from beyond and back into the grave

this blog is dead.

None of the pictures or vidoes I used were mine. If you would like for me to take down a picture or a video, please contact me and it will be done.

there will be no more posts.

I leave it up...in a wishy wish hope that it might brighten some lost soul's day.

Otherwise...it joins the garbage pile that all blogs end in....sooner than I meant it to...

Flick's Tab

My Friend Raul

  Flick here.

More than one of Starbright Tower's more obnoxious residents believe that Raul is a mute Mexican janitor. I do not profess to know Raul very well, but I do know a few things. He is just a fellow resident and far from being janitorially useful. The one time I was in his apartment, it was filled with burned out lights and blinking clocks. While he is very quiet, he is no mute. I believe his thick Spanish accent embarrasses him in his new country. Liquor has been known to loosen his lips, but cigars work every time.

Most importantly, Raul is not Mexican. He is from Spain. He returns the racism directed his way by directing it right back at Mexico. He hates all things Mexican. He hates the way they butcher his language. He hates how they play futbol (soccer). He hates how they have caused all Americans to cringe at anything Spanish.

Raul hates anything Mexican. Except...a certain tasty drink.

Much like anyone who goes out of their to profess a hate, it always comes with a catch. To listen to Raul speak about Mexico is to have an awkward chill rise through your spine and wonder if this man might have only paused to speak with you long enough to mentally rehearse the apocalyptic genocide he is bringing to our southern border.

However much hate he spews. It doesn't stop him from enjoying some forbidden fruit. 

Raul's favorite drink is a Paloma. And it might be from Mexico (...it is...).

Starbright Tower, the retirement building I lived in, was a dry community. This did not apply to my friends and I. We became smugglers for our friends. Raul approached me at the pool one day and spoke the word, "Tequila." I was always curious about the shy Spanish man and this seemed to be my way in. I asked him if he knew a killer Margarita recipe. He simply pointed to his can of grapefruit Jarrito soda. He said nothing else.

I was intrigued. Either he knew something I didn't or he hadn't understood a single word I had said.

What I found out was a delicious way to spend a hot siesta. Surrounded by buzzing lights and blinking clocks, I drank my first Paloma and made a new friend. Gracias amigo.

Until next time. Drink up.

Fill Tom Collins glass with ice, 2oz of Tequila and 1/2 oz of lime juice. Top off with Jarrito grapefruit soda (Squirt has been known to work in a pinch). Salt and lime wedge for rim of glass optional.

Flick's Friday Fights

Flick's Friday Fights

This Friday is a little nervous. Such a chaotic week, Friday was almost lost. Just like all the little old ladies that shuffle past us everywhere we go. However, this Friday feels different. These little old ladies are ready to snap. They're ready to ruin our weekend before it even finds some momentum.

This Friday is for all the medi-cunts out there.

Flick's Friday Fights

Prometheus Hype

Not since Lord of the Rings have I been so excited for a movie to arrive.

Flick's Tab

Bar Trick

Flick here.

I have a buddy named Chance. He's the kind of guy one never forgets. He's an old, old man just like me and yet, he sits around his apartment playing video games like a teenager. He waxes philosophical about braining hookers and lag sissies. His energy is infectious to say the least.

Sitting at the bar with him can be a roll of the dice. Always fun, but one night it could be casual conversation and the next it could be the need for a good fight. Never let the elderly fool you. We love a good fight just like anyone else. That's why we're addicted to trashy afternoon television.

Sometimes all of Chance's philosophizing leads people to believe that he's one of the unstable geezers. While that's probably a little truer than I care to believe, he's a great con artist. He loves bar tricks. He plays them on everyone. The young girls. The macho men. The hipster douche bags. With the right buzz, he'll even fool a bartender. Of course, I've been there when his overconfidence walked us straight out of the bar.

Luckily, he always abides by the rule of life: Don't shit in your backyard. We never lost Wilshire's because of him. Our bar. Our home.

In hindsight, most bar tricks are very obvious and seem like they should never work. However, hindsight does not admit the effects of alcohol and atmosphere.

One time while I was engrossed in a playoff hockey game, Chance sidled up next to me at the bar. He asked about the game as if he wasn't watching. He kept up the small talk until I finished my drink. We were drinking at a smokey sports bar that had as many pool tables as waitresses. They served extra large mugs of beer at a good price. As I've stated in the past, while it's not my favorite I will drink beer during a sporting event.

So Chance is sitting next to me and as I'm about to order my next round, he offers up a challenge. His timing was impeccable. I was thirsty.

"I'm going to pay the bartender to pour you three shots of your choice," he said and then took a long pause to let my lips consider his words.

"Go on," I said.

"The bartender will pour you three shots and then he'll pour me one of these tall ass glasses of beer. If I can finish my beer before you finish those shots, then you have to pay my tab. However, if you can finish those three shots before I finish my beer, then I have to pay your tab."

