A PORN STAR IS BORN

This story is for Patty Dugan at the St. Louis Funny Bone, every time I work there she makes me tell this story, it is one of her favorites.

I did a movie for the Playboy Channel. It was a little soft core porn. I did it to get my SAG card, which is what every actor strives for. I was very excited, my first feature film. After reading the script, I realized that I was the only one in the movie that didn't get laid. Ten characters in this film and the comedian is the only one not getting any. Which is fine, I'm a comedian, not Ron Jeremy.

The director was also in charge of casting, so he knows this is my first film. After a couple of days of shooting, the director tells me that I'm doing such a good job that they're going to write a love scene for me, and we're going to shoot it tomorrow. I'm flabbergasted, first of all, I'm a hairy man, my chest is covered in hair. Normally not a problem, but I've noticed that the guys in this flick have no body hair. None, no chest hair, no leg hair, no arm hair. It's a cast of hairless men...and me.  Troglodyte man.  Should be visually stimulating.

The entire day, I'm riddled with anxiety, I have to have simulated sex in front of cast and crew. I told him they will have to shave me down, a prospect I'm not to fond of. I'm proud of my testosterone levels. I also realize that I will have to inform my Mrs. of the new developments. Keep in mind, we've been out in LA for over a year and I've done some acting, but it was all for free. So, I go home to tell her that I have to do a love scene and ask if that bothers her. "I don't care if you've got to bang somebody, just bring home a check". Which, by the way, is one of the reasons I married her.

The next day I'm a wreck, I haven't slept, I'm worried about my love scene, getting naked, good breath, no b.o. etc., I realize it's part of acting, but I really didn't consider myself an actor at this point. I'm still a comedian, which turns out, is what I will always be. All day long I'm being egged on by the director, "your scene will be the last of the day". Good God, I have to wait all day for my scene, I can't even concentrate on my regular scenes knowing that at the end of the day, I'll be dry humping someone on camera.

As the day winds down, anxiety level is at an all time high, I'm running out of time. The director then tells me that we won't get to my love scene until tomorrow. What? Are you out of your mind? I'm not putting this off another day. But time has run out for today. But they decide to light me for the scene and check positioning etc. So I go over to the bed and drop my pants so they can see what kind of makeup, lights etc. they will need for tomorrow. Like I said, it was my first feature film and I was a little naive. As I'm standing there with my pants at my feet the lighting guy is checking the amount of reflection off my ass. He's moving his light meter all over my naked lower torso, and I'm standing there like some kind of idiot, I'm a little nervous, so there is some shrinkage, I just want to go home. It's then that I realize that the whole crew is standing on the far side of the set laughing they're asses off. It seems that there is no love scene for Sweenz, they just having a good time at my expense. "Hey, let's take advantage of the new guy, he's never done a film, let's see if we can get him to drop his pants in front of the whole crew" hardee har har. There was no script revision, no love scene no nothing. They got me. They got me good. It was quite the chucklefest.

A LESSON LEARNED THE HARD WAY

In my experience, men have to learn their lessons the hard way. Men don't know not to do something unless they, or someone they know gets hurt doing it the first time. Many times alcohol is involved, maybe most of the time. Hell, maybe all the time.

For instance, ski jumping. No one in their right mind would try ski jumping. Flying off a ramp behind a boat, going 50 mph trying to get air borne. Oh, yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Here's a thought, lets do it after drinking all day. So there I am, head full of Budweiser, in the water, on jump ski's, with no spotter in the boat, just the two of us. Real safe. 

Skiing on jump ski's is no problem, they're huge, and you have two of them, they have really small rudders so they're hard to control. You wear a harness, again with the harness, when am I going to do something where you don't have to be strapped in?  The harness keeps your arm tight to your body, so the pull from the boat doesn't pull you over.  The idea is get on the right side of the boat and then with a burst of speed cut across the wake behind the boat, get your speed to around 50 -55 mph, hit the ramp, fly, (fly, mind you) hit the water and ski on. Sounds good.

