Tag: The Nate Way

They Smoke Everything

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/skips-772890.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/skips-770754.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/skips-719251.jpg"></a><br />Skipper’s Smoke House deserves it’s own book. I’m obviously not the guy to write it.<br /><br />The Skipperdome (one of its nicknames) is the crown jewel of North Tampa. If you want a reputable account of the many talented acts that Skipper’s has to offer or its storied history in Tampa lore, just go to their website.<br /><br />I’m writing about Thursday night.<br /><br />Thursday Night is Greatful Dead night. There’s nothing quite like it—a mix of college kids, old hippies, young hippies, burnouts, hiplets (or hippie kids) and drunks (you know, the salt of the Earth) listening to a cover band. Okay, maybe there are a lot of nights like it, but there’s only one Skipper’s Smoke House.<br /><br />Now, Skippers may look, sound and feel like a rundown dive, but it doesn’t taste or drink like one. It looks like it was made out of plywood and four-by-fours, and I’m sure the project engineer would agree that there wasn’t a hell of a lot more to it than that. But don’t let that fool you. Skipper’s is a classy place. Solely because the people who go there, work there and play there don’t think that class is something you can buy.<br /><br />They serve hot fermented cider on cold nights. People don’t do that enough in Tampa. Some of you northerners are probably laughing at the idea of a Tampa winter. Screw off. It gets cold.<br /><br />They cook mad good seafood and barbecue. Mad good. That’s like really, really good. And they don’t try to overprice you and pull all that faux-dive crap. They ain’t a faux dive, they a nice dive.<br /><br />They get good bands.<br /><br />They spare the good bathroom graffiti, have a semi-secret entrance that only several hundred people know, and a toilet/ashtray. The interior décor tips its hat to old school Florida and the exterior straight-up gives it up to the funk.<br /><br />Me: Do you need any incense, glass pipes, tie-dyes, rolling papers, junk-jewelry, crystals, tom-toms or shirts?<br />Scotty: No.<br />Me: Do you want to join an environmentalist movement?<br />Scotty: Um, No.<br />Me: How about a beer?<br />Scotty: That’s the one.<br /><br />Best of all though, is the feel of Thursday night. I don’t think there’s been a fight on a Thursday in Skipper’s history. I’ve never seen one. People are generally nice, peaceful, social and non-threatening on Thursdays. You need that sometimes. You really do.<br /><br />Not for nothing, but I recommend the other nights, too.

The Local Pubs—Rinse and Repeat

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/fuel-719722.bmp"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/fuel-717415.bmp" border="0" /></a><br />311 has a song with the following line in it: If the bars closed would you still be my friend?<br /><br />If that line caused you to feel any emotions whatsoever, congratulations, you’re a functional alcoholic. And you’re not alone. Especially if you visit me in Tampa and buy me a drink or seven.<br /><br />As many of you may know, I go to bars with a serious degree of regularity. In some of them, I listen to music. In others, I play pool. In most, I just sit and bullshit with the patrons and the servers. Over the last few years, I’ve experienced a lot of fun moments in pubs, and you know, since I got this blog and all, I figured, what the hell, let’s roll out some cool times at the local pubs. So here they are, in no particular order.<br /><br />The time Danger’s car caught fire outside a local Tampa pub and the manager told the bartender (a beautiful woman named Jessica) to call the fire department. “Okay, what’s the number?” Jessica asked. The Manager, Dennis, stopped, shot her a look of serious doubt and said, “Nine-One-One.” It’s the rare creature that gets beauty and brains.<br /><br />Living in Germany and being a regular in a bar in Bielefeld. There’s nothing like being a regular in a foreign land. I would walk in around one in the afternoon and foreigners would shout at me, “Hey, American. How’s it going, hot-dogger?” And I’d be like, “Brauni, Hans, Dieter, what’s up weiner schnitzels?” Good times.<br /><br />The best line ever said to me by a bartender was in Hamburg, Germany. I asked him when his bar closed (it was five in the morning) and he replied, “When you leave.”<br /><br />The times I got quite personal with a bartender/girlfriend in the smoky, low-rent pool hall (in Tampa) after she closed the place.<br /><br />The time I snuck up on my Dad in his local pub in St. Louis while he was bitching about how I never visit. It’s all in the timing.<br /><br />The time Frank and I played Beer Pong in an empty local pub in Tampa on a dead, summer day. A forty year old woman came in, asked for directions, received them from Frank, and then she asked, “What are you guys doing?” To which Frank replied, “I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m kicking his ass in some beer pong.” She left rather quickly.<br /><br />Every time I ever took a chick home from the bar. I guess that goes without typing.<br /><br />The time I met a bartender who was born on the exact day, month and year as me, in the same hospital. We were both born on Christmas, and he had a picture of infant me, my mom, infant him and his mom that had made the local papers (we were that year’s Christmas babies). As my boy Main said, “I know Florida’s a small world ‘cause everyone moves here from everywhere else, but man, that is one freaky, seriously fucked up, jumbo-sized coincidence.” Well said as always, Main.<br /><br />The time in the not-so-local red-neck-NASCAR-bar in Tampa when a patron (and complete stranger) bought Peek, Aaron, Dan and me a round of beers because he was enjoying our conversation (and said patron was across the bar from us). We were literally more entertaining than the juke box and televisions combined. I wish I had recorded that conversation. I don’t have a clue what was said. I just remember laughing a lot.<br /><br />The time after 9/11, when a woman came up to me (from across the bar) and said, “I can’t believe that you can sit here and say all those cuss words after the tragedy that occurred in this country.” Her boyfriend was standing right next to her, doing a poor job of looking menacing. I was about to apologize and smooth the wrinkles (that’s my style) when my friend Andy stood up and said, “You know, I can see how you would feel that way. Because sometimes, I go to church and yell, ‘Why the hell y’all doing all this praying?’ Sit down you stupid bitch! This is a fucking bar.” And when her boyfriend moved his mouth to speak up, Andy said, “Shut your woman up and learn how to be a man. What are you gonna do? What?” I thought the boyfriend dude was gonna cry. He had that whole deer-in-headlights, hope-I-don’t-cry look. Just a priceless pub moment.<br /><br />I just realized that I could go on forever. I have easily another six thousand words worth of this stuff. I guess that means that this is my first To-Be-Continued Post.

