REPLACEMENTS

ahhhhh nothing's more fun than watching a movie with keanu reeves and gene hackman, but despite the crappy predictable plotline and emotionless acting from the hawaiian (how does he still keep getting work? point break was a fucking hard movie, though. word.), i can't ignore my strange fascination with football movies.... it's weird, but let's not forget all the wonderful accoutrements that come with movies about sports... like brooke langton for instance:

i think that makes everything ok, don't you?

on a similar point, i'm torn between re-publishing this picture and turning it into a link. if i leave it in, i run the risk of drawing attention away from the text. if i turn it into a link, i don't get to look at it each time i check my blog... hmmmm....

it's the same problem with harvard's new skin magazine, H bomb. you will never, ever hear me complain about publishing pictures of naked people for adults to enjoy, but i think it's just the slightest bit distasteful to do it under the pretext of literary progress. add that to the fact that the website opens with the "the whole world watches what happens at harvard" globe quote. don't you think that's a wee bit pretentious for a skin magazine? let's face facts: though the interviews and sports coverage in playboy are quite good, the one thing that keeps it's 4.5 million readers interested is breasts.... and the candy store.... i'm more of a candy store guy myself... if i wanted intellectual stimulation, i'd read Utne.

let's deconstruct the very first issue of h bomb (which i happen to have in front of me... always do your homework). there's the obligatory sexual health column from that one annoying pre-med chick on your sophomore floor that was a student wellness advisor (or some equivalent) who was kiiiiiiinda hot, but not really, but she acted really slutty and some dude slept with her and she was all over him for awhile, and she was always "i have condoms if you need them!!!" and all that pay-attention-to-me shit. then there's the article about "did you know that harvard girls are smart..... AND hot?! did ya?" and that's what smart people have been telling themselves for years. it's not true. trust me. i went to a smart college, and the whole time i thought i was one of the hot guys. i wasn't. i'm not hot. no amount of book learnin' can change that, so let's all join hands and figure out how to beat the hot kids with our minds. start by watching revenge of the nerds. see? i bet you feel better already. and then, of course, there's skin. jackpot.

but... hang on...

it's tough to fuck up pictures of naked people... that is, of course, if you aren't committed to making everything all artsy and shit. sadly, most of these pictures suggest something about the artist trying to "expose the basic elements of being, and enter into dialogue with the photographic medium; a window of realism through which we see our own flaws..." and blah blah blah blah blah blah... yea, i took art history in college, too, ok? i just want to see box. smart girl box. is that so much to ask?

then again, it's a hell of an idea, and a big risk at that. think about how many harvard kids will grow up to hold positions of power in our world... maybe president of the united states? think about how cool that would be: "yea i just voted for Chuckles McFuckstein for president... why? well i saw his ballsack in h bomb about 20 years ago, and he looks like a dude who doesn't mess around." i think i'd feel good knowing my president can lay pipe. you?

if you live in boston, you can pick up a copy at out of town news in harvard square. or just visit the website and buy a copy. support your grassroots porn, damnit.

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AHOY!

i haven't written in this bitch for a while, but my timesheet said i worked 73 hours this week so you can understand my lackadaisical attitude towards communication. one interesting thing that did happen to me: got a phone call from my dad and he tells me about the conversation he had with Reg about my blog. what you need to know is i don't even tell my dad when i've eaten a lot of bad carbs, much less doing bumbs of coke off a hooker's ass..... which i have also never done... why did you tell dad about my blog? what did you think was going to happen? my mom was even more curious- luckily my parents have as much computer skill as a monkey fucking a football, so i'm safe. (thanks E for the monkey/football analogy). i did, however, throw them a morsel or two from the archives. they were happy.
so in the honor of mom and dad, i will now write a dirty, dirty, dirty blog entry that they will never, ever read.

ahem.

