Archive for the ‘born pissed’ Category


Big Words I Know By Heart Episode VII: ‘Lady Business’

February 4, 2015
The one and only 'Dr. Dirty', John Valby.

The one and only ‘Dr. Dirty’, John Valby.

It’s no surprise that John Valby was the perfect guest for my show format.  He’s a talented man with a foul mouth who’s never compromised his art and he’s always given the public what they want: more dirt!  Big Words I Know By Heart Episode VII was a joy to do.  Valby was on the Big Words Radio podcast back in ’09 and this was a nice extension of that interview.  What amazed me about Valby was just how much everyone in Buffalo loves him.  Across the board.  Leading up to the show, every single person that I talked to had a positive Valby story to impart.  He’s one of a kind and we’re lucky to have him.  Enough yakking though, here’s the episode:

If you like the show, please take an extra second to ‘Like’ it on YouTube and feel free to Share the link with your friends.  Going one step further, I now have a ‘Big Words I Know By Heart’ CHANNEL on my account (Tom Waters) with the entire history of the show (Bonuses and all) in chronological order.  If you enjoy the show, why not subscribe?

Thanks are in order to Mr. Valby, co-host Lee-Lee and as always, producer Richard Wicka at the Home Of The Future studios.  Season One of Big Words Video is now over halfway complete and it’s just going to get better from here!  Thanks for watching, thanks for sharing and stay tuned, folks!

Tom Waters


A Fond Farewell To A Buffalo Broadcasting Legend

August 6, 2014

Brian Kahle

Just a quick note today for an old friend who was more than a ‘showbiz’ friend.

I just found out (from Ed Honeck at Night Life) that Buffalo broadcasting great Brian Kahle passed away last year.

I originally met Brian in Clarence in 2002 when he was going business to business for his own company, Magic Marketing.  He was smooth and friendly and he always had a natural smile on his face.  I followed up with him about some help promoting my first published book, Born Pissed.  We ‘took a lunch’ at the T.G.I.Fridays in Clarence.  He quoted me a price for a marketing package (it was too high for me, I’m cheap) and picked up the tab.

Somehow or another I wound up on his Night Life Radio show (probably because I wrote bar and exotic club reviews for Night Life) in 2003 in order to promote my second book, Zany Hijinx.  The radio station was housed next to Spot Coffee on Delaware and Chippewa.  While I was waiting to go on Brian’s show with my friend, former mayor Jimmy Griffin (who Brian mixed it up with on AM Buffalo) came walking out after a friendly interview with Brian.  Somehow they’d patched things up and they were on friendly terms again.  That’s just one example of how genuinely friendly Brian was.

Over the years we kept in touch.  Brian moved his radio show to WLVL in Lockport and I went on a number of times.  Any time I had a new book he was happy to let me come on and hawk it.  He always researched before his show, he was always professional and at his core he was a DECENT guy.  There’s a shortage of them in Buffalo journalism, broadcasting, hell, anywhere in Buffalo.  We’d talk before and after every show just to get caught up on our personal lives.  He launched a television show with Time Warner and was very successful with it.

Towards the end of Big Words Radio he agreed (without flinching) to come on as a guest on the show.  I fired away (like I always do) with my usual nonsense and he played right along.  He even told me later that he lost a date because of his association with the show.  He didn’t care.  You can hear the show at this address:

Brian Kahle was from the old school of broadcasting.  He did his research, he was what I think of as a class act, and he had the quality of being a NICE person.  You can’t fake that.  He and I often talked about how blurry the lines between journalism and advertising have become in newspapers, magazines and on the radio.  The media has devolved into a vehicle for their advertisers, printed solicitations for future advertisers, or attempts not to piss off people who just might advertise at some point.  He knew it and I knew it.  Traditional journalism has all but gone the way of the dodo, and Brian was one of the last guys who tried to toe the line.

I will genuinely miss him.  Buffalo has a little less integrity now that he’s gone.  And in terms of broadcasting, I hope that Buffalo will never forget his contribution, which was palpable.

Rest in peace, Brian.



