Tag: The Nate Way

Alberto Suave

Well, Tropical Storm Alberto hit land today. My friend Larry, who lives near Alberto’s landing place, is most likely surfing because of this. Back in the day, if you really wanted to know if a hurricane was coming to Florida, you just went to a beach and counted the surfers. If there were more than ten, we had a hurricane. Between six to ten was a hurricane warning. And less than six was just another day. Now we have all kinds of technological advances so we can figure out at what precise moment, my friend Larry is surfing (at least I think that’s what we’re figuring out here—I never pay much attention to, well, anything, but I digress).<br /><br />Anyway, a tropical storm is just that: a storm. Look for the fun stuff to hit in July, August and September. Buy your plywood now. Seriously, I can get you great deals.<br /><br />Now, I love hurricane season because it gives me something to write about. Also, I had my first threesome as the result of 2004’s hurricane, Frances (scared chicks kick ass). But, most importantly, I love hurricane season because I wrote my first piece for Points in Case as a result of it. <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/surviving_hurricanes.htm">Here it is if you’d like to read it.</a><br /><br />Court Sullivan actually added this part: “provided you aren't the asshole who took the last case of Bud Light from the University of South Florida Exxon during Charley.” I always thought that addition was funny because a) I hate Bud Light, b) there isn’t an Exxon anywhere near USF, and c) he added a cuss word. I had been waiting my whole life to find an editor that added cuss words. It was a a beautiful moment in the history of me, but yet again, I digress (which reminds me of a joke my buddy Main told me).<br /><br /><strong>Main:</strong> Nate, it’s a good thing writing ain’t like basketball.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> What?<br /><strong>Main:</strong> It’s a good thing writing ain’t like basketball or you’d be fucked.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Why?<br /><strong>Main:</strong> ‘Cause you hardly ever make a point.<br /><br />My friends are dicks.<br /><br />Anyway, if you take anything away from this bumbling ramble, I hope it would be the following: Hurricanes can cause threesomes, kick start writing careers and make good waves for my buddy, Larry, who is probably surfing, right now.<br /><br />In the words of Dick Fletcher, esteemed weather geek, “Here we go again, Tampa Bay.”

Nothing Much Tonight

There will be no lies, tonight.<br />Tonight we offer<br />Absolutely nothing.<br />Tonight we offer truth<br />Like the soft stain on an over-washed beer glass.<br />Tonight we offer class<br />In a ratty T-shirt.<br /><br />I drink too much<br />And I know it.<br />But that will not stop anything.<br />From stopping us.<br /><br />Freedom takes on only one form,<br />Formed not from suggestion,<br />But from desperation.<br /><br />Remember that no good dream<br />Goes unfunded. <br /><br />Remember that no evil dream<br />Goes unfunded.<br /><br />There will be no truth, tonight.<br />Tonight we offer<br />Absolutely nothing.<br />Tonight we offer lies<br />Like the soft stain on an over-washed beer glass.<br />Tonight we offer crass<br />In a ratty T-shirt. <br /><br />Thanks for coming out.

Observations Like an Old Cop

<a href="http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/6818/columbo.gif"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/6818/columbo.gif" border="0" /></a>The greatest part about having broken up with your girl is how easy it is to see which girls are interested in you.

