Tampa, FL by way of St. Louis, MO

Nathan DeGraaf graduated fucking years ago with a BA in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida, which he still lives near because college chicks are the best. On weekday evenings, Nate can typically be found at any one of a number of North Tampa bars. On weekends, he typically cannot be found. When not drinking, fishing, watching sports, or having sex, Nathan likes to read, play the harmonica, and show up for work. Throughout the course of his life, he has been arrested six times because, as his father has often said, "the kid is fucking stupid."

Comedy Writing

Observations Like a Decorated Corpse

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/tut-796739.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/tut-782064.jpg" border="0" /></a>As I was driving to work today, I heard this announcement in an advertisement for a display at a Pinellas County Museum: “Come see King Tut: The original King of Bling.” After hearing that, I wanted to pull my car over and cry like Richard Dreyfuss in <em>Stand By Me</em> after he found out that Chris died. In case you were wondering, today is the day I officially lost all faith in American culture. If I were that Evita chick that Madonna played in that movie, I’d be singing “Don’t Cry for me West Virginia.” I mean, it’s over. We’re all officially idiots. Turn the universities into alcohol-related theme parks, cancel the poetry recitals and replace them with Sci Fi picture shows, put Puff Daddy/P Diddy/Just Diddy/Just Do It/Did He Do It?/Damn, he Diddy’d It in charge of Webster’s Dictionaries Inc., and cancel the spelling bee. I mean, my fucking God. That’s it. I quit. I haven’t been this pissed off since the last baseball strike. America, what a country.<br /><br />If a guy’s playing pool with a girl, and the girl starts talking to me, and she tells me that the guy she’s with is not her boyfriend, and I start kissing on her and eventually take the girl home, do I owe the guy an explanation? Should I send him a card or buy him a drink? I mean, is there any obligation on my part to explain myself to the guy? I sure hope not.<br /><br />Which is worse, the fact that my friend Luke said, “In honor of Pearl Harbor Day, I’m bombing a Polynesian Island” or the fact that I laughed out loud after he said it?<br /><br />My friend Kevin recently visited from the other side of the state. In doing so, I was reminded of some of my favorite Kevin-Lines. In no particular order, here are the top five.<br /><br />“Christmas is just a capitalist ploy to inject money into the economy.”<br /><br />“You can’t be a freak at a Dead Show.”<br /><br />“Why don’t you go out in the street and play hide and go fuck yourself?”<br /><br />“Twenty to one, that stripper does coke.”<br /><br />“If it wasn’t for sports and movies, we’d spend all our time bitching about the government.”<br /><br />And finally, because with Diddy in charge, I won’t need to worry about logic or fluidity anymore, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at a Sophisticated Singles Club:<br /><br />“Forty is the new thirty.”

Not So Deadly Sins

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/7sins-761354.gif"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/7sins-757051.gif" border="0" /></a>Sometimes I wonder about the little sins—the ones that don’t fall into the “seven deadly” category but are still impolite and somewhat dastardly, like farting in church or drinking in class. And sometimes, when I wonder, I write about what I wonder about. Sometimes I even make lists. And this one time, I made a list of the seven little, not-so-deadly sins. (All thanks to Bunni for sparking this post with her brilliant suggestion.)<br /><br /><strong>Farting</strong><br />Unless it’s just you and the guys, this is just generally frowned upon. Nevertheless, people fart on each other all the time. People fart in elevators, in churches, in beds and in the faces of the women they love. It’s a natural bodily function. And it’s wrong to do in public, but not quite as wrong as taking a crap.<br /><br /><strong>Crapping</strong><br />Think about it. You take one crap on a hotel lobby floor and you’re branded for life. You’d have thought you crapped on an infant’s head the way those people, um, probably reacted or something.<br /><br /><strong>Taking the Last Beer</strong><br />Come on, dude. At least announce that you’re taking it. It’s the last beer.<br /><br />(I’d like to point out that right after I typed that sentence I got up and grabbed a beer. And no, I’m not seeking help. Yet.)<br /><br /><strong>Saying ‘Conversate’</strong><br />It’s not a word. Please, please, please, please, please stop. I’m begging you. Please.<br /><br /><strong>Getting Political</strong><br />If you’re not running for something, shut up. And yes, I’m guilty of this one, as well as of all of these, with the exception of saying ‘conversate.’ Man, I hate that.<br /><br /><strong>Story Matching</strong><br />Even if your story is true, one-upping your friends is never cool. Which sucks, because their stories are usually lame.<br /><br /><strong>Ending a List with a Bad Joke</strong><br />What can I say? We all do it, right?

Picking Them Games Again

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/favre-724380.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/favre-722081.jpg" border="0" /></a>Last week, I didn’t do my football picks. The week before that I was 5 – 11. Hey, I’m new at trying to pick every game against the spread. What do you want?

