Cory vs. Concert Goers, Part 1

There’s a general rule of thumb when you’ve paid over thirty bucks to see one of your favorite or even not-so-favorite bands play their hearts out on stage: don’t be a dick. It’s fairly simple really. Someone should look into handing out complimentary "What Would Jesus Do" bracelets changed to read DBAD as a helpful reminder when tearing their tickets. Now, an astute observer would say “Hey, that helpful bracelet reminder sounds an awful lot like 'Be Bad!' Not ‘don’t be a dick!’”, and if you made that observation, well, ignore that because these people are not nearly as astute as you. *Thumbs up!* Also, if it reads DBAD, you can adjust the acronym to your liking: don’t be a douche, don’t be a dummy, don’t be a dumb-dick, etc.

I’ve been doing concert security for almost seven years and I would like to think I know what I’m doing by now. You’d be amazed at how many people would like to argue this point with me. Since I do very much know what I’m doing (and I even know what you should not be doing) I’ll take the time to make a brief guide to surviving a concert, because you, sir, don’t have a clue.

Chapter 1: The Pat Down
Almost every concert I do security for requires every single person to be frisked, which is sadly not nearly as enjoyable for me as it sounds. Go to your next rock concert in town and you’ll see what I mean. Here are the tips to making it past me as soon as you step inside the door:

A. Don’t bring weapons.
One would think weapons are obviously a very, very bad idea to bring. At which point is a knife something you absolutely need to listen to music? While I understand that in the Midwest, carrying a pocketknife is next on the checklist to have on your person (right after chewin’ tobaccie and corncob pipe) it is not recommended for a concert. I’ll take it from you because you don’t need it, so don’t get all huffy and puffy about it. You’ve had fair warning.

Not everyone brings a just a pocketknife; I’ve scored switchblades (illegal) and hunting knives longer than your favorite gay porn star (unnecessary?). While I’ve never confiscated a gun, I have taken a large lighter in the form of a revolver, and I think I did this guy a favor. I can imagine him taking that out to light a cigarette and getting tackled by nearly every security guard, police officer, and probably a few concert goers as well. You’re welcome!

B. Don’t bring drugs.
OK, this one is a little harder to enforce as people are quite clever and desperate to smoke a J at a concert. I get it. You were probably spawned in a sweaty, smoky Volkswagen van while your parents blared Hendrix; it’s in your genes. But, really now, how desperately do you need to be high? I’ve taken more than five joints off of one guy, ONE FRIGGIN’GUY! If you don’t want to remember the concert that badly, don’t go! Stay home, smoke a bowl, order a pizza, get some Funyuns, Cheetos, Doritos, and burritos. And water… a whole lot of water. Or, you can smoke a lot right before you get there and leave your stash at home; I don’t care. But know in advance that I’ll take it if I find it. No, I’m not a narc, and no it’s not for myself. I’m just doing my job. Deal with it sucka!

C. Don’t wear chains or spikes.
So you think you’re pretty cool with all that bling don’t ya? Congratulations, you look like a toolbag (Sorry, DJ)! Can’t have that either, and this is to my personal benefit, which I will get to in part two.

D. Please shower and wear clean clothes, for once.
If you reek of sweat, welfare, and Steel Reserve and you haven’t even entered the sweaty mass of grossness yet, I really wouldn't want to be around your funk once you leave. Patting down means I have to physically put my hands on you, and if they keep sliding off (even with my gloves on) it's time to have a nice long look in mirror, which incidentally you have in your bathroom, right next to the shower.

Stay tuned for Part 2!

Cory vs. ZOMBIES!!!

Most people have planned out their lives as far out as five, maybe even ten years: marriage, job, kids, divorce, booze, hookers, depression, and brazenly wrapping their car around a telephone pole in Tennessee (in that order). Hell, I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow and I’ve already forgotten what I did yesterday. I’ve noticed in the last year or so not only do people need to plan ahead for the twists and turns of typical suburbia or atypical backwater voodoo orgies, but most of the general population having sprouted from the 80’s has a Zombie Apocalypse Plan or Z.A.P., as I’ll henceforth claim as my personal acronym I totally came up with by myself.