Snippet Like You Mean It

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/butter-706579.jpg"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/butter-702209.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Jennifer: It’s hot.<br />Tony: Yeah, it does that in the summer.<br />

RJ and the Half Drunk Prince

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/phone-769207.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/phone-767118.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />For a few days last week, a girl who had been visiting her sister (from Texas) decided to stay with me. For two days and nights we lived, we loved, we laughed and then she left. It was an awesome experience, but fate will not allow me normality. So karma put on its jester hat and played another prank. At about ten last night, as I was settling in with my new Harry Potter Book (yeah, yeah, save it) I got the following phone call from her phone.<br /><br />“Ashley, how’s it going?”<br /><br />“This ain’t Ashley. This is her boyfriend. I’m only gonna ask this once. What’s your number doing in her phone?”<br /><br />I closed my guide to the magical world of Hogwarts, and answered (only about half drunk), “probably just sitting there like a stupid digital display.”<br /><br />“You’re real funny, smartass. How’d you like me to fly out there and kick your ass?”<br /><br />“I’d be honored. No one ever visits in the summer.”<br /><br />“Listen, Asshole. I talked to her sister. I know she spent a night out with a guy and I wanta know what happened.”<br /><br />Now, it has never been said that I’m very smart, but it has also never been said that I’m a total moron, so I put two and two together, got lucky with the number four, and said the following:<br /><br />“If her sister told you that she was out with a guy, that would mean that you two are either broken up or about to break up. Usually, sisters cover for each other.”<br /><br />“Listen, asshole. I’m her boyfriend. I’m calling from her phone, ain’t I?”<br /><br />“Put her on.”<br /><br />“She ain’t here.”<br /><br />“You stole her phone?”<br /><br />“Listen, asshole. This ain’t about her damn phone, it’s about me wanting to know what happened?”<br /><br />“But her sister already told you. Look, you’re either a shitty liar or a jealous ex or both. So, either you tell me what the hell is going on or I’m hanging up this phone.”<br /><br />After about three minutes of hemming and hawing (read: threatening me with bodily harm), this Texan finally admitted that he was in desperate love with Ashley, that she had broken up with him a few months ago, and that he had stolen her phone from the locker where they both work (some restaurant or bar or something). And that he just wanted to know what happened. The guy wanted closure (though I don’t think he knew the word).<br /><br />I lied. I told him nothing happened.<br /><br />“Now who’s lying?” He asked.<br /><br />“I’m telling you the truth, R.J. She crashed on my couch drunk, but that’s it.”<br /><br />“Her sister woulda picked her up.”<br /><br />“Only if she didn’t trust me.”<br /><br />“Why would she trust you?”<br /><br />“I once helped an old lady clean her gutters. Look man, I’m willing to forget this call ever happened if you’re willing to let it go. I know it’s difficult losing love, but man, you gotta toughen up, here. Be a man.”<br /><br />And then the conversation took a Nascar-esque turn into a freaking total-stranger-therapy session. After I hung up, it was eleven thirty. That’s right, I spent the better part of ninety minutes helping a complete stranger deal with a break-up from roughly twelve hundred miles away. I just read that sentence and even I don’t believe it. By the time the call ended, R.J. thanked me for listening and for my advice on love and relationships and mentioned that he may be in Florida in the winter.<br /><br />“Sure, give me a call,” I heard myself say.<br /><br />I swear this kind of crap only happens to me.

