camaro rescue mission part 2. i get my baby back.
in the hotel bar there was a wall of notable guests. i stood next to it, dreaming of the day a mulleted american makes the cut.
with a gorgeous fall day on tap, i was inspired to coax the camaro out of hiding* and remind her who is boss (me).
after about ten minutes and a dozen different expletives, she started — coughing a cloud of black discharge into the alleyway. i pulled away noisily and flipped off my neighbors through the t-top above my head as i rolled by.
i hit a stoplight and took a moment to dig around under the seats for some halen to accompany my cruise. the second said light turned green a well-groomed man in a german import behind me honked impatiently.
i waited a moment for him to lay on his horn again. he did. i then stomped on the gas — hard — fishtailing away from the hurried elitist whose beamer was now enveloped in a plume of my thunder.
who does that loser think he is? — i asked myself as ‘beautiful girls’ hit the first chorus — why does he think the world should work differently for him than me? there’s nothing he can do that i can’t!
to prove this point i decided to proceed directly to the most exclusive hotel in town and valet park my camaro. when i got there i threw left her running, halen blaring, and motioned toward the doorman.
“be good to this sucker” — i shouted as i headed for the bar.
“pardon me, sir.” — he stopped me and asked how long i would be parking. i said i was stopping in for a cocktail in their bar so, who knows? an hour? seven? three weeks?
he then handed me a valet ticket that referred to me as a “transient guest” — seriously?
“i have a home…” i muttered as i walked past mr. top hat through the door.
inside the bar i heard a loud clicking sound and people shouting…
“ribeye! ribeye!”
“turkey leg!”
“lobster tail, baby!”
“rack of lamb, rack of lamb!”
what the…?
after getting my bearings i realized what was taking place in this fabled establishment — a MEAT RAFFLE! the preferred game of chance of mulleted americans everywhere!
and to think, a moment earlier they assumed i was a transient… perhaps their meat raffle would have been an even bigger hit if they had a sign outside: “transients welcome”
-bifpib-
* yes, i have the car back. look for part 2 of the camaro rescue mission video this week.
this photo, taken by a creepy stranger, made its way into my hands.
you’d think a ballgame would be a safe place to bring a mullet — you’d be wrong.
over the course of this nearly six month old experiment i’ve attended plenty of sporting events and the results have been, well, troubling.
despite trails blazed by mulleted sportsmen like brian bosworth, john kruk and 92% of those who’ve ever laced up hockey skates, it seems that fans just can’t abide a mulleted american in the stands.
proof? when i stood to cheer at a recent baseball game a chant emerged from behind me. at first i thought they were yelling “punt it!!” which seemed odd, because that happens in football. but soon the crowd’s voice grew louder and clearer…
“MULL-ET! MULL-ET! MULL-ET!”
i tried to ignore them and keep cheering. but the inning ended. and they kept chanting.
i sat down. they chanted.
i stood back up after a moment to adjust my underpants. they chanted.
i sat back down. they chanted.
i walked up the long staircase to freshen my beverage. they chanted.
this continued for most of the night and represents a pattern emerging from all stadium experience i’ve had with this haircut — no matter the city, no matter the sport.
the icing on my baseball-shaped pariah cake was delivered by an email i received a day or two after the game. apparently my friend recognized me in a photo taken at the same game by a complete stranger. the photo, which was posted online, had the following caption:
“MULLET… it was GROSS”
gross? you know what’s gross? mocking a stranger from behind the safety of your lens. that’s gross.
you think any of you scare me? i will not stop cheering. i will not back down. i will not cut my hair.
at least not today.
-BIFPIB-
it’s been an unruly stretch of growth for my hair — so much so that i’ve been emotionally overcome by its grandeur, unable to write (much less finish the story of how I got the camaro back) as the tears of joy running down my cheeks would surely blur the ink from this fountain pen…
it’s also possible i’ve been busy with “real” work…
(check back soon)
part one of my camaro rescue mission
today is the day i was supposed to enjoy free papa john’s pizza as a reward for owning a camaro — the 85 camaro you helped me buy to benefit goodwill / easter seals.
instead, i awoke to discover that my camaro has been stolen…
this affects all of us — mulleted and non-mulleted alike.
stay tuned……
-BIFPIB-
credential in hand.
it’s not every day a major golf championship takes place in your backyard. it’s also not every day that someone with a raging mullet is able to attend… enjoy!
event: opening round of 2009 PGA championship
location: hazeltine golf club, chaska, MN
attire: jack daniel’s t-shirt with sleeves cut off, cheap sunglasses, shorts and mullet.
over the course of my experiment — now entering its fourth month if you’re scoring at home (and if you are scoring at home, congratulations!) — i’ve crashed a good number of classy places and events most mulleted americans would steer clear of. lexus dealerships, high-end groceries, a yacht club wedding and many more — but nothing could have prepared me for the level of class, excess and mulletism i was about to encounter at the PGA Championship.
