Vacation, all I ever wanted -- #2031
Thank you, I will enjoy the complimentary popcorn.
This post comes courtesy of the Holiday Inn, where I am spending an evening by myself. I contemplate an adult choice on the Spectravision. Theoretically I've here on business, searching for an apartment to live during my pending career move. But more accurately, I'm pretty buzzed after hitting the downtown on an empty stomach and four hours of sleep last night. And, um, yeah -- there you go.
Updating this blog every day is going to be a challenge. Honestly, I have nothing. Around 7:30 this morning I was feeling a little punchy and wanted to comment about how people always describe cold weather in relation to genitals. "It's cold as a witch's teat." "I'm freezing my nuts/ass off." "There are icicles hanging off of my twat hairs." The last one hasn't caught on just yet, but let's work it out a little and see if it sticks.
The only other joke I have tonight is that I set my alarm for 7:30 in order to hit the treadmill and work off this bag of popcorn I'm inhaling.
Don't quit on this blog just yet. I swear it will get better. I'm like that sitcom with a good cast that will make it work out if we can just get past the first three episodes. Thursday is going to be a watershed, I promise.
Now if you'll excuse me, Island Fever 3 is on, and having not seen the first two in the series, I fear that if I don't pay attention I will lose the plot.
Bujalski, For Spelling Purposes
I wish it were Sunday ... -- #934
So if I'm updating this blog every day, in theory, Monday's are going to be "Monday Movie Madness" Day. We're devoting the awful start of the week toward the movies I saw over the weekend, movies I'd like to see, movies I don't, and occasionally one of my staple sources of humor, the classic review of a movie I didn't see.
A few months ago I stumbled onto this article by Chuck Klosterman about "new" filmmaker Andrew Bujalski. I say "stumble" because I have no idea what brought this article to my attention, seeing as how I don't read anymore. I mean, I should read: I'm in my mid-thirties, I'm semi-smart and overeducated, and I enjoy telling other people what they should think about things. But I don't read. I'm socially immature so I still get a kick out of spending my free time with video games and masturbation, and law school has crushed my will do to any reading unless billable hours or career advancement is involved. Ironically enough, the last full book that I read was Klosterman's "Killing Yourself to Live" which after finishing I resolved that books simply weren't worth the effort anymore. I don't have anything against Chuck K. per se. In many ways, he's a successful version of me, saying the things that I more or less think. Only he's getting paid to do it, and by that fact alone, in the words of Snoop Dogg, he can suck a big fat dick.
Anyway, he wrote this article about Bujalski, who I never heard of at the time and just assumed Klosterman met in a bar one night and, tapped of ideas on deadline, he decided to pimp. I'm intrigued, I guess, so his movies make it to the Netflix queue, which is so backed up that it has all the credibility of a yearbook photo. Movies arrive daily and I think to myself, "When was ordering old Truffaut films a good idea?" But I digress.
The movies we're talking about here are Funny Ha Ha and Mutual Appreciation. For a mainstream movie goer -- let's call him "my brother" -- these two movies are virtually unwatchable. The characters shrug through most of the plodding dialog (hence the term "Mumblecore" to fantastically describe Bujalski's films), most of which contains more "likes" and "you knows" than a trip to the mall. Everything is amateur and low budget, there isn't really a plot, and above everything else, there are no robots in disguise to save the Earth from violent destruction. My brother would be very displeased.
Artsy types would describe these movies as Linklater's "Slacker" with more structure, crossed with touches of Golden Age Woody Allen and the intrusiveness of John Cassavetes. So there you go.
Me? I feel like I'm watching a year from my life right after I graduated college, where I simultaneously realize that I don't know what to do with myself, I hate most of my friends, I'm incapable of an adult relationship, and like the character that chucks a beer bottle off a balcony because he's just been rejected by the girl he has a crush on, I'm not yet equipped to handle adulthood. Does perfectly capturing the spirit of a small percentage of young people going through a predictable phase of their lives equal good filmmaking? I dunno. Klosterman says the brilliance of the movies is that it captures those moments that become the basis of an ethic code, such as when the lead character of "Funny Ha Ha" makes out with her friend's boyfriend and then immediately realizes that it wasn't right. To this, I agree. I also agree with the point that there is something different about these movies, something special between what isn't happening and what the camera is catching.
But would I recommend them to other people?
In the case of "Mutual Appreciation," the answer is no. The lead character is simply too unlikeable to enjoy his struggles and choices, and it took me three sittings before I could watch the movie in its entirety without a mid-film nap. Not recommending it is somewhat disappointing because it contained perhaps my favorite scene of any recent movie: the lead character drunkenly stumbling into a weird party where he knows no one and somehow ends up in a wig, mascara, and a dress. This more or less describes my life at age 23.
"Funny Ha Ha" I highly endorse, only because something interesting happens as the film progresses: you fall in love with the main character Marnie. She's somewhat plain and confused, and hung up on a guy straight out of a Liz Phair or Jenny Lewis song. But in those moments where you realize that she wants to be a better person but isn't sure how, you fall for her resolve and willfulness. It has the beauty of watching someone develop their faith, even if it involves some skinny asshole with floppy hair who's amused by his own jokes. It's almost sad to see a girl like that sleeping alone. Yes, I have been drinking, why do you ask?
Anyway, I liked "Funny Ha Ha." I like movies where average looking white people have meandering useless conversations in shitty apartments while drinking cheap booze and acting like college never ended. I'm easy like that.
So if I'm updating this blog every day, in theory, Monday's are going to be "Monday Movie Madness" Day. We're devoting the awful start of the week toward the movies I saw over the weekend, movies I'd like to see, movies I don't, and occasionally one of my staple sources of humor, the classic review of a movie I didn't see.
A few months ago I stumbled onto this article by Chuck Klosterman about "new" filmmaker Andrew Bujalski. I say "stumble" because I have no idea what brought this article to my attention, seeing as how I don't read anymore. I mean, I should read: I'm in my mid-thirties, I'm semi-smart and overeducated, and I enjoy telling other people what they should think about things. But I don't read. I'm socially immature so I still get a kick out of spending my free time with video games and masturbation, and law school has crushed my will do to any reading unless billable hours or career advancement is involved. Ironically enough, the last full book that I read was Klosterman's "Killing Yourself to Live" which after finishing I resolved that books simply weren't worth the effort anymore. I don't have anything against Chuck K. per se. In many ways, he's a successful version of me, saying the things that I more or less think. Only he's getting paid to do it, and by that fact alone, in the words of Snoop Dogg, he can suck a big fat dick.
Anyway, he wrote this article about Bujalski, who I never heard of at the time and just assumed Klosterman met in a bar one night and, tapped of ideas on deadline, he decided to pimp. I'm intrigued, I guess, so his movies make it to the Netflix queue, which is so backed up that it has all the credibility of a yearbook photo. Movies arrive daily and I think to myself, "When was ordering old Truffaut films a good idea?" But I digress.
The movies we're talking about here are Funny Ha Ha and Mutual Appreciation. For a mainstream movie goer -- let's call him "my brother" -- these two movies are virtually unwatchable. The characters shrug through most of the plodding dialog (hence the term "Mumblecore" to fantastically describe Bujalski's films), most of which contains more "likes" and "you knows" than a trip to the mall. Everything is amateur and low budget, there isn't really a plot, and above everything else, there are no robots in disguise to save the Earth from violent destruction. My brother would be very displeased.
Artsy types would describe these movies as Linklater's "Slacker" with more structure, crossed with touches of Golden Age Woody Allen and the intrusiveness of John Cassavetes. So there you go.
Me? I feel like I'm watching a year from my life right after I graduated college, where I simultaneously realize that I don't know what to do with myself, I hate most of my friends, I'm incapable of an adult relationship, and like the character that chucks a beer bottle off a balcony because he's just been rejected by the girl he has a crush on, I'm not yet equipped to handle adulthood. Does perfectly capturing the spirit of a small percentage of young people going through a predictable phase of their lives equal good filmmaking? I dunno. Klosterman says the brilliance of the movies is that it captures those moments that become the basis of an ethic code, such as when the lead character of "Funny Ha Ha" makes out with her friend's boyfriend and then immediately realizes that it wasn't right. To this, I agree. I also agree with the point that there is something different about these movies, something special between what isn't happening and what the camera is catching.
But would I recommend them to other people?
In the case of "Mutual Appreciation," the answer is no. The lead character is simply too unlikeable to enjoy his struggles and choices, and it took me three sittings before I could watch the movie in its entirety without a mid-film nap. Not recommending it is somewhat disappointing because it contained perhaps my favorite scene of any recent movie: the lead character drunkenly stumbling into a weird party where he knows no one and somehow ends up in a wig, mascara, and a dress. This more or less describes my life at age 23.
"Funny Ha Ha" I highly endorse, only because something interesting happens as the film progresses: you fall in love with the main character Marnie. She's somewhat plain and confused, and hung up on a guy straight out of a Liz Phair or Jenny Lewis song. But in those moments where you realize that she wants to be a better person but isn't sure how, you fall for her resolve and willfulness. It has the beauty of watching someone develop their faith, even if it involves some skinny asshole with floppy hair who's amused by his own jokes. It's almost sad to see a girl like that sleeping alone. Yes, I have been drinking, why do you ask?
Anyway, I liked "Funny Ha Ha." I like movies where average looking white people have meandering useless conversations in shitty apartments while drinking cheap booze and acting like college never ended. I'm easy like that.
The Wake, Part I
Yeah Yeah, She's the One -- #184
My father's uncle died several days ago, and today in the bright chilly air we lowered his body to rest eternally in the cold earth. Funerals do little to move me. What was once an old man I hardly knew, save for his warmth and kindness, was now a decorated husk shrouded in sadness, serving to be little more than a neglected prop in an otherwise congenial family holiday gathering. In a sense, he could not have picked a better time to die. This was death expected and understood. During the wake I scanned the small room of the funeral home, looking for something that would mark this occasion with significance. This just felt like another funeral, and I shrugged my shoulders with disappointment. Until I got home, and realized that I couldn't fall asleep.
I wasn't thinking about death all night, quite the opposite, in fact. I was thinking about life. In three weeks I'm moving hundreds of miles away to start a new job in my new career, in a city with which I have barely a connection. When asked by one of his cousins yesterday as to why I took the job, my father jokingly said, "Because they offered it to him." He's right, unfortunately. I took the job because I desperately wanted to work, and I had zero reason for why I would say no.
Needless to say, I'm having second thoughts. Once you make any major life-altering decisions, I think we almost expect that cherubs will descend with golden horns to lead you down a gilded and exalted path toward every subsequent choice made. Angels have yet to descend. Potential landlords don't return my phone calls, and the few that do refuse me tenancy thanks to the 70-pounds of lab fur to your right. Instead of wine and roses, my employers send me a cryptic benefits packet that is more undecipherable than Finnegan's Wake. Family and friends are more concerned with our ever-populating world of newborns than to react with anything more than brief congratulatory praise for taking thirty-four years to finally get a "real job." I'm on an island, scared shitless about what I'm about to face, and this is nothing more than a blip on the December radar.
Scared shitless may be an exaggeration. It's a nervous excitement that, when I want to remain grounded about the whole thing, gives way to calmness because, after taking a deep breath, I've been through this before. The enthusiasm gives way to relaxed anticipation, which gives way eventually to boredom. I stress about finding an apartment, knowing full well that in three weeks time I will be sitting in the same four-walled apartment I've bounced around in my entire life, playing Guitar Hero by myself and wondering if there is something more productive I should be doing at the moment. (Note: There isn't.) It all works out and normal reaction to change and blah blah blah. But that still doesn't explain why I'm up all night, thinking about my ex-girlfriend.
How's that for a non sequitur? Can I get a do-over?
There are things here that I'm not saying, things unspoken that people seem to understand. I'm going away alone. ALONE. Like in that Heart song, only the opposite, I guess, if you listen to the lyrics. I don't have a girlfriend or a significant other (um, sort of ... entry for another day, perhaps). And when you're faced with this debilitation, it seems to radiate outward from you and affect everyone around you. People begin to seek other people for you, as if you're a dying man needing an organ transplant. And when I express reservations about moving away, concerned mostly about what my social life will entail, what people really think I'm saying is, "How am I going to find a girlfriend up there?" I laugh at that notion, because it's the last thing going on in my mind. But seriously, how am I going to find a girlfriend up there?
People with insomnia spend their awake-in-the-dark time asking themselves hypotheticals. They place themselves in pretend situations, or re-place themselves in previous real situations, and then imagine an ideal story for how the scene will play. My story for the evening involved me answering the question, "When are you going to settle down?" It seems valid. In one way or another, someone is bound to ask you this in some form or another. I don't have a stock answer, usually just shrugging my shoulders and offering a witty one-line retort like "Fuck that" or "Never, motherfucker." But in my make-believe land of insomnia playwriting, here is the answer I would like to say.
(Oh! Usually when the scene is played, I'm having some boozy night out with my hip married friends in a dark New York bistro. For the record, I've had exactly one night like this in the past five years, and it was an absolute trainwreck of an evening that featured several hours of baby photos exchanged and "Remember that time..." conversations. Married people might as well just put a fence spike through their beloved heads.)
Hip Married Friends Holding Hands While Sipping Red Wine: "Why haven't you settled down and made an honest man of yourself, you rakishly handsome devil?"
Me (white dress shirt opened two buttons to expose chest, sporting amount of hair I had about ten years ago): Do you want to know why I can't get married? Do you really want to know?
Friends (leaning closer, in tandem): Yes.
Me: About a year ago while I was at school, one night my little social circle decided to drift away from our home-base and head out to the trendy tourist town for a night of upscale drinking. I was there with the girl I was dating at the time, or maybe we were just friends at the point -- it was a comfortable relationship, whatever it was. But it was never going to work out because I was always thinking about someone else. The "someone else girl" was my best friend, stunning and amazing and the type of person that I want to spend the rest of my life with. Only she wasn't feeling it, you know? And I know that she wasn't feeling it, and I'm beyond the point where I'm going to chase windmills in my love life. Anyway, here I am, out drinking and having fun with one girl while secretly pining for another, both relationships disastrous at inception. And as we're getting ready to leave, I turn from the bar ... and I saw her. She was dancing on the dance floor maybe five feet from me. She had black curly hair and dark eyes, and when she saw me she smiled. It was like in a movie -- no, it was a movie! It was the scene when the guy sees the girl across the crowded room and every bit of pain and disappointment in his life suddenly makes sense because it was all leading up to this one moment. I was just frozen. Not like scared or anything, but more amazed because I didn't think I was capable of having things like this happen anymore. And it was there with her too, I know it was. And she was dancing with her friends, but suddenly she cocked her head slightly, like she was asking, "Are you coming out here or not?"
Friends (riveted): AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: The girl I was dating grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me out of the bar. We went home. I never saw her again.
Friends: We don't get it. What does that have to do with getting married?
Me: Well I don't want to be attached to anyone that is going to pull me away when I finally find that girl again.
END SCENE
I'll finish the rest of the story some other time. The sun is up and I have to start my day. I'm writing every day in this blog, even if the entries suck.
My father's uncle died several days ago, and today in the bright chilly air we lowered his body to rest eternally in the cold earth. Funerals do little to move me. What was once an old man I hardly knew, save for his warmth and kindness, was now a decorated husk shrouded in sadness, serving to be little more than a neglected prop in an otherwise congenial family holiday gathering. In a sense, he could not have picked a better time to die. This was death expected and understood. During the wake I scanned the small room of the funeral home, looking for something that would mark this occasion with significance. This just felt like another funeral, and I shrugged my shoulders with disappointment. Until I got home, and realized that I couldn't fall asleep.
I wasn't thinking about death all night, quite the opposite, in fact. I was thinking about life. In three weeks I'm moving hundreds of miles away to start a new job in my new career, in a city with which I have barely a connection. When asked by one of his cousins yesterday as to why I took the job, my father jokingly said, "Because they offered it to him." He's right, unfortunately. I took the job because I desperately wanted to work, and I had zero reason for why I would say no.
Needless to say, I'm having second thoughts. Once you make any major life-altering decisions, I think we almost expect that cherubs will descend with golden horns to lead you down a gilded and exalted path toward every subsequent choice made. Angels have yet to descend. Potential landlords don't return my phone calls, and the few that do refuse me tenancy thanks to the 70-pounds of lab fur to your right. Instead of wine and roses, my employers send me a cryptic benefits packet that is more undecipherable than Finnegan's Wake. Family and friends are more concerned with our ever-populating world of newborns than to react with anything more than brief congratulatory praise for taking thirty-four years to finally get a "real job." I'm on an island, scared shitless about what I'm about to face, and this is nothing more than a blip on the December radar.