Observations Like Musty Fog

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/walmart-775172.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/walmart-772516.jpg" border="0" /></a>

The Cute White Boy

I love fried chicken. I love it all, from the Chicken Wings at the Phoenix in West St. Louis, to the recently closed Palios Brothers Fried Chicken.

Nice Haircut

Recently, I got a haircut. As a result of this, I get to receive lots of comments from friends, acquaintances and drunks. And these comments have taught me a little about the differences between observations made by women and observations made by men. <br /><br />Some Observations by Women<br /><br />Charity: I like your haircut, Nathan.<br />Misty: Your hair looks better like that.<br />Sheila: That’s a cute haircut.<br />Stacey: Wow, you got a little style kicking.<br />Amy: Definitely, stick with that haircut.<br />Nikki: Cute hair, baby.<br />Jennifer: Damn, you look good like that.<br />Nicole: Wow, that makes you look so innocent.<br />Jessica: Great. You finally got some style.<br />Anne: I love it. You look so cute.<br /><br />Some Observations by Men<br /><br />Mark: Wow, you got a haircut. You look like a twelve year old now.<br />Frank: Ha ha. Nice haircut, queer.<br />Dave: Wow. I didn’t think it was possible for you to look like more of a puss.<br />Greg: You bought gel? What a pansy.<br />Ross: I don’t care how you style your hair, you’re still a scumbag.<br />Russ: Well, I guess if the chicks like it…<br />Dan: I almost didn’t recognize you there. I was looking for a heterosexual. <br />Carl: Nice hair. Does your boyfriend like it?<br />Lee: That’s real pretty. Is that what the kids are doing now, St. Louis?<br /><br />And finally, my personal favorite:<br /><br />Luke: Hey, remember like before you got that haircut? You remember? You know, back when you were cool?<br /><br />Ah, you gotta love people. I mean, I guess you don’t have to, but goats are so… uh, forget it.

Remember Jokes?

Sometimes, when you’re sitting around with the fellas, you tell jokes. You know how it works. One guy tells a joke, then another guy tells a joke, then another guy tells a joke and eventually, you tell all the funny jokes you have and you run out, and you’re left with the really bad jokes from your repertoire. And then you’re forced to have an actual conversation or at least find a girl to hit on. <br /><br />Last night, before I drove home to watch the All Star game (screw the American league by the way… Junior Circuit Motherf---ers), I was in a pretty good joke session with two guys from Long Island, a guy from New Jersey and a guy from Plant City, Florida (home of the Strawberry Festival). And because I’m supposed to be writing comedy but I can’t remember the last time I wrote an actual joke, I think I’ll try to get some of these joke-session-samples on the cyber page. <br /><br />Me: [holding up hand]: Why Can’t you masturbate with this hand?<br />Guy from Long Island1: Why?<br />Me: ‘Cause it’s mine. <br /><br />Guy from Long Island2: What’s the definition of fierce persistence?<br />Me: What?<br />Guy from Long Island2: Coming in First and Third in a jack-off competition.<br /><br />Guy from Plant City: So a guy walks into a sex shop and says he wants a blow up doll. The guy behind the counter says, ‘we have two kinds: Muslim or Christian. The Muslim’s more expensive.’ So the guy looking for the doll asks, ‘why is the Muslim kind more expensive?’ And the guy behind the counter says, ‘it blows itself up.’<br /><br />Me: What’s the difference between a ’57 Cadillac and a pile of dead babies?<br />Guy from Long Island2: What?<br />Me: I don’t have a ’57 Cadillac in my garage.<br /><br />Me: So this woman’s giving birth. The doctor and the father are in the operating room. The doctor sees the head, takes out the salad tongs, and yanks the baby out super fast. He starts swinging the baby over his head by the umbilical chord; he takes the baby and pounds it up against the wall, against the ceiling, the floor, the operating table, everything. He beats the baby into a bloody pulp and then he hook shots it into the trashcan and yells, ‘two points.’ The mother is crying; the father is screaming his head off; I mean he’s ready to kill the doctor. And the doctor looks over at the parents and says, ‘Psych. I’m just messing with you. It died like three hours ago.’<br />Guy from Long Island1: That is wrong on so many different levels.<br />Guy from Long Island2: Seriously, you kiss your mother with that mouth?<br />Me: I didn’t write the thing.<br />Guy from Plant City: Sure you didn’t. Sick bastard.<br /><br />And after that, as you can imagine, the conversation kind of died down. I believe the next line spoken was something along the lines of, “Did Jeter make the All Star game?” I’m talking conversation tumbleweeds. And I’m serious when I say, I didn’t write that last joke. A bartender named Brad told me it in 2001. I did once e-mail it to my friend Doug’s entire e-mail list (accidentally; I hit ‘reply all’ instead of ‘reply’). Two minutes after I sent it, I received the following phone call:<br /><br />Me: This is Nathan.<br />Doug: You sick F---. I got like twenty people in my office asking me who in the hell this Nathan DeGraaf character is and where they can find him.<br />Me: Why?<br />Doug: You sent that joke to my entire list. I got mother and fathers on this list, you bastard.<br />Me: Sorry, Doug. My bad. It was funny though, huh?<br />Doug: F---ing hilarious.