February 8, 2011

            A lot of projects are in the planning stages currently and it’s more a matter of juggling and strategy than inspiration and execution.  Book 9 (Mockery) is in the last legs of pre-production and designer Eve Barbour and I are aiming for a hard April launch.  I’ve always been fond of doing book launches on April Fool’s Day (which falls on a Friday this year), so don’t be surprised if you hear about a large public event and bookstore insertion then.  At $15, it’s the lowest launch price of any rant collection I’ve ever released, so I’ll be shooting for volume rather than profit margin. 

            After that, Mark McElligott and I will be going into pre-production on his book, Random Thoughts From A Broken Mind while we schedule appearance dates at the same time.  We’re looking at a summer release date for his book around the same price point.  While Mark’s never published a book before, he’s got a diverse back ground in music, cartooning and stand-up comedy that should translate well on stage once he gets up and running.

            As for the radio show, Eisner and Harvey award winner Dylan Horrocks (Hicksville) will be talking to me and co-host Terry Kimmel on Thursday, February 24th.  Mark McElligott returns as my guest in March and in April I’ll be discussing the hilarious and often controversial books of Mark Kalesniko (Alex, Mail Order Bride). 

            After agonizing over how and when to release the autobiography (Icarus On The Mend), I’m leaning towards publishing a limited print run of 100 hardcover first editions in 2012 for around $29.95 with no complimentary copies for the local or national media included.  Everyone who knows about the book wants to get their hands on it right away, so I might as well give you all what you want.  Once those hundred are gone, I’ll release two volumes of trade paperbacks for $15 each with complementing photo negative covers and possibly an additional chapter. 

            As for the third poetry collection (Poke The Scorpion With A Sharp Stick), I’m not sure how to gauge demand for the book, so don’t be surprised if it’s released alongside one of the autobiography print runs.  While both Breathing Rooms reached (and exceeded) the 100 copy mark, they’re more a labor of love than a concerted business decision.  Poetry is a tough sell in any market, so I was glad to net over $2000 on the first two in the first year.  The third collection will be the last for a long time, so hopefully readers will enjoy the aftermath to Breathing Room by realizing that the content is new and unusual, not just scraps left over from the first two books. 

            I’ve never had this much material on the slate before at any one time.  Hopefully by 2013 I can buy back the rights to Born Pissed and Zany Hijinx, relaunch them with better cover designs, tighter editing and a lower price point.  If there’s one single piece of advice I can offer budding writers, it’s this: Don’t publish with America House.  There’s no reason why you should give 90% of your royalties away to a publisher for a manuscript that you put 100% of your effort and inspiration into. 

            It’s a bittersweet situation to be in.  I’ve got three years before I have to write another word.  I’m considering writing a novel, but for the time being I’m going to rest and relax since this is the calm before the promotional storm.  Thank you for reading and supporting my work.  People often ask me ‘Do you make any money off of your books?’ and my answer is always that I wouldn’t keep putting them out if I didn’t.  From a fiscal standpoint, 2011 is going to be a great year to make money while making people laugh at the same time.


Monday Big Words Update! Promotional Aftermath, Calendar Additions…

February 9, 2009

Somebody get the number of that Mack Truck!

This weekend was a killer in the positive and negative sense of the term. On Friday night, I had a bar review I conducted with the wife for the Buffalo News. On Saturday, myself, Kyle Kaczmarzcack and JR Finlayson promoted for eleven consecutive hours at FYE Transit and Don’s Atomic Comics for my fifth Tom’s Atomic Kegger. When Sunday rolled around, I had a two hour stint promoting both Breathing Room books with Anne Foster, Josh Smith an unexpected guest star author Diane Meholick and a rag-tag cast of characters. Whoosh! The weekend is gone.

The outlandishly good news is that we kicked ass and took names. Don and the rest of us had our best crowd ever for the kegger and I the Monsters Of Verse and myself had the best turnout I’d ever seen at Talking Leaves Elmwood. Many, many books were sold and distributed throughout the greater Buffalo region this weekend and here’s some spectacular news: As of Saturday, both Breathing Rooms hit the 100 copies sold mark and kept going! For such a short amount of time with only a month or so of promotions (what with the holiday break), this is astoundingly good news for the two little poetry collections that could.

