Some women accuse me of never talking about myself or my personal life. I find this to be quite puzzling considering every single thing ever written in the history of the human race ever has gone something a little like this (I did some research):
Messopotamia c. 200o BCE:
"Lulbula sat idle in the mountains; in the faraway places. He is wise and achieves many exploites. Lulbula went to the carnelian mountains of seven mouths. Lulbula fed sheeps fat to the Anzud chick and smeared fat on its beak. Enlil joined Lulbula on the mountain with sparkling eyes. Enlil had cedar affixed to her head. Lulbula and Enlil talked where no cypris grow. Enlil spoke of Dumuzi's holy butter churn and reed-arrows like moonlight. Lulbula spoke no words. Enlil was pleased and placed her Lion Helmet on the head of Lulbula."
Greece c. 5th Century BCE:
A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in. A man who does not speak but asks many questions shall father many children.
Rome - Ovid - 43 BCE:
Jupiter from on high laughs at lovers' perjuries. Hold your tongue so that she may speak of herself, for at night there is no such thing as an ugly woman.
China 140 CE:
Wise is the man who lets his wife speak. With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes satin. With time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown.
Scene II in the Capulet's Orchard carries twice as many lines for Juliet as it does for Romeo. Does Romeo get laid (in the Shakespearean sense, of course)? Yes he does. Coincidence? Perhaps not.
And then there's my personal favorite:
"The problem most men have is... they just plain straight up have no clue how to talk to women. Just ask a question, okay? That's it. Because women do not care about what you have to say... at all, anyway, you know. And all they want to do is talk about themselves. So you're just gonna let them do that, okay? So remember, ask questions, be cool, and be kind of a dick. Here... be David Caruso in Jade."
So, there's where it is. I got lazy in the middle there, but we ended on a high note. And if you're still wondering if I'm one of those Bastard-covered Bastards with Bastard filling, and I have an icy-dead tree stump where my heart should be, I'll tell you this: today I found a dead dog by the side of the creek. It looked like he had just up and decided it was his time, and you know what? He laid himself down, chased one last car in his doggie-imagination, and went to sleep forever. That shit made me pretty sad, you know? But he looked like a good 'ol dog to me. So I figure he's chasing cars in doggie heaven, and that's a pretty good thought on a Tuesday.
4.03.2007
THE TOUCHY-FEELY POST
3.30.2007
GHOST OF ROOMDRAW
The last couple of days weeks months have gone by in a bit of a whirlwind, with the majority of my sleep coming in short bursts while I chew, bathe, or try to slow things down in bed. Powernaps, while somewhat refreshing, still require time in which I am not talking to someone important or driving. I submit to you that the following story could very well be a figment of my fallow imagination, though I prefer to enjoy it on a "reality based" level.
The story begins thusly:
Picture me as a freshman in college, cocksure, charming, Billy Idol haircut. I have a bottle of Pick 'N Save vodka on my desk, a lemon, and a stack of sugar packets I stole from food service the day before. There is also a svelte, redheaded ultimate frisbee player in my room. I became aware of her thong at shot #7 (did not see, but became aware of). Sometime between shots #12 and #14 I remember thinking to myself, am I almost too drunk to perform? wow! College is kewl! Then there was a temporary loss of traction near or around key elements of my anatomy, I think, and some sweating, a little cursing, possibly some giggling (or name-calling), then kind of a grey + red blur for 20 - 90 minutes or so, and perhaps I may have done a couple lines of Sweet 'N Low. I think.
Anyway, turns out she had a boyfirend. It made the next three years kinda awkward.
Fast forward a little to the end of Junior year during the sinister horrorshow bloodbath that is the housing draw, where lifelong friendships are torn to pieces, bribery and threats of violence mingle with the desperate pleading of underclassmen, and the trading of human capital hearkens back to a sadder American age (if we can get the quint, I'll take the two Sophomores, but if we don't, I'm ditching one so we can get the quad by the gym).
As you may have already guessed, these two events are somewhat connected. For you see, the jilted boyfriend from freshman year sent spies into our super-secret housing draw caucus (midnight on the 4th full moon after the Equinox) to steal our strategy. At the last minute he scraped together 5(!) random people to steal our sextet right out from under our noses, forcing us to reshuffle and improvise a sub-par plan B.
Now I know, and when I see him again? Some motherfucker's going down. Housing Draw is forever, bitches.
3.27.2007
3.26.2007
MY LIFE IN FOUR CAMERAS
PART I
Molly is an old Latina grandmother that owns and operates the only respectable hamburger and shit joint out in the middle of the woods near my place. It is an oasis in the valley that attracts even numbers of fiercely libertarian truckers/ranchers/bikers and extremely wealthy/annoying trust fund babies from the hills. This amuses me to no end. Also, I can buy beer there for cheap.
While I was writing this tome, Molly was cooking up one hamburger and one cheeseburger for me, despite the fact I had only ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and no one would ever order one cheeseburger and one hamburger for himself. I chose not to argue with her, because she reminds me of my own grandmother, and that reminds me of getting my ass kicked by an 80 year old woman with a wooden spoon. I decided instead to take my cheeseburger, my hamburger, and my pitcher of Devil's Canyon out to the garden and keep my wise-ass mouth shut. Never antagonize those who handle your food, I always say.
I spent some time looking straight at the two sandwiches before me, cooling in the gentle afternoon breeze. Which would I eat first? Which would be lunch, which would be dinner? I had paid for both, and I was damn sure going to eat both, but not both at once. It was a tougher decision than I would have imagined.
PART II
Depression cracks me up. I laugh at depression; I laugh at the depressed. They don't know how good they have it. I don't mind being depressed, it's a healthy contrast that amplifies whatever good elements persist in your life.
About three weeks ago, I found myself in what has become an eerily familiar situation; naked and face to face with a woman who is also naked. I wonder how things like this happen. I wonder what I have done to find myself in this situation, for it has by no means been intentional. Nevertheless, there I am, and there she is, and things are to be done, and they get done, but they are executed with a practiced and exacting precision that requires very little emotion. The feelings are there, and they are the appropriate ones, but our needs are physical and not so much else. I am both pleased and saddened by this prospect.
Little by little, my subconscious is trying to sabotage my life.
I also blame nature. She shoulders a modicum of guilt as well. It's springtime, and the aromas that drift through nighttime-open windows are flavored with the tender perfume of Magnolia and Hyacinth. The scent of these flowers conjures vibrant memories that twirl and mix and pulse with sensuous images that drift through my everyday life. One deep breath to drink them in; the air is wine, and all emotion returns. They are the sense memories of the last woman that really meant something unique and original to me. Her scent mingled with nature's simple perfumes is what I can't help but remember.
