The rumors of me falling off the deep end and going on a bender in Hartford, CT were, unfortunately, false. I forcefully had no life for the past two weeks, as I would work from 9-12 before going to Kiss Me, Kate set making/rehearsals from 1 til 3 and then be there til anywhere between 10:30 and 12:30. One day I was there for twelve hours. You never fully appreciate how great it is to have a life until it is taken away from you. Thankfully, I can resume doing absolutely nothing at all once again for the rest of the month. If I will not have a social life it'll be by choice, dammit, and not because of the whims of musical theater.
While talking to one girl in the show through a text message, I saw quite possibly the most disgusting use of internet-based shorthand ever. Using simply the word "k" is lazy, since you're just saving one letter, and it isn't even on the same number as the k, so you don't have to hit "o" and then wait that strangely too long second to hit the "k." This girl has decided to make "have" "hab." It's not even close. Even if you say "hab" it's just not close enough to be acceptable. For the longest time I thought she was just a huge fan of the Montreal Canadians.
I don't think anyone will get that last joke. Why does everyone hate hockey so?
I went to LBI to visit my pal Brian "Mumbles/Mambo/B.Ross/Blood/Blood Rose/Shinobi/Maaaavelous" Ross and his family at the house they rent each summer. There were a few problems to this plan. First, I had no idea how to get there when I left, which is why the Garden State Parkway is probably the greatest 172 mile strip of pavement in the nation. Average of one exit per mile and you can hit anything somewhat worthwhile in the state from that road. It is a technological marvel. Another problem was that it was 100 degrees out and my car was out of God's greatest gift, Freon. When I called up Blood to get directions, the windows naturally had to go up so that I could hear him. As soon as the top of the glass hit the rubber at the crest of my door my entire body sweated out a river simultaneously. I swear my body felt my fingers hit the window buttons and had a countdown. Finally, and most importantly, I really dislike the beach.
For one, I can't swim, so there goes the entire allure of the ocean. Sure, it's great to be able to go into a large body of water that you can piss in without any shame. It's always fun to fight the waves, just like Artie: The Strongest Man......IN THE WORLD! But there is a fundamental problem with the beach: something bad always happens. The most obvious is sand in the natural cracks in all humans. How someone can have sex on a beach absolutely blows my mind. Doing nothing I average more than a few grains in those special crevices. With nothing protecting them, I would have to measure it in poundage. You always get burned. Always. Sun tan lotion is the most fallible "life saver" ever. It is akin to drowning in the ocean and getting thrown a crushed up cardboard box with a taped-up hole. "But Michael P. Anton," you say, "what if you bring an umbrella?" Then why even leave? Now you can just swelter outside before going into the water and fending yourself off from jellyfish. There is a reason that air conditioning was invented. Stop it. I'll sit in the 70-degree weather while you burn, get stung, and see really hairy fat people while you clean grains of old rocks out of your crotch. Have fun. You can't get skin cancer from AC (yet) !
Long Beach Island, NJ has some balls, too. They have decided because they're a quaint beach community they don't need to follow the same rules as every other road across the nation. Around 22 (the streets are all numbered, which is the most genius thing ever, even though to make it somewhat cozy each street has a name, too) the street signs go away. I, of course, am flabbergasted. Traveling into the 80s makes it neigh impossible to count each street, as I would get lost around #18, let alone #60. LBI decided it would be keen to take little white posts and make them the street signs instead! Oh, that's cute. Here's the problem. They're fucking two feet tall and you can barely read them until you missed your god damn turn. You're counting so fast you have no idea that you passed your street about five blocks ago. "ninety fo...fi...si...se...shit I should have turned at eighty two!"
The one positive at the beach was seeing a commercial for the not-around-here Jack in the Box. The ad involved some smarty pants who pulls up to the drive through and asks to speak to Mr. Box. The attractive, young white male working the drive-thru smiles, and hit's a button that reads "JACK." Then, the cone-headed mascot guy is in a suit on a plane and tells the exasperated driver what he should order, and it's coincidentally the new sammich that the company wants to push! It was giggles for all. I still don't know what is more ridiculous: the talking mascot or the white male doing the driving thru. Anyway, my point is that the character was named Mr. Box. Is he aware that his last name is just a slang word for vagina? Can I say I'm eating at Jack in the Cooch? More than that, who would eat in a restaurant that is merely a nation-wide bragger about his sexual abilities? Jack's a cocky asshole.
The biggest disappointment of the trip came at the hands of Brian's younger brother Kevin. Kevin Ross and I have a bit of a history. One day, out of the goodness of my heart, I offered him a ride home. I was a senior, thereby making Kevin a sophomore. This was during a time where he had not yet fully bloomed socially, and preferred to communicate with me in sounds instead of words, let alone phrases or sentences. While we drove it rained, and I felt that I did a really good deed. When he got out of the car, I naturally expected a sincere and loud thank you. Something along the lines of, "thank you so much Anton for driving me home and keeping me dry to boot!" But no. You know what I get? The sound of the seat belt unbuckling, the door opening, shoes hitting the pavement, and then the door closing. Not a single word of gratitude.
I never forgave him. He was the little brother that I would constantly ride. For example, "oh god dammit Kevin you're absolutely worthless" when he dropped a fork, or "jesus christ you're good for nothing" when he was using the xbox as a DVD player when I wanted to play Halo 2 on Xbox Live (aka audio/visual crack). I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to capitalize on my faux-hatred in challenging Kevin at the absolute best reason to go down the shore outside of SkeeBall: Mini Golf. I made a simple bet with him. I put up 10 bucks, and he puts up his soul. He declined. My persuading argument of "but you can't buy anything with your soul, while you can get like two meals at Wendy’s for 10 bucks!" didn't really hold much weight. Eventually we just went for five bucks. He beat the shit out of me. It is one of the worst losses I have ever suffered. His shots couldn't miss; my hole-in-ones always bounced over the cup (four of them!!). So now the unappreciative son of a bitch has five dollars of mine. Sometimes life is simply not fair.
If you made it to the bottom, I have two shout outs: one is to Westie (happy birthday) and the other is to The Life Saver, because you said to. So I did. There. Happy now?