The only real advice I get is "don't look down". That should help. The first run went OK until I hit the ramp, as soon as my ski's hit that ramp I fell down. Keep in mind I'm going about 50 mph. Hitting a wet wooden ramp at that speed can lead to some interesting injuries, and that is what's going through my mind as I see the ramp speeding towards my face. I hit that thing and bounced 15 feet in the air. While I'm airborne I realize that I'm going to be killed. I hope it doesn't hurt. I bounce up, get spun around and hit the water upside down and backwards. This should be ugly. I come up out of the water unscathed. It's a miracle, I've survived, I'll be a son of a bitch, Im invincible! instead of counting my blessings and going home, I decide to try again. If that didn't hurt me nothing will.

 So I keep trying and trying and trying. I can now get over the ramp but each time I do, I think "don't look down" and every time I look down.  When you put your eyes downward, that's where you go, I don't know why it just happens. So I keep flying off this ramp and trying to keep my eyes on the tree line, but I can't, I keep looking down, so I keep doing endo's face first into the lake. You think a boy would learn. I hit the water every way you can imagine and still keep trying, I finally get a jump in and land and then ski off. It took almost 2 hours of this nonsense to do it. But I did ski jump. It took almost a week before I could walk upright, I didn't know you can bruise every muscle in your body, I never went ski jumping again. It's not a good thing to do.

Road tripping, then and now.

I have been on dozens of road trips over the years, many memorable, some not. I've had some excellent ones with my friends. There's something special about loading up the boys in the car, filling the cooler and off you go. After so many trips over the years, I've noticed a distinct change in the drive itself, as well as the activities that are participated in. In your twenties, the cooler is stuffed to the rim with beer and ice, not a second thought is even given to food. Food? What the hell do we need food for?, it's only an 1100 mile drive. We can eat when we get there. As we get older, the beer gets less and less room, and things like, sandwiches and fruit take over, along with a large supply of soda and water. Water, for God's sake, did anyone even think of bringing water in our younger days? Water was something you used to brush your teeth, not to get you through a road trip.

In your twenties, you drove straight through, only stopping for gas. It was about the only time you got to pee in a toilet, the rest of the trip, you peed in a bottle and tossed it out the window. "We're on a time schedule dammit, we can't stop to go potty." The later road trips take an extra day, because of all the stopping and grazing, it's like being on the road with a group of pregnant women, what with all the pee breaks. You make 30 stops before the Florida state line, do you people all have enlarged prostates?, either that or everyone's bladder has shrunk to the size of a plum. Nobody pees fast anymore either, I remember filling a milk jug in just under 2 minutes once, now, it's tough to fill a coffee cup in under 5.

On vacation in your twenties, you drink until 5 a.m., get up at 7, feel terrific and have a bloody mary for breakfast. Now, we're in bed at 10 p.m., up at 8, and having a full breakfast so, "it doesn't screw up my metabolism." I found that as you get older, the earlier you start drinking, the earlier you're going to bed. If the elders start drinking at noon, it's "goodnight sweetheart" by 10. Not even a wet t-shirt contest will keep you up. "I've seen titties, I'm going to bed."

I've also found your tolerance level with your friends decreases with age. I guess it's because we expect more of them when they get older. In your twenties, you could cram 6 or 7 of your friends in a car built for 4, and hit the road, and still be getting along at the end. Now, you would consider taking 2 cars instead of being being "uncomfortable." Or, maybe we should rent a Winnebago, that would be nice. The kids can get braces next year, Daddy wants to travel in comfort. I'm not sitting in the middle of the back seat for anyone. When you get older, after a week together with your "friends", patience is a little thin. There is alot of love on the outgoing trip, no wives, no kids, no responsibilities, just good friends and good times. The ride back can be a little quiet, many mumbled "fuck you's", but not much wholesome conversation.