——-
as i finish cutting the second sleeve away from a jack daniel’s shirt i glance down at the PGA championship pass on my dresser. it’s a credential that will allow me to access the grounds, as well as something called “the wanamaker club” — which, i will discover, is an exclusive hangout for special people with fancy golf shirts and kids they name “tanner,” “kellen” or “britannica.”
hosting an event like the PGA is a huge undertaking for the chaska area — miles of organized chaos, including an elaborate system of park and ride lots. i arrive at one of them (not in my camaro, as I didn’t want to risk carbon monoxide poisoning before the big event) and proceed to the line for the shuttles. i catch a glimpse of my mullet in a car window. it is shimmering in the early morning sun. glorious.
once aboard the shuttle bus i attempt to pump myself up, hoping others will get into it as well.
“get in the hole!”
i yell, as the bus begins to fill. nobody responds.
“get in the hole!”
i shout again, a little louder this time. a young child snickers and his father instructs him to ignore me. i shrug off the group’s indifference as sleepiness and face the front of the bus once more, sliding close to the window to make room for someone else. the bus doors finally close. my seat is the only one without two ocupants. we pull away.
over the course of the bus ride i gaze out the windows with a look of wonderment, as if i’ve never seen anything I am looking at before. this is a key tactic i will employ numerous times throughout the day.
we arrive at the tournament. during the security sweep i ask the man scanning me if we’re supposed to check our guns, motioning toward my pasty white biceps. he doesn’t respond.
the huge grounds teem with all kinds of stimuli. i am clearly the most underdressed person here, but my air-conditioned shirt is affording me the last laugh as i observe throngs of golf posers in already-sweat-soaked polo shirts. it’s about 11 am. i need a beer.
my cold MGD proves a costly, yet delicious prop (one i will repeatedly refill over the next 9 hours). time to watch some golf.
it just so happens that i am right next to the first fairway as tiger woods is teeing off. this puts me about 100 paces ahead of the so-called ‘tiger army’ — a flock of about five thousand people that will follow him everywhere for the next four days as if he were Jesus. i find myself wondering if some of them will even join him in the john (this is the type of existential query that doesn’t cross your mind until you have a mullet).
because of the crowds i realize this may be my only great glimpse of tiger all day. i grab a spot along the rope just as his drive comes to a rolling stop about forty yards beyond me. i am now at the front of a gallery ten deep along the ropes. i have no doubt my hair is blocking the view of at least four of them. no matter, i stand tall because this is my chance — i am going to shout something at the greatest golfer in history — the most famous athlete in the world — the great tiger woods… but what should I say?
the moment of truth approaches as tiger marches toward me. he looks more like some sort of golf robot than a human… absolutely jacked (I’m SURE security would have asked him to check his guns). i find myself torn between “hey tiger your wife is hot!!” and “touch my mullet, tiger!” i decide to go with the latter, figuring he probably hears it less often. this is it…
“hey tiger, want to touch my mullet??”
he doesn’t look up. i know he hears me, but he doesn’t look up.
what if he had? what if he had turned his head and looked? what if my racing stripes had caught his eye and, in that moment, he considered the plight of the mulleted — remembering that he, too, knows what it’s like to push and trailblaze your way through discrimination… what if?
the more i think about it, the more i realize that tiger woods would be the perfect poster child for the equality movement among mulleted americans. as a truly multi-racial public figure he’s already done so much for so many… if he could add a mullet to the mix it would surely prompt our cause into the public eye (and allow nike to tap into a whole new market — the sleeveless golf shirt).
i make a mental note to get in touch with tiger’s people about the matter. for now, he has to finish the hole and i’ve got a bratwurst to locate.
——-
Stay Tuned for PGA Championship: Part 2
-BIFPIB-
