NEW:

Back in August 2000 I informed my family that I was moving out of my hometown of Syracuse, New York to live in Atlanta, Georgia…and that I was probably never coming back.

When my grandmother asked me why I would leave my family and move so far away I honored her question with an honest answer, “I’m moving to Atlanta to learn how to dance.”  And I meant it too.

My first order of business after I’d been in Atlanta for 3 months was to find a job…which I did.  I applied and was hired at Fidelity National Capital Investors, Inc.  This was a brokerage house…and since I had experience working two years at Merrill Lynch as a registered financial consultant this was my trump card.  So I played it.

The first man I met was a guy who was introduced to me as “Crazy Joe T from Brooklyn.”.  Joe T. and I became friends.  Crazy Joe T from Brooklyn. worked in the mailroom, which was to be only a few feet from my desk.  Basically my job as a broker’s assistant (because I was never going to be a fucking salesman again) was so structured and tailored that a monkey after a major stroke could do it well.  I was busting out of my bored tan skin.

What I’m posting here is so true that I had to wait at least 5 years to make it public.  I do have witnesses (some I still am in contact with…and one I have sex with often) to support this claim.  I started (every 2 weeks or so) to typing letters addressed to my company (which Crazy Joe T. from Brooklyn would end up getting in the mail room) and sending them out from home.  These letters not only made some laugh…it prompted Fidelity to bring a security officer into the office daily (roller rink cop style) because what I didn’t know was that 1 year prior a man…a pissed off ex-employee walked into my building shot and killed a bunch of people before off’ing himself.  The point is the office was still scared from that event that anything out of the ordinary was going to set these people off.  As it turned out I (unknowingly) brought the pain.

I wrote and mailed a total of 5 letters.  For posterity sake I saved them.  Below is the first of the 5 and this letter brought the house down.  It is an exact replica of my letter (including addressee and date).  My letters soon became a cult hit to some in the office and an injection of actual fear in others.  But I sat in my swivel chair and watched the ciaos that I created every time Crazy Joe T. from Brooklyn called security into the mailroom to give them the evidence like it were a ransom note.  I created a real scene.  It was original.  It was alive.  And I only told 1 other person (a cute blond chick) in the office what I was doing so I wouldn’t be alone in the audience to The Greatest Show On Piedmont.  That girl had sex with me a week later.

February 2, 2001

I grew a mustache and permed my hair just to see what would happen...

A funny thing happens to a man when he plunges into the serious ‘stache and perm genre.  People react and treat him differently.  Her are some examples of what I’ve experience.

1.     The Dead Pan Joke works best with a mustache.  For some reason society views men with mustaches as being very intense and serious people.  So the Dean Pan Joke technique is perfect for this look.  Not many times in my clean shaven life did I ever have to tell people that I was just joking…but with my 70s ‘stache and permed hair I had to almost talk some men and women out of rehab because they were taking me way to seriously.  This is a true observation (as all of these are).  But my advice to anyone who wants to perfect the Dead Pan Joke technique (recommended) that they need to grow a ‘stache.

2.     When you are walking around with a ‘stache and permed black hair people initial reaction is to not give you any shit.  For instance when pulled up to a red light the driver in the other lane next to me only glances in my direction versus the usual stare down that my clean shaven, clean cut hair got.  I think this goes hand in hand with the observation that men think other men who have ‘staches and curly hair are more inclined to “Rock n Roll” violent style at any moment.  Basically they think we grow ‘staches because we want to wrestle to the mat.

3.     Be being referred to as “sir” increased by about 78% and me being referred to as “buddy”, “guy”, “chief”, “sport”, “Casey” and “pal” decreased approximately by 63%.

4.     The ‘stache and perm aged me about 5 years.  The occasional alcohol ID that I was asked to offer disappeared completely.  I finally realized why there are so many drinking related problems in the “lock your car door kids” section of town.  Because these people living there can grow mustaches at the age of 5 so they are legally buying booze and drunk by the age of 6.

5.     The Perm was a different animal completely.  It augmented the ‘stache perfectly.  The ‘stache told people that I was ready to go to the mat at any moment…the perm told people that I didn’t care what happened.  That means that it wouldn’t be a clean fight.  I was not above ripping a chunk of someone’s cheek out of their face with my teeth.  As a result…no one wanted to rodeo with me.  Hence…the decrease in the traffic light stare downs.