Much like Elton John and ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’, one of his most popular singles, Breathing Room I and II continue to amaze me with how well they’ve been received. Readers LOVE these two books and I’m not sure how or why, but I certainly appreciate their patronage and the avalanche of praise I continue to receive regarding both collections. Who KNEW that poetry would be the genre that set me free from a publishing standpoint? I never would have guessed it in a million years, but let’s keep those copies moving!

To avoid making this a five page update, the new Night Life is out this week with a Big Words dose of ‘Chia Chick’, an old favorite about Valentine’s Day and relationships that I like to dust off for the holiday. It’s acerbic and readers really dig out, so scoop it up if you haven’t read it in my first book, Born Pissed!

Three new shows went up on Think Twice Radio over the weekend too, so if you haven’t had a chance, check ‘em out. This previous weekend’s promotional insanity was recorded and Rich Wicka and I should have those up online by the beginning of next week.

And finally, there have been a few great additions to the Event Calendar for the next three months. Some poets have been added and subtracted, but I’m hesitant to roll the whole calendar out again, so I’ll go over the bullet points.

-Author Diane Meholick (Buffalo Stories) and poet Josh Smith will be joining me THIS FRIDAY at Borders Books on McKinley Parkway from 7-9 p.m. We’ll all be selling and signing copies of our books in honor of Valentine’s Day. And we’ll be doing it because we’re greedy and we’re starving Buffalo Artists. So swing out, buy some books and say hello!

-On Sunday, March 21st, The Monsters Of Verse will be joining the festivities at their very own table at the 3rd Annual Buffalo Small Press Book Fair from 12-6. This prestigious hullabaloo is located at the Karpeles Manuscript Museum on Richmond Ave in Buffalo and it’s a great opportunity to meet the majority of Buffalo’s literati in one day under one roof.

-Last but not least, local musician Lenny Revell has agreed to perform an hour long set of his piano-based genius for April Foolfest 2 at Desiderio’s on Broadway on Wednesday, April 1st. I’ll be ranting from 7-8 p.m., Lenny Revell will be playing from 9-10 p.m., and I’m still working on a second musical act for 8-9 p.m.. Buffalo is rife with talented musicians and I want to find a good fit for Desi’s. I’m really looking forward to seeing Lenny perform and it’s an added bonus to an event that’s sure to be a blast!

I’ll cut myself off at the knees there. There’s a lot more to go over, but we’ll save it for Friday or Saturday. Talk to you all on Wednesday for Part II of the Quixote Wednesday mini-series,

Tom Waters


Monday Big Words Update! Week 39 on stands, ‘Perpetual Money’ right here!

August 21, 2007

A new Night Life is upon us today with a Big Words installment of ‘Perpetual Money 2: The Accidental Gigolo’ pt. 1 (from First Person, Last Straw).  Now that I’ve put a few of the smaller pieces into the print column, I thought it might be nice to split up some of the larger essays and see how readers reacted.  And since the first rant has come and gone, I figured I’d reprint ‘Perpetual Money’ (I) here for your enjoyment.   So go grab a Night Life! 

Perpetual Money (pt. I)

Money \’mun-e\ n, pl 1. : something (as metal currency)
accepted as a medium of exchange 2. :wealth reckoned
in monetary terms 3. :the art of being insatiable without