Observations Like an Oddball Column

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/thejesus-790904.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/thejesus-789045.jpg" border="0" /></a>My apologies for the last <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/columns/nathan/11-30-05.htm">column</a>. The lesson, as always, don’t write drunk. Seriously.

Chip Off the Old Snippet

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/baby-757403.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/baby-754936.jpg" border="0" /></a>Chip: So yeah, like every four hours Sarah produces milk, and if the kid’s not hungry, she uses this breast pump thing so she can bottle the milk and save it for lat

What’s in a Hurricane Name?

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/titus-731946.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/titus-730205.jpg" border="0" /></a>Today is the last day of hurricane season. Meanwhile, Tropical Storm Epsilon is sucking up moisture in the Atlantic like a cokehead who just walked into a party hosted by the ’86 Mets (side note: I think they should do a show about all the athletes and entertainers who were not on coke in the ‘80s. Then again, could interviews with Dale Murphy and Walter Cronkite really fill an hour? Probably not. Forget I mentioned this). Anyway, the news lady promised me that today was the last day of the hurricane season. She also said that the last day and the first day of hurricane season are always the same every year. I have no idea how this could be possible (it’s not like you can tell a hurricane that it doesn’t get to work come December. I’ve said it before and I‘ll say it again: whatever) so I’ll just add hurricane season to the long list of stuff I don’t get (along with Wayne Newton’s career, the cancellation of TV’s <em>Titus</em>, how Venetian blinds work and many, many more impossible-to-understand chunks of life).<br /><br />At any rate, in honor of the end of the most active hurricane season in the history of hyperactivity, I have decided to take one last look at the hurricane names of 2005 and then add stuff about people I know with the same names in an effort to… okay, so I have no goal. Here goes.<br /><br /><strong>Arlene<br /></strong>I have an Aunt Arlene. She’s nothing like a hurricane but she makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. Also, her husband can fly a Cessna and he hit a hole in one once in North Carolina. So there’s that. And for the record, I don’t like it when hurricanes get those outdated, senior citizen names. Always seems like a waste of a storm. Kinda like if your friend bought a brand new Corvette and then proceeded to call it Gertrude. What the hell am I talking about, again?<br /><br /><strong>Bret</strong><br />I hate the name Bret. I don’t know anyone named Bret. If I did, I’d call him Brat in reference to the food. Over time, I’d change that nickname to Relish because I relish the name Bret and I like relish on my brat (don’t go away yet; it gets better, I promise).<br /><br /><strong>Cindy<br /></strong>Every Cindy I ever knew was fat.<br /><br /><strong>Dennis<br /></strong>The guy who used to manage one of my favorite bars is named Dennis. He’s a big, greasy guy with tattoos, long hair, a handlebar mustache and an unconscious knowledge of geography. He was fired for playing Golden Tee when he was supposed to be working. Also, he constantly accused me of being an undercover cop. For whatever reason, I miss him.<br /><br /><strong>Emily<br /></strong>I know four women named Emily and all of them work with children or help the poor. Women named Emily almost always end up being trustworthy. Someone should look into this but it ain’t gonna be me. I’ve got beer to drink, after all.<br /><br /><strong>Franklin</strong><br />People named Frank are salt of the Earth. This is a rule. My father and an Italian friend of mine share this name. Both of them drink too much, eat fatty foods, root strongly for their respective sports teams and bristle whenever anyone says, “May I be Frank?” Just a good, American name.<br /><br /><strong>Gert</strong><br />This is my late grandmother’s name. God rest her soul.<br /><br /><strong>Harvey<br /></strong>I have never in my life known anyone named Harvey. Have you? And if so, what are they like?<br /><br /><strong>Irene</strong><br />What’s up with all the old people names this hurricane season? The only Irene I know is a great aunt of mine who loves black licorice and hates cats. I know. I know. Less than riveting but what can you do?<br /><br /><strong>Jose</strong><br />I love it when hurricane names get ethnic. I want more of this. I want Shaniquas, Shanaynays, Orlandos, etc, etc, et al and then some. I know several people named Jose, and the only thing they have in common is that they all speak Spanish. An earth shattering coincidence, I know.<br /><br /><strong>Katrina<br /></strong>The mother of all hurricanes. The scourge of New Orleans. The killer of Mardi Gras. The bludgeoner of Jazz Fest, and the name of a girl who once threw a vase at me while I was sleeping. The lesson here: Katrinas are bitches.<br /><br /><strong>Lee</strong><br />The name of a mechanic friend of mine who makes up for drinking at work by going to church on Sundays (drunk). Just a classic name. I’ve never met a Lee I didn’t like.<br /><br /><strong>Maria<br /></strong>The name of a girl I dated in college who once said to me, “I want you to know that I’m pregnant, but I’m pretty sure it’s not yours.” Ladies, just so you know, if you ever get pregnant and use that line on a guy, the response you receive will go something like this:<br /><br />“Umm, so if it’s not mine… I mean, if it is mine… I mean, excuse me. I think I just saw my future explode.”<br /><br /><strong>Nate</strong><br />I mean, what more can you say about such a great name? Best people ever. You got Nate Newton, Nate DeGraaf, Nate Burleson, and Nate the Great. Awesome name for only the most deserving people ever.<br /><br /><strong>Ophelia</strong><br />You probably won’t believe this, but I actually went to college with a girl named Ophelia. She was in my Fiction 4 class. She wrote depressing stories about suicidal women and dying flowers. She wore black lipstick and fishnet stockings and was sexy in that “I’ll bet she likes to wear leather halter tops and knee high boots while riding her men like a horse trainer” kind of way.<br /><br /><strong>Philippe</strong><br />Again with the ethnicities. I know one guy named Phillipe. He’s from the Bahamas. He’s good at pool and he’s a cheapskate. Take from that what you will.<br /><br /><strong>Rita</strong><br />The only woman I know named Rita was a waitress at a strip club. In lieu of personality, she elected the following hobbies: cocaine use, coercing men into buying her stuff and calling people wankers (a hangover from a trip she took to England that just never went away). Also, she smoked cigars even after it was stylish for women to do so. I’m never naming anyone Rita, by the way.<br /><br /><strong>Stan</strong><br />I knew a guy named Stan in high school. He was pale, hairy and played the trombone in the school band. Also, he went to an Ivy League college. And yes, I have no point.<br /><br /><strong>Tammy</strong><br />Another fat girl’s name. Let me put it this way: if you end up in a packed elevator with a bunch of Tammys and Cindys, you better watch out, because (if you don’t plummet to your death) when the elevator stalls, you will most likely be eaten by angry balls of blubber with mean streaks.<br /><br /><strong>Vince<br /></strong>The only person I know named Vince goes by the nickname, Vinny. Which has resulted in about three million references to the movie, “My Cousin Vinny.” Whenever Vinny meets someone new, I count the seconds until that movie is referenced. When it is finally referenced (never fails, by the way), he actually, physically gags. Another prime example of how a movie or actor can just ruin someone’s life. Remind me about this when they finally make and release “Marijuana Deal: The Nate Newton Story.”<br /><br /><strong>Wilma<br /></strong>I never knew anyone named Wilma. And since I have nothing else to add, I am typing the following, which my friend Chip told me:<br /><br />“Dude, having a kid is like being hungover all the time.”<br /><br />Happy End of the Hurricane Season, everyone.