Recently, I’ve had reoccurring dreams of impending zombies ambushing this great nation and it’s forced to make me pause and ponder what my Z.A.P. would be. However, I’m not going to tell you the in’s and out’s of my plan for survival. Why? Because, I’ve come to terms with the very reality of this very fictitious situation.

I, Cory Heiple, will not be surviving the zombie apocalypse. Here’s why:

1. I work in a hospital

My current place of pretending-to-do-stuff-for-a-steady-paycheck is at a hospital pouring overweight, senile patients into wheelchairs from the Middle Ages and hauling them to and fro around the hospital. In addition to that I move patients being admitted from the E.R. to their room. Where do you take someone who has just been bitten by their friendly neighborhood zombie? The ER. Where am I? Waiting to greet that newly zombified person. Holy hell, that fact alone will make me one of the first staggering around town with a look of “This fucking blows” on.

2. My apartment would suck as an anti-zombie fortress.

Take a gander at Mr. I-Am-Legend’s stronghold. He has steel-plate timed windows and doors. Awesome… I have giant window’s very much lacking in the steel department. He has a booby-trapped lawn with floodlights. Well, I’ll still have a “lawn” but no lights flooding it because I own zero generators. He has a fucking laboratory/basement/gas chamber/morgue/pet store! I have a very crotchety old man named Paul downstairs and he is, in my opinion, probably already one of “them.”

3. I rarely fill my gas tank past half full.

This one is pretty self explanatory: I’m a cheap ass, McChicken gobbling goon. I’m hard pressed to find a day that I actually shell out the sixty bucks it takes to fill my Jeep especially in this January Midwestern weather when my boogers freeze upon exiting my vehicle. What’s worst than that? Well, zombies, but after that not much else. A well fueled vehicle well be key in escaping a zombie laden city which, friends, I will sadly not have.

4. I think I’m a much better shot than I actually am.

OK, so I’ll be brutally honest here. Up until last year I thought I was one hell of a shot when it comes to a gun. I was raised a slayer of all furry critters so a shotgun is naturally the weapon of choice giving me the greatest edge over my unarmed prey, be it a deer, duck, pheasant, or ginger kid. Now what happened last December made me realize I won’t stand a chance when shit hits the proverbial fan. I was doing the traditional Elmer Fudd impression when a big ol’ buck comes hauling ass in my general direction. I fire all five shots at it and miss every single one. OK, whatever, it caught me by surprise and it was running fast enough to give the DeLorean a run for its money, but that’s not my biggest concern. After all five shots had been slung, the fucker stops twenty yards away from me and looks me dead in the eye with a. “Hey, fuck you pal! I’m runnin’ here…. Fuckin’ shootin’ shit at me,” look. I fumbled, shakily, trying to reload the shotgun so I could quickly end this jive ass deer’s life but dropped not one, but two shells in doing so and by the time I had reloaded he was long gone. I was so rattled by the opportunity to kill something harmless I couldn’t reload quickly enough. Why should my reaction be any different when the thing I’m shooting at is actually trying to gnaw on my tender face? Oh and a deer’s torso, yeah, 'tis a much larger target than a zombie’s head.

5. I honestly don’t know anyone badass enough to keep other people alive.

If you look at the Dawn of the Dead remake, Zombieland, and basically any zombie movie for that matter, what’s one thing they usually have in common? Other than zombies, dumbass. They have a honest to goodness, badass in the form of Ving Rhames or Woody Harrelson. Do you know a Ving Rhames or a Woody Harrelson? I didn’t think so. Neither do I.