I resent this. I find nostalgia, that which is slathered in unnecessary sentiment, worthless and detrimental to those in the present. Memory is borderline narcotic if you allow it to be so. Don't want what you can't have, or you will never be satisfied.
So things need doing, and they get done, but my mind is someplace else. Depression gives way to emptiness, to intimacy without purpose. It is an ironically sterile place.
PART III
I have shouldered a surprising emotional burden these past three weeks. Despite what you may have already read, it is not my own. This is the crux of my life.
For reasons I cannot understand, those relationships I witness every day have been silently eroding away. I know this because many (enough to qualify as "many" I should stress) have ended abruptly during this month. Despite the fact I have systematically built very strong walls around me over the course of the last year, I am the one everyone has turned to for comfort and support. This is beyond my comprehension.
(I will reveal a deep, hidden secret about myself right now. I am fiercely empathic. I often wish I did not feel this way. I can't stand to see people in pain, and I act out the tragedy with them. It is not an ugly quality, just extremely inconvenient.)
One could imagine I have trouble with these two instincts, as they are at odds with each other. Quite frankly, I am exhausted by the tragedy in other people's lives because I cannot do enough to put a stop to it.
Then again, it's possible I'm envious of their pain because it speaks to an intensity of feeling that I myself have been missing.
PART IV
Contrary to what I have just written, there have been a myriad of moments in recent memory that have filled me with a deep and rich sense of peace. I find joy in the earthy smell of fresh rain vapor rising of hot asphalt. I have had occasion to breath the rich dust of great, loamy clods of earth in my callused hands. I have saved spring rabbits from hawk's talons (though the hawks will keenly find other meals).
In a life that, lately, I would consider essentially empty, I find these simple pleasures to be more than enough. They are only confounded by the complex responsibilities of modern existence.
Frankly I don't know if I should be pleased or bored to death. For once, very little is happening to me, and I can't decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
----------------
For a few of you, this is the explanation you may have been looking for. Then again, this is just a blog. It serves no purpose beyond entertainment (at best). I'm disappointed with my inability to communicate beyond what I would consider a fourth-grade level tonight, but writers' block must be conquered in baby steps.
Two things for you to consider. 1) a picture of the bunny:
and 2) the CD that's been getting a lot of miles in the rotation:
3.05.2007
MY STUFF HURTS
Once in awhile I'll look out across the sea of faces and wonder if our collective karma is just winding its way down to zero. There are those among us who fight this rising tide, those who see the deepening spiritual bankruptcy and push back. Sometimes you get called to stand against the crashing waves and fight the modern crusade for Good. Sometimes you have to be the person responsible for getting the divorced lady drunk, and making sure she gets her turn on the mechanical bull.
It's not like I was driving or anything.
And so ends 8 straight days of drinking; me slurring, "c'mon, let's do one that's on fire this time!," the oh-so-recently divorced thinking, "maybe I shouldn't, you know I don't usually.... oh hell yes it's on fire!," and her best friend standing behind her mouthing the words "KEEP HER DRINKING" and sliding 20s to the bartender. There was a point in the night where I just had to ask myself, is this all there is?
Most likely it was the point at which I untangled myself from the tangled nest of bodies, and took inventory of the empty wrappers, the motion-activated owl, and the half-eaten boxes of GirlScout cookies alight in the glow of false-dawn.
I celebrated the end of this bender with a promise to do good deeds from now on. I cooked my roommie and his girlfriend a delicious breakfast of California omelets, bagels, and coffee, then phoned my tennis buddy to drag his ass out of bed and get me some exercise (quick note to the marketing execs for Michelob Ultra, your new ad campaign should be, "Because drinking a lot of beer will turn you into a big fattie, fattie." It's amazing how chubby I've gotten. Hell, I wouldn't even have sex with me.) After almost thee hours of tennis on cold, flabby muscles I had to call it quits, and let me tell you something, friends, my stuff HURTS today. But my God, does it feel good too feel good in the morning. Great even.
And so, to continue in the theme of all things great and wonderful about this planet, I give you the following video (and, boy oh boy, does it feel good to be a big, geeky science nerd, too):
3.02.2007
YOU CAN'T FUCK AN iPHONE*
I started reading Mark Morford's column in SF Gate because it reminded me of my own witty-at-times self-aggrandizing writing style, but lately he's started to kind of piss me off. Not only is he stealing my ideas (Morford: 2/14/07: How to Shave the Modern Male vs. YouHandsomeDevil: 1/20/06: The Essentials of Modern Gardening), but he's starting to pussy-foot around some key life issues.
For example, if it pleases you to do so, read this article concerning the rampant and runaway consumerism plaguing our already-degenerate society. Not a bad article at all, Mark. Well said.
But what you should have written was:
Dear Everyone,
Please stop buying so much shit. You don't need it. Go outside, drink a beer, and try to get laid. It's way better.
Love,
Mark
Seriously, I'm not kidding, either. Quit buying so much shit. Take your Blackberry, your iPhone, your skin-searing TV, your XBox, your Bluetooth headset, your TiVo, your DVR, your PSP, put them all in one big pillow case and smash the shit out of them with a 2x4. Giggle and smile as you liberate yourself from all the crap you weren't meant to have in the first place. Terminate with extreme prejudice. KILL KILL KILL. Better yet, microwave those fuckers in a sparky explosion of irony.
Weep tears of joy when the swarming clouds of electrons dissipate, and you can finally see the sun again (the actual sun!). Feel warm blood fill your limbs again and... what's that? Is that the sound of an un-digitized human voice?! (Sounds like angels making love...). My God, the sheer ecstasy of it all.
Think about that next time you feel like you have to buy some crap that you absolutely do not need. Do it for me. Go find some warm ocean waves to toss you into the sky in glorious exaltation of the world unfiltered by these demonic, technological prophylactics.
See Mark? I didn't even have to talk about my favorite Pinot or used books or my Prius or Democrats or softsupple women I've boned or French cuisine or 'Product' or any of the remaining myriad of hippie-liberal-hipster bullcrap (that I/we normally talk about), though I doubt this message will appear in any respectable publication. Sigh.
*Please don't send me links to iBrators or any other clever crap like that. Tie those ideas in knots with the real message: tech-stimulation is still exactly as is sounds. Much like this rant, it's still just jerking off.
2.28.2007
SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE
Alan D. Eames, who cultivated his reputation as “the Indiana Jones of beer” by crawling into Egyptian tombs to read hieroglyphics about beer and voyaging along the Amazon in search of a mysterious lost black brew, died on Feb. 10 at his home in Dummerston, Vt. He was 59.
Mr. Eames called himself a beer anthropologist, a role that allowed him to expound on subjects like what he put forward as the world’s oldest
beer advertisement, dating to roughly 4000 B.C.
In it a Mesopotamian stone tablet depicted a headless woman with enormous breasts holding goblets of beer in each hand. The tagline, at least in his interpretation, was: “Drink Elba, the beer with the heart of a lion.”