Believe it or not, up until a month ago, I had never trolled the collective chum nets of the evening singles scene. Not once had I sat on a barstool during last call as the sun peeked up from the horizon and prospective special friends, peg-legged and otherwise, suddenly looked more interesting to each other while some wretched Bob Seger song played on a beer-stained jukebox. For two years, I was alone, by choice most of the time, and was certain I knew desperation. A month ago, I received a formal instruction in despair by every lay person (now that pun wasn’t my fault, dammit!) in the field. This probably doesn’t sound that alarming, unless you take into account that I’m a stout lad of 24. This is my journey from daylight into darkness back into daylight and then to, oh screw it, here’s what happened.My prior dating philosophy consisted of waiting for nubile young coquettes raining from the sky to fall into my peripheral field of vision and, by nature of proximity, in desperate and sweet, sweet love with your’s truly. Not the most effective method. Less effective is a better description. Dead right worthless is perfect. Now certain boys and certain men have the innate gift of picking up anyone, anytime, anywhere, be it a supermodel at a yard sale or the much sought after girl-next-door in the grains and nuts section of your local convenience store. It goes without saying that I am not this certain type of boy and/or man. It goes without saying that most men aren’t, and most men wish that this sort of person would perish viciously in a freak soda machine explosion. Some people play it wholesome, and try their damnedest (bless their hearts!) to find love and its common denominators in haunts without alcohol, such as a library, a church service, or the occasional cross stitching club for straight men in their early twenties. However, I hate libraries, and most of the women who frequent bookstores are, at the risk of sounding uppity, a bit on the homely side. Secondly, being that I pay worship to the pagan deity of retail every Sunday, I don’t have the opportunity to get in on any pious action that may go on thereabouts. And lastly, my stubby, hairy fingers just aren’t conducive to any macramé related activities. Conventional means of dating just weren’t going to work, so it was clearly time for last-ditch efforts. This is the point where I was dragged, kicking, screaming (and generally biting anyone that got within a mile radius), out of my happy pocket of seclusion and into the dismal and poor lighting of the lounge lizard stratosphere. I am neither an extroverted nor zany person in the presence of strangers, so the club life was always an option and a lifestyle that was looked down upon. How foolish it is to despise something one knows nothing about when you can research and divulge each revolting tentacle for it’s singular foulness (in addition to the overlying revulsion). Like this Greek dude who descended into the Underworld to bring his true love back from the dead, I wandered down into the very gutters of the velvet rope and escaped with something far more valuable: validated parking.

Being that I have led, for the most part, a sheltered and suburban life, city and inner city conduct was never my field of expertise. This isn’t a very good thing, either, as most panhandlers and run of the mill raving lunatics tend to prey on, and gravitate towards, people without this field of expertise. I’m not sure if it’s because I have a face that’s misleadingly kind looking, gullible, or naive, but the homeless home right in on me. Within five feet of leaving my car, some poor, ruddy vagrant will pop out of nowhere and begin with a cockamamie tale of woe so far-fetched that I can’t help but reward his flair for creativity with the 38 and a half cents that the story was contrived for: “Yo, man, my grandma got crushed in the steam press at the laundromat and I ain’t got no case quarter to take a rickshaw to go see her at the hospital in Baltimore. You got a case quarter? You gotta cigarette? Wanna buy twenty kilos of heroin?” No thank you. I suppose this sort of obstacle comes with the territory.

Awful techno music is another necessary evil of clubbing that has to be tolerated, as there is no alternative. On one evening, I heard the original version, house-trance remix, and 12″ extended vinyl of a song that I think was called “Smack My Bitch Up” at every club we frequented. That’s part of the charm of going out and dating, though; you go somewhere where you don’t want to be so you can pretend that you’re having fun and not looking to meet anyone in a place that’s too loud, disgusting, and crowded to talk to someone even if you did make an acquaintance! A daisy chain of inevitable logic!

And then there were the Gothic, or ‘Goth’ people. They make up the ruling majority of the actual dancing type clubs. Goth people practice a system of ethics and beliefs that would make the Mormon code look cohesive. They dress in black to convey their spiritual numbness and/or angst at their parents. Ditto for nose, nipple, eyebrow, and prostate piercing. Some of them either pretend, or legitimately believe that they’re vampires. I wasn’t aware that vampires were typically five foot men with skin problems and lipstick, or three hundred pound girls with pewter crosses and hairy arms, but…fair enough. The musical collective prefers rancid techno with men screaming through speaker distortion about serial killing and other such nastiness that makes them, by virtue of listening, feel nasty. I don’t plan on turning into a Goth person any time soon. It sounds too exhausting. Plus even I can’t pretend to be that angry all the time.

Every club, lounge, and dive had it’s own charm, or prepackaged lack thereof. In club-speak, ambience is a term that’s synonymous with ‘shit-hole that a lot of interesting people for some unexplained reason keep going to’. At one of the darker clubs, the toilet was little more than an open hole in the ground sheathed in darkness, where one stood in a voluntarily unidentified puddle (I wasn’t about to investigate) and tried to aim for the desired target. The place had great ambience though, because a lot of lesbians danced and groped each other there, which, admittedly, does not bode successful odds for the single male, but is entertaining regardless. Plus it made up for the outlandish cover charge.