The Nate DeGraaf

A true friend takes for granted the fact that you help him or her out. A true friend expects that help because a true friend would do the same for you. And, as a result, you usually don’t reward your friend's kindness, either. Such is life. <br /><br />When I was a junior in high school, I had quite the reputation. I also had a friend named Sean. Sean was a senior in high school, and as such, he was about three months away from graduating when his parents announced that they were moving his whole family to San Antonio. Sean elected to stay behind in St. Louis and crash on the floor of my bedroom (which was more of a basement apartment, really—had my own entrance to the house and everything). Sean was then, and still is, one of my best friends. He was as polite as he was funny, which was a winning combination, especially when I was trying to get laid and needed him to get the hell out of the house for a while. <br /><br />Well, one night, I had a fifteen year old girl over at my house. After we completed our amateur sex (it’s amazing how right Coach was: practice really does make perfect), we laid in bed and talked. I had not heard Sean open the door to the basement, nor had I heard him crack the door to my bedroom, so I did not know that Sean was sitting outside listening to every word. <br /><br />I don’t remember much of the conversation, except for the following part. The little, blond, freshman girl (whatever the hell her name was) actually said to me, “I can’t believe that I am lying in bed with The Nate DeGraaf.”<br /><br />To which I replied, “What the hell are you talking about? I’m just like everybody else.”<br /><br />To which she replied, “Huh, like, you’re only a living legend.”<br /><br />To which I replied, “It’s time to call your dad, little girl. Play time is over.”<br /><br />I don’t remember why it bothered me so much that she had placed me on that pedestal. But it did. Anyway, her dad came and picked her up shortly after Sean pretended to have just returned from White Castle (a burger place, for those that don’t know) and Sean and I got good and drunk. <br /><br />The next morning, Sean was driving me to school. He lit a cigarette, smiled the smile of a happy psychopath, looked over at me and licked his lips. <br /><br />“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked. <br /><br />“Nothing,” he responded. “I just can’t believe that The Nate DeGraaf is letting me drive him to school. I mean, you’re a living legend.”<br /><br />“Fuck you.”<br /><br />So Sean, because he is who he is, basically went around that huge building and told the whole school the story of little What’s Her Name and her admiration of my reputation. He even went so far as to write, “I’m in love with The Nate DeGraaf” on the walls of every boy’s bathroom in the school. So basically, thanks to Sean, a statement that I found to be embarrassing in private, was now public. <br /><br />Whether I liked it or not, there was now a “the” in front of my name, and it was all the fault of Sean (nicknames: The Dope Pig, The Half Spic, and Gel Boy). And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how your true friends pay you back for your kindness.<br /><br />They embarrass the holy hell out of you.

The Snippets Need Focus

Checkslovakian chick: Do you expect to live forever?<br />Me: No. <br />Checkslovakian chick: Then why do you act like it?<br />Me: It’s easier. <br />Checkslovakian chick: Ahh, you are truly an American. <br /><br />Jerry: I like how you haven’t changed, Nate.<br />Me: What do ya’ mean? You like how I’m still the same asshole?<br />Jerry: Hey man, at least you’re consistent. <br /><br />Random Dude: Hey, are you guys gonna be staying here long? Because we really want that table. <br />Me: That is a horrible shirt. <br />Random Dude: What are you talking about? It’s an O’Neil.<br />Me: Oh, well then, excuse me. <br /><br />Random Lady: So what brings you to this wedding?<br />Me: I don’t know.<br />Random Lady: Well, who do you know here?<br />Me: The bride.<br />Random Lady: That’s it. <br />Me: No. I like to hold back on total strangers. It keeps them in line. <br />Random Lady: Are you from New York?<br /><br />Me: If I were you, I would use cancer as an excuse for everything. <br />Doug: What do you mean?<br />Me: I mean like, if anyone ever bitched about me staying out too late and drinking too much I’d be all like, “Fuck you. I got cancer. I’m living life for the moment.”<br />Doug: Well yeah, but you don’t want to rely on that—<br />Me: Or if I got caught cheating on my woman, I’d be all like, “Fuck you, bitch. Do you know what it was like beating cancer? I need people. I need to live.”<br />Doug: Glad to see you haven’t changed, Nate.<br /><br />Random Bus Lady: Oh really, you beat cancer? What did you have?<br />Doug: Hodgkins Lymphoma. <br />Random Bus Lady: My friend died from that. <br />Doug: That’s nice, lady. Real good to know. <br /><br />Amy: I missed you terribly. <br />Me: So, who’d you cheat on me with?<br />Amy: It was just for two minutes and then I pushed him away. I felt horrible. <br />Me: Get the fuck out. <br /><br />Me: I can’t believe it. She cheated on me.<br />Emmy: What? That’s never happened to you before?<br />Me: Not to my knowledge. <br />Emmy: That really surprises me. <br />Me: Gee, thanks. <br /><br />Me: What are you doing tonight?<br />Bethany: Going home. <br />Me: After that?<br />Bethany: I don’t know. Why? What did you have planned?<br />Me: I just broke up with my girlfriend and I was figuring me and you could go back to my place and have some serious rebound sex. <br />Bethany: Good night.<br />Main: It amazes me that you don’t get slapped more. <br />Me: Yeah, me too.