Scared shitless may be an exaggeration. It's a nervous excitement that, when I want to remain grounded about the whole thing, gives way to calmness because, after taking a deep breath, I've been through this before. The enthusiasm gives way to relaxed anticipation, which gives way eventually to boredom. I stress about finding an apartment, knowing full well that in three weeks time I will be sitting in the same four-walled apartment I've bounced around in my entire life, playing Guitar Hero by myself and wondering if there is something more productive I should be doing at the moment. (Note: There isn't.) It all works out and normal reaction to change and blah blah blah. But that still doesn't explain why I'm up all night, thinking about my ex-girlfriend.
How's that for a non sequitur? Can I get a do-over?
There are things here that I'm not saying, things unspoken that people seem to understand. I'm going away alone. ALONE. Like in that Heart song, only the opposite, I guess, if you listen to the lyrics. I don't have a girlfriend or a significant other (um, sort of ... entry for another day, perhaps). And when you're faced with this debilitation, it seems to radiate outward from you and affect everyone around you. People begin to seek other people for you, as if you're a dying man needing an organ transplant. And when I express reservations about moving away, concerned mostly about what my social life will entail, what people really think I'm saying is, "How am I going to find a girlfriend up there?" I laugh at that notion, because it's the last thing going on in my mind. But seriously, how am I going to find a girlfriend up there?
People with insomnia spend their awake-in-the-dark time asking themselves hypotheticals. They place themselves in pretend situations, or re-place themselves in previous real situations, and then imagine an ideal story for how the scene will play. My story for the evening involved me answering the question, "When are you going to settle down?" It seems valid. In one way or another, someone is bound to ask you this in some form or another. I don't have a stock answer, usually just shrugging my shoulders and offering a witty one-line retort like "Fuck that" or "Never, motherfucker." But in my make-believe land of insomnia playwriting, here is the answer I would like to say.
(Oh! Usually when the scene is played, I'm having some boozy night out with my hip married friends in a dark New York bistro. For the record, I've had exactly one night like this in the past five years, and it was an absolute trainwreck of an evening that featured several hours of baby photos exchanged and "Remember that time..." conversations. Married people might as well just put a fence spike through their beloved heads.)
Hip Married Friends Holding Hands While Sipping Red Wine: "Why haven't you settled down and made an honest man of yourself, you rakishly handsome devil?"
Me (white dress shirt opened two buttons to expose chest, sporting amount of hair I had about ten years ago): Do you want to know why I can't get married? Do you really want to know?
Friends (leaning closer, in tandem): Yes.
Me: About a year ago while I was at school, one night my little social circle decided to drift away from our home-base and head out to the trendy tourist town for a night of upscale drinking. I was there with the girl I was dating at the time, or maybe we were just friends at the point -- it was a comfortable relationship, whatever it was. But it was never going to work out because I was always thinking about someone else. The "someone else girl" was my best friend, stunning and amazing and the type of person that I want to spend the rest of my life with. Only she wasn't feeling it, you know? And I know that she wasn't feeling it, and I'm beyond the point where I'm going to chase windmills in my love life. Anyway, here I am, out drinking and having fun with one girl while secretly pining for another, both relationships disastrous at inception. And as we're getting ready to leave, I turn from the bar ... and I saw her. She was dancing on the dance floor maybe five feet from me. She had black curly hair and dark eyes, and when she saw me she smiled. It was like in a movie -- no, it was a movie! It was the scene when the guy sees the girl across the crowded room and every bit of pain and disappointment in his life suddenly makes sense because it was all leading up to this one moment. I was just frozen. Not like scared or anything, but more amazed because I didn't think I was capable of having things like this happen anymore. And it was there with her too, I know it was. And she was dancing with her friends, but suddenly she cocked her head slightly, like she was asking, "Are you coming out here or not?"
Friends (riveted): AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: The girl I was dating grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me out of the bar. We went home. I never saw her again.
Friends: We don't get it. What does that have to do with getting married?
Me: Well I don't want to be attached to anyone that is going to pull me away when I finally find that girl again.
END SCENE
I'll finish the rest of the story some other time. The sun is up and I have to start my day. I'm writing every day in this blog, even if the entries suck.
Dear Penpal Hamid ...
Did somebody say keep on rockin? -- #833
Dear Penpal Hamid,
What's up, my brother from an Afghani mother? How's it hanging? Sorry to hear about your sister's heroin addiction. I wouldn't sweat it, though, because if the movie "Trainspotting" has taught me anything, it's that you don't need expensive treatment centers and medical supervision to beat a smack habit, just a few buckets, some cold soup, and pornography. I know pornography is strictly forbidden in your culture, but buckets and soup are available, right? I guess it also helps if you have other drugs to combat the effects of the current drugs, but goatherders can't be choosers, can they? Haha! Just kidding. Don't get all suicide bomber on me. Seriously. Don't do it.
Sorry also that I haven't written in a while, but some stuff happened to me that precluded my communication. First, I got sick. It started like a month ago when I got a touch of the dizzys, but it turns out that I had something slightly more serious called vestibular neuritis. It's an inflammation of the nerve that connects your ear to your brain, which results in your sense of balance being distorted and a general feeling that your standing on the deck of a rowboat during a cyclone. It's been a bit of a nightmare for me. Remember that time that you and your cousin Uzma were playing in the field and that landmine went off and you lost your hearing? It's like that, only less permanent and grossly disfiguring.
I also got distracted by the Major League Baseball playoffs, which are technically still going on but are less interesting now that my Yankees have been eliminated. It was totally tragic. First, their lights-out volcanic reliever Joba Chamberlain suffered an 8th-inning meltdown after being swarmed by a legion of bugs. Fucking bugs. (Sorry to swear, but as a fan, it was completely necessary -- please ask Allah for my forgiveness.) Apparently the warm global climate combined with the general sewagey environment of Cleveland and formed the perfect storm for millions of tiny black midges to gather on the pitching mound and pester our rocket-armed reliever into giving up the tying run in a tight ballgame. It was the most ridiculous sports moment I have ever seen. He looked like that picture you sent me of your Uncle Nadar after the warlords got him, but with less rotting blisters and puffy decomposition.
And speaking of murderous warlords, the Yankees best player, Alex Rodriguez (also known as A-Rod), once again decided to play like a sick goat when the team needed him most. Worse yet, now he's a free agent and he can leave us for more money and play for someone else next year. Free agency is kind of a tough concept to explain. It's like when those clerics were trying to recruit you to blow yourself up in the middle of the village market. The one mosque promised eternal salvation and 52 virgins, while the other mosque promised salvation, 71 virgins, and eight pounds of rat-meat for your family -- you were testing the free agent market. Needless to say, Alex Rodriguez stands to make a lot of virgins and rat-meat next season, and he doesn't even have to blow himself up to do it. Unfortunately.
Silly me. Baseball? It's kind of like cricket, only less gay (which I know that you Muslims would know nothing about -- wink wink). You could probably play baseball in Afghanistan. All you really need is a rock and a stick, which I know you guys have plenty of because I saw footage of the Taliban trying to fight our military. Kidding! Please don't set any IEDs out when their convoy passes by your home. Seriously. It's demoralizing.
That pretty much sums up my month. But I wanted to write you and tell you what's been going on in America lately. First, the gossip. Remember the orange girl I told you about in my last letter? Lindsay Lohan?
She's out of rehab and doing great! Granted, most of her career is in shambles, her family is a dysfunctional nightmare, and she's all but set the Hollywood bar for promiscuity, drug/alcohol abuse and general stupidity (pornstars excluded). But look at those boobs! They could heal a war-torn country. Not your war-torn country, of course. You guys would probably cover her up with black drapes and stone her for harlotry or something.
In other news about the satan whores of America, our other national gem, Britney Spears, has been having a rough month. She flunked out of rehab and reportedly has been living off of Grey Goose vodka and Chunky Monkey smoothies. Then I guess she did something stupid at the MTV movie awards (MTV is a popular teenage shopping channel that sells mobile phones, fragrant body sprays, and clothing for prostitutes). I actually didn't see it -- if I wanted to see a fat woman warbling through awful songs, I'd starting hanging out at my local Regal Beagle on karaoke night again -- but I guess her performance was so bad that they threw her in jail and took her kids away from her. I dunno. American justice is kinda screwed up sometimes. You guys might cut off people's hands for stealing things or whatever, but at least you let someone chub-up a little without making a federal case out of it. I mean, theoretically. There's no way you guys could get fat, unless your bodies started to digest dirt like it was a starchy sugar.
That's pretty much all there is from me, except for one super-duper bonerrific thing that warrants noting: Halo muthafuckin' 3!!!!! Booooooo-yahhhhhhhhh!!!! I don't actually have it, but I've seen so many short films and screencaps from the game that my penis sprouts up whenever it gets mentioned. It looks friggin' awesome. From what I gather, you play this totally kick-ass American military guy that runs around shooting the shit out of these hairy brown monsters that have Neanderthal weapons and hate our freedom. It's fucking fantastic. I can't wait to buy this thing and blow these brown hairy fuckers straight to hell.
So how's everything going with you? By the way, no need to thank me, as an American taxpayer, for the condolence bucks. It's really no problem. I'm not saying that what the U.S. military did was wrong, considering you guys did 9/11 and all, but hopefully this money can go a long way toward repairing the tensions between our two countries. You could totally buy an Xbox with that money, or maybe pay to have your mother's gangrenous leg taken off.
Smell ya later, Hamid -- Not! You probably stink like a dying camel. Kidding! You're like the only Mideastern-type person that I'm not completely terrified of because you're thousands of miles away and dirt poor and wouldn't qualify for a visa because I might have sent your letters to the FBI and put you on a federal watch list. Again, kidding. Sort of. Stay safe, Hamid.
Dear Penpal Hamid,
What's up, my brother from an Afghani mother? How's it hanging? Sorry to hear about your sister's heroin addiction. I wouldn't sweat it, though, because if the movie "Trainspotting" has taught me anything, it's that you don't need expensive treatment centers and medical supervision to beat a smack habit, just a few buckets, some cold soup, and pornography. I know pornography is strictly forbidden in your culture, but buckets and soup are available, right? I guess it also helps if you have other drugs to combat the effects of the current drugs, but goatherders can't be choosers, can they? Haha! Just kidding. Don't get all suicide bomber on me. Seriously. Don't do it.
Sorry also that I haven't written in a while, but some stuff happened to me that precluded my communication. First, I got sick. It started like a month ago when I got a touch of the dizzys, but it turns out that I had something slightly more serious called vestibular neuritis. It's an inflammation of the nerve that connects your ear to your brain, which results in your sense of balance being distorted and a general feeling that your standing on the deck of a rowboat during a cyclone. It's been a bit of a nightmare for me. Remember that time that you and your cousin Uzma were playing in the field and that landmine went off and you lost your hearing? It's like that, only less permanent and grossly disfiguring.
I also got distracted by the Major League Baseball playoffs, which are technically still going on but are less interesting now that my Yankees have been eliminated. It was totally tragic. First, their lights-out volcanic reliever Joba Chamberlain suffered an 8th-inning meltdown after being swarmed by a legion of bugs. Fucking bugs. (Sorry to swear, but as a fan, it was completely necessary -- please ask Allah for my forgiveness.) Apparently the warm global climate combined with the general sewagey environment of Cleveland and formed the perfect storm for millions of tiny black midges to gather on the pitching mound and pester our rocket-armed reliever into giving up the tying run in a tight ballgame. It was the most ridiculous sports moment I have ever seen. He looked like that picture you sent me of your Uncle Nadar after the warlords got him, but with less rotting blisters and puffy decomposition.
And speaking of murderous warlords, the Yankees best player, Alex Rodriguez (also known as A-Rod), once again decided to play like a sick goat when the team needed him most. Worse yet, now he's a free agent and he can leave us for more money and play for someone else next year. Free agency is kind of a tough concept to explain. It's like when those clerics were trying to recruit you to blow yourself up in the middle of the village market. The one mosque promised eternal salvation and 52 virgins, while the other mosque promised salvation, 71 virgins, and eight pounds of rat-meat for your family -- you were testing the free agent market. Needless to say, Alex Rodriguez stands to make a lot of virgins and rat-meat next season, and he doesn't even have to blow himself up to do it. Unfortunately.
Silly me. Baseball? It's kind of like cricket, only less gay (which I know that you Muslims would know nothing about -- wink wink). You could probably play baseball in Afghanistan. All you really need is a rock and a stick, which I know you guys have plenty of because I saw footage of the Taliban trying to fight our military. Kidding! Please don't set any IEDs out when their convoy passes by your home. Seriously. It's demoralizing.
That pretty much sums up my month. But I wanted to write you and tell you what's been going on in America lately. First, the gossip. Remember the orange girl I told you about in my last letter? Lindsay Lohan?
She's out of rehab and doing great! Granted, most of her career is in shambles, her family is a dysfunctional nightmare, and she's all but set the Hollywood bar for promiscuity, drug/alcohol abuse and general stupidity (pornstars excluded). But look at those boobs! They could heal a war-torn country. Not your war-torn country, of course. You guys would probably cover her up with black drapes and stone her for harlotry or something.
In other news about the satan whores of America, our other national gem, Britney Spears, has been having a rough month. She flunked out of rehab and reportedly has been living off of Grey Goose vodka and Chunky Monkey smoothies. Then I guess she did something stupid at the MTV movie awards (MTV is a popular teenage shopping channel that sells mobile phones, fragrant body sprays, and clothing for prostitutes). I actually didn't see it -- if I wanted to see a fat woman warbling through awful songs, I'd starting hanging out at my local Regal Beagle on karaoke night again -- but I guess her performance was so bad that they threw her in jail and took her kids away from her. I dunno. American justice is kinda screwed up sometimes. You guys might cut off people's hands for stealing things or whatever, but at least you let someone chub-up a little without making a federal case out of it. I mean, theoretically. There's no way you guys could get fat, unless your bodies started to digest dirt like it was a starchy sugar.
That's pretty much all there is from me, except for one super-duper bonerrific thing that warrants noting: Halo muthafuckin' 3!!!!! Booooooo-yahhhhhhhhh!!!! I don't actually have it, but I've seen so many short films and screencaps from the game that my penis sprouts up whenever it gets mentioned. It looks friggin' awesome. From what I gather, you play this totally kick-ass American military guy that runs around shooting the shit out of these hairy brown monsters that have Neanderthal weapons and hate our freedom. It's fucking fantastic. I can't wait to buy this thing and blow these brown hairy fuckers straight to hell.
So how's everything going with you? By the way, no need to thank me, as an American taxpayer, for the condolence bucks. It's really no problem. I'm not saying that what the U.S. military did was wrong, considering you guys did 9/11 and all, but hopefully this money can go a long way toward repairing the tensions between our two countries. You could totally buy an Xbox with that money, or maybe pay to have your mother's gangrenous leg taken off.
Smell ya later, Hamid -- Not! You probably stink like a dying camel. Kidding! You're like the only Mideastern-type person that I'm not completely terrified of because you're thousands of miles away and dirt poor and wouldn't qualify for a visa because I might have sent your letters to the FBI and put you on a federal watch list. Again, kidding. Sort of. Stay safe, Hamid.
The Oppression Blogs
How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look? -- #92
Ever since getting a shout-out during President Bush's speech before the UN a few weeks ago, the interweb is all abuzz about Myanmar (also known as Burma, if you haven't been following world history or are the leader of the free world). Myanburma is so hot right now that Angelina Jolie is looking into adopting their children and Access Hollywood reported that General Than Shwe had sex with Lindsey Lohan while she was in rehab. That's a joke. Actually, Myanmar is currently a cesspool of murder and political violence. How do we know this? From the Burmese oppression blogs, of course!
Sure, blogging about rampant abuse amid a culture where dissension is harshly punished might alert the world to the gross human rights violations in your country, but it also seems like a real convenient way to gain traffic to your website. "Oooooh, look at me! My brother spoke out about the junta and the next day my entire family went missing and haven't been heard from since! Please help me! The soliders are coming to cut out my tongue! Waaaaaahhh!!!" How desperate for attention can you be?
Personally I think this is unfair. I mean, just because I don't have the advantage of living in a hostile climate where expressing my thoughts would likely get me tortured and killed doesn't mean my blog is any less important. I'm in my mid-thirties, unemployed, and forced to move back in with my parents after I spent all my money on law school -- I'm just as oppressed as some dude in Myanmar. Does anyone care about me? Stupid lucky bloggers living in a Burmese hellhole.
Anyway, it's time for me to end the silence and speak out about my oppression. I don't care if this means that I won't get my allowance this week or my father decides not to pay my Mastercard bill this month. The world needs to know. There is no tomorrow anymore.
Monday, 10:30 A.M.