Every woman at every bar had a special tantalizing feature that stuck to the roof of my mind like so much mnemonic peanut butter, whether it was an interesting back pack with copulating children’s show mascots, a nose ring bigger than any you’d ever see this side of a toreador, or in some cases just an ass that left my eyes out of their sockets and my tongue along the rail of the bar. It’s a fascinating atmosphere,with it’s own ethics and a corresponding band of acolytes who go faithfully into the night, without fail, until they find that fake someone who hits home with the little fake person inside of them.

Certain days had themes attached to them in the club utopia. At one bar, on Tuesday nights, only Englebert Humperdink cover bands graced the small plywood handicapped ramp that doubled as a stage. Some bars designated Sunday as Sexually Conflicted Day, where closet gays, asexuals, and the occasional Eunuch were allowed to get out, get down, and get dirty with each other, no one, or their catheter, respectively. And I’m certain it’s widely known that Thursday is the day when people the world over place sponge candy in their underclothes and somersault the length of the bar onto a pool table full of Vienna sausages, but I was never privy to these things before. Just like I was never privy to dancing.

(Audible and extended sigh of disgust) I will never dance, even for the sake of finding action. No Bump and Grind, Slam Dance, Macarena, or other pasta-related dervish. There are some men who dance, and enjoy dancing, and these men are known to be gay. I myself am not gay. If I were gay, maybe I’d enjoy dancing, but gayness simply isn’t in my genetic encoding. It’s sort of tragic how women love to dance, are always looking for guys who want to dance with them, and have no alternative other than gay men. Sometimes drunken men dance, or desperate men, and you can still see how uncomfortable they are with their sense of coordination, self-consciousness, and overall burgeoning embarrassment regarding the fact that they’re dancing badly. If I could make it to the bathroom without tripping over a level surface, or get on and off of a barstool without catching my jacket on a nail on a post that’s three feet behind me and ripping the lining out onto the floor much to the amusement of my friends and any other strangers who aren’t blind to wild, stunted spectacles, perhaps I would venture it, but I can’t, so I don’t. I did the twist once at the age of 13, when I didn’t know any better, and the original videocassette, as well as any copies, were destroyed tragically in a freak gyro copter crash some years ago. One of the other things I learned was not to trust a straight man who dances well, as he is a professional, and therefore he is trouble.

There are lifer’s on every notch of the gender rainbow in clubs, and you can spot them by following these guidelines: If you meet someone who’s hair is glazed, greased, or so perfect that they look like they should be endorsing a product while they’re talking to you, that’s a good sign. If a woman is playing tiddly winks with a handful of diaphragms and an empty margarita glass, this is also a good sign. Persons who don’t have a general air of shame and self-disappointment are almost always cold-blooded, no-nonsense, hit-and-run swingers. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it depends on your designated prey. Do you want a disease or a drink? A one night stand, four month relationship, or an interlude in the alleyway next to Bob the Hobo? It’s an unforgiving meat market, and there are many different cuts of beef hanging from hooks in sub zero temperatures wearing nylons and pumps. You just have to know how to grade your beef. Fortunately, I lean towards the Upton Sinclair school of evaluation, as opposed to the Tijuana State Board of Excellence in Iguana Remainders.

That’s not fair, though. One thing that I learned among many is that in life, there are diamonds in the dust, and the club scene is no different. The other things? Perhaps a roster is in order. Thomas’ Rules Of Lounge Order, as it were. Relegated by the order in which they were discovered. Take note, and if it sounds silly, or outlandish, remember the source, and bear in mind that much pain and hardship was incurred for the sake of this invaluable scoopage I am imparting to you for the low introductory price of, well, free.

Rule#1: Bring A Decoy
This works on multiple levels. Not only do you not feel pitiful and shunned by the opposite sex, but you’re gaining valuable information from the enemy lines while in their midst like Diane Fossey taking rectal temperatures from the inhabitants of the chimpanzee house of a city zoo. This is a crucial, crucial rule. Aside from learning how to speak with the fairer sex without stuttering, mumbling, blushing, and spilling food and assorted drink on, you appear wanted in front of actual targets. Women at heart are lovely and sweet and all of those things, but women, when dealing with other women in the realm of dating, are vicious vindictive psychotics who would put John Wayne Gacy to shame. If they see that you’re with someone who’s having fun with you, their natural instinct is to go and ruin whatever jubilation said girl is having. The decoy actually gets something out of it too, as men are testosterone fueled atom bombs who will stop at nothing, including hitting on someone else’s ‘girlfriend’ to strike it rich. But this is, of course, an irrelevant and unimportant side effect that makes you look more sensitive than you, in reality, actually are. This rule is a keeper.