Six Bucks in New York

I would love to tell y’all the details of my weekend in NYC, but well, Memory, that alcohol hating little bitch, does not preserve the whole weekend. Memory, that selective little gutterslut, will not allow me to tell you the whole tale. I guarantee you there are a number of people who I met in New York that woke up Sunday morning pissed off at me. To you people, I would apologize, but Memory sucks the stuck sand out of a beachgoer’s ass crack and I, as a result, don’t remember you. Hey, what can you do? The best you can is all you can do I guess (holy shit, I’m typing to myself now—this can’t be good).<br /><br />Anyway, Friday night I got into New York and spent the night drinking heavily with three girls and one guy in a Checkslovakian bar in Chinatown (and yes, I know how stupid that sounds). The three girls were all very impressed that I was walking the streets alone in that part of New York at that time of night (late). They kept making allusions that some harm would come to me if I walked home alone. At one point, I was so bothered by these allusions that I said something to the effect of, “Do you really think any of these turtleneck wearing motherfuckers could protect me?” To which one girl, whose name is being withheld by Memory because he’s a damn purist when it comes to alcohol, replied, “No, I will.” So, around four in the morning, she walked me both blocks to my hotel and up the stairs to my room. I could have fucked her. I did not.<br /><br />“Wow,” I thought. “I’m a pretty good boyfriend.”<br /><br />Saturday morning, I woke up, found the cat who crapped in my mouth, killed him, ate him and headed to find an open bar. But dammit, there were none. It was only around Ten AM. So, as is the custom in NYC, I walked. And I walked. And I walked. Eventually, I found an open bar in, of all places, Tribeca. Let me tell you a little something about Tribeca: the people who live there are snobs and should all be shot.<br /><br />I did however, really enjoy the people who worked in the Tribeca bar (which, by the way, was a soccer bar. I mean, what the fuck, right? Are we in America or aren’t we?). The bartender gave me a free Bloody Mary and a waitress pressed her phone number in my hand. Her name was Suzie, and above the number were the words, “I get off at four.” I could have fucked her, but I didn’t.<br /><br />“Wow,” I thought. “I’m an awesome boyfriend.”<br /><br />Later, I met up with Doug, my old college roommate, and Jerry, a friend of his who I had hung out with on a few other occasions in New Jersey, New York and Tampa. We drank religiously. We sucked down drinks in several bars which have all kind of blurred together because Memory seems to think sobriety is a right and not a privilege (the punk bitch). I remember that I tried to start fights with random people. I was unsuccessful. I insulted a guy’s shirt. He took it personally. A bartender nicknamed me, “Mouth” which was funny ‘cause that was one of my dad’s nicknames for me. I did not tell the bartender that tidbit of family history. I had a few names for the bartender. I don’t think he liked me. Everything was spinning. Worse yet, I had to get to a wedding reception.<br /><br />The wedding reception kind of sobered me up. I drank three rum and cokes, ate as many puffed pastries, jumbo shrimps, bacon wrapped scallops and deviled eggs as a man could, hugged the bride, met the groom, and went back to go drinking with Jerry and Doug. We drank and drank and drank. We met up with their friend, Brett and drank some more.<br /><br />The following morning, Doug and I found that Memory had quit entirely for him around Ten PM. My memory gave up completely around midnight. We didn’t get back to the hotel room until much later than that. We don’t know how we got home but we were happy to be alive. We awoke fully clothed on top of the covers in my hotel room, which was on the fourth floor. Doug and I were generally impressed that we had managed to make it up the stairs. I was amazed we found the hotel (Doug knows the city pretty well so he wasn’t impressed about finding his way back). We found another couple of mouth-shitting cats, killed them, ate them, and headed to his place in North Jersey.<br /><br />Like I said, I wish I could tell you more. But not one cohesive story came out of this entire weekend. What can you do?<br /><br />Anyway, Doug and I spent Sunday recuperating in his beautiful home with his beautiful daughter and his beautiful refrigerator which was filled with beautiful food that we ate beautifully. I mean, that shit was beautiful.<br /><br />Before the flight back, I had about two hours to kill. I met a girl named Carmen in the airport bar in JFK. Carmen’s in Tampa on vacation as we speak. She told me, point blank, that she didn’t think she would get to enjoy her vacation because she had no one to fuck. I told her that I would love to help her out, but I couldn’t because I had a girlfriend. I gave her my number and told her that if she wanted a tour guide, she should give me a call. She said that she wanted much more than that. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek (a kiss goodbye). She called that peck, “the kiss of death.” I could have fucked Carmen. I did not.<br /><br />“Damn,” I thought. “My girl is so lucky I’m such an awesome boyfriend.”<br /><br />After arriving home, my girlfriend came over. After receiving my gift of a six dollar keychain, she informed me that she had cheated on me.<br /><br />“Get the fuck out,” I said.<br /><br />And she left.<br /><br />Guys, there’re two lessons here. First, when on vacation, never pass up a chance to cheat on your girl. Unless there’s a ring on her finger, she don’t mean shit. And second, no girl is worth six bucks.<br /><br />Oh yeah, and congratulate <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/2006/01/interview-with-bunni.html">Bunni</a>. She wins <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/2006/04/finishing-breakup-pool-updated.html">the breakup pool</a>.