i've been having a shit-ton of back problems in the last week, so i decided to download a power yoga video to try and torque the 'ol bastard back into alignment, but when i got home and opened up the file, i found it to be high-class pornography instead of yoga. not knowing whether to be disappointed or pleasantly surprised, i gave the movie it's due regard and, against my better judgment, watched on... i fancy myself a bit of a porn-scholar, like a connoisseur of fine wines; someone who knows the history and culture of his medium, a person who can classify and characterize each individual subject as part of an evolving artform... i immediately saw this particular movie as a rare species:

spanish pornography, like grocery-store romance novels, is entirely poetic but devoid of the kinks and fetishes associated with the cheap, san fernando vintage we have in the u.s., so i was not surprised to see the opening credits fade into some wholesome guy-girl outdoor sex. i yawned. the wonder of the internet has caused me to find this sort of thing un-impressive... but then it switched gears on me... a sultry narrator began to bring life and shape to the otherwise commonplace vision of a large, hairless man assfucking a tiny hairless woman. the voice was quoting neruda when the camera cut to a topless, midget woman leading a white horse ridden by a handcuffed man painted with dia de los muertos bones and wearing a gas-mask with pvc pipe connecting his mouth with the back of his neck like a freaky, S&M elephant. hmmmmmm, thought i... this is a bit unexpected. but i watched on, too mesmerized to do what any wicked monkey-boy such as myself would do while watching strangers bang like sewing machines in the european sun. i believe i ate popcorn instead. in a word, i was transfixed. the women in the movie were stunningly attractive, and free from the plastic enhancements you find in the american adult cinema; they were angelically gorgeous. the men, on the other hand, were each clad in a freakish combination of full-head masks with airway restrictions fashioned to the mouthpiece. it was sort of like the bar scene in star wars when luke and obi-wan hire han solo and chewie to rescue princess leia, and han says the millennium falcon can do the kessel run in under 12 parsecs...
but with fucking.
i was torn between arousal and terror, and that's not always a good combination... since then, i've had a sneaky paranoia that the strangers i pass on the street go home to their wives after work, throw on some dido, light some candles, pour a glass of wine, throw on a sand-people mask, close the blinds and share a beautiful moment together. that's ok, though. if you live in a big city, statistically you bump into at least 6 people every day who make their own amateur porn... think about that next time you ride the subway.
sweet dreams, kids.

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IN MEMORIAM...

...he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man...

-If I'd written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people - including me - would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism-

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F'D UP DREAMS

last night i dreamed my right leg was amputated below the knee, and i was disappointed but learned to enjoy the idea of having a prosthesis. i think it was because i was thinking about pirates before i went to bed. also, i was watching a history channel discussion of the FDR pearl-harbor conspiracy and the announcer kept saying "roosevelt desperately wanted back-door entry into war with germany," which i found quite hilarious.

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ASS OVER TEACUPS

woke up this morning with big, fat bruises on both my legs...
i was feeling pretty ill yesterday, so i took a big dose of cough medicine at about 5:00. didn't think much of it until about 30 min later when i was in a meeting (that pretty much had me convinced i ate babies in a former life), when i started to feel like everything was going to be ok. a-ha! thought i, ye olde dextromethorphan hath kicked in, and verily all is well! yes, indeedy, a double dose of dxm had gone and made everything all better. i figured since i was feeling pretty aiiiight, i'd meet up with a bunch o' pals in harvard square and have a drink or two, which i did, but i was a good little boy and only had a couple drinks. it was a nice change of pace, being... not... drunk... i think the word is "sober," i don't know, i had to look it up.... on my way home, however, i think something got crosswired in my dome (gracias dxm), because i had a bit of an accident in the t-stop. i saw the outbound train pull in about 50m away from the turnstyle, and i didn't have any tokens, so i pulled out a wad of cash from my pocket, threw it at the attendant, grabbed my token with my left hand, and crammed my change into my right pocket...
now, in my defense, i have only been to the harvard t-stop 1,452,238 times in 18 months, so i can understand how i could make the following mistake: with my left hand i put a token in the turnstyle which, of course, unlocked the gate to my left. mine, however, remained locked in the non-permissive position, so when i tried to run through and catch my train, i flew ass-over-teacups over the bar and onto the floor. limping and cursing, i caught my train and tried to regain feeling in my lower legs while the passengers that had witnessed my acrobatics snickered and whispered nastiness to themselves.
i made it to davis and, as luck would have it, managed to charge into the only exit turnstyle that was locked up...

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CLARIFICATION

ahhhh my readers return... however, i believe i was a bit misleading when i wrote that last blog. i didn't mean to say that "boobs...angry...drinking...prince" was a reflection of my mood at the time. quite the contrary... i meant only to sum up the bulk of my entire blog into it's 4 major parts:

"boobs" to mean titties, teats, sweater kittens, what have you. just a recurring theme throughout my blog (re: "lori singer is a fox")

"angry" is mostly self evident. i want to shiv jay severin.