Rule#2: Nothing Ever Happens On A Monday
This was obtained the hard way, and anyone with a brain in their head would have figured it out without unnecessary shadenfraude. Since bar folk and their ilk are perpetually in motion, it’s patently obvious that after a wild Friday, a bombastic Saturday, and an Interesting Hat Sunday, Monday would be a good day for all around recovery and subsequent rehydration. One also has to factor in the possibility of the general after-parties that those in the know go to after their dive of choice shuts down at the legally enforced dawn hour(s).

Rule#3: Recognize A Good Thing When You Have It
When you’re clearly on the road to pleasant chemistry (not including a drink with a quirky umbrella that changes colors every five minutes), follow it up and ride it out. Please see the attached.

Rule#3a: Don’t Blow A Good Thing
With the exception of men whose first names are John and last names are Travolta, you are not the universal swinger. Trading up is frowned upon in the bar malaise, and should never be performed in the same night, at the same club. It’s conceptually impossible to make someone feel as if they’re the only person in the room and make lascivious gestures and eye winks to someone across the room at the same time. This is just plain rude, and I for one am disgusted at anyone who would do such a thing. Other than me, anyhow. Actually, I’m still riding a stationary shame cycle from my incident

Rule#4: The Harder You Try To Score, The More Bleak Your Odds Become
In a space age futuristic world full of more aphrodisiacs than people who have a use for them, it is my firm belief that confidence is, and always will be, the greatest hook with women. Desperately grappling for intimacy after the witching hour with anyone who happens to stumble or get sick next to you is not an example of confidence, but rather a dead end exercise in futility. This operates under the same universal principles as Rule 3 and its footnote: If things are going well, put some effort into the catch. If nothing’s happening by 4 a.m., odds are nothing’s gonna happen. Best to cut your losses, fold, and drive home with some dignity rather than a second cousin to Ilsaa the Bearded. Unless, of course, you’re into that sort of thing.

Rule#5: Travel In Packs, Preferably of Well-Wishers and Hangers-On
It’s murder out there, and one needs as many tricks as are humanly possible to gain the hometown advantage. In place, or addition to a reliable decoy an entourage adds to your personal star status and proves that you’re admired and adored by many. What we’re trying to avoid here is going somewhere completely by yourself and going out on a limb for someone only to get shot down horrifically by not only the intended princess but her two slightly heavy and overly giggly friends as well. Women always travel in packs, and so should you. One more time: Women always travel in packs. You see them marching like a battalion in malls, on the streets, and even to the bathroom in groups of 20, so bring some reinforcements. If you’re lucky, your friends will recognize when you’re interested in someone and help to build you up as the wonderful mystery that you most certainly aren’t.

Rule #6 Perfect a Look
As in comedy, and also with dating, one must have a schtick. You can’t open with something that’s outlandishly out on a limb and expect consistent results, so it’s best to flagellate with a routine that works. This sounds cliche’, but it doesn’t have to be, and when in Rome, be the fake toga wearing bastard that you can’t stand. Or in this case, the Plebeian who says he ‘enjoys Dave Matthews for his political impact on the 21st century, as well as his ingenious world beat innovation’. The horror of it all. I feel dirty just writing that. Before I lose track, make sure to have a look. Lounge chicks usually go for a certain type, so it’s best not to confuse. There are many options and looks to choose from, up to and including four! You can be the leather clad bad boy who’s an embarrassment to the girl’s parents, whom she’s trying to punish for spoiling her all of her life. Or perhaps you’re more the sensitive Charlie Brown-pullover wearing new age man with a buzz cut and penny loafers of indeterminate color? This works on gold diggers. But then of course you can be the strikingly individualistic beret/beanie/handlebar mustache sporting, tortured misunderstood artist for whom life is painful and creation is bliss (translation: college chicks). If these sound like too much of a stretch, you can just be an asshole with a sizable wad of cash, which is not too shockingly the house special of the day any day at any bar in any town.

