced that I am kicking his ass in the masturbation category! After all, he always had women taking care of him with those numbers… How could he POSSIBLY have the time?

Advantage: Pomeroy.

To woo the girl who would end up being my second girlfriend, I sang “Reach Out I’ll Be There” in its entirety. I even ran behind her at the part when Levi Stubbs sang “Just look over your shoulder”. Lucky for me, it worked.

I never dumped anyone. I was dumped from every relationship that I’ve had. I guess I’m easily dumpable. They say rejection builds character, so that explains why I’m such a character.

I recently discovered that I haven’t cried since 1999, when my cat Rocket died. My wife told me a couple of weeks ago that she’s never seen my cry! I feel like I may be turning into a machine and it scares me. I think I’m due for another watch of Born Free. Or, maybe I’ll get audited again. That oughtta do it.

I am an enormous movie buff. I’ve seen thousands of movies, (You’d be surprised what kind of time you have not getting dates). When I was younger, I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark and Star Wars each over 50 times.

My favorite film of all time is 2001: A Space Odyssey. I’ve seen that over 10 times now, and if you’ve seen it once you’ll know what an achievement that is. It’s a long movie, with not a lot of dialogue. I think that it’s a slow burn. A mix of special effects mastery, a prolific score and loaded with symbolism. One day I plan writing an essay on what I believe it to be about, for no other reason than my love and respect for it. I compare watching that to a female orgasm. It’s a complex puzzle that I look to solve with each opportunity.

I love music. I have over 1000 CD’s, and bought many more that are no longer with me. I listen to just about everything you can think of, finding something interesting in almost every genre. When I listen to music, my brain almost instantly splits up each instrument into separate units. It’s not unusual for me to listen to a song or classical piece over and over, taking turns listening to each separate instrument each time. I regret never learning how to play.

One of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten, and will never forget is from my friend who is a musician. I had lamented to him once that I’d wished that I was a musician. He replied: “You are a musician. You just never learned to play”.

I’m thinking in another life I am a bass player, either in a hard rock band or a jazz trio.

Many people tell me that I have a radio voice.

This is the Happy Book:

I’ve had this for 12-13 years or so. In it is every creative idea I’ve had in that time. I have a short screenplay in there. There are feature film ideas in it. I have songs that I’d written for the Dixie Prix, a mock country band I was in. I have notes for website ideas and short stories. When I’m driving I have paper near me, and whenever I think of something I write it down and put it in the Happy Book when I get home. I also “write” in the shower. I take long showers and I’m always thinking in there. I’ve written half of my stuff from a thought I had in the shower. After I dry off I run to the Happy Book and write it in there. If my house was burning down and my family was already safe, The Happy Book would be the first thing I would try to recover.

I like to drive in loops. If there is an equidistant return route from somewhere, I take it every time.

I drive a lot for work. It’s not unusual for me to do different voices to myself when I’m not on the phone. For instance, last week at different times I was Casey Kasem yelling at his producers, I was Johnny Carson twice, I was a cockney British guy, I was Jackie Mason, an Indian customer service rep yelling at “me” and I was Sean Connery’s James Bond getting in an argument with a parrot.

I hope you got something from this narcissistic post of mine. If you have a question for the Pomeroy, drop it in the comment box and i’ll be happy to answer. Especially if it’s uncomfortable.