"drinking" for my continued reliance on alcohol to enhance even the most minor activities in life, and

"prince" because, let's face it, he's fucking awesome.

that is all. go in peace my children.

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ADHD

apparently my posts are too long, and some of you can't be bothered to make it all the way through the whole three paragraphs of that last one, so i've distilled today's post down to make it more palatable to those with obvious attention disorders:

boobs...angry...drinking...prince.

have a wonderful tuesday.

big congratulations to uncle NP, today. rock on.

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AND JUST BECAUSE YOU WANT IT SOOOO BAD

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EERIE

so i just found out that "jump back" was ad lib from kevin bacon which, as you may already know, is up there with "nobody puts baby in a corner" in the all-time-best improvised lines from any movie ever.... creepy that i should just learn about the "jump back" line while writing about footloose and dirty dancing. oh how my cup runneth over...

no dancing? jump back! use it in a sentence tomorrow.

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DON'T FUCK WITH FOOTLOOSE

while i'm still working myself up to be an eensy-weensy bit irritated, remind me to start ranting and raving about the fucking footloose remake with britney "i'm-so-washed-up-i-have-to-hang-out-with-ashton-kucher-to-be-cool" spears... more on that later.

first allow me to rant and rave about how fucking jesus-tapdancing-goo-goo awesome this weekend turned out to be. last week was such a pain-in-my-ass workweek i thought i was going to end up in a crack den doing bumps of coke off some cheap, underage hooker's ass while the little devil on my right shoulder beat the living tobacco juice out of my sense of self-preservation... thankfully, my boss was engaged in some sort of epic acid binge, staring at her screen saver, glassy-eyed all day, while i fed her through a trache-tube and wiped the steady stream of lobotomy-drool from her quivering lips (i swear to god, ted williams's frozen fucking severed fucking head would be more use to me than my boss; that crap is about as useful as a goddamn vagina between my shoulderblades). tuesday i took the liberty of installing a neat little planetarium of glow-in-the-dark stars under my desk so i can hide during the day, and rock back and forth and murmur "all you need is love.... la la lalalaaa..."
she's improving, though, i will agree to that...
anyway, to make a long story short, just about every person needed me to do something for them that they could have goddamn well done themselves, or they thought they could do it and it took me twice as long to untangle their massive clusterfuck. it felt like the goddamn dawn of the dead out there; i was getting eaten alive. even personal shit got to be a hassle. i hate to sound like a whiny little beotch, but the last thing i want to do after working a 12 hour day with more fires to put out than chicago 1871 (well remembered), is spend 45 minutes cooking dinner and entertaining. it's a sad state of affairs when a man doesn't care to pursue his, shall i say "social agenda," but it fucking happens. nature has cursed me with this fantastic bone structure and boyish-but-badboyish good looks, and i can't do anything about it, but that's no reason to assume my produce is ripe for the harvesting. on days like that i like to come home, turn on SVU, cram a soda-straw up my nose and rail a half bottle of jameson right to the dome.
----by the way, "almost paradise/we're knocking on heaven's door/almost paradise/how could we ask for more" is a really fucking great lyric----
goddamn this ADHD....
so once in awhile i don't want to play boy-toy; fucking bill me. i apologize. but i'm not going to trip on it too hard. the fuck-all part was that i felt really, really guilty about the whole situation which, of course, added a new flavor of stress to the day...
enough. you get the point.
so you can imagine how unbelievably cool it was to have friday off to go skiing in maine with some of my best friends in the N.A.V. posse.
the only thing that tops "i'm taking two days off work to go skiing" is "20 inches of fresh powder by morning." skiing is good. skiing is also hard, which made the free massage i won so much better. and of course the binge drinking just makes everything better... man what a great weekend... i feel like chris penn at the end of footloose just before all those kids who've never danced before in their entire fucking lives all of a sudden start dancing in perfectly-choreographed harmony. very happy indeed.

which brings us back to footloose. here's my advice: don't fuck with footloose. britney, get you're no-talent ass away from my footloose... want to know something brit? we used to like you a lot, wanna know why? do ya? we liked you because, to us, pigtails = handlebars. they re-made dirty dancing and that was the worst, pathetic, miserable piece of emu shit there ever was. so right now, i'm watching amc's "extra" version of footloose (filmed in provo, utah!) to bone up on why movies like these work so well... plus lori singer is fucking hot. ...was watching the "extra" version of 16 candles earlier.... molly ringwald? also hot, but not as much....
holy crap, i'm out of steam. to bed with me. but first i want to point out how poignant footloose is. i'm really not fucking kidding, think about it. it's a story about how an isolated event can allow for the complete remission of civil liberty as a direct result of gross overcompensation by a "moral authority."
plus lori singer is a fox.
happy valentine's day everybody!