2.27.2007
RECAP:
This is probably the only photo I can legally (and ethically) post, but I think it's pretty kewl. That's me in the background slingin' hooch with my wicked awesome glow-bracelets.2.26.2007
MORE TALES FROM THE DOWNHILL SLIDE
One of the most underrated skills one could eek out of this brief lifetime is the ability to manipulate one's environment to one's advantage*; to turn an otherwise negative atmosphere into a positive one.
For me, these moments generally occur in the middle of what I like to call the Downhill Slide (to borrow liberally and shamelessly from Craig Stecyk, who would probably throw chunks of concrete at me for my transgression). The Slide is something like Wabi Sabi with a modernity more closely related to Gleaming the Cube than Zen Buddhism, but still occupies the same unconventional niche in human interaction. It's the slope just beyond the edge of "polite" and "socially responsible" where most of us tread only under the guilt-free defense of intoxication, yet it's a dangerously intoxicating place to be on its own. A little velocity goes a long way in explaining the Downhill Slide as well, dodging cars / trees / pilings etc. at speeds just beyond what prudence dictates. But you hang on, and you make it through the ride. Sometimes you pay in flesh, most times you don't.
Basically, the Downhill Slide is allowing our human beast just a little room to prove how unexpectedly it can, and often does, behave. It's true, indeed, that 'he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.' Such is the nature of adventure.
I'm only explaining this because it felt like a good time to bring it up, though the following story may have less to do with the above than I originally intended.
There's no clearer way to characterize my Friday than simply stating that I, for no reason whatsoever, attended a houseparty for Applied Physics graduate students. (I cannot explain why this seemed like a good idea; why do we slow down to look at car accidents?) As expected, the revelers fell into neatly packaged stereotypes, constituting what could be described as a 'fine little hotdog cart' of a party. Still, determined to see the experience out to its potentially illogical conclusion, I scanned the crowd for bright stars against an otherwise-dim sky.
The few women that came through the door showed classic signs of sexual-intellectual repression: party clothes but not 'couture,' flirty short skirts but not 'two hairdos' short, one or two elements of a makeup ensemble but not the full 'look,' etc. These are women willing to become gloriously entangled sexually, yet too intelligent to be affected by it as a hobby. (Previously I have referred to such creatures as 'smart girl box,' with all the sincere admiration one could muster). Yet, to my chagrin, the gentlemen in the room seemed more inclined to discuss the programs they had written to mix audio and video than the platitudes that might, despite the long odds, get them laid. Fortunately for me, one who uses alcohol as one might use fine oil paints or clay, I had laid out before me a fine compliment of liquor in abundant quantity. For better or worse, I view such elements as the tools of my trade, flipping ice cups bottles corks caps with a surgeon's dexterity and precision. (One very special reader might hearken back to the eponymous 'Langer Banger' with kind affirmation upon consideration of this claim).
In the span of an hour I had transformed an awkward phalanx of intellectuals into a writhing hedonistic mass of half-naked, sweating real-people whipping each other with glowing necklaces and Marti-Gras beads. The skeptic would say they would have found the booze as easily as if I had not been there, that the potential for revelry was independent of my skills as a bartender. But I say to you, oh skeptics, the velocity with which alcohol make its journey from hand to hand to mouth (or hand to chest / bellybutton / collarbone to mouth), had as much to do with my dominating personality as latent hormonal influence. Put simply, nearly half the people who came to my bar had never heard of, done, or intended to ever do a 'body shot.' This would/could not fly in my universe. Luckily, they were an experimental bunch; quite scientific in their curiosity and thirst for new experience.
At the end of the night, sweating and exhausted myself, I had managed to garner a full $22 in unexpected tips, and the attention of one slender and affectionate creature who I would later learn was a Project Runway model.
Such is the nature of adventure. Shake hands with the beast and slide, baby.
*I started down the indefinite pronoun road and just had to keep rolling. It's grammatically correct, but sounds like shit, I know. I apologize.
2.22.2007
I AM BEING WATCHED
Did you ever get the feeling you are either 1) being watched intently by some greater intelligence, 2) dreaming your own reality into existence, 3) drunk and hallucinating, or 4) perhaps some combination of the three?
This occurred to me yesterday while trying to come up with a Judaica-themed wedding gift for my Judaica-themed newlyweds. Where does one find a nice Kiddush cup? A Hoshen Tallit bag? An Aishes Chayil Tzedakah Box? Clearly these are items one does not find at your local Crate and Barrel.
As I was hoisting my 4th Yuengling to my parched lips, I felt a strange tapping on the left hemisphere of my brain. I looked behind me, but found no inquisitor. Tap, tap, tap went the invisible fingers, but this time while I stood to confront my tormentor, my gaze snagged on an eerie sight.
There, hanging from the overpass next to the bar, fluttered a stunning banner that read:
Now, I've seen a lot of crazy things in my life, but I've never even heard of a Jewish wedding gift fair before. Did I just do that with my mind? Should someone with my police record be granted such divine powers? Maybe it's time I had a nervous breakdown, shaved my head, and spend 6 extra special hours in rehab.
It is Thursday after all. ...More...
2.21.2007
2 KINDS OF FLAYVA
There's been a lot of hard talk about British food (though without the divine combination of salt + vinegar on the list, I continue to remain confused as to the logic behind your cuisine. I am open to explanations). However, in British foods' defense, I have discovered one recipe that would tempt the pickiest of the picky. Bon appetite.
...More...2.20.2007
I AM BANGED UP PRETTY BAD
And yet I suffer through a full day's work. I'm such a trooper!
I just flew in from Florida, and boy are my Hora muscles tired (zing!). It could have been the Hora, or it could have been The Chicken Dance, or it could have been sleeping on the floor of a hotel room roughly the size of a package of Canadian cigarettes with 4 (or was it 5?) other people, but I am pretty banged up today. Boy howdy do I love Jewish weddings, though.
Truly it hurts to have your first coffee break at work a paltry 4.5 hours after your red-eye landed. But aside from the odd hallucination here and there I've got a big fat sack o' good memories from the weekend. Most notably, of course, the errant groping from 3 different grandmothers. Wow.
I'd also like to mention the breakdancing contest I had with the bride's 83 year-old grandfather, the (afore-mentioned) Alumni-only Chicken Dancing, the bride's-maid-themed debauchery in a hotel room roughly the size of a package of Canadian cigarettes with 4 (or was it 5?) other people in the room, swimming in the Gulf during a small craft advisory (painful nipple erections), the manatees, and the yarmulke that absolutely will not come off until all wedding activities have been completed (up to, and including said bride's-maid-themed debauchery).
L'chaim!