It took a moment for my mind to completely understand the challenge, but it seemed a walk in the park. I knew there had to be a catch. And there was.

"Pretty easy," Chance said. "So I'll only ask one favor to make it a fair fight."

"What's that?" I asked.

"You can't pick a glass off the bar top with your hands."

I immediately thought of his virtual hookers and told him so. He wanted me to look silly, picking up the shot glasses with my open mouth. However, his amusement would be worth my bar tab.

"You're on," I said and watched as Chance's smile grow.

As soon as the drinks were poured, I was quick to lean over the bar and wrap my mouth around a shot glass and tilt the alcohol down my throat. I looked over at Chance and was shocked to see he hadn't even reached for his beer. I almost choked on my whiskey as it burned a winner's path down my throat.

At that moment I knew something was wrong. He sensed it too.

"Just giving you a fair chance," He goaded me and it worked. I picked up the second shot with my lips and as it slowly trickled down my throat, the corner of my eye watched as he placed an empty glass around the third shot.

"You can't pick a glass off the bar top with your hands," he said with the air of the triumphant.

As my realization of being conned came together in my mind, Chance gently placed his glass against his lips and slowly drank his beer. I lost. I had been defeated. I was pissed.

I tried to find a way out.

I tried to find a way to knock the glass away from the shot glass without using my hands, but all of my ideas would surely knock over the shot glass as well. As Chance reached the halfway point of his beer, my salvation dawned on me. I could not win this challenge alone. I needed help. While I could not use my hands, someone else could.

A young lady was sitting next to us and I asked her if she wouldn't mind removing the empty glass from atop my shot glass. She gave me a quizzical look, but proceeded to do my bidding. That is until, Chance cleared his throat and explained that if she refused to help me, all of her drinks would be added to his tab. This intrigued her and she pulled back her hand. As an act of good faith, Chance immediately ordered her another drink and asked for it to be put it on his tab.

It was then that I realized how doomed I was. His tab was now my tab. I was paying for at least three people now. I would not be asking for anymore help.

"Cheaters never win," Chance said.

"When are you going to lose then?" I asked him.

"Not tonight," he said and went back to enjoying his free beer. 

Until next time. Drink up.





Flick's Tab

A Glass Full of Blood and Tears

Flick here.

Those that know me, know that I am a huge Buffalo Sabres fan. I've been a fan since the organization's inception in 1970. My relationship with the ever changing team has meant more to me than some friendships and a great many acquaintances.

Following the team from the beginning of its existence has allowed me a unique perspective. There have been amazing highs and a great many lows. The arena (first the Aud and now the First Niagra Center) became my altar with the Blue and Gold sweaters the statue of my demigod. The names of children are carried on those sweaters and I'm part of a fan club that turns them into heroes and villains. I believe children is an accurate description as some players arrive to the NHL at the ages of 17 and 18. When you're as old as I am, anyone who can retire before the age of 40 is a child.

This was a year of tremendous expectations. This was to be the first full year of our new owner. He was happily spending money to improve the organization and everyone seemed to be buying into it. The General Manager who was not known to close deals on big name free agents, did exactly that. Players who were not living up to their own hype had finished last years season on a high note, giving hope that their deeds would carry over into the new year. On paper we were the third highest salaried team in the league and our players matched up well against the top tier teams.

We, the fans were excited. We, the fans had been given hope.

Then the season happened.

And here I am reading about the start of the playoffs on Wednesday and Buffalo is not in any of the match ups. They failed to live up to expectations. They failed to make the playoffs. They failed us, the fans.

I'm not sure how they truly feel, but I know I hurt. I will hurt for awhile and when I hurt, I want my drinks to hurt as well.

It would be easy to go out to the bar and order shot after shot of Uncle Jag, but that's child's play. That's reserved for birthdays, reunions and Thursdays.

I find that the pain of sports is reminiscent of the taste of fire that lingers in your mouth. So here are some recipes that mix alcohol and Tabasco. I hope these drinks make you hurt the way I feel.

Until next time. Drink up.


Atomic Drop (shooter)
1/2 oz rum
1/2 oz tequila
3 drops Tabasco sauce

Put tequila and rum into shot glass. Squeeze in 3 drops of sauce then stir until Tabasco sauce has floated to the middle of the glass.

Great White Shark (shooter)
1/2 oz whiskey
1/2 oz tequila
dash(es) Tabasco sauce

Mix all ingredients in shaker with ice and pour into a shot glass.

God's Own

4 oz gin
2 oz vodka
2 drops Tabasco sauce
1/2 lime

Shake and pour the drink over crushed ice in a martini glass. Garnish with lime.

Flick's Friday Fights

Flick's Friday Fights

Let's roll with some of our favorite cartoons to fight our way into the weekend. 

Bart versus Principal Skinner (in Spanish for an extra salsa kick)

Snake Eyes fights Storm Shadow to the death

Shed a tear for Optimus Prime

Flick's Friday Fights