Got all that? Let’s pretend that zombies are in our midst tomorrow and it all goes to hell very quickly. I’ll most likely be at work when this happens because that building owns ¾’s of my soul and I’m too lazy to fight back. Let’s say I make it out of there unscathed. Where do I go? I can’t go home; that place blows. I can barely drive anywhere potentially safe because I’d be lucky to have just recently filled the tank to the halfway line, which in my gas guzzling Jeep will get me, oh say, an hour or two’s solid cryfest away from the hospital. I could go find a gun, but hey, that’s probably just a security blanket more than a weapon. Who do I meet up with? No one, because everyone else will be brainlessly believing they are going to survive this shit storm out on top. Therefore, my Z.A.P. is to become a zombie as quickly as possible so I may bite, terrorize, and scare the ever-loving shit out of every one I’ve ever loved and cared about and those I can’t fucking stand. Good luck, suckers!

Cory vs. The Redbox

The Redbox. Perhaps one of the most ingenious ploys ever to extort Hollywood of their precious blood money. My first encounter with this delightful Box of Red was in the far distant and exotic reaches of my local McDonald's. As I stood in line preparing to spend my hard earned money on the wonderfully greasy little snack known to all as a McChicken, I stared down this new addition of red as it stared back at me with black, soulless eyes... like a doll's eyes. What the hell is this thing that replaced what would hold the current trinkets served with the new Happy Meals? I kicked the box. That seems to be my best method of approach to new things in my life. In fact, I believe that's how I approach most new people I meet. "Hi, your name is Phillip?" Kick to the shin. "Hi, you're my new doctor?" Kick to the shin. "What's that, you think I'm attractive and want my phone number?" Double kick to the shin and here's my digits. Call me.

I stroked my chin. I'm sure it looked as cool as I thought it did, which is probably why I do it so often. As I checked this box over I noticed the sign advertising movie rentals for a dollar. What? I can take a movie from this box, watch it, sit on it, name it Carl and then return it the next day for the same price as my friend the McChicken? Now I'm a stingy fucker, but you sir, have a deal. I've used dollar bills for much less productive means such as having boobs pressed in my face for the sweatiest three seconds of my life. Ahh how those boobies sparkle in the strobe lights.

I thought to myself, "Hey, I like movies. In fact, I enjoy them quite a bit. Maybe not to the same extent as Mr. Tom Sizemore enjoys punching people in the face, but along those lines." Now keep in mind that this red vending machine of entertainment does not work on the same principle as your typical pop machine or used panty machine the Japanese seem to enjoy oh so much. You can't cram a wadded up single into it and expect to receive your movie, oh no, you must enter some of your most privileged personal information. A credit card AND your email. Ok, whatever, I give that out to most pop up ads that offer me a free Xbox 360 or six more inches of manhood, no biggie. I pull out my plastic card, which in fact is my only means of currency exchange anyways, and with much bravado I attempt my most grandeur card swiping motion that would make John Williams smile. What's this? I can't even swipe it more than a couple inches through the card reader. It has a blasted metal catch on either side of the card reader and much to my dismay I'm forced to swipe it with barely an inch of clearance on either side. "Ok redbox, you win this round. Give me my fucking Ratatouille movie or suffer the consequences." That really was an empty threat, but I believe to this day it thought the Box was genuine. I mean, I know you really shouldn't threaten new technology. Look how that turned out for the Connor family. Additionally, I really wasn't sure how to back up my threat other than another kick and that didn't seem to phase it any, but I kept my shit kickers prepared regardless of the outcome.

Zip, whir, WHIIIIRRRRR.... WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRR! Out comes my movie. Eventually. I mean, it takes quite a while, but hey, it's a dollar, right? Right? Ahh so you would think. In fact it is a dollar a day should you bring back the movie to a Redbox the following day by 9 pm. Ok I can dig that. Without a shovel even. I’m talking bare hands and shit.

You don't even have to take the movie back to the SAME box! It can be any Redbox and they are everywhere, much like Shia LeBeouf but with less jewfro . How do I know this? Trust me, anyone who has rented from the Redbox can and will tell you every single Redbox location within a half a day’s drive. Why is this such common knowledge? Oh buddy, you really have no idea, do you?