My Mom Took This Photo

Here's my face. Feel free to make fun of me for a little while. New post on Tuesday. Until then, I'll be in New York. Kisses.<br />

Rainy Day College

The rain falls drably on the stuccoed, exterior grime of my apartment as I watch the clouds dance with one another, unaware which mass of weather is leading, unaware if the thundering, boisterous relationship will last, or like so many midnight moments, just pass, while the dog growls incessantly at the shadows of scurrying alley cats who ain’t got no alleys, let alone a dry spot that’s not under somebody’s something like a car or my porch, which is loved by all alley cats and people alike who want some dry place to spend the night and don’t mind the grime within (which was tracked from without) that I call my home, and no, I never wanted anything more than this, with the possible exception of a nice, dry day because, you see, the dog needs a walk and the people can’t talk about nothing except what they would do if it was nice (and I never seen them get off their lazy, rent-free asses and do anything when it’s nice except buy more drugs which we already got—saved some for a rainy day) and how they want to see the beach and do some water skiing and maybe go to a strip club, all of which they can’t afford because that bag on the coffee table is their life savings and we just rolling and smoking and rolling and smoking and sitting and wishing that the cats would leave or the dog would find another excuse to shut the hell up or the rain will cease so all of the aforementioned distractions would fade and we could all just head out into the humid drops of sunlight which conjures ghost-like steam from the potholed, asphalt street, where so many of us people met on that first day four years ago when the world was a brighter place and the streets were paved with possibilities and the dog was so little you could hold him in one hand and he’d still have room to lie down and take a nap, but somehow, the rain keeps on going and going and we know that we’ll never get back to that street where we met so many dramatic events ago; somehow we all know the rain will be forever and the street, (we’ll call it memory lane) will always be wet as someone turns on the ballgame and throws in some nostalgic sixties song, and even the cats seem to sing along as we once bright and shiny optimists are content to stay dry in the marijuana room, and never ask why, ‘lest the answer foreshadow our doom.