6.     When you get out of the shower and shake your head side to side and your curly flappy hair hits you across the face…well that is probably the greatest joy I got with my new look.  Every hair slap that I gave myself was confirmation that my life is definitely on the right track.

7.     I got much enjoyment out of people’s confusion as to why I would grow such a look.  My answer to them was always; “if you have to ask my answer wouldn’t make sense to you.  So stop talking and go home log onto myspace.com and follow Oprah and Joan Rivers into hell".

8.     When you walk around with a ‘stache and permed hair women automatically think that you have the Karma Sutra thing down to a science…maybe even a mastered art.  They know without talking to you that sex positions and techniques are WD-40 smooth.  Thus, once they realized that I was serious about the ‘stache and perm they treated me like a famous news anchor personality or popular weatherman.  A minor celebrity.

9.     I looked just like John Oats (from Hall and Oates).  This connected me with those in my target audience.  People threw that out at me as a rib but when I completely embraced the comparison their laughter quickly faded into silent admiration.  This was very interesting to watch.

10.    Three resentful men confronted me during this time (twice in Atlanta and once on the island of Oahu). Their questions came at me the same: “is that mustache real?”  My response was always the same, “is that receding hair line real?”  This drew two of the three men into a tailspin of anger fueled by jealously.  But as I stood my ground while they clucked angry rooster style they about faced and disappeared into the night.  I didn’t grow this look to be a bad ass or to rub people the wrong way.  God just sent the package to me…I accepted and the rest is history.

I have returned to the island of Maui from my holiday tour of the East Coast of the Mainland.  I am here to report that I have since shaved both my permed hair and mustache.  I’m back to being Casey…not sir.

Footnote:  When I got back to Maui I walked into the barber and asked to have my mustache and hair cut off.  The guy looked at me (eyes bugged out like some kind of side show freak in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not) and he said to me, “where the hell have you been?”  I told him that I just got back from the mainland and he wanted to know if I’d meant the Alaskan outback after living off the land for a year.  I said, “no…I just got back from 1975."

I was no different than you were.  I was a freshman at college – sitting in a classroom filled with strangers.  Weird people.  I freaked out too because I thought everyone was looking at me…same as you (whether or not you admit it).  Anyway, I remember my first day in “Western Civilization” taught by Dr. Langdon.  He handed out the syllabus and directed us to open our $125 hardbound textbook (1250 pages) oh, by the way…he wrote it to page 135 - The Cast System of 12th Century England. 

He went on and on with the Marine Drill Sergeant lecture about how we weren’t in high school anymore and that those of us that couldn’t handle the “real world” should beg mommy to let us live in her basement.  One word summed what was going on with the curdling my stomach was feeling: intimidated.  It sucked.  There I was sitting in some weird smelling classroom, with strange kids from all over the country who didn’t know my inside jokes all around me (I thought they were looking at me too) and some pissed off man standing in front of us seemingly yelling at me for something I didn’t do (I knew I wasn’t in high school but he seemed so hell bent on the idea that I thought I was).  The syllabus I was holding that would end up being my life for the next 13 weeks weighed as much as I did (before I started lifting weights to impress the lovely ladies). 

The classroom door to room 525 “Western Civilization” opened up and a ray of sunshine walked into my life.  A blind girl came shuffling in.  Everyone knew she was blind because she was holding onto the most beautiful black lab I’ve ever seen.  If this black lab were a woman, it would be Brittney Spears back in the “Hit Me Baby One More Time” era.  The dog was so black that it looked blue under the florescent lights.  Everyone turned to watch the girl come into the classroom holding onto that beautiful dog.  Fate stepped in behind her.  The only empty chair was right next to me.  I was completely psyched because being a finance major and not caring about Western Civilization or Dr. Langdon’s lecture I figured sitting next to a wonderful specimen of the Labrador family all semester would be just the life preserver I needed in order to get past this class.  My only problem was that I was a stranger to this dog.  But I love dogs and I couldn't wait to befriend this particular one.  I was going to show it that I was a great dog-person and friend.  The blind girl sat next to me and I took a breath for the first time all class because I knew that everyone was trying their best to look in the other direction AWAY from the blind girl (because everyone knows that to look at a blind person is not only rude but politically incorrect).  Since I was sitting next to her, I finally felt free from their stares.  The blind girl dug in her bag for her little black Sony tape recorder so she could take notes and I decided at that moment to introduce myself to her awesome black lab.