I woke to the screams of the vacuum running. Outside my room my mother was once again clashing with the dog hair gathered around the edges of the cabinet that housed our high definition TV. I quickly jumped out of bed and found safety near the gourmet coffee machine. There was very little coffee left and it was cold. The crumb cake from the previous day tasted stale and brittle. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
Tuesday, 11:00 P.M.
At night the sound of acorns crashing against the deck by the pool keeps me awake. My troubled mind wanders in the darkness. "Did I leave my iPod at the gym? It wasn't in my bag when I came home. Maybe it's in the car." I pull my comforter close to my chin, shivering from the cold conditioned air. I hope I didn't lose my iPod. That would really suck.
Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.
I must find a job. My checking account is nearly depleted and the beer from our Labor Day BBQ is almost gone. Plus I want to get an Xbox to play Halo 3. I spend my afternoons searching online through the job postings, though the vast majority are unsatisfactory because they don't pay well enough. My will remains firm, however, and I will not give up hope. My father suggests that I get a job at the local supermarket, just to have some spending cash. Fuck that. Do I look Mexican to you, Dad?
Thursday, 2:00 P.M.
Forced to decline tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Atlantic City. The nightmare continues.
Friday, 6:00 P.M.
I returned from mountain biking today and was preparing to settle into a night of televised hockey and hard lemonade when my mother cornered me and began interrogation about my day. I provided her with information that my day was "fine" and that I was feeling "pretty good." She pressed further and demanded that I sit down and listen to her story about who she met while out shopping that day. Her story lasted a full twenty minutes, causing me to miss almost a third of the first period of the hockey game. Not only that, but the steak she had cooked for my dinner was a little dry. I cannot endure this torture much longer.
Saturday, 3:00 P.M.
Fighting erupted in the house today. I was staging a non-violent sit-in on my couch to protest the playing of college football games when paternal forces stormed in and demanded an explanation for certain charges on my credit card bill. I peacefully explained that lobster bisque and fantasy football does not pay for itself. This was met with harsh punishment as I was forced to clean dog feces from the yard. The regime seeks to break my will with humiliation, but my spirit remains strong.
Sunday, 11:00 A.M.
My hangover sleep was again interrupted by the shrieks of the vacuum. Pray for me that this madness will someday end.
Ever since getting a shout-out during President Bush's speech before the UN a few weeks ago, the interweb is all abuzz about Myanmar (also known as Burma, if you haven't been following world history or are the leader of the free world). Myanburma is so hot right now that Angelina Jolie is looking into adopting their children and Access Hollywood reported that General Than Shwe had sex with Lindsey Lohan while she was in rehab. That's a joke. Actually, Myanmar is currently a cesspool of murder and political violence. How do we know this? From the Burmese oppression blogs, of course!
Sure, blogging about rampant abuse amid a culture where dissension is harshly punished might alert the world to the gross human rights violations in your country, but it also seems like a real convenient way to gain traffic to your website. "Oooooh, look at me! My brother spoke out about the junta and the next day my entire family went missing and haven't been heard from since! Please help me! The soliders are coming to cut out my tongue! Waaaaaahhh!!!" How desperate for attention can you be?
Personally I think this is unfair. I mean, just because I don't have the advantage of living in a hostile climate where expressing my thoughts would likely get me tortured and killed doesn't mean my blog is any less important. I'm in my mid-thirties, unemployed, and forced to move back in with my parents after I spent all my money on law school -- I'm just as oppressed as some dude in Myanmar. Does anyone care about me? Stupid lucky bloggers living in a Burmese hellhole.
Anyway, it's time for me to end the silence and speak out about my oppression. I don't care if this means that I won't get my allowance this week or my father decides not to pay my Mastercard bill this month. The world needs to know. There is no tomorrow anymore.
Monday, 10:30 A.M.
I woke to the screams of the vacuum running. Outside my room my mother was once again clashing with the dog hair gathered around the edges of the cabinet that housed our high definition TV. I quickly jumped out of bed and found safety near the gourmet coffee machine. There was very little coffee left and it was cold. The crumb cake from the previous day tasted stale and brittle. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
Tuesday, 11:00 P.M.
At night the sound of acorns crashing against the deck by the pool keeps me awake. My troubled mind wanders in the darkness. "Did I leave my iPod at the gym? It wasn't in my bag when I came home. Maybe it's in the car." I pull my comforter close to my chin, shivering from the cold conditioned air. I hope I didn't lose my iPod. That would really suck.
Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.
I must find a job. My checking account is nearly depleted and the beer from our Labor Day BBQ is almost gone. Plus I want to get an Xbox to play Halo 3. I spend my afternoons searching online through the job postings, though the vast majority are unsatisfactory because they don't pay well enough. My will remains firm, however, and I will not give up hope. My father suggests that I get a job at the local supermarket, just to have some spending cash. Fuck that. Do I look Mexican to you, Dad?
Thursday, 2:00 P.M.
Forced to decline tickets to see the Foo Fighters in Atlantic City. The nightmare continues.
Friday, 6:00 P.M.
I returned from mountain biking today and was preparing to settle into a night of televised hockey and hard lemonade when my mother cornered me and began interrogation about my day. I provided her with information that my day was "fine" and that I was feeling "pretty good." She pressed further and demanded that I sit down and listen to her story about who she met while out shopping that day. Her story lasted a full twenty minutes, causing me to miss almost a third of the first period of the hockey game. Not only that, but the steak she had cooked for my dinner was a little dry. I cannot endure this torture much longer.
Saturday, 3:00 P.M.
Fighting erupted in the house today. I was staging a non-violent sit-in on my couch to protest the playing of college football games when paternal forces stormed in and demanded an explanation for certain charges on my credit card bill. I peacefully explained that lobster bisque and fantasy football does not pay for itself. This was met with harsh punishment as I was forced to clean dog feces from the yard. The regime seeks to break my will with humiliation, but my spirit remains strong.
Sunday, 11:00 A.M.
My hangover sleep was again interrupted by the shrieks of the vacuum. Pray for me that this madness will someday end.
The Murder Dolls
Too much horror business, driving late at night -- #2011
My mother knits. Usually when I tell people this, especially the womenfolk, it's met with a gleeful shriek of "That's so cute!" and followed by some story about how this one time they tried to knit a sweater for their cat that totally didn't fit but whatever because it was fun. No, you don't understand. My mother knits. She knits in the way that spiders spin webs to catch and eviscerate bugs. She knits in the way that zombies feed off of the brains of the living. Like a needle needs a vain, like someone to blame, like a thought unchained, like a runaway train -- my mother knits.
Whether the steady movement of her hands brings her one small step closer to understanding Our Lord and Saviour, or whether the rhythmic clacking of the needles drown the demon whispers urging her to put rat poison in my father's coffee, my mother's constant knitting has progressed over the years from industrious dalliance to ritualistic obsession to functional affliction to Our Little Problem. She swears she can quit at any time, she just chooses not too. We spend our lives in constant fear of being smothered under an avalanche of crocheted blankets, spools of yarn, long reams of brightly colored scarves and itchy sweaters with sleeves that extend to the ends of your fingers. We've seen the knitting needle and the damage done.
I've suffered socially because of my mother's knitting problem. I was the kid wearing cardigans in junior high, well before Kurt Cobain made it acceptable to do so. I also played varsity lacrosse in thick yellow socks that matched my school's colors, owned a white pair of wool gloves, and was occasionally made to model women's dresses. Put all that together and it's no wonder why I was voted Most Likely to Live By Himself in the East Village with Two Cats. Things did not get easier as I developed adult relationships with the opposite sex, as every single gift given by my mother for the past twenty years is knitting related. More than one ex-girlfriend has lamented, "You know, I appreciate all these shawls that your mother is making, but would it kill her to get me a fucking Borders gift card."
There's no denying that my mother is insanely talented in the knitting sciences. As long as I ignore that somewhere in my house there is a cache of baby sweaters hidden in a crawlspace and draped in tears of disappointment, my mother's gift for the knit has made me the darling among the spouse set of all my friends, as their children reap the benefit of handmade outfits created by my mother for her non-existent grandchildren. And yes, I do get fuzzy socks and cozy sweaters out of the deal. But like all geniuses, eventually she was bound to take a wrong turn from Talent Street and wind up in Crazytown. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the murder dolls.
The origin of the murder dolls is shrouded in mystery. My mother claims that they were stitched together with excess yarn and remnant felt. I'm pretty sure that the yarn was shorn from vicious lambs condemned to hell and linked together by needles carved from the bones of mass murderers, genocidal dictators, and Dane Cook fans. I'm convinced that the knitting ritual was something akin to the rape scene in Rosemary's Baby, with the lone exception that Boston Legal was probably on at the time. Either way, these dolls are pure evil. And due to the sad and unfortunate circumstances of my life, I'm sharing a room with them.
Ever wonder what a sock puppet would look like if caught in a house fire? Note the stumps, the lack of facial features, and the jazzy sweater. But she has nothing on ...
Dear Lord, look at this thing. The stringy unkempt hair that you would only find on a psychotic lunatic or maybe a librarian. The black lifeless eyes offset on bone-white yarnskin. The painted blood red lips curled into a twisted smile. The decorated wedding dress that makes her look like she was jilted at the doll altar by Teddy Ruxpin. I half expect to wake up one night and find this thing standing in my doorway, the head of a Cabbage Patch doll in her hand. I'm scared to even go near her. I go to bed at night with a necklace made of wolfsbane and a water gun filled with holy water and maybe some Clorox.
She also has her ears pierced. Shudder.
My mother knits. Usually when I tell people this, especially the womenfolk, it's met with a gleeful shriek of "That's so cute!" and followed by some story about how this one time they tried to knit a sweater for their cat that totally didn't fit but whatever because it was fun. No, you don't understand. My mother knits. She knits in the way that spiders spin webs to catch and eviscerate bugs. She knits in the way that zombies feed off of the brains of the living. Like a needle needs a vain, like someone to blame, like a thought unchained, like a runaway train -- my mother knits.
Whether the steady movement of her hands brings her one small step closer to understanding Our Lord and Saviour, or whether the rhythmic clacking of the needles drown the demon whispers urging her to put rat poison in my father's coffee, my mother's constant knitting has progressed over the years from industrious dalliance to ritualistic obsession to functional affliction to Our Little Problem. She swears she can quit at any time, she just chooses not too. We spend our lives in constant fear of being smothered under an avalanche of crocheted blankets, spools of yarn, long reams of brightly colored scarves and itchy sweaters with sleeves that extend to the ends of your fingers. We've seen the knitting needle and the damage done.
I've suffered socially because of my mother's knitting problem. I was the kid wearing cardigans in junior high, well before Kurt Cobain made it acceptable to do so. I also played varsity lacrosse in thick yellow socks that matched my school's colors, owned a white pair of wool gloves, and was occasionally made to model women's dresses. Put all that together and it's no wonder why I was voted Most Likely to Live By Himself in the East Village with Two Cats. Things did not get easier as I developed adult relationships with the opposite sex, as every single gift given by my mother for the past twenty years is knitting related. More than one ex-girlfriend has lamented, "You know, I appreciate all these shawls that your mother is making, but would it kill her to get me a fucking Borders gift card."
There's no denying that my mother is insanely talented in the knitting sciences. As long as I ignore that somewhere in my house there is a cache of baby sweaters hidden in a crawlspace and draped in tears of disappointment, my mother's gift for the knit has made me the darling among the spouse set of all my friends, as their children reap the benefit of handmade outfits created by my mother for her non-existent grandchildren. And yes, I do get fuzzy socks and cozy sweaters out of the deal. But like all geniuses, eventually she was bound to take a wrong turn from Talent Street and wind up in Crazytown. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the murder dolls.
The origin of the murder dolls is shrouded in mystery. My mother claims that they were stitched together with excess yarn and remnant felt. I'm pretty sure that the yarn was shorn from vicious lambs condemned to hell and linked together by needles carved from the bones of mass murderers, genocidal dictators, and Dane Cook fans. I'm convinced that the knitting ritual was something akin to the rape scene in Rosemary's Baby, with the lone exception that Boston Legal was probably on at the time. Either way, these dolls are pure evil. And due to the sad and unfortunate circumstances of my life, I'm sharing a room with them.
Ever wonder what a sock puppet would look like if caught in a house fire? Note the stumps, the lack of facial features, and the jazzy sweater. But she has nothing on ...
Dear Lord, look at this thing. The stringy unkempt hair that you would only find on a psychotic lunatic or maybe a librarian. The black lifeless eyes offset on bone-white yarnskin. The painted blood red lips curled into a twisted smile. The decorated wedding dress that makes her look like she was jilted at the doll altar by Teddy Ruxpin. I half expect to wake up one night and find this thing standing in my doorway, the head of a Cabbage Patch doll in her hand. I'm scared to even go near her. I go to bed at night with a necklace made of wolfsbane and a water gun filled with holy water and maybe some Clorox.
She also has her ears pierced. Shudder.
Tommy Roe Can Go Fuck Himself
Hello, Hello -- #1045
So I have vertigo now.
I woke up last Sunday with a headache. I didn't think much of it, assuming that it was hangover, because it was Sunday and that's what happens on Sunday. I went about my normal routine of funneling coffee, shoveling eggs down my gullet, and weeping softly as I adjusted my fantasy football roster. Suddenly it hit me. "Wait a minute, I didn't go out drinking last night. This headache might be a sign of some larger internal malfunction."
Because my hypochondria knobs are all set to eleven, I immediately assumed that it was a tumor and started drafting my will. Mom gets my dog, Dad gets my porn collection, my brother gets Guitar Hero, medical science gets my non-cirrhosis organs, and everything else goes to Bijou Phillips. That settled, I sank into the couch and watched an old homeless man completely decimate my New York Giants secondary.
Sometime around the third quarter I realized that I was drunk. My arms and legs were numb and tingling, my eyes were kind of watery, my stomach felt bloated and nauseous, and I couldn't see straight. "This is awesome," I thought. "I am completely hammered right now and I haven't even been drinking. I've broken through to the other side. My body has become it's own distillery!"
Smiling, I got up to go puke in the bathroom ... and now I was on a magical voyage aboard the H.M.S. Woozy into the land of Porcelaina. The room was spinning right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby, right round, round round. I grabbed the wall for balance, fell to my knees, curled into a fetal position, and swore that I would never not drink again.
That's how my afternoon went. Constant numbness in the limbs and splitting pain along my nose, ears and back molars, garnished delightfully with an occasional spell of all hell breaking the fuck loose. Imagine just peacefully watching TV and suddenly Beetlejuice is shaking your head like a British au pair. I went through about a half-dozen of these bad boys before I decided to get serious about the problem and seek medical attention, which when you don't have health insurance means "punching your symptoms into Google and completely freaking out." Here's what my "doctor" told me was wrong:
1. Brain tumor -- Obviously.
2. Brain trauma or concussion -- Possible, as I do have a concussion history, in addition to a penchant for banging my skull into hard things. I ruled this out, however, because I hadn't suffered any brain trauma lately nor had I seen the little silver pixies that generally follow whenever I do get a concussion. I sometimes miss those pixies. I'll go through a period of bleak soul-crushing depression for a few days, lift my head too quick, and suddenly tiny bright lights are flickering back and forth in front of my eyes. "I'm not lonely, frustrated and suicidal -- I just bruised my cerebrum a little bit! Tee hee!" But I digress.
3. Meniere's Disease -- This is actually a pretty tragic disorder that causes prolonged loss of balance and atrophy of hearing. Irish author Jonathan Swift was a sad suffer before the disease was properly understood. His constant falling and staggered walk led to the public assumption that he was an alcoholic and degenerate lunatic, damaging his reputation among the intelligensia and frustrating any hope of career advancement. We'll be back in a second to "Horrible Things My Mother Told Me That May or May Not Be True."
4. Alcohol Abuse -- No surprise there. The internet blames everything on booze. Loss of memory? Alcohol. Trouble walking up stairs without getting winded? Alcohol. Numbness in digits and lower extremities? Alcohol. Impotence? Alcohol. Um, not like I've looked any of those things up. Especially the last one.
5. Inner Ear or Sinus Infection
Further research matched some of my other symptoms to this ailment, and because it's the one diagnosis that doesn't require me to get a CAT scan or write letters to all the people I've wronged over the years, that's the little circle that I'm pushing all my chips into. I have an inner ear infection. I will now put my fingers into my diseased auricular canals and scream the lyrics to Poison's "Nothing But A Good Time" until you walk away.
Is there an upside to vertigo? Not really. It's greatly subsided in the past few days, and has gone from feeling like that really fun drinking game you play in college where you spin around the bat to now just feeling like I had Red Bull injected into my corneas. Yes, Mom, I'll go see the doctor, just as soon as my stupid ex-landlord sends me my deposit check, which is another whole story that I don't want to get in to.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see if I can find some Japanese cartoons and make myself travel through time.
So I have vertigo now.