Let me give you the list of reasons you will have to drive to a backup location. Because you will. I bet you a McChicken you will.

A.) Wal-Mart. Wal-mart's locations are probably the highest used and similar to your girlfriend’s vagina receive the most foot traffic. It's convenient for most shoppers to purchase their diapers and Budweiser with a movie to play as background music as they beat their wife. Or child. Or both, really. Therefore, this Redbox will either be completely devoid of any movie you want to see, or will not let you rent or return a movie because it's full. Yes, you read that right. You can't take a movie from it because it has too many. That seems rather counterproductive. In your attempt to release some of that pent up movie goodness, you in fact can do nothing but drive to the next closest location. Hy-Vee.

B.)Hy-Vee. This place should let you take a movie from it. If it's working properly. Which it's not. Why? Apparently because Redbox only receives dollar bill increments of profit at a time and can't afford to fix every jammed box. Which is the majority of them.

C.)Walgreens. See above.

D.)McDonald's. Most McDonald's are not open 24 hours so you can't always get your Ryan Reynolds fix at any given time you so choose. Plus, you don't want to be the jackass that walks in to the restaurant, buys nothing from them, but leaves with a movie. That's just in bad taste. At least get a McChicken. You'll feel better about yourself as you wallow in self-pity and mayonnaise.

E. Online reserve...(?) This one is quite the gamble. You can go to the Redbox site online and reserve your movie from a Box possessing your pick. I tried that once, wait, twice. The second time was Redbox's fault. The site gave me an error message upon entering in my info (very clever you blasted red boxed fuck!) and I proceeded to repeat the process again. Upon arriving to my predetermined Redbox, I received not one copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, but two. Which is funny because the only reason I reserved one online was because every box I checked had no copies left of that movie in stock. Everyone wanted a piece of the Potter pie, and I had two. And yes, I had to pay for both of them. That error earlier, yeah they charged me twice.

So what do you do when you can't return your movie? You can hold on to it until the next day. That works in theory, but you have to pay the additional late fee. Oh wait a second, Redbox claims on the machine that they have no such thing as late fees, just an additional dollar a day for not returning it on time. Which in my very humble opinion is exactly what a late fee is. Paying more than you should have to for not returning something upon a given deadline. Late fee. A fee for being late. "Honoraires en retard" as the French say, which is exactly how you’ll feel when this happens to you. Retarded. However, every machine has a toll free number you can call should problems arise. Once past the horrible wait time clocking in at just past frustration and rage you can speak with Steve, Steven or Stephen. I recommend dialing the number as you prepare to watch your movie, that way you'll be talking to your variation of Steven when you're done watching it. When you finally get someone on the line and vent your frustrations for there being no functional Redbox machine west of the Mississippi, they'll remind you that you are an awesome customer *Thumbs up, dude!* and they'll see right to it that you get two promotional codes for two free rentals.

Ok, awesome... I now have two codes for movies that not only do I have to drive all over fucking town to find a working box with my goddamn movie in it, but I can't even return the damn thing when I'm done watching it! Hey Redbox, why don't you give me a month's subscription to Netflix instead of doling out shit I can't use without repeating the endless cycle of free shit I can't return.

Recent DVDs watched this week:

Beowulf*: 7/10 CGI Angelina Jolie breasticles.

The Day the Earth Stood Still*: 6/10 Jennifer Connelly’s.

10/10 Keanu Reaves for still not having to act in a single movie. Kudos you emotionless bastard.

K-Pax: 8/10 Kevin Spacey’s.

3/10 Jeff Bridges for not having longer hair or a beard.

The Fountain*: 12/10 WTF’s.

Saw: 7.5/10 Dead guys lying on the floor. .5 is the foot

Speed Racer: 8/10 Epileptic seizures.

TMNT: 7.5 Turtles in a half shell.

*Denotes first time viewing.