You eat better when you're on a road trip when you get older as well, I suppose it's because you have more money. In your twenties, you don't spend more than $25 to eat for a week. Alot of sandwiches and happy hour bar food, which is actually a great little meal after a day of drinking at the beach. A pile of fried cheese sticks, fried ravioli's, fried chicken wings, all dunked in a hearty ranch dressing, a side of monstorous cheese cubes, and if you're lucky, and I mean very lucky, barbeque cocktail weenies. Ooh, la, la, a meal fit for a king. Now, you can't possibly think about eating all that fried food without thinking that you're giving yourself a heart attack. You can almost picture the grease wrapping itself around a piece of swiss cheese and lodging in your aorta.

You also miss people more when you get older. Maybe it's because you have longer bonds with people. In your twenties, I don't remember missing anyone. The road trips always seemed too short. Now, half the guys spend an hour a day talking to the wife and kids. Boo hoo, get over it any enjoy the time away. One of my friends wanted to fly home once. No way pussycat, we drove down together, we're riding home together. I don't care if we don't see each other for 6 months, we're in this until the end. We are all on this train to hell.

Finally, recuperation from vacations is longer as you age. After you got home from a road trip then, you were ready to rock. "When is the next road trip?, maybe I shouldn't even unpack. Now, it's all you can do to make the drive home. You just want to take a shower and sleep on a bed that's not full of sand and beer. Using a clean bathroom, with clean, dry towels, that smell like bounce dryer sheets, I may never leave home again. 

 CHESTER THE MOLESTER

When I was in college my roomates and I all had dogs. Mostly mutts and mongrels, which I always thought was a great name for a band. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome-Mutts and Mongrels. I can see it, anyway, Chester was German Shepard, Great Dane mix. He was a big puppy.

Chester was a cool dog. Big, blond and bad ass. Chester was the most independant dog I've ever known. This dog didn't need anyone, he did what he wanted, when he wanted and to whomever he wanted. Chester would disappear for weeks, sometimes months at a time. And then, out of the blue, you would come home and he'd be sitting on the porch, like he'd just seen you that morning. He showed up back at home several times, wearing a new collar. He had found a family, they "adopted" him, and when he was done with them, he'd leave. You have to love the spirit. We would always see other dogs that looked like Chester. We thought he was out getting laid all the time and the town was full of his bastard children. That's where Chester the Molester came from. Oh, he was a dickens. The problem with all the wandering is, he would get a lot of tickets from the dog pound, because he would get picked up alot. One day R got a notice that Chester was in the pound and his bail was $120.00, which to a working college student, was alot of money.

The three of us were drinking at the Mule Lip, (which is a great name for a bar) the "Lip" was one of our favorites. Alot of great ideas were generated at the Mule Lip. This one included. We came to the conclusion that we should break Chester out of jail. Seems like a feasible, workable idea, doesn't it? Break a dog out of the pound, yeah, what is this? Gunsmoke? But we worked out the details, and it did seem like it could work. We'd all been there before, we'd never send the same guy to pick Chester up, we didn't want them to know who he belonged to. I don't know that it made any difference, but it made us feel sneaky and that was good enough.

We went back to house to put on our "stealth clothes", dabbed our faces with shoe polish, snugged on our watch caps, and off we went. We felt like Marine Recons, when we actually looked like drunken college students getting ready to do something stupid. 

We parked about a half a mile away from the pound. The place was surrounded by corn and soy bean fields. The side we needed to attack was fronted by a soy bean field, soy beans only grow about 6 inches tall, so they don't give much cover. The field butts up against a cyclone fence about 12 feet high, on the other side is 10 foot wide swath of gravel, then another fence about 8 feet high, on the other side of that fence are the cages. The cages all have swinging doors so the dogs can go in and out. We're about 100 yards from the fence and figuring out our game plan. It had been raining for 2 days and everything and everyone were soaked. I had recently gotten out of the Marines, and felt that I was best qualified to come up with plan. I said "follow me" and took off running. We were all running and tucking and hitting the ground rolling and getting up and running and tucking and hitting the ground, like we were dodging shots being fired from machine gun turret, by the time we got to the fence we were covered in mud and soy beans and laughing our asses off. R and I climbed the first fence and as soon as we hit the gravel and motion light goes on and every dog in that place came running out and barking and braying and yelping and jumping up and down. I think every dog in there thought they were the ones being broken out. We would've liked to taken all of them, but with the lights and noise, we didn't have much time.