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PS

just watched Purple Rain again this weekend. goddamn that movie's fucking awesome. if you don't think Prince's awesome, we're gonna arm wrestle, and brotha' you're goin' down.

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LOUSY ANTHROPOLOGISTS

holy fuck, the man's workin' me like a dog these days... haven't updated this blog in awhile. i suspect that, judging from the relatively quiet postings, you all (or y'all) have been pretty busy too... either that or i suck, but that's just preposterous. then again, today i didn't even have to use my AK. i gotta say, today was a good day. mmmmmmkay, so what's been going on... pats won the superbowl this weekend, but really the highlight of that game for me was bumping into an extremely large, extremely jolly, bearded gentleman from milwaukee who was going to be home for the big game but someone invited him to "smoke some good herb" on the cape (whatever in the world that means), so he stayed. his girlfriend smelled nice. i really don't give a shit about the patriots or the eagles because they'll never be as good as the 1996 green bay packers. let's face facts, brett favre could beat the holy tapdancing piss out of tom brady any day, and donovan mcnabb looks like a cherubic busta' rhymes. what really rocked was the free wings. that was awesome.
anyway the goddamn cops last night, though... talk about a bunch of 'roided up ex-bullies with riot gear and 3-foot wooden clubs (paging dr. freud...). walked down quincy market and there were, like, 4 cops to every person out on the street; pretty weak showing pats fans, we totally could have taken them on. or not. whatever, i had work this morning.
i went for a run today to try and reverse the binge-drinking-fatassery i've been down with lately and, because i have to lock two doors on the way, i tie a keychain to the drawstring on my shorts. you can imagine the drawstring knot has to be pretty tight to keep the keys away from my piece and whatnot, so it won't surprise you that it's a tough job locking the door on the way out. i'm standing on my tiptoes trying to lock my apartment door while the doorknob steals second (nudge. wink.) when my flippin' upstairs neighbors start walking up the stairs towards me. in a panic i pull away from the deadbolt in which, of course, the key jams, so i start jiggling the keyring to get away (all the while pressed erotically against my front door). so my upstairs neighbors, whom i don't much care for, walk up to me rhythmically humping my doorknob on my tiptoes mumbling c'mon, c'mon you son of bitch, come out of there. they were not thrilled... but one's getting her PhD in anthropology, so she's just bitter in general. they were probably turned on bigtime anyway.... lousy anthropologists.

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FIZNIGGITYFIZUCKED

just had a nice little drunk-and-with=the-boys-i-love-you-man moment, and on my way back home, this song came on the chatterbox:

home....
is where i want to be
pick me up and turn me 'round
i feel numb
home with a weak heart
i guess i must be having fun
the less we say about it the better
we'll make it up as we go along
feet on the ground, head in the sky
it's ok, i know nothing's wrong...
i got plenty of time
you got light in your eyes
and you're standing here beside me
i note the passing of time
never for money
always for love
cover up and say goodnight

home...
is where i want to be
but i guess i'm already there
i come home
she lifted up her wings
i guess that this must be the place
i can't tell one from another
did i find you or you find me
there was a time
before we were born
if someone asks, this is where i'll be
we drift in and out
sing into my mouth

out of all those kinds of people
you got a face with a view
i'm just an animal
looking for a home
share the same space
for a minute or two
and you'll...
love me 'till my heart stops
love me 'till i'm dead
eyes look right up
eyes look through you
cover up the landslides
hit me on the head
and i say...
ooooo.....

one of you knows to play this at my funeral... much love to Pete L., Rachel H., Sam M., Michelle P., Jen D., Evan W., Mike C., Jenn S., Nilay P., Reg E., Neil B., Paul A., Alec Z., and any of you badass motherfuckers who know this song...

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