I woke up last Sunday with a headache. I didn't think much of it, assuming that it was hangover, because it was Sunday and that's what happens on Sunday. I went about my normal routine of funneling coffee, shoveling eggs down my gullet, and weeping softly as I adjusted my fantasy football roster. Suddenly it hit me. "Wait a minute, I didn't go out drinking last night. This headache might be a sign of some larger internal malfunction."
Because my hypochondria knobs are all set to eleven, I immediately assumed that it was a tumor and started drafting my will. Mom gets my dog, Dad gets my porn collection, my brother gets Guitar Hero, medical science gets my non-cirrhosis organs, and everything else goes to Bijou Phillips. That settled, I sank into the couch and watched an old homeless man completely decimate my New York Giants secondary.
Sometime around the third quarter I realized that I was drunk. My arms and legs were numb and tingling, my eyes were kind of watery, my stomach felt bloated and nauseous, and I couldn't see straight. "This is awesome," I thought. "I am completely hammered right now and I haven't even been drinking. I've broken through to the other side. My body has become it's own distillery!"
Smiling, I got up to go puke in the bathroom ... and now I was on a magical voyage aboard the H.M.S. Woozy into the land of Porcelaina. The room was spinning right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby, right round, round round. I grabbed the wall for balance, fell to my knees, curled into a fetal position, and swore that I would never not drink again.
That's how my afternoon went. Constant numbness in the limbs and splitting pain along my nose, ears and back molars, garnished delightfully with an occasional spell of all hell breaking the fuck loose. Imagine just peacefully watching TV and suddenly Beetlejuice is shaking your head like a British au pair. I went through about a half-dozen of these bad boys before I decided to get serious about the problem and seek medical attention, which when you don't have health insurance means "punching your symptoms into Google and completely freaking out." Here's what my "doctor" told me was wrong:
1. Brain tumor -- Obviously.
2. Brain trauma or concussion -- Possible, as I do have a concussion history, in addition to a penchant for banging my skull into hard things. I ruled this out, however, because I hadn't suffered any brain trauma lately nor had I seen the little silver pixies that generally follow whenever I do get a concussion. I sometimes miss those pixies. I'll go through a period of bleak soul-crushing depression for a few days, lift my head too quick, and suddenly tiny bright lights are flickering back and forth in front of my eyes. "I'm not lonely, frustrated and suicidal -- I just bruised my cerebrum a little bit! Tee hee!" But I digress.
3. Meniere's Disease -- This is actually a pretty tragic disorder that causes prolonged loss of balance and atrophy of hearing. Irish author Jonathan Swift was a sad suffer before the disease was properly understood. His constant falling and staggered walk led to the public assumption that he was an alcoholic and degenerate lunatic, damaging his reputation among the intelligensia and frustrating any hope of career advancement. We'll be back in a second to "Horrible Things My Mother Told Me That May or May Not Be True."
4. Alcohol Abuse -- No surprise there. The internet blames everything on booze. Loss of memory? Alcohol. Trouble walking up stairs without getting winded? Alcohol. Numbness in digits and lower extremities? Alcohol. Impotence? Alcohol. Um, not like I've looked any of those things up. Especially the last one.
5. Inner Ear or Sinus Infection
Further research matched some of my other symptoms to this ailment, and because it's the one diagnosis that doesn't require me to get a CAT scan or write letters to all the people I've wronged over the years, that's the little circle that I'm pushing all my chips into. I have an inner ear infection. I will now put my fingers into my diseased auricular canals and scream the lyrics to Poison's "Nothing But A Good Time" until you walk away.
Is there an upside to vertigo? Not really. It's greatly subsided in the past few days, and has gone from feeling like that really fun drinking game you play in college where you spin around the bat to now just feeling like I had Red Bull injected into my corneas. Yes, Mom, I'll go see the doctor, just as soon as my stupid ex-landlord sends me my deposit check, which is another whole story that I don't want to get in to.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see if I can find some Japanese cartoons and make myself travel through time.
Down and Out on Long Beach Island
So if you're lonely, you know I'm here, waiting for you -- #458
The other night I was sucking down $4 Bud Light bottles, alone (unless Jesus counts) in a half-filled bar down at the Jersey Shore. An acceptable cover band -- acceptable because the lead singer wasn't prancing like a douche -- was whipping through Franz Ferdinand and Weezer songs for an amused crowd of people likely ten years younger than me. Most of them were locals, trapped on the island for these final weeks of summer: girls with yellow hair and dark tans, guys wearing loose khaki shorts, coral necklaces and trucker hats twisted askew. I'm still young enough not to be That Guy, but with two weeks facial growth and a freshly acquired cheese fry gut, I'm creepy enough to qualify as unapproachable. At some point in the evening a tiara-wearing bride-to-be, fluttering around the bar with her bachelorette party in tow, was brave enough to ask if she may grab my ass and take a photo of it. I happily agreed and was molested. That was my action for the night.
I came down here almost two weeks ago, staying by myself at my aunt's spectacular beach house. This trip was a rehab of sorts, only with tons of alcohol. Since finishing law school and taking the bar, and moving my stuff into my parent's garage and essentially becoming homeless, my days have been a bit of a bore. At one point I was too tired to go out and lay by the pool -- that's deadly sin level sloth. And I'm also out of money, living on credit cards and parental handouts. Two weeks ago I was out shopping for deodorant when I thought to myself, "Do I really need this? I'm not going anywhere, so it doesn't matter if I smell." Realizing that this was probably the same thing that a heroin addict says, weeks before they find themselves on some corner saying, "It's two dollars to see it, and five dollars to watch me whack it," I decided that maybe I need a change. Fuck it, I said, I'm going to the shore.
Every day has been blue sky and sunny, somewhere around 85 degrees. With the exception of Labor Day Saturday, which I spent at the house playing beer pong with my cousin, the beach has been quiet and medical-waste free. I wake up every morning around 8:00, brew a pot of coffee, hike a quarter-mile with a beach chair, and read Anna Karinin 15 feet from the pounding surf. I kayak, run or bike in the late afternoon, grill fresh meat for dinner, and sip IPA on the roof while the sun sets. My skin is brown, healthy and softened from saline baths every day. I'm wondering how much longer I can keep this up.
The other day I decided to search for the bottom of my soul: I got drunk during the afternoon and went to play skeeball. To appreciate the awfulness of this, you have to remember that this was a holiday weekend and I'm staying in a family-oriented section of the island. In other words, I'm surrounded by children. I didn't intend for this to happen, didn't even consider it. I was enjoying the afternoon by myself, sipping cocktails and reading on the porch, and suddenly I'm time-travel drunk. Feeling restless about how to spend the remains of the day -- it was too early for the bar and I was too spun out from the surf to fall asleep -- suddenly skeeball seemed like a great idea. I could sober up a little before hitting the bar, and maybe win a giant comb or an oversized pencil. So I staggered down the road, waving to cars and flashing my thumb to the Mexicans working the ice cream stand, my feet locked magnetically toward the big ferris wheel looming in the horizon.
I got there and immediately felt like a degenerate. Thousands of children, their eyes filled with the lust of video games and neon lights and shaky carnival rides. And then there was me, a tanned zombie, struggling to shove dollars into the change machine. RRrrrrrr! Skeeeee! Balllllll!!! "Mommy, that man smells like Grandpa Joe after he drinks his magic space potion."
Making matters worse is the fact that I'm actually pretty good at Skeeball. Why is this a problem? You attract young kids when you can do something that they can't. After ringing a series of corner scores and getting a silly siren to whirl around for breaking 100,000, suddenly I'm the pied piper of Skeeballville. A flock of wide-eyed seven-year-olds gathered around me to watch, some tugging my shorts and offering advice, others asking if they can have my tickets when I'm done. Horrified parents, realizing what a disgusting turd I am, are politely trying to pull their offspring away while giving me the evil eye. "Leave the man alone, honey, and let him play his game."
Worried that I'm a moment from having security escort me out, or worse having Chris Hanson shove a camera in my face, I decided that I better keep moving. I wander outside and drop some money at the baseball throw challenge, winging split-finger fastballs at mocking plush clowns. At one point I hit the support rail under those clowns, sending the ball out of the booth and skittering across the amusement park. "Um, sorry," I slur to the disgusted college girl working the booth. Again feeling like I triggered the silent alarm to have me thrown in the carnival drunk tank, I decide that it's time to call it a night at Adventureland.
I keep wondering what I'm looking for down here. Like the characters in my Tolstoy book, I wonder whether or not I'm happy. I think about my own complicated and traveled life, comparing it with the characters, my daily emotions wavering from despair to ennui to contentment to elation. I'm an expendable life form in a trashy paradise setting, wanting for nothing but having nothing either, deferring my life and waiting for responsibility to pick up my resume and offer me a job. Memories of success and failure ebb and flow like the crashing waves, thoughts of people gone from my life, times spent together, visions of people I've yet to meet but certainly will.
Personally I'd rather just keep playing skeeball.
The other night I was sucking down $4 Bud Light bottles, alone (unless Jesus counts) in a half-filled bar down at the Jersey Shore. An acceptable cover band -- acceptable because the lead singer wasn't prancing like a douche -- was whipping through Franz Ferdinand and Weezer songs for an amused crowd of people likely ten years younger than me. Most of them were locals, trapped on the island for these final weeks of summer: girls with yellow hair and dark tans, guys wearing loose khaki shorts, coral necklaces and trucker hats twisted askew. I'm still young enough not to be That Guy, but with two weeks facial growth and a freshly acquired cheese fry gut, I'm creepy enough to qualify as unapproachable. At some point in the evening a tiara-wearing bride-to-be, fluttering around the bar with her bachelorette party in tow, was brave enough to ask if she may grab my ass and take a photo of it. I happily agreed and was molested. That was my action for the night.
I came down here almost two weeks ago, staying by myself at my aunt's spectacular beach house. This trip was a rehab of sorts, only with tons of alcohol. Since finishing law school and taking the bar, and moving my stuff into my parent's garage and essentially becoming homeless, my days have been a bit of a bore. At one point I was too tired to go out and lay by the pool -- that's deadly sin level sloth. And I'm also out of money, living on credit cards and parental handouts. Two weeks ago I was out shopping for deodorant when I thought to myself, "Do I really need this? I'm not going anywhere, so it doesn't matter if I smell." Realizing that this was probably the same thing that a heroin addict says, weeks before they find themselves on some corner saying, "It's two dollars to see it, and five dollars to watch me whack it," I decided that maybe I need a change. Fuck it, I said, I'm going to the shore.
Every day has been blue sky and sunny, somewhere around 85 degrees. With the exception of Labor Day Saturday, which I spent at the house playing beer pong with my cousin, the beach has been quiet and medical-waste free. I wake up every morning around 8:00, brew a pot of coffee, hike a quarter-mile with a beach chair, and read Anna Karinin 15 feet from the pounding surf. I kayak, run or bike in the late afternoon, grill fresh meat for dinner, and sip IPA on the roof while the sun sets. My skin is brown, healthy and softened from saline baths every day. I'm wondering how much longer I can keep this up.
The other day I decided to search for the bottom of my soul: I got drunk during the afternoon and went to play skeeball. To appreciate the awfulness of this, you have to remember that this was a holiday weekend and I'm staying in a family-oriented section of the island. In other words, I'm surrounded by children. I didn't intend for this to happen, didn't even consider it. I was enjoying the afternoon by myself, sipping cocktails and reading on the porch, and suddenly I'm time-travel drunk. Feeling restless about how to spend the remains of the day -- it was too early for the bar and I was too spun out from the surf to fall asleep -- suddenly skeeball seemed like a great idea. I could sober up a little before hitting the bar, and maybe win a giant comb or an oversized pencil. So I staggered down the road, waving to cars and flashing my thumb to the Mexicans working the ice cream stand, my feet locked magnetically toward the big ferris wheel looming in the horizon.
I got there and immediately felt like a degenerate. Thousands of children, their eyes filled with the lust of video games and neon lights and shaky carnival rides. And then there was me, a tanned zombie, struggling to shove dollars into the change machine. RRrrrrrr! Skeeeee! Balllllll!!! "Mommy, that man smells like Grandpa Joe after he drinks his magic space potion."
Making matters worse is the fact that I'm actually pretty good at Skeeball. Why is this a problem? You attract young kids when you can do something that they can't. After ringing a series of corner scores and getting a silly siren to whirl around for breaking 100,000, suddenly I'm the pied piper of Skeeballville. A flock of wide-eyed seven-year-olds gathered around me to watch, some tugging my shorts and offering advice, others asking if they can have my tickets when I'm done. Horrified parents, realizing what a disgusting turd I am, are politely trying to pull their offspring away while giving me the evil eye. "Leave the man alone, honey, and let him play his game."
Worried that I'm a moment from having security escort me out, or worse having Chris Hanson shove a camera in my face, I decided that I better keep moving. I wander outside and drop some money at the baseball throw challenge, winging split-finger fastballs at mocking plush clowns. At one point I hit the support rail under those clowns, sending the ball out of the booth and skittering across the amusement park. "Um, sorry," I slur to the disgusted college girl working the booth. Again feeling like I triggered the silent alarm to have me thrown in the carnival drunk tank, I decide that it's time to call it a night at Adventureland.
I keep wondering what I'm looking for down here. Like the characters in my Tolstoy book, I wonder whether or not I'm happy. I think about my own complicated and traveled life, comparing it with the characters, my daily emotions wavering from despair to ennui to contentment to elation. I'm an expendable life form in a trashy paradise setting, wanting for nothing but having nothing either, deferring my life and waiting for responsibility to pick up my resume and offer me a job. Memories of success and failure ebb and flow like the crashing waves, thoughts of people gone from my life, times spent together, visions of people I've yet to meet but certainly will.
Personally I'd rather just keep playing skeeball.
Dear Penpal Hamid ...
Keep on rockin' in the free world ... -- #486
Dear Penpal Hamid,
Hi! Greetings from America! How's Afghanistan? Sorry to hear about your goat. And your mom. And your sister -- though I'm positive our military will find whoever raped her and bring them to justice. American justice, that is. Do you have courts and judges over there, or do you just throw rocks at the person until they confess? After which you throw bigger rocks at them. Haha! Kidding, kidding. Don't blow me up. Seriously.
Are you still working to bring a democratic government to your people? It sounds like dangerous work, but I'm sure it's going well. Anyway, I'm writing you because I just saw the most amazing thing on American television and I had to tell you about it. It's called Sunset Tan. It's a reality show about people that work in at a tanning salon in Hollywood, California. If you don't know, a tanning salon is a place where people go to burn their skin so they look like they've been out in the sun all day ... sorta like your people do, only without the dirt and body hair. But unlike Afghanis, these people are too busy buying expensive clothes and committing adultery to actually sit out in the sun, so they bake under high-powered lightbulbs and have high school dropouts spray paint on their naked bodies until they gain a healthy tint of orangy bronze. Check out this hottie:
Rrrraaarrrr. That's Lindsay Lohan. She's one of our national treasures. She stars in a bunch of movies that no one has actually seen, unless you count the Youtube videos of her flashing her vagina when she exits limousines. So glamorous. Unfortunately she's in rehab right now. "Rehab" is where famous people go when they can't stand the pain of their pampered existence. I also think she ran over some people with her car. Poor Lindsay! Pray to Allah or whoever that she gets better.
I mention Lindsay because the first episode of Sunset Tan featured an eight-year-old girl and her overbearing mother whining through her botox-riddled cheek that her daughter was "too pale" for class photos and that she wanted her tanned "just like Lindsay Lohan." (Botox is a highly toxic substance that middle-aged women inject into their face to make them look attractive to men half their age -- thank Allah for burkas!) Anyway, they sprayed the little girl down with some Sherwin-Williams gold crest while she softly wept and, $1200 later, she looked like a human carrot. I know that $1200 seems like a lot, probably enough to feed you and your village for an entire year, but you can't argue with the results. This was one sexy looking eight-year-old girl.
Then came the celebrity portion of the show, featuring none other than the incredible Britney Spears. Britney is one of the most famous people in America. Back when she was a teenager she used to sing and dance in a way that made adult men want to have sexual intercourse with her (having intercourse with teenage women is illegal in this country, unless you're another teenager or a member of the clergy). Then she married a homeless guy and bore him two fat children. Just recently she divorced the homeless man and went on a prolonged bender. A "bender" is like what you people do with peyote, only rich Americans do it with Grey Goose and Percoset. You guys are the ones that are loco for peyote, right? Or am I getting my brown people mixed up again?
Anyway, after the bender, Britney went a little crazy and shaved her head. Supposedly she did it because a judge was threatening to steal her hair to see if she was consuming illegal drugs, which would have resulted in her losing custody of the fat children to the homeless man. Then she went into rehab with Lindsay Lohan, dried out for a few weeks, and now she's dancing semi-naked to her old songs in homosexual nightclubs. Trust me, all this would make complete sense if you were an American.