A Child

Trying to fit the entire universe into one sentence,<br />the little boy excused himself from his meal and announced,<br />“It’s good to be home.”<br /><br />The world,<br />Or at least the measures of its simpler pleasures<br />Danced across his brow<br />And flickered from his smile,<br />But could not<br />For one fleeting moment<br />Portray<br />The fates that may befall him some day.<br /><br />So fear seizes,<br />And a need arises<br />To think of invincibility and all the world’s surprises,<br />As he chews, mouth agape<br />And works real hard to clean his plate<br />Before he stands importantly-tall against the wooden doorframe<br />For his weekly measuring,<br />Not daunted in the least<br />To face the world and all its trappings.<br /><br />His little universe,<br />Wrapped in a blanket of youth<br />Is safe (however-temporarily) from the closet monsters<br />Of age and truth.<br /><br />And is that worth preserving?

Tourist Season

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/motohome-788863.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/motohome-785450.jpg" border="0" /></a>I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving weekend. I sure did. I’ll spare you the details.<br /><br />Sorry about missing the football picks, but well, I spent Saturday and Sunday at a beach house with no internet access, stayed out late on a boat Saturday night and slept through most of the games. Friday, I was recovering from a bodily sensation that combined a hangover with a triptophan overdose. Anyway, I’m sure I inconvenienced absolutely none of you. And I’m happy to be back.<br /><br />We’ve reached that time of the year in Florida when people visit. They have beach houses, hotel reservations, RVs, motor homes, packed cars, stuffed suitcases and/or plane tickets. They love it here this time of year. So far, two friends have visited from up north in the last two weeks. There’s more coming. No one ever visits in the summer. In the summer, it’s just us locals and the heat. The blazing heat. But what can I do? Hell, I live in Florida. Complaining about tourists in Florida is like complaining about rain in the summer. It just happens. And we have to accept that.<br /><br />Now, some of you are reading me from much colder climates, and you’re thinking something to the effect of, “Fuck you, DeGraaf. It’s twenty degrees where I live.” I’m sorry about that, really I am. All I can say is don’t move down here. The hurricanes’ll get you. Try Texas. I hear that’s the place to be.<br /><br />Seriously, the insects are huge in Florida, the weather is overrated, the pollution is horrible, every place looks the same, there’s no great parks left. Just stay away. The place is all messed up. You’ll hate it here. The people are crazy and the water’s not even potable most places.<br /><br />Unless you’re a hot chick. In which case, I could show you a few places, you know, if you get bored while you’re down here or something.