We're running up and down the gravel path, calling "Chester, Chester", and he's no where to be found. The other dogs are going crazy, there had to be 20 dogs going off at the top of their lungs and we can't find our dog. At end there's one cage that seems to be empty, so we go down and call Chester's name, and he comes strolling out like we're disturbing his sleep. He looks at us and does that doggy stretch thing, I'm thinking "you ungrateful bastard", we're risking jail time and this mofo acts like he doesn't care where he sleeps.  I'm not sure he even recognized us with all that crap on. We had to take our hats off before this dumb ass knew who we were.  R and I climb the fence and grab Chester to throw him over the first fence, we pick him up and he doesn't get excited at all, very calm, very cool, I don't think he knew what was going on, or even cared for that matter, so we toss him, it's only 8 feet so we get him over on the first try. He hits the gravel and it's chaos. Now he gets it, it's a jail break, "I'm leaving suckers".  Those other dogs are losing their minds. Now they all want out, it was like the end of the Dirty Dozen, everyone's trying to make it, but some don't. Chester is now running up down the gravel path, he understands now, and is ready to go home. Of course, we still have to get him over the big fence. J is on the other side, getting ready to catch him, I wonder if alcohol was involved in that thought process? He wants to catch a 150 lb dog that's just been thrown over a 10 foot tall fence, no mitt or anything, I don't even think they make a baseball mitt that will catch a dog that large. It takes us three attempts to get him over, but we do it. Chester was calm as can be, he even looked like he was trying to reach over, God love him. We get him over, follow him, and hit the ground running. We didn't tuck and roll on the way back to the car, Chester was so excited he kept knocking us down. We were running like there were people shooting at us. I don't think there is a dog pound in the country with armed personnel. But we ran like there was. We got to the car and hit the gas, and made our getaway, Chester was looking back, maybe a little regretful we couldn't take some of his new friends. I'm sure they all wished him well. "Don't be a repeat offender Chesty, embrace your freedom", I imagined they were thinking. J's car was completely covered in mud inside and out, and smelled like wet dog for three weeks, but we rescued our dog and never paid the $120.00. Good times.

THE BOAT WRECK

Drinking and boating have always gone together, always. Just ask Capt. Hazelwood of the Exxon Valdez. The good Capt. is also another excellent example of what can happen if you don't use your head. You can crash an oil tanker into LAND. Boaters have always been drinkers, I think it's being near the water. Anybody that lives or plays near water seems to be a good partier. I could be wrong, but I doubt it. I've spent most of my life in or on the water, and these people like to have a good time. Times will come up when you have to decide whether to put gas in the boat or fill up the cooler, the cooler will win most of the time. As long as you have beer, you can row the boat out. Or get a tow, you can approach another boater that you don't know, and say "I have beer, but no gas, can we get a 10 mile tow"? Absolutely will be the reply. I've gone on over 75 canoe trips and we've gone without food, shelter, warm clothes or any sense of direction, but we've never been without our adult beverages. I'll bet dollars to donuts that Lewis and Clark were carrying some serious grog on their journey.

It is a Friday night, the 13th, I'm not superstitious, it's just a coincidence. Although...you never know. I tended bar for twelve years and every night that the moon was full, it was always a different kind of night. More fights, more weird activity, more everything. We had been out on the boat most of the day, having some cocktails, just your general fun in the sun. We ended up at our favorite lake bar. Everybody's got one, that bar you go drink in after you've been out all day drinking in the sun. Because sometimes by God, 8 hours isn't enough drinking. We drank beer all day and followed it with more beer and Jagermeister and a night cap of B&B. I don't know why in the world we needed a night cap, but someone seemed to think we did. I should have known the night was going to end badly after I was walking around the dock naked with 100 people on dock cheering me on. Public nakedness is a red flag that it's time to go home. So, I dove into the lake and got a nice round of applause, that was nice.