After they hosed down Britney with brown dye, some of the tan salon gang took the corporate Hummer on a housecall to another "celebrity" guest: Jessica Canseco. I had no idea who she was until they said she used to be married to baseball player Jose Canseco. (Baseball is a sport sort of like cricket, only without the effeminate undertones.) This is a picture of Jose, doing his best to catch a ball that eventually hit him in the head and went over the wall for a home run.
Jose is mostly famous for being a disgrace to sports and a well-publicized cheater, so claiming that you were once married to him is like ... well, I guess it's exactly what it sounds like. She was once married to Jose Canseco. She also claims to be a model, which in America means "probably got paid once to show her nipples." I shouldn't make complete fun of her, though, because she's very rich and lives in a huge mansion. She's like that drug warlord that you were telling me about in your last letter, the one that cut off most of the villagers' hands because he thought they were stealing his bread.
The rest of Sunset Tan featured a lot of people fighting with each other because they don't return each others phone calls. It's mostly American humor, I guess. There is one awesome thing that I need to mention though: The Olly Girls!
Boooiiinnngggg!!! That's a sound we make in America when we see pretty girls and get an erection.
These girls are totally hot. They call themselves The Olly Girls because one is named Molly and the other Holly, or something like that. I think Holly is the one without eyebrows. In the first episode of the show, they giggle a lot and play with their hair and unsuccessfully learn how to add. They're kind of like pornstars, only not as smart. Do you have pornography in Afghanistan? You should rent the movie Corruption. It's really great. I'm friends with the director.
Anyway, the manager of Sunset Tan sees a lot of potential in the Olly Girls, because they have big breasts that rich male customers would like to put their penises in between. I'm predicting big things for them ... in my pants. Hahahaha!!! I'm awesome.
This is a really great American show, Hamid. I hope someday you make enough money to buy a TV. And that your country lifts its ban on cable programming. Better yet, you should come to America. We have TVs everywhere. You would really love it. But if you do fly over, try not to steer the plane into any buildings. Just kidding. But seriously, don't do it.
Hope to hear back from you soon, Hamid. Give my best to what's left of your family. And try not to step on any landmines again.
Dear Penpal Hamid,
Hi! Greetings from America! How's Afghanistan? Sorry to hear about your goat. And your mom. And your sister -- though I'm positive our military will find whoever raped her and bring them to justice. American justice, that is. Do you have courts and judges over there, or do you just throw rocks at the person until they confess? After which you throw bigger rocks at them. Haha! Kidding, kidding. Don't blow me up. Seriously.
Are you still working to bring a democratic government to your people? It sounds like dangerous work, but I'm sure it's going well. Anyway, I'm writing you because I just saw the most amazing thing on American television and I had to tell you about it. It's called Sunset Tan. It's a reality show about people that work in at a tanning salon in Hollywood, California. If you don't know, a tanning salon is a place where people go to burn their skin so they look like they've been out in the sun all day ... sorta like your people do, only without the dirt and body hair. But unlike Afghanis, these people are too busy buying expensive clothes and committing adultery to actually sit out in the sun, so they bake under high-powered lightbulbs and have high school dropouts spray paint on their naked bodies until they gain a healthy tint of orangy bronze. Check out this hottie:
Rrrraaarrrr. That's Lindsay Lohan. She's one of our national treasures. She stars in a bunch of movies that no one has actually seen, unless you count the Youtube videos of her flashing her vagina when she exits limousines. So glamorous. Unfortunately she's in rehab right now. "Rehab" is where famous people go when they can't stand the pain of their pampered existence. I also think she ran over some people with her car. Poor Lindsay! Pray to Allah or whoever that she gets better.
I mention Lindsay because the first episode of Sunset Tan featured an eight-year-old girl and her overbearing mother whining through her botox-riddled cheek that her daughter was "too pale" for class photos and that she wanted her tanned "just like Lindsay Lohan." (Botox is a highly toxic substance that middle-aged women inject into their face to make them look attractive to men half their age -- thank Allah for burkas!) Anyway, they sprayed the little girl down with some Sherwin-Williams gold crest while she softly wept and, $1200 later, she looked like a human carrot. I know that $1200 seems like a lot, probably enough to feed you and your village for an entire year, but you can't argue with the results. This was one sexy looking eight-year-old girl.
Then came the celebrity portion of the show, featuring none other than the incredible Britney Spears. Britney is one of the most famous people in America. Back when she was a teenager she used to sing and dance in a way that made adult men want to have sexual intercourse with her (having intercourse with teenage women is illegal in this country, unless you're another teenager or a member of the clergy). Then she married a homeless guy and bore him two fat children. Just recently she divorced the homeless man and went on a prolonged bender. A "bender" is like what you people do with peyote, only rich Americans do it with Grey Goose and Percoset. You guys are the ones that are loco for peyote, right? Or am I getting my brown people mixed up again?
Anyway, after the bender, Britney went a little crazy and shaved her head. Supposedly she did it because a judge was threatening to steal her hair to see if she was consuming illegal drugs, which would have resulted in her losing custody of the fat children to the homeless man. Then she went into rehab with Lindsay Lohan, dried out for a few weeks, and now she's dancing semi-naked to her old songs in homosexual nightclubs. Trust me, all this would make complete sense if you were an American.
After they hosed down Britney with brown dye, some of the tan salon gang took the corporate Hummer on a housecall to another "celebrity" guest: Jessica Canseco. I had no idea who she was until they said she used to be married to baseball player Jose Canseco. (Baseball is a sport sort of like cricket, only without the effeminate undertones.) This is a picture of Jose, doing his best to catch a ball that eventually hit him in the head and went over the wall for a home run.
Jose is mostly famous for being a disgrace to sports and a well-publicized cheater, so claiming that you were once married to him is like ... well, I guess it's exactly what it sounds like. She was once married to Jose Canseco. She also claims to be a model, which in America means "probably got paid once to show her nipples." I shouldn't make complete fun of her, though, because she's very rich and lives in a huge mansion. She's like that drug warlord that you were telling me about in your last letter, the one that cut off most of the villagers' hands because he thought they were stealing his bread.
The rest of Sunset Tan featured a lot of people fighting with each other because they don't return each others phone calls. It's mostly American humor, I guess. There is one awesome thing that I need to mention though: The Olly Girls!
Boooiiinnngggg!!! That's a sound we make in America when we see pretty girls and get an erection.
These girls are totally hot. They call themselves The Olly Girls because one is named Molly and the other Holly, or something like that. I think Holly is the one without eyebrows. In the first episode of the show, they giggle a lot and play with their hair and unsuccessfully learn how to add. They're kind of like pornstars, only not as smart. Do you have pornography in Afghanistan? You should rent the movie Corruption. It's really great. I'm friends with the director.
Anyway, the manager of Sunset Tan sees a lot of potential in the Olly Girls, because they have big breasts that rich male customers would like to put their penises in between. I'm predicting big things for them ... in my pants. Hahahaha!!! I'm awesome.
This is a really great American show, Hamid. I hope someday you make enough money to buy a TV. And that your country lifts its ban on cable programming. Better yet, you should come to America. We have TVs everywhere. You would really love it. But if you do fly over, try not to steer the plane into any buildings. Just kidding. But seriously, don't do it.
Hope to hear back from you soon, Hamid. Give my best to what's left of your family. And try not to step on any landmines again.
Hump Day Post
Don't stop. -- #899
Ten Awful Things About The Sopranos Ending That Have Nothing To Do With The Sopranos Ending
10. Journey Reunion Tour
They probably do this every year anyway, running the county fair and Six Flags circuit, but the new attention might trigger a stadium revival, perhaps even a new album entitled "Escape Again" or something similarly horrible. I'm not prepared to see an overweight Steve Perry shout "Does anyone here watch The Sopranos?" before belting into "Wheel in the Sky."
9. Bobby Iler, Serious Actor
Watching him morph from a flaming trainwreck into an inexplicably competent actor during the final mini-season was about as glaring as Brady Anderson's 50 home runs season. (Note: for anyone not a bajillion years old, Brady Anderson was a speedy leadoff hitter for the Baltimore Orioles in the 90s that quadrupled his power numbers one year and then was never heard from again.) Should someone run a urine test on AJ? I think so. Can't wait to see Bobby starring in "Fast and the Furious IV: Wantagh Spinout" coming straight to my Netflix queue.
8. Books Inspired by The Sopranos
I want to cry right now. Or go home and get my shinebox.
7. Big Pussy's North Jersey Bus Tour
"Over on your left is Satriale's delicatessen, where Chris Moltisanti and I cut up the body of Richie Aprile after Janice shot him in the face. Over on your right is the hotel that was run by the Hassidim, which we eventually turned into a whorehouse. Turning the corner we find the world famous Pizzaland, not actually used in any of the episodes but appearing in the credits. Quick side note: we wanted to use Pizzaland as the site for the scene where Christopher told Jon Favreau the story about the tranny getting her face burned off with acid, but we couldn't get the cameras inside without taking out the ovens. Returning to your right ..."
6. Conversations With My Mother
Conversations with my mother fall into one of three categories:
Now I'm down to two categories. Go fuck yourself, David Chase.
5. Inevitable Jamie-Lynn Sigler Playboy Pictorial
By awful I really really fucking awesome.
4. Ancillary Cast Members Appearing On Gameshows
What would be more depressing: seeing Paulie Walnuts on Matchgame 2011 or hearing the phrase "I'll take Artie Bucco to block." Doesn't matter. They're both going to happen someday.
3. The Sopranos: The Movie
Look, I don't think it's going to happen either. But ten years ago, if someone would have said to you that they were making a new Rocky movie AND a new Rambo movie, both of which featured Sly Stallone, a tub of steroids, and his AARP card -- you would have thought it was a Saturday Night Live skit. Do you really put that much stock into the future success of James Gandolfini that if someone drove a truck full of money to his house and handed him a script with a half-dozen scenes of a twenty-year-old stripper straddling him, you think his "actor's integrity" would make him say no? He'd unretire that bathrobe faster than you can say "stugatz." Meanwhile, how has Hollywood not made a Knight Rider movie yet. Oh wait.
2. Sunday Nights
Forget the fact that I now have to talk myself into "John From Cincinnati," in much the same way that I had to talk myself into "Six Feet Under" because it was the only way I could keep my ex-girlfriend awake beyond ten o'clock. Sooooo not good times. Anyway, in the immortal words of Joe Strummer, "Wudder we gonna do now?" If I actually had a job and worked in an office that had an actual watercooler and I had any actual intention of talking to some of my cretin coworkers, I'd be completely devastated. I haven't been this outraged by something I really don't care about since learning that Billy Crudup beat Ethan Hawke to win a Tony Award.
1. Parody of the Final Episode
You know what I'm taking about. Involved works that suddenly end right at the moment
Ten Awful Things About The Sopranos Ending That Have Nothing To Do With The Sopranos Ending
10. Journey Reunion Tour
They probably do this every year anyway, running the county fair and Six Flags circuit, but the new attention might trigger a stadium revival, perhaps even a new album entitled "Escape Again" or something similarly horrible. I'm not prepared to see an overweight Steve Perry shout "Does anyone here watch The Sopranos?" before belting into "Wheel in the Sky."
9. Bobby Iler, Serious Actor
Watching him morph from a flaming trainwreck into an inexplicably competent actor during the final mini-season was about as glaring as Brady Anderson's 50 home runs season. (Note: for anyone not a bajillion years old, Brady Anderson was a speedy leadoff hitter for the Baltimore Orioles in the 90s that quadrupled his power numbers one year and then was never heard from again.) Should someone run a urine test on AJ? I think so. Can't wait to see Bobby starring in "Fast and the Furious IV: Wantagh Spinout" coming straight to my Netflix queue.
8. Books Inspired by The Sopranos
I want to cry right now. Or go home and get my shinebox.
7. Big Pussy's North Jersey Bus Tour
"Over on your left is Satriale's delicatessen, where Chris Moltisanti and I cut up the body of Richie Aprile after Janice shot him in the face. Over on your right is the hotel that was run by the Hassidim, which we eventually turned into a whorehouse. Turning the corner we find the world famous Pizzaland, not actually used in any of the episodes but appearing in the credits. Quick side note: we wanted to use Pizzaland as the site for the scene where Christopher told Jon Favreau the story about the tranny getting her face burned off with acid, but we couldn't get the cameras inside without taking out the ovens. Returning to your right ..."
6. Conversations With My Mother
Conversations with my mother fall into one of three categories:
1) "I'm never having grandchildren so I might as well start knitting baby clothes for the dog."
2) "Your father is driving me crazy because ..."
and
3) "Did you see the last episode of The Sopranos?"
Now I'm down to two categories. Go fuck yourself, David Chase.
5. Inevitable Jamie-Lynn Sigler Playboy Pictorial
By awful I really really fucking awesome.
4. Ancillary Cast Members Appearing On Gameshows
What would be more depressing: seeing Paulie Walnuts on Matchgame 2011 or hearing the phrase "I'll take Artie Bucco to block." Doesn't matter. They're both going to happen someday.
3. The Sopranos: The Movie
Look, I don't think it's going to happen either. But ten years ago, if someone would have said to you that they were making a new Rocky movie AND a new Rambo movie, both of which featured Sly Stallone, a tub of steroids, and his AARP card -- you would have thought it was a Saturday Night Live skit. Do you really put that much stock into the future success of James Gandolfini that if someone drove a truck full of money to his house and handed him a script with a half-dozen scenes of a twenty-year-old stripper straddling him, you think his "actor's integrity" would make him say no? He'd unretire that bathrobe faster than you can say "stugatz." Meanwhile, how has Hollywood not made a Knight Rider movie yet. Oh wait.
2. Sunday Nights
Forget the fact that I now have to talk myself into "John From Cincinnati," in much the same way that I had to talk myself into "Six Feet Under" because it was the only way I could keep my ex-girlfriend awake beyond ten o'clock. Sooooo not good times. Anyway, in the immortal words of Joe Strummer, "Wudder we gonna do now?" If I actually had a job and worked in an office that had an actual watercooler and I had any actual intention of talking to some of my cretin coworkers, I'd be completely devastated. I haven't been this outraged by something I really don't care about since learning that Billy Crudup beat Ethan Hawke to win a Tony Award.
1. Parody of the Final Episode
You know what I'm taking about. Involved works that suddenly end right at the moment
Lost Love
I seem to lean on, old familiar ways ... -- #725
Dear Kim,
Hi. How are you? I know its been about 15 years since you’ve seen me, or heard from me, or probably even thought about me, but I wanted to let you know something. I think I’m ready to go out with you now.
To be honest I wasn’t ready for a girl like you back then. I was young and insecure. But over the years I’ve matured and learned some things about myself, things that directly affect our relationship. For one thing, it turns out that I’m attracted to imperfect women. By “imperfect” I guess I mean a little chubby. And slightly crazy. You were awkwardly tall and kinda wide in the hips, which didn’t seem that attractive to my twentysomething self. This was wrong. I guess I thought I could do better, seeing as how I was a starter on the lacrosse team and all. But it turns out that I can’t … at least not anymore anyway. Not that I want to! Crazy women are usually pretty interesting, at least more interesting than women that think they’re sane. And as for looks, I’m not so hung up on those anymore. I was pretty shallow back then, I admit. Now I can live with your big hips. “Whatever” is my attitude! Assuming that our relationship works out -- and why wouldn’t it? -- your bountiful size could only be an asset to me, because I have every intention of living vicariously through the athletic achievements of my children. Thanks to your good birthing hips and broad shoulders, our kids should be tall sturdy animals, hopefully power forwards. You also had a really pretty face, which means that if you ever slimmed down, you’d probably be a knockout. Not that I would even care. I’m probably into you for who you are, baby.
I’ve dated skinny women over the years and it turns out that they mostly suck. They’re obsessed with how much they weigh and what they eat and how often they exercise and blah blah blah. It gets tiring. They also transfer their body phobias onto you, to the point where you can’t enjoy a bag of chips or a glass of beer without subconsciously hating yourself and calculating how many miles you’ll have to jog the next day to work off the calories. Who can live like that? Not me. Do you hear that, Steff? I'm eating carbs again, you fucking bitch. Do you hear that!?
In retrospect, I now admire the fact that you weren’t compulsive about your weight and yet were able to maintain a healthy body. Maybe "healthy" is a stretch. Normal? Average? Low maintenance? At the very least you were able to go out every weekend and enjoy yourself, and you still managed to avoid inflating like a stuffed sausage. I really respect that. Plus you had big breasts. Turns out that I respect that too.