2.16.2007
HEAD TO HEAD: CAPTAIN LOU ALBANO vs. AMY WINEHOUSE
We of the human race are not fit to stand in judgement over ourselves. But what does it mean to judge the measure of a person? How can we condescend to evaluate the quality of a living, breathing individual? The once-great dreamers conjured up nature's version of justice. Oh yes. They whispered, "save us from our ourselves!" and lo, up from the sands and dust of the desert, in a great whilwhind of lightning and fire, there appeared Thunderdome. By skill, cunning, or even the blood-stained claws of luck, comes the judgement of time. Two men enter. One man leaves. Thus, like the infinite wheel of birth and death, so doth the gears of humanity spin, forever climbing forward on the splintered bones of those left behind. Nature, red in tooth and claw, shall dictate who is called and who is saved. Therefore I pit thee, worthy adversaries, against eachother. Tell your version of the story as old as Cain and Abel, and speak thee now, oh words, so that your voice shall cause even blind Justice to see the light of your worth.
I give you, pilgrims, Captain Lou Albano vs. Amy Winehouse head to head for all the marbles:
 | vs. |  |
"Captain" Lou Albano | Amy Winehouse | Edge | |
| Country of Origin: | America: The Greatest Country in the World | Great Britain | The Captain |
| Known Affiliations: | Cyndi Lauper | Ghostface Killah | Draw |
| Distinguishing Characteristics: | Rubberband Facial Piercings | Pin-up Art Tattoos | Winehouse |
| Notable Television Appearances: | "Miami Vice" | "Jools Holland's Annual Hootenanny" | The Captain |
| Harbors Distaste For: | Hulk Hogan | Bono | Winehouse |
| Awards and Honors: | WWF Hall of Fame | #50 - NME Magazine's 'Cool List' | The Captain |
| Lauded By: | Pro Wrestling Fans | The British | Draw |
| Personal Struggles With: | Food | Alcoholism | Winehouse |
| Education: | University of Tennessee | The BRIT school, Surrey | The Captain |
And, yea, while we all truly walk beneath future echoes in this life, Captain Lou Albano soldiers on, leaving the worthy but bested Amy Winehouse behind. Shed a tear for your lost comrades, and remember their achievements well.
Captain Lou just came right out of left fuckin' field. I did not see that coming.
PS. That was way more fun than I thought it was going to be. ...More...
2.15.2007
I (HEART) SF
My town does Valentine's Day better than your town. Yea, verily, 'tis better than thine.
2.14.2007
2.13.2007
LIVING THE DREAM
I finally, finally got someone to lick my eyeball last night. And you know what? It was worth it.
Then she let me lick her eyeball.
Life just doesn't get any better than that, my friends. Sure as Schnitzel.
2.12.2007
DECONSTRUCTING THE BRITISH SEX ICON
The "Bextor" phenomenon deserves a smidgen of clarification, or so it would seem. Though I welcome contradictory opinions, I feel it's important to give the matter its due regard and therefore its proper explanation. While it is true Lily Allen is neither talented nor exceedingly attractive by American standards, there are a choice few of us who prefer a more shall we say "Victorian" idea of the female creature and its aesthetics. Hence our love of Sophie Ellis Bextor and Lily Allen. Maybe it's worth a deeper gaze into their mischievous-but-sparkly eyes.
1. Sophie and Lily are "talented" in that we find their art charming and quaint. Good enough to hold in high regard, but nestled somewhere between "Mmm Bop" and "Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls." George Harrison would not have written "If you think you'll get away / I will prove you wrong / I'll take you all away / Boy, just come along / Hear me when I say / Hey!" Nor would Leonard Cohen have written "I was so lost back then / But with a little help from my friends / I found the light in the tunnel at the end." However, after giving the matter significant thought, I would not eat vanilla ice cream off Leonard and George's cleavage. There are exceedingly few places on Sophie and Lily from which I would not eat vanilla ice cream. Quod erat demonstrandum.
2. The Chub. Forgive me Sophie, but I must temper the word "hot" with "adorably" when describing you. I can't in all honesty say I know why the British aesthetic is softer than the American, but I do know the extra curve here and there just drives me wild. Perhaps it's the thought of soft flesh restrained that flips the switch to on, but I prefer not to over-analyze such things and let nature speak for itself. Clearly the power to articulate this preference is beyond me, but I will say this: I do fancy a woman made hotter by the grace of erotically-themed boots. They also have accents.
3. Both Sophie and Lily are charmingly evil; they are bad girls in good girls bodies. For
example, "Smile" a seemingly cheerful fun-in-the-sun-Smashmouth-esqe song, is just a big fuck-you to some loser ex-boyfriend (When I see you cry / It makes me smile / Yea it makes me smile). And the video for "Murder on the Dance Floor" shows us how our willing protagonist poisons her competition and chloroforms an unsympathetic judge to win the price of cash and sparkly shoes. My parents would surely not approve. I should point out that, despite my placing them side by side in this exercise, I would consider Lily a mere demigoddess in the shadow of Sophie's greater power. There is, however, still time for improvement.
I hope that this simple deconstruction helps springboard similarly-boned British girls to the highest eschelons of fame so that we can dance awkwardly to and poorly cover their anthems to the very ends of time.
2.06.2007
NASA PAL
By now many of you have heard about the attempted kidnapping by a bediapered, lovesick ex-astronaut, Lisa Marie Nowak (as if I really needed to be specific). The New York Times article about this twisted event spends what I would consider to be a little too much time on the fact that Nowak, to avoid losing time with those pesky bathroom breaks between, wore adult diapers on her kidnapping trip from Huston and Orlando.
The diapers are mentioned twice in the article before we actually get the details of the attempted kidnapping. It's as if we were willing to downplay Nowak's behavior as that of a jilted lover, "but she wore adult diapers so she wouldn't have to stop to use the bathroom? Why she must be completely insane!" Diapers on a grown woman (gasp!)!
I'm not exactly a "scientist" or "spaceman" or "can read at or above a 4th grade level," but I find it strange the New York Times spent exactly zero time on how Nowak drove 960 miles without stopping for gas! Surely you must wonder why she wore diapers knowing full well gas stations are the pee-break oases of the Western world. Interesting!
Maybe Nowak was testing out some super-secret NASA technology that allows a person to travel extreme distances without stopping to refuel!
1) "Astronauts wear diapers during launch and re-entry." According to MSN.
2) Nowak, living in Texas, doesn't know about the Stadium Gal?! Ho ho! I don't think so!
Conspiracy theorists start your nerdy engines! My guess? A Mysterious space virus implanted while on a super-secret mission to consort with other intergalactic space travelers drove her mad when exposed to Earth's mild gravitational field and yellow sun! That's my guess, but I'm too lazy to read past "diapers."