Things started winding down around midnight. We were talking to a friend of a friend kind of thing when he asks if we want to go for a ride in his new thirty-two foot Scarab. A nice little racing boat capable of going about 90 mph. That is quite quick on water. Hmmm, let's see, get into a strangers fast boat on a Friday night, at        1 a.m. after drinking beer all day and beer and Jagermeisters all night. Sounds good, what could possibly go wrong? As it turns, alot could go wrong. We get into this clowns boat and he takes off like he's been drinking and eating in Mexico and needs to get home before he loads up his shorts. He's doing figure eights and jumping wakes and flinging us around like toys in a crib. When the fire extinguisher came flying off the wall, we probably should have said something. When we got airborne, we really should have said something. Boats aren't supposed t leave the surface of the water, they are run with propellors, which strangely enough, have to be in the water to work. Not that he could have heard us over the roar of boat and wind whipping by. When he turns, and starts heading back to the dock, relief was felt by myself and two friends. Thank God, we'll be off this boat in a minute. I look out and see a boat, a boat, hmm that's weird, there shouldn't be a boat out there, coming right at us. How come I didn't see it a second ago, the other driver said he had his lights on. I don't believe him. If he had lights on, I think I would've seen lights. The only lights I saw his boat in was our anchor light. It makes absolutely no difference now, I just wanted to clarify.

So, I see the boat, and apparently I'm the only one, because before I can say "hey, there's a boat coming" we slam into him, head on at thirty mph. Granted thiry mph doesn't seem like very fast, until you take into account that the other boat is also going thirty, that and the fact there aren't any seatbelts in a boat, the only the thing that stops your body is the dashboard. The moments right after impact are gone, I have no idea what went on. There are about 90 seconds that I'll never get back. Knocked out, out cold. When I come to I'm laying in about six inches of water. Just enough to cover my ears and gives you that feeling of being in one of those sensory depravation tanks. I can't hear anything but muffled screaming, I can't see anything because someone was laying on top of me. I tried to stand up, but I was having trouble moving, I still have no idea of what's going on, why am I wet? Why does my head hurt? Why can't I breathe properly? Why? Why? What the hell is going on? I finally stand up and now I'm standing in about ten inches of water, and I still can't figure it out. I guess my head was still a little cloudy. Why is our boat sinking? Then it hits me, holy shit, we hit that boat, now it comes flooding back. We were in a boat wreck, wow, I've never known anyone who was in a boat wreck, I've heard of boat wrecks, I've even heard about people at our lake that were killed in a boat wreck, and now I'm in a boat wreck. Now we're sinking fast, I can hear people on the other boat yelling at us to get off before it sinks. Get off? what? into the water? I turn to my buddy to see if he's allright, he had been sitting behind the drivers seat and apparently was not allright. He looks up and freaked the shit out of me. He had slammed his face into the back of the drivers seat and had split the upper left half of his face open. Uh Oh, that can't be good, I can't tell what's really wrong with him because he's covered in blood down to his belly button. Now the water is just about waist deep, not a good sign for boaters, standing in your boat, waist deep in water. I grab Willie and step into the water. I try to swim over to the other boat, and realize I've dislocated my shoulder, it is really hard to swim when your arm isn't in the shoulder socket, it has to securely in the ball of the socket to work properly. I try to yell out to the other boat when I realize I've got broken ribs, because it hurts when you expand your lungs. I let go of Willie and now our boat is going down and with it the only light that I can see. It was surreal watching the lights of the boat going down to the bottom. I start to freak out, I thought we were going to drown, Willie has a bad head injury, so he's out of it, he's got no clue. I can't hold on to him and swim, and can't tread water very well, because it hurts the broken ribs. Of all the injuries I've had the broken ribs were the biggest hassle, not the most pain, but he biggest hassle. There's really nothing they can do for you, there are no casts etc. Just time. Yeah, about four months of no laughing, sneezing, coughing, yelling, breathing deep, singing or sleeping on your side, believe me when you sleep with broken ribs and roll over in your sleep, you'll know it.