The Old Snippet Try

Me: My Mom’s in Northwest Iowa.<br />Tom: Why?<br />Me: Visiting family. It’s where the homestead is. <br />Tom: The homestead? What is this, Little House on the f---ing Prairie?<br />Emmy: You can’t put the f-word in the middle of that show’s name. That’s like sacrilegious.<br />Me: Yeah, the Church of Michael Landon is probably really upset. <br /><br />Me: Damn, she is busting out of that top.<br />Ben: She’s giving it the old hooker try. <br /><br />Lou: You’re not watching Live 8. Why?<br />Me: I have this aversion to yuppie superstars pretending they understand economics while pushing for world socialism without even understanding the downfall of such a concept.<br />Lou: But dude, Pink Floyd reunited!<br /><br />Ben: Dude, I thought about putting that desk together. Then I realized that it was like, way too difficult, so I said F--- it.<br />Me: Way to give it the old DMV try.<br /><br />Dave: Is there a strip club in the Tampa Bay area you haven’t been to?<br />Me: Unfortunately, there are many. And I, the urban explorer, have promised my friends and kin that I will visit all of them, lest their secrets go unexposed.<br />Dave: I’m sorry. What did you just say? <br />Me: Do not be sorry friend, for we have many many strip clubs to go, and miles before we sleep. So we’ve no time to be sorry, to complain or to weep.<br />Dave: Uh oh. You’re rhyming. These nights never end well.<br /><br />Sean: I found this frozen burrito outside the Circle K. I’ll bet I can heat it up in the store and chow for free.<br />Me: You’re giving it the old crack-head try.<br /><br />Ashley: So, if I move back here in a few months, will you still be living here?<br />Me: Only if I’m alive. And here.<br /><br />Me: The group that took credit for that terrorist attack calls itself ‘The Secret Organization group of al Qaeda Organization in Europe.’ That’s a long ass name.<br />Frank: Yeah. I think the guy who named the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim must have helped them think that one up.<br />Me: That guy gave it the old terrorist try.<br />Frank: What the hell are you talking about?<br />Me: Nothing; just this thing I’ve been doing lately.<br />Frank: Well stop it, already. Terrorist try? Jesus. Make some freaking sense, kid.<br /><br />Peek: You hungry?<br />Me: Yeah, but I won’t eat that. It’s not in my diet.<br />Peek: Your diet? What the hell diet are you on?<br />Me: I won’t eat anything that comes in a box.<br />Peek: So, no frozen pizzas or frozen waffles or mac and cheese or… wow.<br />Me: What’s up?<br />Peek: I just realized that almost all the food that comes in boxes are bad for you.<br />Me: I’m telling you, the best ideas are the simplest.<br />Peek: Like anal sex?<br />Me: Now you’re just being sick.<br /><br />Mike: Didn’t it seem like he was trying too hard to be funny?<br />Ryan: I think he’s trying to get into one of Nate’s snippets.<br />Me: He gave it the old snippet try.<br />Mike: What’s a snippet, Nathan?<br />Me: Chunks of conversation. You’re in like twenty of them, Mike.<br />Mike: Of course I am. And you wanna know why?<br />Me: Because you’re a walking quote machine.<br />Mike: No. Because the bitches love me, Nathan. It’s all about the bitches. Never forget that, gentleman. Ah, the bitches.<br />Ryan: To the bitches.<br /><br />Sean: I can’t believe you drank someone else’s beer like that.<br />Ed: I was thirsty and I was broke.<br />Me: Hey, at least you gave it the old wino try.<br />Ed: Yeah, Sean. At least I did that. Uh, Nate?<br />Me: Yeah.<br />Ed: What the hell is a wine ho try?<br />Sean: Just stop right now, Nate. He can only learn so much in one night.<br /><br />Me: Hurricane Dennis, huh? Kind of a lame name. Probably won’t do any damage with a name like that. Now Ivan, that was a name.<br />Brad: What would you have named it?<br />Me: Hurricane Dick.<br />Brad: I can see it now: Dick slams coast.<br />Me: Dick lays down in panhandle.<br />Brad: A T-Shirt that says, “Pensacola got F---ed by Dick.”<br />Me: Plywood spray-painted with the words, “Go Home, You Dick.”<br />Brad: Weathermen everywhere checking on the position of Dick.<br />Me: ‘It looks like Dick is moving to the left.’<br />Brad: ‘Dick’s all over the place. He seems to have a mind of his own.’<br />Me: ‘And now we check with Jeannie, who’s in the panhandle as residents all anxiously await Dick.’<br />Brad: ‘And Dick is just pounding the shoreline.’<br />Me: Can we stop now?<br />Brad: Probably should.<br /><br />Mike: Tell him how you hurt your hand, Ricky.<br />Ricky: Okay, but don’t write about this. I was sitting in my chair at work and I was spinning as fast as I could. You know, trying to see how many times I could spin around in five minutes, and I fell over and sprained my hand.<br />Me: You gave it the old Special School District try.<br />Mike: Nate, do you make this sh-- up or is there some channel I’m not watching?<br />Ricky: You’re not gonna write about that are you?<br />Me: Ricky, I’m sure I have better things to write about than your dumb ass.<br /><br />Suzanne: There’s a voluntary evacuation for all residents of Pinellas County. <br />Me: There’s a voluntary evacuation everyday, everywhere. You don’t have to stay.<br />Jenny: Yeah, it’s not like we’re in prison or anything.<br /><br />Tim: She destroyed my car and tried to have me arrested, all because we broke up.<br />Me: She gave it the old psycho try.<br />Brian: Okay, Nate. That sh--‘s really starting to get old. Could you please just move on to your next dumb idea, already?<br />Me: All right, but you just gave it the old a--hole try.<br />Brian: Enough.