I’m also fine now with the fact that you hooked up with most of my friends. I have to admit that, when I was younger, this really bothered me. But now that we’re both mature adults, who cares. Everyone has a sexual history. Most of your flings with my friends occurred before we got to know each other, and maybe you were telling the truth when you said that you regretted hooking up with them, knowing it would damage any future relationship between us. You faced up to being a slut, and I appreciate the honesty. I realize now that you were just a young woman exploring her sexuality, and that this exploration was actually a good thing because it helped you develop a healthy sexual appetite, free from shame or other self-destructive and repressive behaviors. It also meant that you were pretty horny, which as I get older (and wiser!), I realize is a tremendous asset in a female partner.
And regarding my friends -- sure, it kind of freaked me out that a bunch of my buddies saw you naked, and that if we started dating they would have that to hold over me. But that’s OK too, because I hardly ever talk to those guys anymore. They’re all too fucking busy, or at least that's what they usually say. Most of them got married, some of them have kids. In fact, whenever I do see them -- at least the ones that I still talk to -- they’re always like, “Remember Kim? Man, she was a lot of fun.” They say this a lot, actually, usually after their fourth or fifth vodka tonic. I think I’d be OK with dating a woman that everyone thought was fun. I also can’t believe that their opinion once mattered to me. It doesn’t matter now, Kim. My head is so filled with regrettable fucks that at this point I'm willing to settle on just being able to look at myself in the mirror after sex. You're special enough that I could see myself waking up next to you and not wanting to vomit.
Plus, it turns out that a lot of your sexual escapades were relatively tame by today’s standards. I know you had sex with Todd that one time on one of the dorm couches, but that’s not a problem. Todd was a pretty good looking guy, so I can understand the attraction. I heard that he has a small penis, so I won’t feel the least bit insecure that you might be thinking about him while we’re doing it. I also don’t mind that you let my roommate finger you in the library stairwell. It was just a finger. I’ve fingered lots of people. It’s really not that big of a deal. I’ve done much worse things to women whose name I can hardly remember. Plus you were drunk. If everything I did when I was drunk was held against me, I never would have gotten into law school. These things happen. Let’s move on. Together.
Sure, maybe like a dozen other people that I know can describe what your nipples look like. I’m almost staggered that at one time in my life I actually had a problem with this. You rolled around naked with a lot of dudes -- that’s practically a Disney movie these days. I dated this one girl a few months ago -- well, let’s just say that I never want to eat another zucchini again. Or watch the Green Bay Packers. You were comfortable with your body. I admire this. It means that you’d often be naked if we were together, and I’m a big fan of constant nudity. It’s one of my favorite things, actually. Naked women are fun to look at, and nakedness encourages sex, which is also fun. Back in the day I used to respect women that made me make out with them for like 15 minutes before I even reached under their shirt. I’m not making that up. But now that I’m well into my 30s, I don’t have time to be fumbling with bras. My time is kind of precious, and we both have to get to sleep at some point. You were all business back then. How did I let such a wonderful girl like you get away?
Seriously, Kim, I love you. If that’s what it takes. I probably don’t even care if you got a little fatter.
It’s not like I’m perfect either. Remember that full head of floppy hair I used to have, like Jason Priestly on 90210? Fucking gone. Going, actually, but it’s the same thing. I’m also unemployed. I’m probably going to have to live with my parents next year, at least until I get my bearings. I do have a law degree, but it set me back about $150 grand. You’re not rich, are you? Because I’d love you even harder if you were.
Also, well, I ask this rhetorically: How do you feel about back hair? Rhetorically might not be the right word. It’s hit or miss with most women, rhetorically speaking. I also might have a drinking problem. But only because I’m complicated. Virile, complicated men are sexy, right? That’s what attracted you to me in the first place. Fifteen years ago.
Please, Kim, write back. I miss you. I should never have let you go. Make sure you attach a recent photo.
Dear Kim,
Hi. How are you? I know its been about 15 years since you’ve seen me, or heard from me, or probably even thought about me, but I wanted to let you know something. I think I’m ready to go out with you now.
To be honest I wasn’t ready for a girl like you back then. I was young and insecure. But over the years I’ve matured and learned some things about myself, things that directly affect our relationship. For one thing, it turns out that I’m attracted to imperfect women. By “imperfect” I guess I mean a little chubby. And slightly crazy. You were awkwardly tall and kinda wide in the hips, which didn’t seem that attractive to my twentysomething self. This was wrong. I guess I thought I could do better, seeing as how I was a starter on the lacrosse team and all. But it turns out that I can’t … at least not anymore anyway. Not that I want to! Crazy women are usually pretty interesting, at least more interesting than women that think they’re sane. And as for looks, I’m not so hung up on those anymore. I was pretty shallow back then, I admit. Now I can live with your big hips. “Whatever” is my attitude! Assuming that our relationship works out -- and why wouldn’t it? -- your bountiful size could only be an asset to me, because I have every intention of living vicariously through the athletic achievements of my children. Thanks to your good birthing hips and broad shoulders, our kids should be tall sturdy animals, hopefully power forwards. You also had a really pretty face, which means that if you ever slimmed down, you’d probably be a knockout. Not that I would even care. I’m probably into you for who you are, baby.
I’ve dated skinny women over the years and it turns out that they mostly suck. They’re obsessed with how much they weigh and what they eat and how often they exercise and blah blah blah. It gets tiring. They also transfer their body phobias onto you, to the point where you can’t enjoy a bag of chips or a glass of beer without subconsciously hating yourself and calculating how many miles you’ll have to jog the next day to work off the calories. Who can live like that? Not me. Do you hear that, Steff? I'm eating carbs again, you fucking bitch. Do you hear that!?
In retrospect, I now admire the fact that you weren’t compulsive about your weight and yet were able to maintain a healthy body. Maybe "healthy" is a stretch. Normal? Average? Low maintenance? At the very least you were able to go out every weekend and enjoy yourself, and you still managed to avoid inflating like a stuffed sausage. I really respect that. Plus you had big breasts. Turns out that I respect that too.
I’m also fine now with the fact that you hooked up with most of my friends. I have to admit that, when I was younger, this really bothered me. But now that we’re both mature adults, who cares. Everyone has a sexual history. Most of your flings with my friends occurred before we got to know each other, and maybe you were telling the truth when you said that you regretted hooking up with them, knowing it would damage any future relationship between us. You faced up to being a slut, and I appreciate the honesty. I realize now that you were just a young woman exploring her sexuality, and that this exploration was actually a good thing because it helped you develop a healthy sexual appetite, free from shame or other self-destructive and repressive behaviors. It also meant that you were pretty horny, which as I get older (and wiser!), I realize is a tremendous asset in a female partner.
And regarding my friends -- sure, it kind of freaked me out that a bunch of my buddies saw you naked, and that if we started dating they would have that to hold over me. But that’s OK too, because I hardly ever talk to those guys anymore. They’re all too fucking busy, or at least that's what they usually say. Most of them got married, some of them have kids. In fact, whenever I do see them -- at least the ones that I still talk to -- they’re always like, “Remember Kim? Man, she was a lot of fun.” They say this a lot, actually, usually after their fourth or fifth vodka tonic. I think I’d be OK with dating a woman that everyone thought was fun. I also can’t believe that their opinion once mattered to me. It doesn’t matter now, Kim. My head is so filled with regrettable fucks that at this point I'm willing to settle on just being able to look at myself in the mirror after sex. You're special enough that I could see myself waking up next to you and not wanting to vomit.
Plus, it turns out that a lot of your sexual escapades were relatively tame by today’s standards. I know you had sex with Todd that one time on one of the dorm couches, but that’s not a problem. Todd was a pretty good looking guy, so I can understand the attraction. I heard that he has a small penis, so I won’t feel the least bit insecure that you might be thinking about him while we’re doing it. I also don’t mind that you let my roommate finger you in the library stairwell. It was just a finger. I’ve fingered lots of people. It’s really not that big of a deal. I’ve done much worse things to women whose name I can hardly remember. Plus you were drunk. If everything I did when I was drunk was held against me, I never would have gotten into law school. These things happen. Let’s move on. Together.
Sure, maybe like a dozen other people that I know can describe what your nipples look like. I’m almost staggered that at one time in my life I actually had a problem with this. You rolled around naked with a lot of dudes -- that’s practically a Disney movie these days. I dated this one girl a few months ago -- well, let’s just say that I never want to eat another zucchini again. Or watch the Green Bay Packers. You were comfortable with your body. I admire this. It means that you’d often be naked if we were together, and I’m a big fan of constant nudity. It’s one of my favorite things, actually. Naked women are fun to look at, and nakedness encourages sex, which is also fun. Back in the day I used to respect women that made me make out with them for like 15 minutes before I even reached under their shirt. I’m not making that up. But now that I’m well into my 30s, I don’t have time to be fumbling with bras. My time is kind of precious, and we both have to get to sleep at some point. You were all business back then. How did I let such a wonderful girl like you get away?
Seriously, Kim, I love you. If that’s what it takes. I probably don’t even care if you got a little fatter.
It’s not like I’m perfect either. Remember that full head of floppy hair I used to have, like Jason Priestly on 90210? Fucking gone. Going, actually, but it’s the same thing. I’m also unemployed. I’m probably going to have to live with my parents next year, at least until I get my bearings. I do have a law degree, but it set me back about $150 grand. You’re not rich, are you? Because I’d love you even harder if you were.
Also, well, I ask this rhetorically: How do you feel about back hair? Rhetorically might not be the right word. It’s hit or miss with most women, rhetorically speaking. I also might have a drinking problem. But only because I’m complicated. Virile, complicated men are sexy, right? That’s what attracted you to me in the first place. Fifteen years ago.
Please, Kim, write back. I miss you. I should never have let you go. Make sure you attach a recent photo.
Ballad of Borders Bookstore
Like drinking poison, like eating glass -- #1674
Back in 1996 I used to beat hangovers by going to Borders Bookstore. This was during my Molson Ice phase, spending most nights under its sweet skunky charm, partly because I liked the fact that they used Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Snakedriver” in their ads and partly because Molson Ice was the first beer I ever bought legally in a supermarket. I turned 21 in the summer between junior and senior year of college, bored at home one night when it suddenly occurred to me, “Hey, I can go out and buy beer!” During my penurious mid-twenties, Molson Ice was my glorious compromise between drinking expensive lager and sucking down 40s of Crazy Horse and King Cobra. I vividly recall that first purchase, giddy with enthusiasm as I sprung my unchalked driver’s license on the teenage checkout girl like I just flopped the nuts at a poker table. I remember the first time I bought beer, yet barely remember losing my virginity. Though I’m pretty sure that Molson Ice was involved there too.
Borders was a sanctuary to me. The presence of books always puts me at ease. Plus I loved the fact that Borders had a proactive employment policy toward sideshow freaks. Afternoons were a weird combination of “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and a Tod Browning movie. The oddities at that place were astounding. One of my favorite stories to tell is the time that I was turned down for a minimum-wage job at Borders right after I finished grad school.
And then, of course, were the Borders customers: Romero-esque zombies plodding through the self-help aisles, dead eyes surfing the travel section, blank faces hellishly growling at Dilbert calendars and the latest antics of Shopaholic. It was a misanthrope's paradise. I'd sit back in one of those comfy chairs they put out for reader's too cheap to actually buy a book and watch the passing show. Sometimes I might even have a scone.
Anyway, two weeks ago I celebrated my graduation from law school and among my many generous gifts was $50 worth of Borders store credit. Solid gift, because if you can’t spend $50 at a huge multimedia bookstore, you’re probably retarded. Actually, you can be retarded and still spend $50, so long as they keep publishing pro-wrestler biographies. Or you could find something in the "Books for Retards" series, one of which probably instructs you on how to spend gift cards. The point is, spending $50 at Borders should have been a slam dunk. I stress the words "should have been."
The problem is that I refuse to read books anymore. I’m over them. Law school broke me and I no longer want to read anything, ever, for so long as I live. Words don't dance on the page anymore for me; writers squat over the paper and leave a steaming ink dump. Legal treatises and statutory code and law review articles: just make it all stop. I read for a living now. Books make me want to vomit. This is why, if you watch those disturbing HBO "Real Sex" shows about people that have to pay a dominatrix to shove their face into a toilet, they invariably turn out to be lawyers. It's because James Patterson is dead to them.
Fortunately Borders also sells movies and music, which works for me because I'm shallow, have almost no personality, and need to be defined by my possessions. Particularly my media library. As far as I'm concerned, the two worst types of people in the world are people that burn music CDs and people that don't scrutinize their DVD purchases. I had a conversation with a co-worker once where she tried to justify the purchase of shitty movies by saying that with rental fees and late fees and the cost of travel, you were better off just buying that copy of 50 First Dates instead of renting it. Are you kidding me? You might as well just tattoo "moron" across your forehead. How is it OK to tell the world that you voluntarily purchased and proudly displayed a copy of Little Nicky on your bookshelf? Dear God, what if you ever had guests?
I purchase music and movies not just for the entertainment value, but also for aesthetic purposes. I want people to know what I like to watch and what I like to hear and accordingly judge me on it. It's middle-class art. There's not much going on upstairs, so I'd rather have the fact that I own every Iron Maiden album up to "Somewhere in Time" do the speaking for me. You mock, but at some point in my life, someone will be impressed that I own every episode of Chris Elliot's "Get a Life." And as far as I’m concerned, if you can’t look at someone’s DVD collection and have a 90-minute conversation about the fact that they own Convoy on blu ray, you might as well be dead.
It's because of the ownership factor that burned music seems so repellent to me. Burned media gives it a disposable quality. Not only do you lose the packaging and the artwork, but you lose that innate need for possession and control that makes Western consumers so inherently special. It's American to display your junk. Some people get their body pierced, others spend gobs of money on shoes, I debate for hours whether I should buy the new Wilco album. Don't judge me. Actually, go right ahead -- the CD rack is right over there.
So the plan on this day was to make specific purchases with the gift card. Here was the agenda:
I estimated that the DVD would cost me about $20, the CDs about $15 each -- gift card spent, great success, high fives all around. Unfortunately, considering its been so long since I had money to spend at a massive megaconglomerate earth-raping franchise bookstore, I forgot the one great maxim of our modern times: Borders bookstore is the ninth level of hell.
Look, I'm old. I get that everything I like was made about a bajillion years ago and that every time I complain about how new music sucks I might as well hike up a pair of Depends and ask what time shuffleboard is. A few years ... OK, a decade ago, when bands like Oasis and Spacehog were all the rage, I remember hearing Robert Smith from The Cure complain that new music sounded just like recycled David Bowie and I thought to myself, “Wow, you’re really old.” Now I think that every new "great" band out there -- Arcade Fire, The New Pornographers, The Shins, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah -- they all sound just like recycled REM. What time is the canasta game, nurse?
So I knew I was pushing things by thinking Borders would have Johnny the Fox, even if it was the follow-up to one of the greatest rock albums of all time. But not only did they not have Johnny the Fox, but they didn’t have any Thin Lizzy whatsoever. None, nada, zip. They didn’t even have one of those little plastic display flags that let you know “Thin Lizzy would be in this section if you’re looking for it.” Godsmack has a little plastic flag. Thin Lizzy does not. This was outrageous. I would have grabbed the manager and pummeled him to death, only he had a third arm growing out of his forehead. That thing looked pretty dangerous.
It only got worse, as I next went for the Pavement. Did you know they “re-released” Crooked Rain in new cardboard packaging, complete with a forty page booklet that you'll never read and some horrible previously unreleased tracks that you don't want to hear because they completely suck? Is there anything more hideous than re-releasing albums? It's an excuse to gouge the crap out of you, all so you can hear the acoustic demo version of “Cut Your Hair.” But more importantly, they defeated the reason why I wanted the album in the first place: to be a pretentious asshole. You see, I already bought this album back when it first came out, because I was fucking cool and that's what fucking cool people did. Only I lost it. Now I want to replace it, scuff up the jewel case, and seamlessly slide it into my collection like nothing ever happened. And then when hip sexy women come over and scan my awesome CD collection, they'll realize how fucking cool I am because I bought Crooked Rain back when it was fucking cool to do so. Mad sex will ensure.
So now I’m pacing nervously through the bookstore, looking more confused than Alex Rodriguez facing an 0-2 count. Fortunately I know that they'll have The Departed. No question. And naturally they do. But do you know how much they're charging for it? $35. How dare you, Borders Bookstore. How. Dare. You. For $35 dollars Marky Mark himself better materialize out of the box to insult my least favorite friend.
I'm panicking now, my heart racing because I have no idea how to spend this money. I calm myself with an idea: bookstores are a great place to meet single women. This is good because, honestly, I could use a girlfriend. I noticed this last weekend when I was drinking chilled raspberry vodka from a pint glass while watching the Yankee game at 4:00 in the afternoon. I thought to myself, “I would sooooooooo not be doing this if I were engaging in regular sexual congress. I am dangerously close to leaving the house in sweatpants."