TWISTED, SISTER
Dear mob psychologists-
I have just set a friendly dinner date with my ex's sister. I'll have to check the manual, but I do believe this crosses into "sort of uncool" territory, if only because I'm 1% doing it to bother my ex-girlfriend (who doesn't pay attention to me, and I hate it when I don't get enough attention. Wah. Wah.). I can tell from your gasps, your forehead-slapping, your clawing-at-your-chest in anguish, that you would never, ever believe I would behave in such a childish, petty way. Keep in mind, dearest readers, I just now recovered from my gasping, teary-eyed laugh attack upon seeing "Utility Rack" printed in my US Forestry Supplies Catalog ($16.75 in Metric or English units). Hee hee.... "Rack." Such things are not beneath me.
Despite the fact that I genuinely do enjoy the company of Sister #2, I can't help but feel the slightest pangs of guilt tickle my spine when I think that perhaps Sister #1 will be irked by my platonic tête-à -tête with her kin. I am so ashamed, though I have nothing to worry about. Even the most oblivious, AU Sorority Whore, Freshman Communications-cum-Psych major would tell me to quit having such a high opinion of myself. She'd tell me how arrogant I am for thinking my behavior could have even the slightest effect on my ex-girlfriend, and that I should grow up and quit playing childish games. She would shake her head and cluck her tongue thinking how pathetic the creature cowering before her. "Get over it, you sad little Magina, you," she would say, and rightfully so.
I would, however, be quite justified in countering her comments with the, "C'mon, it's me" defense. I mean, I did hit on the Scabies-Tea Girl.
Now that I've gotten that off my chest I can get back to my regularly scheduled man-whoring. It's good to be the King.
2.02.2007
WTF BOSTON. WTF.
I finally caught the full "statement" from Peter Berdovsky and Sean Stevens, the two jokers who planted Lite-Brites all over Boston, my former Fair City by the Bay. Aside from the Trustafarian look, which I absolutely despise, I couldn't love these two jackasses any more. How do you piss off the mainstream media (an even bigger bunch of jackasses)? You deny them their soundbites, you swindle them out of their scapegoats, you talk only about 1970s hairdos in your press interviews.
How moronic, how absolutely devoid of insight, how ridiculously obtuse do you have to be to tell Berdovsky and Stevens, "I don't think you're taking this very seriously," as if you'd just uncovered the greatest graft of the millennium. Oh you think? These are two men talking about the origins of the "greaser" haircut (was it a 50's thing, or does it go all the way back to the 20's when people actually used grease in their hair?), when asked why they installed Lite-Brite ("Lites-Brite"?) in the city.
Perhaps it's not outside the realm of possibility to think, no, they're not really taking this as seriously as you are, dildo.
Oh, and maybe the media corps should, you know, think about lightening up a little.
Boston, WTF? Fucking New York is mocking you, and that's just not right. (Of course, no one who actually lives in Boston is really all that worked up over the stunt except those who have to feign outrage because of their utterly humorless overreaction, but that's a different story). It's okay to be sensitive about bombs in the post 9/11 world, but it's also okay to tell the media to suck it. Suck it good.
I can't wait to see what all you deviant pranksters come up with for backlash. I'll die a happy man if I wake up tomorrow and find this headline in the Globe:
1.31.2007
WHAT MAKES A MAN?
I had intended to post the following as a comment on someone else's blog, but I got on one of my big-bright-shooting-star rants and I just couldn't let this one live as a footnote. (Also, I think I further my crusade by boorishly hogging the limelight, no matter how pale or dim).
Context: what is 'feminine' style? Is the term derogatory? If so, how deep the tragedy we've come to believe so! (Also, I was challenged to a Scotch fight. Oh no you di'in't).
Oh but how you misunderstand! You have to contrast my own “masculine” writing style, wherein I write pages and pages on the State of My Penis, with your own red-meaty-yet refined style. “What’s Up With My Penis Today”, by definition, would be considered “masculine” writing. Therefore, also by definition, “feminine” style would be unfettered by such obsessions as “constantly trying to get laid.” Once again I prove my own sad, depressing point with my penis… so difficult to avoid these mishaps.
Feminine is not weak and passive! Feminine is graceful, subtle, clever, and nuanced; masculine tends to be more homo-erotic and socially awkward (Joey, have you ever been to a Turkish prison?). Bill O’Rilley? Rush Limbaugh? Sean Hannity? George W? Masculine. Wanna come play some grab-ass with us?
You know what’s really offensive? Chick-lit.
Furthermore, I brush my teeth with scotch. I put scotch on bagels. I soak my contact lenses in scotch when I go to bed. Know what makes my tears taste less bitter? If you said “scotch” you just won yourself a newpenisscotch. I rub it into my feet when I’ve had a hard day. Put a little dab behind the ears before I go to weddings. You will not usurp my love affair with scotch. No ma’am.
Now that’s recognition of emotion.
And if, by some cosmic travesty, I have not proven this point, please oh please click here, but NOT at work.
P.S. not porn. ...More...
1.30.2007
MMM, MMMMM MYSTERIOUS TEA
This is truly the strangest life I have ever known. Tonight I bask in the gentle glow of my favorite tea shop (free wireless and drinks if you flirt with the owner... "I'm sweet enough already, thank you" is such a great sleaze-ball line when she asks you if you want sugar in your tea. Swear to God, women are retarded sometimes), but this time, friends, this time I have to wonder. The mousy Tea Girl who makes me my oolong launched into the most elaborate and unsolicited one-sided conversation with me tonight, increasing by great orders of magnitude the number of words she's ever spoken in my presence. Of course, I hadn't expected any of these words to be "I mean it's Tuesday and I have scabies already!"
Beg your pardon?
Oh yes, there were scabies. And she showed them to me. She's right; she has scabies.
So here I sit, motionless, in quiet repose, eye to eye with the mysterious tea she just delivered to me with a wink, saying nothing, thinking only:
"you know... it is only Tuesday..."
1.29.2007
I AM A MODERN SAVAGE
I harbor a smoldering volcano of wild, atavistic energy in my guts with no legally available, sterilized, pre-approved, sanctioned outlet for my savage creativity. I am constantly aware and proud of this fact. For example, I just walked past the Apple Store and stifled the urge to scream through the aseptic frosted French doors, "ENOUGH FUCKING iPODS!" and wave my penis around in circles like a flesh helicopter. I'm relatively certain at least someone besides me would appreciate this.
I want to flash my ass (and some balls) at the uber-wealthy as they smile and munch delicious, overpriced food. I want barely-legal college girls to take my picture when I ride commemorative statues like a drunken cowboy. I want to bleed righteous blood from roadrash wounds incurred while doing Burts down 101. I want to freak people out at parties that are boring. ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK. I want to lure women to my bed and fry bacon in the nude when I'm done with them. I want to hurl shit off stuff. I want to lick strangers and tell them they taste like strange meats. I want to start fires, chase cars, steal license plates, build a kick-ass fort, spank someone hard, kill and eat something, pee on stuff I don't like, screw an entire sorority, devour raw things, fight someone, howl, kick, (fuckfuckfuck!), bite, scratch, gnaw, snarl, and burn, baby.