Stupid People

Saturday afternoon I saw the cutest thing at the Local Pub and Grill. One of my friends, Lee, recently moved back to town after a five year job-related stint in Boston, which included a very long custody battle. When he returned, he brought back his ten year old daughter. The crew at the Local Pub (back in the day) used to hate it when Lee would cross the drunk threshold and become despondent about his little girl, who he was never allowed to see. He would show anyone who came within a three foot radius of him a picture of this beautiful little girl, and that’s real cute, but not at 2 AM while The Greatful Dead are jamming out the juke box and the bouncers are breaking up fights outside. <br /><br />But now she’s back, too. <br /><br />Much like her father, she is incredibly smart and tough-minded. I know, because I spent that afternoon helping Lee teach her how to shoot pool. Lee taught his daughter, much like I was taught, with a care and patience that will keep her from hating the game until she is old enough to lose money playing it. And I was happy to help.<br /><br />A few more beers later in a different bar, I was sitting with an ex-girlfriend, telling her the story of the return of Lee’s daughter (whose name is way too original to put in here. Seriously, if she ever gets into show business, she won’t need a last name) and of our teaching her pool. <br /><br />“I can’t believe he let a ten year old girl hang out in a smoky bar with a bunch of hapless drunks,” she said. <br /><br />This is why we broke up.<br /><br />“First off,” I said. “It’s a non-smoking bar until nine. Second, those aren’t hapless drunks. They’re decent people enjoying a day off, responsibly.”<br /><br />“Whatever,” she said. “When are you gonna get a haircut?”<br /><br />And this is my major problem with life. People, for whatever reason, are always gonna judge things they don’t understand. People, those mindless dolts, are always too quick to give advice and pass judgment before actually understanding the situation and getting to know the individuals involved. <br /><br />And that’s why I hate them.<br /><br />Stupid people.