Ladies on the brain, I catch my reflection in a display case and remember that I’m a complete disaster. I woke up this morning at 6:30 to write a bar review assignment due for 9:00 class, scrambling unwashed out the door, with only three hours of sleep the night before because … wait for it … I was up all night playing ... wait for it ... The Sims. The Sims. Read that back again, rinse, repeat.
Weeks ago I packaged up all my junk because I didn't want any distractions while I studied for the bar. Everything fun in the apartment is gone, and I guess the only thing I missed was this dusty video game that I must have uncovered during some ADHD withdrawal jag or something. I wasn't worried though, because I never really enjoyed the game before. Even when it was relevant and new, I could never play it for more than a few hours before getting bored and having the guy piss himself to death.
It was probably a bad idea to sever my distraction ripcord while I tried to study for the bar. Turns out, you kinda need some breaks. And unfortunately, here were my only sources of distraction lately:
1. Watch “John Tucker Must Die” on cable
2. Masturbate
3. Play The Sims
After covering choices 1 and 2 to the point where Arielle Kebbel could get a restraining order against me, I gave in and decided to pop in The Sims. What a horrible game to thrust upon the single, lonely and unemployed. My little Sim guy was everything that I'm not: driven, active, outgoing, amusing. He had his own kick-ass pinball machine and he grilled up burgers every night and watched cartoons on his plasma TV. He worked at Sim City Hall and had a stable of hot Sim women. Around 12:30 last night one of the Sim women asks, “Do you want to have a baby?” Fuck yeah I want to have a baby! Turn on the stereo and let's get it on!
In retrospect, I don't think I was ready to be a Sim parent. The baby cries and cries and cries and cries, and you feed it, and it still cries and cries. No one is getting any sleep in my Sim house, no one is having any fun or gaining any logic by gazing out of the telescope on the back porch next to the hottub. My poor little guy barely has time for a shower before rushing off to work. Finally the Sim Child Protective Services stepped in and threatened to remove the baby if it didn't shape up. That's when I went to bed.
Anyway, back at Borders, I'm still prowling the shelves, even if I look like I have a meth problem. I suddenly notice a fairly attractive woman in the soundtracks section. We make brief eye contact for a moment and both furtively look away. And for a second I forget how repulsively unattractive I am, about how I haven’t showered that day or shaved in almost a week; I forget how I threw on a sweatshirt this morning that I wore all weekend, or that my eyes are swollen and red, my breath tainted by coffee. She casually strolls over, and now we’re standing next to each other, scanning display racks. From the corner of my eye I catch her looking toward my waist, and I forget that I was holding a CD I was thinking about buying.
She walks away. I put the CD down. Weighed, measured, and found wanting.
I think about using the gift card on the entire Police catalog -- on display because they're currently disappointing fans across the country. I reconsider because I don’t want the cashier to say to me, “You must like The Police.” I just can’t do it. In the end I settle for the new Bloc Party and some Motley Crue.
Back in 1996 I used to beat hangovers by going to Borders Bookstore. This was during my Molson Ice phase, spending most nights under its sweet skunky charm, partly because I liked the fact that they used Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Snakedriver” in their ads and partly because Molson Ice was the first beer I ever bought legally in a supermarket. I turned 21 in the summer between junior and senior year of college, bored at home one night when it suddenly occurred to me, “Hey, I can go out and buy beer!” During my penurious mid-twenties, Molson Ice was my glorious compromise between drinking expensive lager and sucking down 40s of Crazy Horse and King Cobra. I vividly recall that first purchase, giddy with enthusiasm as I sprung my unchalked driver’s license on the teenage checkout girl like I just flopped the nuts at a poker table. I remember the first time I bought beer, yet barely remember losing my virginity. Though I’m pretty sure that Molson Ice was involved there too.
Borders was a sanctuary to me. The presence of books always puts me at ease. Plus I loved the fact that Borders had a proactive employment policy toward sideshow freaks. Afternoons were a weird combination of “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and a Tod Browning movie. The oddities at that place were astounding. One of my favorite stories to tell is the time that I was turned down for a minimum-wage job at Borders right after I finished grad school.
Borders Manager: “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re qualified to work the floor here.”
Me: “But I just finished graduate school with a master’s degree in English. I specialized in postmodern fiction. I wrote my thesis on James Joyce.”
Borders Manager: “Maybe we can find something for you in the back. You don't seen to have the personality to staff the floor.”
Me: “The guy working the cash register has a third arm growing out of his forehead.”
And then, of course, were the Borders customers: Romero-esque zombies plodding through the self-help aisles, dead eyes surfing the travel section, blank faces hellishly growling at Dilbert calendars and the latest antics of Shopaholic. It was a misanthrope's paradise. I'd sit back in one of those comfy chairs they put out for reader's too cheap to actually buy a book and watch the passing show. Sometimes I might even have a scone.
Anyway, two weeks ago I celebrated my graduation from law school and among my many generous gifts was $50 worth of Borders store credit. Solid gift, because if you can’t spend $50 at a huge multimedia bookstore, you’re probably retarded. Actually, you can be retarded and still spend $50, so long as they keep publishing pro-wrestler biographies. Or you could find something in the "Books for Retards" series, one of which probably instructs you on how to spend gift cards. The point is, spending $50 at Borders should have been a slam dunk. I stress the words "should have been."
The problem is that I refuse to read books anymore. I’m over them. Law school broke me and I no longer want to read anything, ever, for so long as I live. Words don't dance on the page anymore for me; writers squat over the paper and leave a steaming ink dump. Legal treatises and statutory code and law review articles: just make it all stop. I read for a living now. Books make me want to vomit. This is why, if you watch those disturbing HBO "Real Sex" shows about people that have to pay a dominatrix to shove their face into a toilet, they invariably turn out to be lawyers. It's because James Patterson is dead to them.
Fortunately Borders also sells movies and music, which works for me because I'm shallow, have almost no personality, and need to be defined by my possessions. Particularly my media library. As far as I'm concerned, the two worst types of people in the world are people that burn music CDs and people that don't scrutinize their DVD purchases. I had a conversation with a co-worker once where she tried to justify the purchase of shitty movies by saying that with rental fees and late fees and the cost of travel, you were better off just buying that copy of 50 First Dates instead of renting it. Are you kidding me? You might as well just tattoo "moron" across your forehead. How is it OK to tell the world that you voluntarily purchased and proudly displayed a copy of Little Nicky on your bookshelf? Dear God, what if you ever had guests?
“Wow. Me, Myself, and Irene. Gold-box edition. Interesting.”
“So, were you able to make eye contact with the cashier when you bought that copy of Dodgeball: The Movie, or did you have it shipped to you anonymously in paper packaging like you were buying European pornography?”
“I can’t believe that I’m sleeping with somebody who owns a copy of Gone in 60 Seconds."
I purchase music and movies not just for the entertainment value, but also for aesthetic purposes. I want people to know what I like to watch and what I like to hear and accordingly judge me on it. It's middle-class art. There's not much going on upstairs, so I'd rather have the fact that I own every Iron Maiden album up to "Somewhere in Time" do the speaking for me. You mock, but at some point in my life, someone will be impressed that I own every episode of Chris Elliot's "Get a Life." And as far as I’m concerned, if you can’t look at someone’s DVD collection and have a 90-minute conversation about the fact that they own Convoy on blu ray, you might as well be dead.
It's because of the ownership factor that burned music seems so repellent to me. Burned media gives it a disposable quality. Not only do you lose the packaging and the artwork, but you lose that innate need for possession and control that makes Western consumers so inherently special. It's American to display your junk. Some people get their body pierced, others spend gobs of money on shoes, I debate for hours whether I should buy the new Wilco album. Don't judge me. Actually, go right ahead -- the CD rack is right over there.
So the plan on this day was to make specific purchases with the gift card. Here was the agenda:
1. Thin Lizzy -- Johnny the Fox
2. Pavement -- Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
3. The Departed on DVD
I estimated that the DVD would cost me about $20, the CDs about $15 each -- gift card spent, great success, high fives all around. Unfortunately, considering its been so long since I had money to spend at a massive megaconglomerate earth-raping franchise bookstore, I forgot the one great maxim of our modern times: Borders bookstore is the ninth level of hell.
Look, I'm old. I get that everything I like was made about a bajillion years ago and that every time I complain about how new music sucks I might as well hike up a pair of Depends and ask what time shuffleboard is. A few years ... OK, a decade ago, when bands like Oasis and Spacehog were all the rage, I remember hearing Robert Smith from The Cure complain that new music sounded just like recycled David Bowie and I thought to myself, “Wow, you’re really old.” Now I think that every new "great" band out there -- Arcade Fire, The New Pornographers, The Shins, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah -- they all sound just like recycled REM. What time is the canasta game, nurse?
So I knew I was pushing things by thinking Borders would have Johnny the Fox, even if it was the follow-up to one of the greatest rock albums of all time. But not only did they not have Johnny the Fox, but they didn’t have any Thin Lizzy whatsoever. None, nada, zip. They didn’t even have one of those little plastic display flags that let you know “Thin Lizzy would be in this section if you’re looking for it.” Godsmack has a little plastic flag. Thin Lizzy does not. This was outrageous. I would have grabbed the manager and pummeled him to death, only he had a third arm growing out of his forehead. That thing looked pretty dangerous.
It only got worse, as I next went for the Pavement. Did you know they “re-released” Crooked Rain in new cardboard packaging, complete with a forty page booklet that you'll never read and some horrible previously unreleased tracks that you don't want to hear because they completely suck? Is there anything more hideous than re-releasing albums? It's an excuse to gouge the crap out of you, all so you can hear the acoustic demo version of “Cut Your Hair.” But more importantly, they defeated the reason why I wanted the album in the first place: to be a pretentious asshole. You see, I already bought this album back when it first came out, because I was fucking cool and that's what fucking cool people did. Only I lost it. Now I want to replace it, scuff up the jewel case, and seamlessly slide it into my collection like nothing ever happened. And then when hip sexy women come over and scan my awesome CD collection, they'll realize how fucking cool I am because I bought Crooked Rain back when it was fucking cool to do so. Mad sex will ensure.
So now I’m pacing nervously through the bookstore, looking more confused than Alex Rodriguez facing an 0-2 count. Fortunately I know that they'll have The Departed. No question. And naturally they do. But do you know how much they're charging for it? $35. How dare you, Borders Bookstore. How. Dare. You. For $35 dollars Marky Mark himself better materialize out of the box to insult my least favorite friend.
I'm panicking now, my heart racing because I have no idea how to spend this money. I calm myself with an idea: bookstores are a great place to meet single women. This is good because, honestly, I could use a girlfriend. I noticed this last weekend when I was drinking chilled raspberry vodka from a pint glass while watching the Yankee game at 4:00 in the afternoon. I thought to myself, “I would sooooooooo not be doing this if I were engaging in regular sexual congress. I am dangerously close to leaving the house in sweatpants."
Ladies on the brain, I catch my reflection in a display case and remember that I’m a complete disaster. I woke up this morning at 6:30 to write a bar review assignment due for 9:00 class, scrambling unwashed out the door, with only three hours of sleep the night before because … wait for it … I was up all night playing ... wait for it ... The Sims. The Sims. Read that back again, rinse, repeat.
Weeks ago I packaged up all my junk because I didn't want any distractions while I studied for the bar. Everything fun in the apartment is gone, and I guess the only thing I missed was this dusty video game that I must have uncovered during some ADHD withdrawal jag or something. I wasn't worried though, because I never really enjoyed the game before. Even when it was relevant and new, I could never play it for more than a few hours before getting bored and having the guy piss himself to death.
It was probably a bad idea to sever my distraction ripcord while I tried to study for the bar. Turns out, you kinda need some breaks. And unfortunately, here were my only sources of distraction lately:
1. Watch “John Tucker Must Die” on cable
2. Masturbate
3. Play The Sims
After covering choices 1 and 2 to the point where Arielle Kebbel could get a restraining order against me, I gave in and decided to pop in The Sims. What a horrible game to thrust upon the single, lonely and unemployed. My little Sim guy was everything that I'm not: driven, active, outgoing, amusing. He had his own kick-ass pinball machine and he grilled up burgers every night and watched cartoons on his plasma TV. He worked at Sim City Hall and had a stable of hot Sim women. Around 12:30 last night one of the Sim women asks, “Do you want to have a baby?” Fuck yeah I want to have a baby! Turn on the stereo and let's get it on!
In retrospect, I don't think I was ready to be a Sim parent. The baby cries and cries and cries and cries, and you feed it, and it still cries and cries. No one is getting any sleep in my Sim house, no one is having any fun or gaining any logic by gazing out of the telescope on the back porch next to the hottub. My poor little guy barely has time for a shower before rushing off to work. Finally the Sim Child Protective Services stepped in and threatened to remove the baby if it didn't shape up. That's when I went to bed.
Anyway, back at Borders, I'm still prowling the shelves, even if I look like I have a meth problem. I suddenly notice a fairly attractive woman in the soundtracks section. We make brief eye contact for a moment and both furtively look away. And for a second I forget how repulsively unattractive I am, about how I haven’t showered that day or shaved in almost a week; I forget how I threw on a sweatshirt this morning that I wore all weekend, or that my eyes are swollen and red, my breath tainted by coffee. She casually strolls over, and now we’re standing next to each other, scanning display racks. From the corner of my eye I catch her looking toward my waist, and I forget that I was holding a CD I was thinking about buying.
She walks away. I put the CD down. Weighed, measured, and found wanting.
I think about using the gift card on the entire Police catalog -- on display because they're currently disappointing fans across the country. I reconsider because I don’t want the cashier to say to me, “You must like The Police.” I just can’t do it. In the end I settle for the new Bloc Party and some Motley Crue.
Pain
Move over for a damage case -- #673
So I'm a total mess right now.
A few entries ago I wrote about I might have broken a rib during a drunken punching contest with one of my buddies. Well, I broke a rib.
Quite stupidly, I decided to go to the gym a few days ago -- I had some aggression to work out involving the words "former girlfriend", "married" and "moving across country" -- and quite stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to do some push-ups. Like a lot. I had the Pantera cranked to eleven. Phil Anselmo called me a pussy. At least I think he did.
Anyway, the exercise didn't really hurt my chest that much (felt good, actually), until the next day when the muscles stretched. Then it hurt like hell. Lifting right arm above sixty degrees = pain. Getting up from worn indentation in futon cushion = pain. Breathing? Pain. So I did what any normal single man with a minor medical problem, limited income and sketchy health insurance would do. I tied on a buzz.
The beer did help. After ... oh, let's call it four ... my body had a nice comfortable numbness and my attitude was ... peppy. I couldn't really drive anywhere, so I decided to play with the DVR and watch about a month's worth of prerecorded "How I Met Your Mother." Don't look at me like that -- it's a good show. It's comforting white humor, Barney is funny, and I have a crush on Alyson Hannigan. Going back to when she was Willow, I guess. Any guy will agree that she's a keeper. Lily over Robin, Pam over Karen, and Charlotte over the other three skanks. That's how it works.
Anyway, I'm watching the show, judgment and balance impaired, and what is generally only mildly amusing is now outright hilarious. Seriously, slap bet episode? Did you see it? Fun-nee. Only laughing brings the pain. Like Method Man.
So now, today, my whole upper torso hurts because I think I further snapped my ribs during the prolonged drunken giggling fit that was the Robin Sparkles video. (Seriously, funny episode.) Compound that pain with a mild hangover: that would be enough, right? It's worse. I cut my ear.
How did I cut my ear? It's a long story. When people tell you that something is "a long story" it's obviously code for "I don't want to tell you because it's embarrassing." I cut my ear shaving. That happens, you say, sounds fairly normal. Except it was my inner ear. I was shaving my ear. I don't know what to say. I had some gross wispy hairs on the outside of my ear, I had a straight razor in my hand -- one of those vibrating battery-operated types with like eight blades -- I just got carried away.
Turns out that ears are pretty vascular, so just a tiny nick can produce about a gallon of blood. And I guess that, thanks to a softened immune system from years of self-destruction, I'm bleeding more profusely than a Prussian prince. (That's a hemophilia reference, if you were curious.) Unfortunately I had places to go and couldn't just bleed to death -- both internally and externally -- in the privacy of my own home, so I had to slap a band-aid on my ear like Vincent fucking Van Gogh. If anyone asks about why I have a band-aid on my ear, I'm telling them "It's a rap thing." I don't even know what that means.
So here I am, world. Shattered rib from letting a burly drunk Irish guy take a free wail at my chest, and subsequently laughing too hard at a CBS sitcom starring Neil Patrick Harris. Head feeling heavy and stuffed from one too many Blackberry Wheats. Bandaged ear from manscaping agenda gone horribly wrong. How I don't have a girlfriend is beyond me.