I've never been on TV, and I'm bored! Straight up bored. Bored! And I'm nice to people for a living (fucking hippie!), and I'm good at it. Sooo good! And I like it! But right now, I'm a savage. And I live on your block. And I steal medicine from your bathroom at your parties. Muahahaha!
(The above was written while casually sipping an Oolong Latte at a quiet Japanese tea shop. It was undertaken with the intention of looking busy while surreptitiously staring at breasts. Now I'll continue with real work-work having completed this brief stream of unconsciousness.)
1.26.2007
NUKE THE BELGIANS
Mike Gallagher, the host of the conservative talk radio show that keeps my heart beating in the morning, is out today (most likely patrolling the border in an air-conditioned Hummer, firing his rifle in the air, cursing liberals like me [Mexicans, A-rabs, Barak "HOOO-SANE" Obama, hippies, queers, Jim Webb, hump-backed whales, Barbie, Ben, Jerry, etc.], and homoerotically chest-bumping his Boss Hogg doppleganger chauffeur as their clammy jowls redden and slicken with flop sweat, soaking through matching American Flag cravats). Therefore, I'm graced with his stand-in today, a worthless pile of a man who can't help but prove time and time again that he used to get beat up as a kid for milk money (but no more! No sir!).
This man is not funny. I say this only because it would be easy to think he is, by nature, a facetious person, and his comments are not serious. For clarity, I assure you they are serious. This is what he offered for his hungry listeners this morning:
I cast my pillow girlfriend, Katya, aside (whom I had been fondling in peace before hearing this horrifying comment), slammed my face into some 14th century swords I keep on the nightstand just to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and pumped up the volume on the radio to see if I had heard correctly. I had.
He had been yelling at Dinesh D'Souza (the author of The Cultural Left and Its Responsibility for 9/11) for being too liberal (!), and offered the "nuke Tehran" strategy as an alternative to diplomacy. My brain, fighting to maintain the logic circuits years upon years of hard-fought education had forged, could not handle the sheer douchebaggery that snapped, popped, fizzled the fine, diaphanous network in my head, and I passed out in a twitching, foaming heap.
Unfortunately my roommate, accustomed to seeing me in such a state on a Friday morning, did not realize what had happened.
In my tormented slumber, I dreamed of a world in which the US actually nuked Tehran and then, of course, had to nuke everyone else because they were so pissed at us. Wild specters of extinguished wonders sailed away into the annals of eternity, never to be seen again, beginning with this sad eponymous blog title:
1. Really good waffles
2. Munich - Three way tie: Beer, Porn, Football
3. Phnom Penh - Angkor Wat, Dead Kennedys
4. Madrid - Tapas, Hemingway memorabilia
5. Ankara - Hagia Sophia, Elaborate bathing, They Might Be Giants songs
6. Moscow - Nesting dolls, Root-based cuisine, Feel-good 80's movies
7. Paris - Easy exchange students, Sass
8. Brasilia - Bossa Nova, The "landing strip"
9. New Delhi - Vast biological and cultural treasures, Tech support, Temple of Doom
10. Stockholm - Bikini team, Ikea
11. Rome - Spiritual guidance for millions of Christians worldwide, Shoes
12. London - (Salt + Vinegar), Newcastle United, Flags, Princes doing bumps of coke in the hills
I awoke to a beautiful planet where all these things, in one form or another, still exist. What a wonderful world to wake up to. Aside from the douchebaggery, of course. Alas, I shall continue to fight the good fight every day to protect the greatest gift of all: my
1.25.2007
I WILL NOT ENJOY PRISON
Oh auburn amazon, you slender chestnut minx, rescue me from your hazel tempests and deliver me to languish beside your lithe silhouette...
I am desperately in love with my intern. She is sweeter than expected, having been shaped by the Unitarianism of small-town-Midwest, and smarter than expected, dosed with healthy west-coast university liberalism and the broad mind of a world traveler. She is also a tall, slender, dancer-vixen.
Unfortunately, she is also an undergraduate.
I see this not as a legal issue, but more of a 'that-guy' issue. Thanks to the miracles of modern study-abroad-and-'find'-yourself-for-a-year higher education, my intern is a year older than the average for her station in life. We are a mere 3.17 tantalizing years apart in age, yet I do not feel comfortable with the prospect of touching her inappropriately at the appropriate time (quite literally. I'm currently feeling a specific physical discomfort while conjuring this image).
Dare I follow in the footsteps of greater men than I (though my intern is decidedly not sitting at home polishing her V-Pin), those brave pioneers treading upon unspoiled ground? You know who you are, you lucky bastards, you. My God, the thrill of it. The smell of blood in my wolfish nose. The flash of soft flesh beneath generous garment. The blood boils, superheated by the hyperactive, hypermasculine sexual imagination. Dare I?
I dunno. I suspect flirting with one's intern constitutes a breach of several ethical and moral standards, compounded by the fact she has yet to graduate from college.
"Trust thyself," says uncle Emerson, though he and I may fundamentally disagree over the exact intentions of "every heart vibrates to that iron string." I agree wholeheartedly, iron indeed, though "string" is a bit unflattering as a metaphor. Ironic self-effacement is the avatar of a healthy self-image, Ralphy. Preach on you stallion, you.
I wonder if my future cellmate will enjoy Transcendentalist discourse?
1.23.2007
CONSERVATIVE WHITE PEOPLE ARE UNATTRACTIVE
Why are conservative white people so godawful?
...More...1.22.2007
I AM MATTHEW MODINE'S HERO
Not exactly, but "MATTHEW MODINE WAS ACCIDENTALLY KIND OF A DICK TO US, BUT HE STILL SEEMS LIKE A PRETTY NICE GUY" doesn't work well as a blog title.
And you know how high my literary standards can be. Yea, verily they soar like great eagles above the clouds.
But more importantly, my dear dear auntie got married this weekend in LA, hence my absence from public life, and I could not have had a better time. I would be remiss if I did not list the lessons learned in earnest from the wedding experience, so:
1. "Open Martini Bar" is a phrase I will heed as a warning from this moment forward.
2. HBO has perfected the art of softcore pornography well beyond any artistic achievement in the history of mankind.*
3. My skills as a salsa dancer exceed the average for my ethnic group (based on outside accounts and not my own "shaken-not-stirred" perceptions. For this, I thank my lucky stars).
4. "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" is at least as inappropriate in Italian as it is in English for serious social events at which I am not supposed to laugh.
5. My family is so awesome it is a wonder my parents didn't expose me to the elements at birth to appease Roman gods. My survival into adulthood mocks their awesome-itutde. Seriously, they rule.