“DON’T TOUCH MY DOOOOOOG!!!!!” The blind girl freaked out and screamed so loud that everyone jumped.  Her voice sounded like she was choking on phlegm and was the lead in a B level horror movie - yes she was the monster behind the rubber mask.  Chairs from all across the campus went squeaking over the cheap linoleum floors.  This girl not only screamed…SHE FUCKING FLIPPED OUT ON ME.  I snapped my hand back so fast that my elbow knocked my 1250 pages fat ass textbook off my desk.  It boomed like a pipe bomb exploding in a toilet when it hit the floor.  To the innocent bystander this is what went down:

1.  Dr. Langdon was confirming that Western Civilization was going to be the hardest class of the year.

2.  We were not in high school any longer.

3.  A blind girl with a dog came into class and took the last empty seat.

4.  Some weird asshole across the room tried to touch her seeing-eye dog.

5.  The weird asshole jumped back and knocked his book off his desk.

6.  BOOM!

Here is the aftermath:  This blind girl became the “feel good” story of my college career.  She went through all 4 years with me and became the most popular girl in school because she was fucking blind.  Everyone knew her story, everyone knew her name and EVERYONE knew that I tried to fuck with her dog day one of Western Civilization.  Even after a finance class during my senior year a girl came up to me and said, “You know I’ve always hated you.”  When I asked why she said, “Because everyone knows you don’t touch a blind person’s dog.  And to make that poor girl cry on her first day – she must’ve been so scared.”  What the fuck?  She was the one who (in my opinion) COMPLETELY overreacted.  A simple, “excuse me, please leave my dog alone it confuses it if it receives affection while it is working” whisper would’ve done the trick.  PLUS…the dog didn’t have a “WORKING DOG IN PROGRESS” yellow sign or anything on it.  I went to college to learn and these fucking blind people lovers think that I should know everything about them before my first week ends.  Besides...I guess I just thought that the dog was taking a break.  I mean shit...I know it is a working dog and all and that you only have this animal because you are too lazy to use the damn candy stripped walking stick to get around...but Jesus, can't a working dog POSSIBLY be on a 5 minute break?  Huh? 

When the dean called her name to receive her diploma 4 years later she walked across the stage to the loudest thunder of clapping I’ve ever heard; I didn’t stand up (like the other 10 thousand graduating students did).  I sat back in my chair and said, “fuck you and your fucking dog” just as the dean shook her hand.  God I hate that blind girl and her black lab. 

                                   Christmas 2005 - Syracuse, NY

I lived with sinners in Atlanta.  I traveled from New (Don't Talk to Me) York all the way down to the epicenter of the Bible Belt only to shack up with sinners.  The activities that went on in our house included but where not limited to:

Illegal use of firearms

Illegal use of silk bathrobes

Illegal use of a neighbors cat

Illegal use of a stapler

Illegal use of a drunken girl's cell phone

Illegal use of a U2 compact disk

The point I'm making is that the activities that unfolded in my site covered the whole spectrum of what is socially and even privately UNacceptable.  I am not here to point the finger because on many (maybe even most) occasions I was the one to blame.  Either way one night I decided that I was going to "turn the beat around".

One night I sat down at the "family computer" and searched the net.  I had to click on the blue "E" for internet explorer that had been set in the foreground of a picture that can only be described as wrong.  I'm not going to go into a description of the wallpaper further than to say that there was a naked woman, she was sitting on a pink pillow, purple paint splashing the room she was in, and she wasn't dancing to music.  Either way, I searched (at the time brand new) Google and found a bunch of church supply stores.  I registered myself as the archbishop of a church I affectionately named "The House of the Rising Sun" (for the record we were a Roman Catholic entity).  I then proceeded to the on-line check out with 2000 Christian holy communion, which I purchased.