Stuffing the Snippets

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/canada-739497.jpg"><img style="display:block;cursor:hand;text-align:center;margin:0 auto 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/canada-737078.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Steve: So, I know I’m Canadian and all, but what is the American Thanksgiving all about again?<br />Mark: Eating a big meal and watching football.<br />Steve: And how did this start?<br />Mark: I think some Indians and some English people ate together or something.<br />Steve: Yeah, that’s what I thought.<br /><br />Jimbo: Wow, that sprinkler broke and it’s spraying water everywhere. I bet that’s a huge problem up in Canada. The sprinklers do that up there, I bet there’s frozen water everywhere.<br />Steve: Actually, we shut them off in the winter. Or else the pipes break.<br />Jimbo: Really?<br />Me: Yeah.<br />Steve: Stupid Florida boy.<br /><br />Steve: It’s just how I am. It’s my natural nature.<br /><br />Mark: You know, I’m older than both these bartenders combined.<br />Me: Yeah. You’re old.<br />Mark: You know, you… you’re not very nice.<br />Me: Yeah. I’m an asshole.<br /><br />Chris: The truth is I don’t like you, not one bit.<br />Me: And the lie is that anyone cares.<br /><br />Laura: The high’s gonna be 77 on Thanksgiving.<br />Me: Kind of a cool one, but not too bad.<br />Laura: I’ve never seen a Thanksgiving where it didn’t get cold.<br />Me: What are you talking about? The low is like 50.<br />Laura: Aww, will you need to turn your heat on, little boy?<br />Me: Hell yeah, my heat will be on that night for sure.<br />Laura: You’re serious, aren’t you?<br /><br />Me: Do they have a Canadian Thanksgiving?<br />Steve: Yeah, it’s in October.<br />Me: What’s that about?<br />Steve: It’s a day to give thanks.<br />Me: Wow, you guys are pretty literal up there.

Capitilismo

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/oldmanbusted-791878.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/oldmanbusted-789153.jpg" border="0" /></a>This grizzly old man with a stubbly chin spit tobacco juice all over the marble floor of this too-damn-expensive hotel, which did not sit well with the security who came over in a flurry of blue uniforms and began beating the old man to the ground, half-expecting him to die in their club toting hands, but the old man, a veteran of too many too-damn-expensive wars, pulled a pistol from his breast pocket and began picking off renta’ cops like a kid with a new bb gun firing down birds on a wire, which didn’t sit well with hotel management who saw fit to send many a police officer to the scene where security guards were swamped in a sticky pool of their own blood while little kids and women screamed and of course, the cameramen got it all on tape because now the too-damn expensive hotel has become news so naturally, I make my reservations right then and there because I know the prices will just skyrocket and if I don’t get a room now, there sure won’t be one available later because this place is gonna become busy like OJ’s house as the gawkers flock like geese outside on the street and the old man picks off cops, one by one through the broken lobby windows until they see fit to throw in the tear gas and everyone flees faster than crack addicts with new stereos out every possible exit while smoke roars and sirens wail and rain falls in streaks across the stubbly face of that old man, out in the street now, with an old Russian pistol in one hand and the decapitated head of a city police officer in the other, pushing the crowd back away from the scene that a little hunk of misplaced tobacco juice ignited while the cops put shot after shot into his brittle body causing him to fall and bleed and die like a freshly cut beef cow, and the whole time I’m wondering if Mom saw me on the news.

The Little Things

Sometimes, it’s the little things.<br /><br />Like how I have my bedroom set up so I can sleep in the winter. I keep my window open and let the winter breeze in. When it gets too cold (around 58 degrees), my heat kicks on and I sleep in the womblike embrace of both a cold breeze and welcome warmth. I usually wake up in a good mood.<br /><br />Or how, when the sun is shining, I will try to catch it in my eyelashes and watch the resulting little rainbows dance. <br /><br />Or how regular exchanges with clerks, bartenders, checkout girls, deli employees and waitresses can turn into genuinely happy moments. It’s as if we're all saying to each other, ‘sure, I don’t know you. But I have to be here and when you’re here it doesn’t suck.’ I like that. Gives me faith in humanity.<br /><br />Or a an out-of-the-blue compliment from a little kid.<br /><br />Sometimes, the things that matter most in our lives are really just a collection of things that don’t matter too much at all. <br /><br />And when all the things that don’t matter much at all are going great, then that’s when we’re going great. And maybe that’s one of the keys to happiness.<br /><br />Or, more than likely, I’m just rambling.

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