Rule #7 People Who Slur Are Not Anywhere Near as Charming as They Perceive Themselves to Be
Circling back to the confidence game of all confidence games, if you want someone to feel uniquely desired after, the last thing to do is funnel a few liters of absinthe and deliver your soliloquy from the heap of cigarette butts and ground cheese doodles at the floor of the bar. Women like to feel needed, not lusted after by virtue of their biological bits and pieces. It’s best in dating to stay on top of your game, which basically means that you shouldn’t phonetically skip every other vowel in a given sentence while forming a basin of drool out of one side of your mouth. People who are drunk to the point of unconsciousness are more liable to get a ride home in a white van with big blue lights and a stomach pump rather than in the Lamborghini of some blonde viking. Utter inebriation is an agenda in bars, but shouldn’t be mixed with dating, ever. Aside from a complete lack of charm, drunken people have a tendency to pretend that it’s their conscience that has taken a vacation when in fact and in most cases, it’s simply their sense of balance and/or bowel control.

Rule #8 If You Don’t Have an Ugly Friend With You, You’re The Ugly Friend
Fetching females collect them like so many beat-up plastic barrettes under a vanity chest, and will look at you and your surrounding friends in the same manner. If the majority of your friends look suave and dapper, it’s best to hang out with them on off nights and make an acquaintance with someone who has a growth on their neck, supplemental nostril, or similar deformity that will draw more attention to your own beauty. Granted, inner beauty may be important, but who are we kidding? If women were drawn to boys with flippers, we’d be sanding off our forearms right now.

Rule #9 The Sensitive Male Schtick Stopped Working About Five Years Ago
Now that everyone has the hang of it, the knack to understanding ‘where she’s coming from’ and how you ‘know how tough it must be to find your individuality in a male dominated world’ in addition to the way you ‘have psychological water retention that makes you feel psychically bloated in a succinctly feminine manner’, nobody cares. As a man, pretending to be responsive to other’s needs is about as current as wearing platform shoes and a tie wider than Marlon Brando. It’s a fake out to our natural instinct, namely conquering and plundering. You know it, they know it, and there’s no use trying to dress up your approach by limpening your wrist and discussing the crying jags you had while watching a Sandra Bullock movie. Masculinity is in, thank God, because we’re not very good at anything else.

Rule #10 Lie About Your Job, Even If You Have A Good Job (And You Probably Don’t)
That’s right, I’m an analyst for one of the city’s largest subsidiary brokerages. I handle off-shore accounts when I’m not cramming for my LSAT’s. You may not believe this, but I’m an advisor for one of the lesser Popes, it’s not really a big thing. You get the picture. Just as decoys reinforce the fact that you can behave yourself in the presence of the opposite sex, a fake job can be save you from a raving psychopath, as well as reel in the abundantly plastic persons you may be in the mood for. Leprechauns are easier to spot than anything vaguely truthful in the small talk that sifts through the air in a crowded club, so why should you be any different? After all, perhaps you actually did have some government stealth jet experience in a former life and you’re simply getting in touch with that.

By Tom “Valentino to the Impaired” Waters


Monday Big Words Update! Week 37 on stands/back to back Perpetual Money(s)!

August 7, 2007

     Monday’s upon us again, which can only mean one thing: a new issue of Night Life magazine!  And with the block underway, I decided to reach way back into the archives for two old favorites for August: Perpetual Money (from Born Pissed) and Perpetual Money 2: The Accidental Gigolo (from First Person, Last Straw).  I split the twenty commandments to singles club dating into two parters, respectively, so they’ll be paced out throughout the next four weeks to round out the rest of the summer.  I’ve always felt that the original Perpetual Money was the closest thing to perfection that I’ve ever achieved in my writing career (in terms of style, length, and composition), so I thought I’d give the rest of Buffalo (and our friends in Canada) a chance to see for themselves.  So go grab a copy!

     It also came to my attention today that the new print issue of Metromania including ‘epitaph’, a poem I wrote for the upcoming Breathing Room project.  You can download a pdf version of the current issue at:

That’s all I’ve got for you this week.   In the mean time, I’ve been trying to beat this brutal humidity and weather out the rest of the summer.  Have a good one,

Tom Waters


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