Which brings us to My Quiche with Matthew Modine. Two of my dear friends, who I'm confident will point out any and all inconsistencies in my story, played tourguides for me in the big city. They rock. The Dr. even sacrificed her unusually dainty feet for me. Awwww...
The story begins thusly: we were having Quiche with Matthew Modine at The Figaro Cafe (actually it's more of a boulangerie), a charming sidewalk bodega in north Hollywood. More or less. History will be my judge. I have tremendous respect for Matthew Modine as an actor, so I was pleased to have the opportunity to speak with him. Interestingly, the first thing I noticed was that he was wearing really cool pants (he's tall, I'm tall, and I have trouble finding cool pants). I nearly admitted as much to him, but I felt this would not promote healthy dialogue between us.
But I digress.
Matthew Modine started asking us what we each do for a living and we, in turn, listed our socially commendable, yet fiscally unimpressive jobs. He asked me specifically if my job paid well; we all had a good chuckle at my response. I'm poor, ha ha. But the word 'Hero' was used, most likely to make me feel better about my poverty, and it did! Little victories make for charming conversations and warm relationships.
The big question of the morning became, "But how can you three even afford to live here?" which, at the time seemed innocuous enough.
However, during later discussion we would all agree that it sounded a bit like, "What are you poor people doing in my neighborhood?" But none of us felt he or she had been patronized to any great extent, rather Modine et al had merely wondered how a young person in this day and age (who is not famous) could live in the city. It was decided that Matthew Modine was, in fact, a pretty cool guy if only a little "Hollywood." I hope we meet again, Matt, even if only to talk about pants.
Thanks so much to... hell, everybody who made this such a kick-ass weekend.
---------------
*Plotline: "A dead stripper turns up in a man's bed on the day of his wedding, prompting a murder investigation that uncovers lies, treachery and steamy bedroom activities."
1.17.2007
I NEED A NEW GIRLFRIEND
"Awwwww!" I said, beaming at a borderline-inappropriate text message sent to me in the wee hours of the morning.
"Who is it?"
"It's so-and-so, she's such a sweetie. I've known her since I was 16, but I didn't sleep with her until I was 23. Now that's love."
Not only is that a stupid thing to admit out loud, but it's just a little on the fringe of oddity. Should I be concerned? Or shall I begin the Great Wife Hunt of '07? It's time, homey.
1.16.2007
BECKS
There has been a decent amount of flurry concerning the recent and extravagant trade of 250 million American dollars for David Beckham (distributed in various ways), the world's most recognizably androgynous soccer star (in deference to our own terminology, I'll use the globally-popular term 'football' in place of 'soccer' to appear more worldly and such. To avoid confusion, I'll refer to American football as 'gay rugby' for clarity). The last person to hold the title "Most Ridiculously Paid Athlete in America," A-Rod, gets an extra hug from his (gold-plated) therapist tonight, since it'll take him just under 10 years total to collect his .25 billion dollars, while Becks'll cash all of his cheques in 5. Poor, poor A-Rod.
You have to ask yourself if it's worth it. I'm inclined to say yes, given the plight of the American footballer and the rotten in-house farm teams that support our surprisingly decent national team.
Some make the argument the US cannot support a decent football program without a stellar World Cup performance. Many critics, myself included, cite the wildly unexpected victory over Mexico in '02 as a crowning moment for our nation's potential as an eventual contender. Of course, and equal number of people are quick to discount the USA's performance in '06 as business as usual, forgetting the ludicrous and downright criminal use of penalties (a disgusting 28 red cards and and mind-boggling 345 yellow cards) in that travesty of a tournament. Lest we forget, a record number of matches in the '06 World Cup were decided by shoot-outs (4) as well, making '06 the most confusing tourney in years. In a word, the US team just got themselves a little screwed this time. So, OK, maybe World Cup performance shouldn't dictate MLS success.
Angeleans aren't shy about their football, though. Last year the Galaxy drew 92,000 spectators for one regular season game, attendance that would make even the SEC drool. Obviously the time is right to bring in superstar European players (or overdue, depending on your opinion of intra-league American competition shaping international players). Superstar players mean bigger ticket receipts, regardless of how they perform. If you don't believe me, just ask any SF Giants fan.
Also, unlike Franz Beckenbauer and Pele who came to the US to die instead of play football, Beckham has some good years left in him (presumably). He's popular, and he can still ball (by US standards), so I applaud the Galaxy's choice in spending the green to bring him to LA.
Still, I've heard nothing besides "oh, do you hear Posh and Becks are moving to LA??" "Really?! OHMYGOD he's SOOO hot!" for the last two days. Clearly my friends a) don't know shit about soccer (FEUT-bol) and b) are retarded. OK, I don't know shit about the football either, but I know I shouldn't pay $250 million for someone just because they remind me of Orlando Bloom (skills notwithstanding, of course). I'd respond with: "do you guys even know what sport he plays?" But I'd be met with, "He plays for the British Soccer team*, DUH! (OHMYGOD he's SOOOOOOO hot!)." And then I'd say, "(thud thud thud)" because I'd be banging my head against the table.
I once posed the question, "Why Beckham? Aren't there better players out there?" just to hear a contrary opinion, but I was voted off the island.
One of my braver comrades replied with, "David Beckham is the greatest soccer player of this generation, hands down."
To which I countered, "OK, but what about, say the Brazilians? Like, don't they have some good players, too? And, you know, Michael Owen would be a good choice as well (and, hell, Shearer had some good days) if you want to stick to the Brits. What about those guys? And Zidane? Anybody remember that guy? He's pretty good, too, right?"
Then, as if sensing my head-pain fading away, someone says, "Owen and Beckham? That's like comparing Babe Ruth to Mark McGwire!" (It was a girl).
To which I could only counter with a good old fashioned, "Do I... like... um... hit you now?" look of complete and utter puzzlement. US football fans, like the MLS itself, are also in their infancy it would seem.
Anyway, if there's one good thing Brand Becks brings to the US it's drawing attention to MLS. It needs it, and he can give it (heyooo!), so I'm all for it. Especially since it ain't my $250 million. But if you think I'm treating David Beckham unfairly, go ahead and read this for yourself and tell me how harsh I am.
*yup, you guessed it. There is no "British Soccer team." Good for you!
Special thanks to PIA and Zapo for their wise wise wisdom.
1.13.2007
1.11.2007
PRIDE IN A JOB WELL DONE
If you Google the phrase: Brooke Hogan black thong, this fine piece of literary juvenile-delinquency will appear at the top of the list. Owing to the divine justice inherent in this universe, clicking on this link will not only disappoint those looking for some jail bait eye-candy, but horrify anyone with even an inkling of aesthetic taste (but it's safe for work, slackers).