Suddenly a light hits us, it's the police helicopter, that was quick, exactly how long have we been out here? The other boat throws us a life jacket and rope and they pull us in. We get pulled out of the water and see Mike, our other buddy. Apparently he jumped ship right after the collision, he didn't see any reason to stay and help us. Quite a friend, he still hasn't heard the end of that. The girls on the other boat seemed a little panicky after seeing the blood pouring down Willie's face. We're taken to shore where three ambulances are waiting. They sit us down on the picnic tables for a quick look. they have to cut my sweatshirt off, I'm not too happy as it is one of my favorites, but my wife tells them "go ahead and cut it up", she has never liked this particular sweatshirt because it was given to me by a previous girlfriend. Chicks. The guy confirms my suspicions of a dislocated shoulder, and then tries to strap me down to a stretcher. This is the wrong plan for a dislocated shoulder. The only comfortable postition is sitting up and leaning over, taking pressure off the shoulder. I inform the guy of this and he tells me that no one rides in the ambulance without being strapped down. So I tell him, that I won't ride in the ambulance, and tells me, yes I will. And I say no I won't. So I ended up strapped down for a twenty minute ride to the hospital. A small, rural hospital, who as it turns out is not ready for four seriously injured people at 2:30 am. As soon as we enter it's chaos. I hear my wife say "we don't have insurance so treat him as cheaply as possible." How's that for love? The nurse informs her that they treat everyone the same and she reminds her that we don't have any insurance. I think the Mrs. was suffering some shock, either that or the Rumplemintz was still in her system.

I'm wheeled into the corner so they can put a chest tube in Willie's collasped lung. That's great and everything, but "CAN SOMEONE COME HERE AND LET ME SIT UP?" No one comes, I repeat my request, "HELLO. CAN SOMEONE LET ME UP PLEASE?" Again, no response. Now I'm getting pissed, all I want to do is sit up. So I figure, if I tip the gurney over, somebody will come over and see what the hell I want. The problem with that plan is that it really hurts to struggle against the straps of a stretcher. Owww. Finally, someone comes to attend to me. What is it sir? What is it sir? I'm not sure, I care for your tone. I'm over here in a great deal of agony and she's coping an attitude with me, why if I wasn't strapped down, I'd get up give you the why to's and the what fors. It seems that they think my injuries don't warrant immediate attention, well, for the love of Mike, all I want to do is sit up, and if not that then how about a little shot of Demerol? That might take the edge off. Just a little sumpin, sumpin.

A little comment about Demerol, an absolutely wonderful drug, a little slice of heaven. Unfortunatley, the only time I've had Demerol is when I was hurt in some fashion, you don't find it much as a recreational drug. Demerol will take your pain away, be it physical or mental. That pain is gone toots. If you've had alcohol before hand it has a tendency to make you vomit, but it's worth it. There aren't many times in your life that vomiting is worth, but this is one of those times. I've had morhpine too. It differs from Demerol in that with Demerol, the pain is gone, with morhpine it's almost like you can still feel the pain, it's just that you don't care. That's special.

Back to the lake. As the evening progresses, we all get taken care of. I finally get my shot and pass out, I think that's probably why they gave it too me, just to get me to shut up. I wake up the next morning and have no idea where I am. That's happened before, but never in a hospital room. Uh oh. Sweenz, what have you done? Then I see my shoulder wrapped up, I've got lumps on my head and I can't breathe. Oh yeah, the boat wreck. I realize that I'm still in my shorts from last night, but the lake water as been soaked up into the sheets. Along with the wet pack of cigarettes I had in my pocket, so the sheets are a kind of green and brown, so naturally, I think I've made a mess in my shorts, gross. What the hell was I drinking last night? I don't remember drinking Midori mudslides. I scooch (a slang term meaning: to move closer to) over to the edge of the bed to go to the bathroom, when my feet hit the floor, I fall down because my right ankle is the size of cantaloupe. What the hell? As I'm laying there on the floor, I feel like someone came in over night and beat me with a soap filled sock. I'm going to sue this hospital for not watching out for me. I crawl to the bathroom dragging my IV pole and take care of business, thank God I' didn't soil myself. The one bright spot of the day. But, we all survived and just chalked it up to more good stuff, and more good times.