The Snippets Need a Vacation

<a href="http://pizzatherapy.com/making_pizza.jpg"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://pizzatherapy.com/making_pizza.jpg" border="0" /></a>Amy: I like you better when you’re with your mom.<br />Me: Why?<br />Amy: Because you have to be polite and you have to let people take pictures of you. So, because of your mom, I get pictures and a polite boyfriend.<br />Me: She leaves tomorrow. Don’t get used to it.<br />Amy: Forget that. I’m milking this shit.<br /><br />Bobby: Why you going to New York?<br />Me: Every now and again, I get the urge to kill someone and eat a great slice of pizza in the same day.<br />Bobby: Huh?<br />Me: A friend of mine is getting married.<br />Bobby: So you’re gonna kill someone?<br />Me: No, Bobby. I promise I won’t kill anyone in New York.<br />Bobby: I don’t know. Best watch making promises you can’t keep.<br />Me: Are you even listening to me, or are you like, having your own conversation?<br />Bobby: Yeah well, enjoy the pizza.<br /><br />Amy: Yay, it’s Wednesday.<br />Me: What’s so great about Wednesday?<br />Amy: You post snippets on Wednesday.<br />Me: This relationship is weird.<br /><br />Me: I finished the snippet part of my new book.<br />Pizza Dude: That’s great, hoss.<br />Me: I think it’s gonna be really good. I can’t wait to finish it.<br />Pizza Dude: Like I said, cool.<br />Me: I think this could be really funny.<br />Pizza Dude: Are you gonna order anything or what?<br /><br />Amy: I start my period, Friday.<br />Me: That’s perfect. I leave for New York on Friday.<br />Amy: That’s great, babe.<br /><br />Bobby: I guess you better be getting home to your woman.<br />Me: Nope. I’m staying here.<br />Bobby: What? Is she out of town or something?<br />Me: Nope. She lost her phone again.<br />Bobby: Look how he smiles when he says that.<br />Reggie: He be like, ‘my girl can’t find me so she can’t complain about me not answering the phone so I can stay out drinking as long as I want.’<br />Bobby: Most men would be worried about not being able to get in touch with their women. You seem to like the idea.<br />Me: Something wrong with that?<br />Bobby: Yeah, you ain’t even thirty yet. Most men don’t figure that shit out ‘till they're forty five.<br />Reggie: You head of the class, Nate.<br />Me: Thanks, Reggie.<br /><br />Me: So, who you gonna cheat on me with while I’m in New York?<br />Amy: Please. Like, I’m gonna trade one night of bad sex for a shitload of nights of awesome sex.<br />Me: That’s just you stroking my ego.<br />Amy: No babe, that’s me doing math.<br /><br />Dad: So, I read that blog post about your girlfriend.<br />Me: Yeah.<br />Dad: It looks like you’re dealing with a classic case of female insecurity.<br />Me: Ahh.<br />Dad: I can help you with that if you like. But anyway, what do you think about the Cardinals this year?<br />Me: Seems like a strong team. I just wish we could solidify the outfield and maybe add a bat.<br />Dad: Me too, son. Me too.

Observations Like a Sturdy Stool

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/dcboys-766186.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/dcboys-759864.jpg" border="0" /></a>Wow. This is my 253rd post in just under a year. Seems like only yesterday I was on my 250th. How time flies…<br />

Happy Memorial Day

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/punkchiks-778253.bmp"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/punkchiks-762375.bmp" border="0" /></a>Saturday night, I realized that (sin of all sins), I was out of beer. So I left my girlfriend masturbating to internet porn, and went up to the local food store. At this little house of prepackaged foodish like stuff, located behind the counter, was a thin, flat-chested (though exceptionally cute) punk girl, who wore a black shirt bearing the following message, written in white lettering:<br /><br />“Without challenging social norms, there will never be progress.”<br /><br />So I said to this young lady, “Does your boyfriend ever use that line to get you to do stuff in bed? Like, if he wants anal, does he ever tell you that your relationship won’t progress if you two don’t challenge social norms?”<br /><br />Now, everyone in line behind me lost their collective shit. I was high-fived by three total strangers and there was much laughter. But, that wasn’t the coolest part. The coolest part was this: she actually blushed.<br /><br />I hadn’t seen anyone blush in awhile. I’d almost forgotten that members of our society were even capable of doing it. And, I realized I enjoyed making and watching that clerk blush.<br /><br />(Side note: I don’t know why I enjoyed it. Mark Twain once said something to the effect of, “the human animal is the only animal that can blush.” Maybe I enjoy human beings expressing how different they are than animals. More likely though, I’m just weird and this is just another stupid quirk of mine.)<br /><br />So, now I have a new mission in life. My new mission in life is to make as many women blush as humanly possible. You gotta have goals.<br /><br />And yes, I will keep you updated on the results of this mission, tentatively titled, “Operation Red Face.”<br /><br />Wish me luck.

Publish Post?

Girls, if you have a blog that your boyfriend reads, do not put the following on it:<br /><br />“Sometimes I wonder if I would be doing Nathan a favor by just breaking up with him. It’s hard for me not to want to spend a lot of time with him. I can be sober around him, not like with most of my other friends, and no one makes me feel as safe. But what does he get out of being with me? I just eat his food and spend his money and ambush him when he’s trying to take a shower or watch sports. He cooks me dinner and buys the beer, while I smoke his cigarettes and watch cartoons. I mean really, what's he thinking? I know that I make him feel special, since few women go crazy for blond body hair, Dutch eyes, and geeky writers like I do. But weighed against the fact that he gets propositioned for sex daily by other women, and I break his stuff like it’s nobody’s business, I still don’t get it. Frankly, it makes me feel a little guilty.”<br /><br />And now I don’t get it. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with her? And how long could the answers to those questions be? I’m betting six pages apiece.

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