My Fried Chicken Crusade

Back when I was a stupid kid, before I became a stupid adult (seriously, I’m an adult. The judge told me) Kentucky Fried Chicken changed it’s name to KFC, I assume because they figured that in a few generations, people would forget what it stood for and they could start selling Kittens for Children (but I’ve been told it’s because they wanted to distance themselves from the word, fried. Whatever). At any current exchange rate, I recently purchased some chicken from this fine institute of fast fried food and I noticed that the word ‘fried’ was back on my bucket. I asked the lady at the drive-thru why they had done that and she said, very appropriately, “I don’t know. Shit. You think they asked me about it?”<br /><br />No, honey. I’m sure they didn’t.<br /><br />Stuff like this keeps me up at night. I mean, what were the people at Yum, Incorporated thinking here? Did they do some sort of telephone poll and find out that ninety percent of all Americans knew what KFC stood for and were still pissed about being lied to? Did they finally realize that almost all their chicken was fried? Did some KFC VP wake up one day, realize he was ready to retire and say to himself, “screw it, we’re going back to the way things used to be—the way my predecessor wanted it.”? <br /><br />All I’m saying here is, I’d like an explanation. Ever since Prince changed his name to a symbol, we’ve been letting American icons change their names without any reason whatsoever. From now on (and I’m talking to you Puff-Daddy-Diddy-P-Funk), I want a detailed explanation of every name change to every American icon. I think, as a consumer, I’m entitled. <br /><br />So the next time you go to KFC, take a good look at your bucket. And if you see any little baked kittens in there, make sure to ask the lady at the Drive-Thru what in the hell KFC stands for. <br /><br />And don’t let the line move until you get the answer.

For Lack of a Better Term

I know nobody asked, but I feel a lot of love on this blog so I decided to devote an entire article to me, myself and that guy who lives in my head and whispers unhealthy suggestions about strip clubs and the women who work there. The following is, for lack of a better term, my biography. Please feel free to learn all about me and what makes me tick. <br /><br />I was born on Christmas. When you find this out, do not say, “Wow you must get jipped every year” or “damn, it must suck to always be in the shadow of the Christ child” or “you know Jesus was probably born in the summer.” Seriously, just put down my ID, give me my Heineken and go back to whatever it is that you do when you’re not selling me beer, picking your nose or plotting another jihad, you smelly bastard.<br /><br />I take sex very seriously. As a result of sexual activity I have experienced muscle pulls, three permanent scars, eleven stitches and a broken rib. When you find this out, do not say, “How did a hundred pound girl break your rib?” or “wow, you’re out of shape” or “seriously, you need to mellow out.” Just grab your clothes and get the hell out. Breakfast is at Denny’s or Sonic or wherever the hell you want to eat alone. Nice smile. <br /><br />I take sports very seriously. As a result of sports, I have experienced muscle pulls, broken fingers, stitches and a broken nose. These were not from playing sports. They were from watching sports. When I watch sports, I do not mess around. I have been forcibly removed from three professional sports stadiums. When you find this out, do not say anything. Just understand that I will break plans with you at the last minute because a game is on. Or learn to love sports. Or better yet, just make me a sandwich.<br /><br />I love children. Don’t ask me how this happened because I don’t know. I have contempt for damn near every person that infests this spinning chunk of clay, yet I love kids. I’ll play with them and talk to them and teach them to read and I’m like a different person when I’m near them. My Mom says that kids are attracted to my aura and that I am responding from some kind of unconscious value system. Whatever. When you find this out, if you’re a chick, please make a whole bunch of baby noises and get all wet for me. If you’re a guy, just turn on the game and shut up. I can’t help it, okay. <br /><br />I am a regular. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I almost always become a regular at local pubs. I lived in Europe for four months and became a regular at a pub in Germany. That’s right, I was a regular in a foreign land. I would walk in, someone would shout “The American” and then everyone would proceed to make fun of me. At the local pub here in Tampa, the only difference is that they yell “Nate” and their jokes aren’t as funny. When you find this out, well, you’ll know where to find me.<br /><br />Okay, confession time: I can’t drive a stick shift; I have horrible map skills; I do a lousy job managing my money; I’ve been arrested six times; I write poetry; I burned my house down when I was twelve; I read at least one book a week and I have a very unhealthy love of fireworks (don’t ask). <br /><br />So now you know as much about me as some of my closest friends. Feel free to make fun of me in public. Believe me, I’m used to it.

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