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Among a very small segment of the population that is overly educated, drinks too much, has a fondness for apostrophes, pink dolphins and beards, I'm moderately well known. Me and my boy OHGID -- Andy Jackson are neck and neck on the Nashville bar scene. Honestly, the only thing I can say about being considered a celebrity for a bar I go to is this is an incredible insult to Nick Carter and all that he stands for.
Thomas Meert writes:
"Clay I love the column and the book. My favorite part is your deep interest in the 'bama bangs and as a connoisseur of trends among the younger generation of today, what trend do you consider more concerning between 'bama bangs and this." All trends emanating from New Jersey are infinitely more terrifying. This is where wristbands, sideways hats, white guys who use the word phat, fake tans, Kangol hats, tennis shoes without laces, barbwire tattoos, striped shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and double earrings on men all began. Worst of all, these guys don't have any sense of humor about themselves. Most guys with 'Bama Bangs are aware they look ridiculous, but they're OK with looking ridiculous. That's sort of the story of my life so I can understand that. But guido guys from New Jersey think they're cool. Don't even get me started on the accents.
Rob writes:
"Clay, as a devoted fan who was recently fired from my job, have you ever been fired from any jobs?"
First of all my condolences on the firing. You'll be fine. Keep your head up. From now on no matter what your job was, that job sucked. You have to believe this even if you were being paid six figures to supervise the Laker Girls locker room.
To answer your question, I've been fired twice. In college, when I was 19, I worked at the Abercrombie in Pentagon City Mall. This was just across the Potomac from Washington, D.C., and I had to take Metro's blue line there to work because I didn't have a car in college. This was back when the Metro shut down at midnight and there were several GW kids who worked there. So lots of times we'd be sprinting down to catch the last train back to the city.
Anyway, I clocked about 20-25 hours a week. They paid $9 an hour which, at the time, seemed like highway robbery to stand around and hit on girls. One of my work days was Sunday. The high-tech Abercrombie schedule wasn't made for the week until Saturday night and those of us who worked on Sunday were supposed to call in and find out what our hours were on Saturday night. Only I was always out on Saturday nights, didn't have a cell phone, and never called. Several weeks in a row my bosses woke me up with phone calls on Sunday morning to tell me I was already supposed to be there. Then, one day, I got a check in the mail at my dorm room. That settled it.
Later I heard that one of the managers gathered all the employees around him and made a big show of marking through my name on the employee roster and lecturing people on the need to call in on Saturday night. He said failure to do so meant you weren't "Abercrombie material." I got my revenge, though. The manager was 28 or 29 and later that year he was showing up for a party in a GW dorm room. I was leaving the dorm and he was like, "Clay, bro, can you sign me in?"
I told him no. For all I know he might still be waiting to get into the dorm party. Of course, now he's 37 so this is even more awkward for him.
The other firing came after my first year of law school when I worked on Jim Cooper's congressional campaign. Now Jim Cooper is Congressman Jim Cooper and represents the city of Nashville. He loves me. I'll save that story though so this mailbag doesn't turn into a million-word answer. Suffice it to say my firing involved wrecking his wife's Volvo, colon cancer, and an unauthorized trip to New York City.
Brad LeGrand writes:
"Talk about getting it done!
World Beard Championships
They also have Beard Team USA"
Superb find. Some people dream of covering Super Bowls, I dream of covering the World Beard Championship.
Justin writes:
"Consider yourself cordially invited to my brother's bachelor party. That's right, my brother had the foresight to select me as his best man, therefore giving me free reign of all things bachelor party related. I just thought this might be something that might interest you because it involves gambling, whiskey, baseball, and general tomfoolery. "The bachelor party will take place in Louisville, starting off with a day at Churchill Downs and an evening at Louisville Slugger Field for a minor league baseball game. The next morning will be spent being driven from bourbon distillery to bourbon distillery, on a tour of the Bourbon Trail where the whiskey flows like water. Obviously, the times that I have not already planned for us will be filled with other vices. "I am leaving off vital information, like the name of my brother and date of event, just in case this makes a mailbag."
I appreciate the invite but here's the deal: I have a three-month-old. My bachelor party trips have to be rationed now. Especially if I'm leaving town. Aside from the fact that people in Louisville hate me ever since I revoked their membership in the South, one of my cardinal rules is that bachelor parties have to, in some form or fashion, involve female nudity or shooting at things while drunk. Preferably both (although hopefully not at the same time unless you're in Latvia). I'm hoping these are the other vices of which you speak.
Otherwise a bachelor party becomes very similar to a bachelorette party. I'm sure there are fun bachelorette parties, but I've never seen one. Girls walk around with penis blow-pops, tiaras, large white ribbons draped all over them, and awkwardly dance in large circles to bad songs from the 1980s. It's like the Miss America pageant minus the suspense and plus penis straws. I don't get the purpose of this. Basically bachelorette parties are like the retarded cousins of bachelor parties.
Chris writes:
"Clay, only one operative nostril? Have you and your Dad ever thought you might be caught in a real world Total Recall/Matrix type event? Perhaps you need one of those extraxtors that Arnold had to use in the movie to remove the bug?"
Thanks to the one nostril my wife says I breathe like a freight train. I don't snore, but sometimes we'll be sitting down watching Chelsea Lately (yeah, I know, I suck but she's really funny) and my wife will turn to me and say, "You're breathing too loud." Since breathing is sort of important to life, I can't really moderate this.
The other day I fell asleep with Fox on my chest and my wife walked in and woke me up. "Oh great," she said, "you both breathe like freight trains." So the early read is that three generations of Travis men might have only one operative nostril. Either Fox is genetically cursed or we're all still in the Matrix. Maybe both are true. But Fox is certainly genetically cursed.
