ConstantCommentary® Vol. VIII, No. 163, January 19, 2004
by Mike Jasper
What a summer. Or was it fall? I can't remember, but I had a lot of money then, so it definitely wasn't winter.
Last year, about three weeks after my last column, I went back to California to hang with the homies. Works for me. Attended an Irish family reunion in Tracy, California where I got to ride in a parade, got to party with brother Dan, and got to eat and drink to excess. After the wingding in Tracy, I headed back to Sonoma County and finished the extended weekend by seeing Barry Bonds hit a home run at Pac Bell Stadium. So what did I learn?
Christian rock sucks.
Let's talk about that trip to Pac Bell. The protagonists were the usual suspects, a bunch of over-achievers and over-drinkers, aka that gang of mine. Clarissa was there, I think, as well as Johnny The C., Rochelle, Deb, and Big Billy D. Gay Freddie and Linda joined us around the third inning. I think Eric and his date showed up during the seventh-inning stretch, but I was too drunk by then to know for sure, and I'm too lazy to find out now.
But Christian rock sucks.
Chris R. never made it. I had a ticket to the game for him, but he didn't show. That said, he bought the ferry tickets for us, so he's a mensh in my book. Mensh? That's Jewish for a guy with a big dick who buys everyone ferry tickets.
And Christian rock still sucks.
Here's how it works. We're all from Sonoma County, wine country, the real wine country, not that over-hyped Napa bullshit. The game plan is simple: take as few cars as possible to Larkspur, then catch the ferry to Pac Bell Park to see the San Francisco Giants (it's a baseball team, you erudite pussies). After the game, we take the ferry from Pac Bell to Larkspur and hope somebody's sober enough to drive back to Sonoma County. For you can still drink booze on the ferry. Apparently, Rob Reiner hasn't presented an initiative to the California electorate to ban drinking on ferries yet.
It's 11:32 p.m. now, and Christian rock sucks.
Before we boarded the ferry, we met at a bar in Larkspur for some pre-game drinks. As we sat in the outside cafe and sipped libations while illegally downing ciggies like the nicotine warriors we are, Johnny The C. (as he is inclined to do) brought up a topic for our amusement: How long does it take before a woman decides she's willing to do a guy?
The answer varies, but Christian rock still sucks.
Clarissa was the first one to venture a guess. She said about two hours. Rochelle was undecided. "Maybe thirty minutes," she said. "No, wait, maybe an hour,” she said again. "You know, it's really hard to tell," she finally said. Yeah, she definitely vacillated. For all I know, it could take her eight years to decide.
Then again, I don't know Rochelle well enough. However, I do know Christian rock sucks.
Deb didn't blanche at the question at all. "It takes me 20 seconds to decide if I want to fuck a guy. Period." It suddenly dawned on me. Whether it's two hours, eight years or 20 seconds, every guy is playing some form of the old game show “Beat The Clock.”
Is the opposite true? Do guys play by the same rule? It depends. Mainly, it depends on alcohol consumption, pretty much. "I'd never fuck her, ever." Two hours of drinking later. "I might fuck her." Four hours of drinking later. "How you doing?"
Either way, Christian rock still sucks.
I was intrigued by Deb's 20-second rule. "So, it really only takes you 20 seconds to figure out if you want a guy?" I asked, and swiftly took a seat next to her. Deb is tall, red haired, gorgeous, and kind of looks like that Jessica chick from the Roger Rabbit movie. "Deb?" I asked. "Will you do me?" I looked at my imaginary watch and started counting. "19... 18... 17... 16. "
Deb laughed. Whereas, Jesus wept. And Christian rock sucks.
"Well, when a guy is funny, he buys more time with me."
"15... 14... 13... 12..."
"Of course, when the guy doesn't know when to stop the joke, he's so out of there."
Hey, I made it to 12. I'm so very proud.
Meanwhile, Christian rock still sucks. Not as much as Oasis, but a lot.
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| Mike
Jasper is a writer and musician living in Austin, Texas. Originally
from the San Francisco Bay Area, he has strong ties to Seattle,
St. Petersburg, Florida and North Platte, Nebraska. He can be
reached at column@mikejasper.com or PO Box 91174, Austin TX,
78709 or 24-hour voice mail at 512-916-3727. Accessible? I think
so. © 2002 by Mike Jasper, All Rights Reserved. ConstantCommentary® is published whenever Mike Jasper feels like it. All material is the responsibility of the author. Special thanks to those who helped along the way: Jeff Cox, Susan Maxey, Catherine Clay, Cathleen Cole, Valerie Sprague, Ian Wolff, Laura Martin and Karin Stephenson. (You may download this article, print it out for personal use and e-mail it to your friends. But you must never, ever give Kurt Vonnegut the credit.) |