I'm so proud I could just pee my pants. Special thanks to some nut in Clearwater for the tip.
1.10.2007
FROM THE ARCHIVES
Before they were Paranoid Social Club, they were Rustic Overtones, and before that they were from Portland Maine, the hardcore capital of the Greater Portland Maine area. You wonder sometimes how nice boys from Maine get to be so angry, but then you realize it's Maine and, Jesus, you can only hang out at the L.L.Bean Outlet for so long before you're forced to tear the sleeves off your Men's Rockland Polo shirt, flip the collar to "up," and rock. Bear with me here.
I hearken back to when 311's Grassroots came out in '94, and I was like, "wicked, homie" (because it was '94, and I was doing that black 3-hole Vans, jeans, Soundgarden T-shirt, skater haircut, flanel-shirt-'roud-the-waist thing, and In Living Color was still big), "is this what's coming out of Seattle now?" The truth, as I was embarrassed to learn, was that 311 had, like so many other famous... corn, grown straight out of Omaha, Nebraska.
Puzzling.
The awkwardness of that moment caused me to judge a band's origins less harshly from then on, so when my Man-Bear-Kitten of a roommate suckered me into a Paranoid Social Club (est. Portland, Maine) show, I gave it my due regard. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I actually enjoyed the show (aside from a little ditty called "Last Cigarette," for which I tortured my super-sensitive-but-bottle-it-all-up-inside roomate mercilessly for years. "Dude, It's not really about cigarettes, at all, you just aren't getting it).
If you liked 311 (because you still have "311" underneath your driver's seat somewhere, though you haven't thought about it since '96), but really didn't care for Nick Lofton Hexum's Schoolhouse Rock voice, you might find some kitschy, kick back with an Allagash, swat the mosquitoes, maple-syrupy entertainment from Paranoid Social club.
If you're feeling saucy, spend some of your iTunes gift certificate ($5.00, Chaunkah day 4) on "Ricochet," from the album Axis II. Then go eat some of yo' mamma's waffles.
1.09.2007
PELO-SIKE!
I'll admit I'm no political pundit. However, I do listen to conservative talk radio every day to stay "frosty," and I have a gay friend, so I'd consider myself pretty savvy when it comes to the body politic. I would never presume to tell Nancy Pelosi how to run her emergent majority (step 1, cut a hole in a box), though, owing to my bad luck of arriving on this planet behind my elder siblings, I do possess a certain expertise in sore-winnership (the "nah-nah-nah-nah-NAAAH-naah syndrome). So, Nancy, on behalf of all democrats youngest children in the country, allow me to give you one piece of advice:
You don't get many chances in this life to grab the limelight. Your older brother got arrested for underage drinking? You're the golden boy (or girl) now! Take advantage of your newly-earned status by rubbing it everyone's face. Revenge is a drink best served hot (in yo' face, with Splenda, beotch!), so take all that bipartisan crap and ram it right down Denny Hastert's gaping maw. Wearing your pink, "I did Justin twice" t-shirt. High.
I'll agree that, yes, the only way to achieve good government reform is forgiveness. So fine, I forgive the Republican congress for being such assholes for so long, but the bible tells us "eye for an eye," right? So go on, Nancy Pelosi, play your wicked games and revel in your hedonistic orgies of liberalization while you're still that Golden Girl (oh no she di'int). I know a certain fellah who used to hit the pipe and roll out with his hoes all the time, and he made for one hell of an American.
And that man's name was Thomas Jefferson. Think about it! Oooooooo! ...More...
1.06.2007
1.05.2007
I AM BORED
Judging by my own recent lackluster posts, and the absence of any rip-roarin' hum from anyone else, I conclude that nothing is officially happening in the world. We're all slugging through the post-coital food coma of our orgiastic holiday trifecta (Christmas, New Year's eve, and Nancy Pelosi.... Zing!), so I forgive us for our winter slumber. We'll do better as February approaches and we, once again, focus 75 - 110% of our energy to getting laid Valentine's Day.
I have debated (re)posting this video because, like the last two seasons of M*A*S*H, U2 has become entirely too preachy and self-righteous for my taste these days. But, I like rock 'n roll. I think it's kewl. Therefore I shrug my shoulders, wade into the shallow water, and give you someone else's art.
1.04.2007
I AM A GRAMMAR WHORE
Below is a list of things that are plural that people either screw up constantly, or don't realize are pluralized:
1. Data (really bothers me)
2. Media
3. Vaginae
4. Dominatricies
5. Criteria (stop fucking this one up)
6. Formulae
7. Graffiti (via "Graffito")
8. Premises (via "Premise"... odd one, ain't it?)
9. Culs de sac
10. Mans 'o war (disputable)
11. Whinnies the Pooh (disputable)
It is impossible to make an anagram from "anagram" according to Webster.
Oh, and I will never, ever have sex with a woman. Thanks liberal arts education!
1.02.2007
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
As you ponder your ability to control your own destiny, I invite you to reexamine any New Year's resolutions you may have scribbled on the back of a cocktail napkin besmirched with bloody mary and the eeensy weeensy little bit of baby throw-up you wiped from the corner of your lips (1. don't get pregnant, 2. make sure little Timmy makes parole, 3. stop being such a whore all the time).
In the fog of your hangover, ask yourself if every New Year's resolution you've ever made has ever materialized. Is this just the logical extension of your college mantra, I'll never drink again, I'll never drink again, I'll never drink again? Click your heels together three times and maybe that girl next to your with the slight moustache and cankles will be swept away in a gentle whirlwind before she can wake up, want to cuddle, and then ask you for your telephone number. And no, she won't settle for your email address.
Ladies and gentlemen, 2007 will be just as wondrous and spectacular as 2006. Chances are you won't, but you could still be hit by a bus and killed at any second. Why restrict the already narrow scope of your brief existence? Stop making resolutions that you will not keep (e.g. no weed and porn on schoolnights)!
"I put it to you, Camp Firewood, as we spend the last dinner together, be proud of who you are! Look at me, Ma, I made it! I'm okay!"
To hammer this point home, I'll pass on the following story relayed to me just yesterday:
So I'm having sex with this bartender who was working at the place I went to for New Year's Eve, right, and she's got these two cats, and I'm wicked allergic to cats. Right in the middle of it I start sneezing, like serial sneezing, right, and I'm, like, convulsing right there on the bed. She's kind of groovin on it, so I keep on, and it's like, "AAAACHOOOOO!" and she's all "UNNNNNNHHH!"... "ACHOOOO!" "UNNNNNHHH!", and these cats are just sitting there looking at me the whole time while I sneeze and flop around with this girl on me going "UNNNNNHH!" "YYYEEEEAAA!" and they're just looking at me.
I guess it's not as weird as that bartender from Ivanhoe and her pet chicken.