About 4 to 7 business days later, I got my package.  The "hosts" were packaged in something like a plastic cylinder you would buy tootsie rolls in at B.J.s or Sam's or any other local wholesaler your town offers.  Armed with the "body of Christ" I walked around the house hourly administering these to every resident and visitor we had.  No one was allowed (especially on party night) into the house without injecting a communion.  Being in middle of the Bible Belt some were very offended, most were extremely confused, and a few of us were pleasantly surprised but no matter what that person felt if you could smell the Bed Bath And Beyond scented aroma plug ins that engulfed our house you were in the house far enough to require you to eat "the body of Christ"and everyone did.

A funny thing happened to me during all of this (besides a few fence friends not ever talking to me anymore in fear of their soul's future) I actually got a "hankering" for the host.  I started eating them in cereal, in sandwiches and even with pudding.  Some of the residents in the house started getting sick of eating the "body of Christ" so I planted them in their sandwiches and soup without them knowing.  Just because they didn't want to take Christ didn't mean I could just give up on them.  I then started taking the host to the Swiss Bank that I worked at and passed them around.  By the time I ran out of my original 2000 order and then another 2000 order (4000 total) I was satisfied that our home was pure again.

We rented a porn and pizza that night then visited a strip club.  You know most of those girls are in school to be doctors so we felt like in some small way our dollar bills were helping save a life.  God bless the host.

            Host aka The Body

I went to college to be Gordon Gekko and found myself working at a Swiss Bank in Atlanta, GA managing 401k plans for hospitals, doctors and personal money management for all different kinds of jerks who claim that one of the diamonds in their Rolex is worth more than your life.  The manager of my office was what I honestly believe to be the first anti-sexual person I know.  I think he is one of those guys who eats, sleeps, works and relaxes in the office.  He does have a condo but I think he's the kind of guy that is there so infrequently that he uses the refrigerator as a weird dresser for his black (party) socks.  Anyway, how that is relevant is because he decided to carry that insane work worship to our office.  Upon his entry, the office immediately became more sterile than an operating room.  He outlawed plants, conversation, Snicker bars, and any kind of personal interaction...punishable by termination.  I'm serious.  It was this man alone (and not the Twin Towers or any kind of corporate accounting fraud) that drove 90% of the office off the Akins diet and onto the liquid lunch plan.  One of my best friends in Atlanta was the kind of guy who was very conservative in the office.  He didn't like to draw any attention to himself or his corner.  One night he had a party at his house and I rolled up onto the scene pimped out in my MR2 with a 6 pack of Smirnoff and an attitude.  With the permission of his wife I removed an item off his wall and on Monday I walked into the financial capital in Atlanta (the primer building I worked at that housed an office of every single brokerage firm that matters on Earth) with this.  I placed it on his desk before he came in and waited.  He was so pissed that he didn't talk to me for over a month, but luckily we made up when I told him I was leaving to move to Maui.

                                                            Darren I'm sorry I brought you into this.

For New Years Eve 2003 I was living in Atlanta in a house with 3 other guys.  One of my roommates Mark and I were sitting at home trying to decide if we were going to go out and party or not.  11:30 p.m.  snuck up on us we were still just sitting on the couch (which we were maintaining a mandatory "2 man couch seating distance" of 4 feet between us) talking about how we are adults now and need to start acting it.  In middle of my rant regarding how Celine Dion is ahead of her time and her sound is genius some fireworks started erupting next door.  Mark and I went out the front door and saw the red flair of an expensive bottle rocket shoot up from the back yard of our normally benign neighbors back yard.  We decided (as most would in our flip flops) to dip into our house party stash and shoot off some of our own fireworks.  The situation called for us to aim our pimp bottle rockets at their house. 

Mark launched the first....

"Holy shit Eric, that one almost hit us," one of the next door neighbor teenage kids (the parents must've been out of town) said.

They waited a couple minutes and continued their own aerial show.

I shot the second one that buzzed the tower....

"That one was no mistake!"  the same voice boomed in the echo of my pimped bottle rocket explosion.

Mark then threw a smoke bomb into the brush on the side of their house.  By the time the teenaged kids came around to investigate the bogey the smoke bomb had spewed enough smoke to make the bushes looked like a three alarm fire. 

"Dillion...we caught the bushes on fire!" one of the teenage guys screamed.  Mark and I (in a masculine, tattoo fashion) had to almost hold each other up because we were laughing so hard. 

It was a time to remember...because they do not last forever.

Mark is a funny guy.

                                        Mark - Left ; Nick (Naps) - Right                  
                                                           Atlanta