So I'm a total mess right now.
A few entries ago I wrote about I might have broken a rib during a drunken punching contest with one of my buddies. Well, I broke a rib.
Quite stupidly, I decided to go to the gym a few days ago -- I had some aggression to work out involving the words "former girlfriend", "married" and "moving across country" -- and quite stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to do some push-ups. Like a lot. I had the Pantera cranked to eleven. Phil Anselmo called me a pussy. At least I think he did.
Anyway, the exercise didn't really hurt my chest that much (felt good, actually), until the next day when the muscles stretched. Then it hurt like hell. Lifting right arm above sixty degrees = pain. Getting up from worn indentation in futon cushion = pain. Breathing? Pain. So I did what any normal single man with a minor medical problem, limited income and sketchy health insurance would do. I tied on a buzz.
The beer did help. After ... oh, let's call it four ... my body had a nice comfortable numbness and my attitude was ... peppy. I couldn't really drive anywhere, so I decided to play with the DVR and watch about a month's worth of prerecorded "How I Met Your Mother." Don't look at me like that -- it's a good show. It's comforting white humor, Barney is funny, and I have a crush on Alyson Hannigan. Going back to when she was Willow, I guess. Any guy will agree that she's a keeper. Lily over Robin, Pam over Karen, and Charlotte over the other three skanks. That's how it works.
Anyway, I'm watching the show, judgment and balance impaired, and what is generally only mildly amusing is now outright hilarious. Seriously, slap bet episode? Did you see it? Fun-nee. Only laughing brings the pain. Like Method Man.
So now, today, my whole upper torso hurts because I think I further snapped my ribs during the prolonged drunken giggling fit that was the Robin Sparkles video. (Seriously, funny episode.) Compound that pain with a mild hangover: that would be enough, right? It's worse. I cut my ear.
How did I cut my ear? It's a long story. When people tell you that something is "a long story" it's obviously code for "I don't want to tell you because it's embarrassing." I cut my ear shaving. That happens, you say, sounds fairly normal. Except it was my inner ear. I was shaving my ear. I don't know what to say. I had some gross wispy hairs on the outside of my ear, I had a straight razor in my hand -- one of those vibrating battery-operated types with like eight blades -- I just got carried away.
Turns out that ears are pretty vascular, so just a tiny nick can produce about a gallon of blood. And I guess that, thanks to a softened immune system from years of self-destruction, I'm bleeding more profusely than a Prussian prince. (That's a hemophilia reference, if you were curious.) Unfortunately I had places to go and couldn't just bleed to death -- both internally and externally -- in the privacy of my own home, so I had to slap a band-aid on my ear like Vincent fucking Van Gogh. If anyone asks about why I have a band-aid on my ear, I'm telling them "It's a rap thing." I don't even know what that means.
So here I am, world. Shattered rib from letting a burly drunk Irish guy take a free wail at my chest, and subsequently laughing too hard at a CBS sitcom starring Neil Patrick Harris. Head feeling heavy and stuffed from one too many Blackberry Wheats. Bandaged ear from manscaping agenda gone horribly wrong. How I don't have a girlfriend is beyond me.
Defending The Boss
No man can break the ties that bind -- #92
Two things today.
First, last night I dug out the Bruce Springsteen, specifically "The River." One of my least favorite traits of my generation and the pop-culture bastions that define it is the sly jabbings that "hipsters" like to throw at Springsteen and his music. Didn't Chuck Klosterman call "Born to Run" stupid, or something to that effect? Anyway, at some point in the last decade it became real jejune to criticize The Boss -- criticism I get, loving the swell of irony and all. But I don't think it's warranted, especially when you consider the crap that we're listening to now. Springsteen wrote -- I'm pretty sure he died in a car wreck immediately after releasing "The Ghost of Tom Jode" -- some of the most poignant and emotional music EVER, and he absolutely slaved to create it. Some of the lyrics might be hokey (or populist, which is really the same thing), but America itself is hokey. Springsteen wrote a passioned song about wild neon nights along the boardwalk of Asbury Park, which is a total fucking dump. But there's something beautiful about the way that all of his music really dissects things and doesn't look at how things really are but accounts for what the were and where they're going, all at once.
I defy you to find a better album about marriage -- another American institution -- than "The River." It has everything: commitment, nagging mothers-in-law, boredom, wandering eyes, moments of joy and intimacy, terror, elation, fun and heartbreak, possible futures, impossible futures, and the looming fear of death.
That said, I don't know why I was listening to The River. And I also don't know why I had my second weird dream of the week. This time, my brother and I were traveling by subway to somewhere -- through New Jersey, strangely enough -- when we de-boarded because I had to get money from an ATM. The ATM dispensed tons of money (quarters, dollar bills, crumpled fives and tens). A nearby stranger offered to help, only I noticed that he was helping himself to more money that he was giving to me. No one else saw this. To my protest, my brother invited him home with us, for being so helpful. For some reason it was Christmas. My family fell in love with this person, who at some point in the journey became a women. But every time someone turned their back, this person was taking something from me: money, presents, food -- whatever. Finally I had enough. I grabbed her by the head, picked her up, and threw her outside. She landed on the concrete patio, crying. She was now an old woman. She was my mother.
I don't want to talk about it. This entry sucks.
Two things today.
First, last night I dug out the Bruce Springsteen, specifically "The River." One of my least favorite traits of my generation and the pop-culture bastions that define it is the sly jabbings that "hipsters" like to throw at Springsteen and his music. Didn't Chuck Klosterman call "Born to Run" stupid, or something to that effect? Anyway, at some point in the last decade it became real jejune to criticize The Boss -- criticism I get, loving the swell of irony and all. But I don't think it's warranted, especially when you consider the crap that we're listening to now. Springsteen wrote -- I'm pretty sure he died in a car wreck immediately after releasing "The Ghost of Tom Jode" -- some of the most poignant and emotional music EVER, and he absolutely slaved to create it. Some of the lyrics might be hokey (or populist, which is really the same thing), but America itself is hokey. Springsteen wrote a passioned song about wild neon nights along the boardwalk of Asbury Park, which is a total fucking dump. But there's something beautiful about the way that all of his music really dissects things and doesn't look at how things really are but accounts for what the were and where they're going, all at once.
I defy you to find a better album about marriage -- another American institution -- than "The River." It has everything: commitment, nagging mothers-in-law, boredom, wandering eyes, moments of joy and intimacy, terror, elation, fun and heartbreak, possible futures, impossible futures, and the looming fear of death.
That said, I don't know why I was listening to The River. And I also don't know why I had my second weird dream of the week. This time, my brother and I were traveling by subway to somewhere -- through New Jersey, strangely enough -- when we de-boarded because I had to get money from an ATM. The ATM dispensed tons of money (quarters, dollar bills, crumpled fives and tens). A nearby stranger offered to help, only I noticed that he was helping himself to more money that he was giving to me. No one else saw this. To my protest, my brother invited him home with us, for being so helpful. For some reason it was Christmas. My family fell in love with this person, who at some point in the journey became a women. But every time someone turned their back, this person was taking something from me: money, presents, food -- whatever. Finally I had enough. I grabbed her by the head, picked her up, and threw her outside. She landed on the concrete patio, crying. She was now an old woman. She was my mother.
I don't want to talk about it. This entry sucks.
Wasp Dream
Dive in warrior wasps queen wasp go! -- #672
Two nights ago I had a dream that wasps were crawling out of my skin.
I was on a playground with some people I know from law school -- not close friends, but people I occasionally associate with. Suddenly I noticed a wasp crawling on my right hand, between the area of my thumb and pointer finger. I brushed it off. But then there was another one, right in the same area. And then two. I continued to brush them off, trying not to freak out about it, because I was being attacked by wasps.
Then there was another one, partly emerging from under my skin. I watched him wriggle out through a pore, flutter his wings a few times, and then crawl down the length of my finger. The area between my thumb and fingers began to pulse, and soon another wasp head was wriggling out from that same spot, repeating the other's performance. I turned my arm and saw another wasp, breaking through the skin on my wrist. Another had burst through on the back of my hand.
They didn't hurt when they came out, or at least my dream-self wasn't being hurt by them. They did not sting me either. They emerged one at a time, from about four spots on my arm: slowly coming out, stretching their wings one or twice, and then crawling away. I brushed each one off as it emerged. I didn't want to crush them because I thought they would sting me. I didn't want anyone to see. I was embarrassed. I was riddled with wasps.
Dozens of them came out, though the entire process took only a few minutes. Eventually they stopped. I crushed one under my skin, hearing the sound of its thorax snapping and feeling the carcass bulge on my dermis. I had red lesions on my arm: a small surgical cut between my thumb and finger, a small pink hole on my wrists (like a stigmata), and a long red groove outside my forearm. Nothing hurt. And then I woke up.
What exactly does it mean? Why didn't they sting me? Where was I? Why with those people? Why were wasps crawling out from my skin?
I checked several sites online for interpretation, and it seems to mean exactly what you might think. Wasp signify anger, fear of being stung. But they were my wasps, crawling out from my right hand, the hand I use to write. Am I going to sting someone? Am I worried that those people might see me do it? Does my bloodstream course with wasp eggs, and now that the weather has changed, it is just a matter of time before my body releases these inner wasps, setting them out to sting the rest of the world?
This was an actual dream, probably the most vivid one that I've had in months. Wasp, crawling out from my skin. Itchy.
Two nights ago I had a dream that wasps were crawling out of my skin.
I was on a playground with some people I know from law school -- not close friends, but people I occasionally associate with. Suddenly I noticed a wasp crawling on my right hand, between the area of my thumb and pointer finger. I brushed it off. But then there was another one, right in the same area. And then two. I continued to brush them off, trying not to freak out about it, because I was being attacked by wasps.
Then there was another one, partly emerging from under my skin. I watched him wriggle out through a pore, flutter his wings a few times, and then crawl down the length of my finger. The area between my thumb and fingers began to pulse, and soon another wasp head was wriggling out from that same spot, repeating the other's performance. I turned my arm and saw another wasp, breaking through the skin on my wrist. Another had burst through on the back of my hand.
They didn't hurt when they came out, or at least my dream-self wasn't being hurt by them. They did not sting me either. They emerged one at a time, from about four spots on my arm: slowly coming out, stretching their wings one or twice, and then crawling away. I brushed each one off as it emerged. I didn't want to crush them because I thought they would sting me. I didn't want anyone to see. I was embarrassed. I was riddled with wasps.
Dozens of them came out, though the entire process took only a few minutes. Eventually they stopped. I crushed one under my skin, hearing the sound of its thorax snapping and feeling the carcass bulge on my dermis. I had red lesions on my arm: a small surgical cut between my thumb and finger, a small pink hole on my wrists (like a stigmata), and a long red groove outside my forearm. Nothing hurt. And then I woke up.
What exactly does it mean? Why didn't they sting me? Where was I? Why with those people? Why were wasps crawling out from my skin?
I checked several sites online for interpretation, and it seems to mean exactly what you might think. Wasp signify anger, fear of being stung. But they were my wasps, crawling out from my right hand, the hand I use to write. Am I going to sting someone? Am I worried that those people might see me do it? Does my bloodstream course with wasp eggs, and now that the weather has changed, it is just a matter of time before my body releases these inner wasps, setting them out to sting the rest of the world?
This was an actual dream, probably the most vivid one that I've had in months. Wasp, crawling out from my skin. Itchy.
Statement of Purpose
This blog got started in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.
Five Things I’ve Done Since My Last Entry
5. Watched all four seasons of Home Movies on DVD
4. Successfully fought speeding ticket in traffic court
3. Vacuumed, bought lightbulbs
2. Shaved head
1. Finished law school
Regarding the last point, I’ve been struggling to find a way to come up with the perfect description of what it feels like to finish law school, but every time I write something, I sound like Albert Camus.
Thus ends three years of the hardest work in my life, full of sound and fury and a mortgage worth of debt.
I started this blog basically because I needed an outlet to complain about things, because there are many thinks in life worth complaining about. People that honk their horns in traffic jams, for example. Or getting old. Or the fact that God made your feet smell when you choose to wear sneakers with no socks on hot days. I think people deserve the right to know about these things, and I'm just the douchebag to tell them.
I also have the occasional funny story that goes nowhere. Like last Friday I was out at the town bar with one of my friends and we decided to have a punching contest. You get one unblocked shot to the upper body as hard as you can. Suffice to say, there were no winners, only two complete losers. I'm also 99% sure that he broke a few of my ribs. I turned 34 in a few months, by the way. And we're both future lawyers.
And while I'm at it, how about this:
Five Rationalizations Use for Getting Back With an Ex-Girlfriend
5. Pressured by randy characters on Grand Theft Auto
4. Felt insecure after given wrong drink order by Starbucks barista
3. Yankees win, August 18, 2003
2. Revenge
1. Caught up in moment by John Legend CD
The world need to know these thing, and occasionally I will be revealing intimate details about myself. It's a cry for identity, really. There's a scene in an early Faulkner book where a character carves her name in the wood of a windowsill, just to define her own existence. That will always be the answer to why. Because we live in a really difficult world that constantly wants to forget us and can't wait to kill us off (nature is undefeated in this contest). Our only chance is to scream when we can. Because eventually I'll be dead. And so will you too.
And then there is always my iPod, which I'm convinced knows me better than any other human being on the planet. And that's sad, but whatever. From time to time I'll be telling you about my iPod. So there.
Five Things I’ve Done Since My Last Entry
5. Watched all four seasons of Home Movies on DVD
4. Successfully fought speeding ticket in traffic court
3. Vacuumed, bought lightbulbs
2. Shaved head
1. Finished law school
Regarding the last point, I’ve been struggling to find a way to come up with the perfect description of what it feels like to finish law school, but every time I write something, I sound like Albert Camus.
Law school ended today. My last class was Family Law. At the end of class the professor had all the third-years stand up and receive applause from our classmates. There was some clapping, and then I collected my books and left. I walked away from campus and into town to buy cottage cheese. I ate it quietly in the basement of the library. It did not taste very good.
Thus ends three years of the hardest work in my life, full of sound and fury and a mortgage worth of debt.
I started this blog basically because I needed an outlet to complain about things, because there are many thinks in life worth complaining about. People that honk their horns in traffic jams, for example. Or getting old. Or the fact that God made your feet smell when you choose to wear sneakers with no socks on hot days. I think people deserve the right to know about these things, and I'm just the douchebag to tell them.
I also have the occasional funny story that goes nowhere. Like last Friday I was out at the town bar with one of my friends and we decided to have a punching contest. You get one unblocked shot to the upper body as hard as you can. Suffice to say, there were no winners, only two complete losers. I'm also 99% sure that he broke a few of my ribs. I turned 34 in a few months, by the way. And we're both future lawyers.
And while I'm at it, how about this:
Five Rationalizations Use for Getting Back With an Ex-Girlfriend
5. Pressured by randy characters on Grand Theft Auto
4. Felt insecure after given wrong drink order by Starbucks barista
3. Yankees win, August 18, 2003
2. Revenge
1. Caught up in moment by John Legend CD
The world need to know these thing, and occasionally I will be revealing intimate details about myself. It's a cry for identity, really. There's a scene in an early Faulkner book where a character carves her name in the wood of a windowsill, just to define her own existence. That will always be the answer to why. Because we live in a really difficult world that constantly wants to forget us and can't wait to kill us off (nature is undefeated in this contest). Our only chance is to scream when we can. Because eventually I'll be dead. And so will you too.
And then there is always my iPod, which I'm convinced knows me better than any other human being on the planet. And that's sad, but whatever. From time to time I'll be telling you about my iPod. So there.
goals
Hang onto your ego ... -- #478
Funniest Conversation of the Week
Her: I came here specifically because I wanted to study Water Law and the CWA, so working for the DOJ Enforcement Unit is going to be a great experience. But I still want to work for NOAA, eventually. Or at least put some time in there. I'm still in contact with several of my friends out on the West Coast, some of which have recently graduated, and our long range plan is to put our time in in the public sector before pooling resources to consult. Once there, I'm hoping to find adjunct work somewhere and just balance out teaching with the advisory work, that way I have something I can fall into when I start to consider retirement. So what are you doing after graduation?
Me: I think I'm going to buy a plasma TV.
Funniest Conversation of the Week
Her: I came here specifically because I wanted to study Water Law and the CWA, so working for the DOJ Enforcement Unit is going to be a great experience. But I still want to work for NOAA, eventually. Or at least put some time in there. I'm still in contact with several of my friends out on the West Coast, some of which have recently graduated, and our long range plan is to put our time in in the public sector before pooling resources to consult. Once there, I'm hoping to find adjunct work somewhere and just balance out teaching with the advisory work, that way I have something I can fall into when I start to consider retirement. So what are you doing after graduation?
Me: I think I'm going to buy a plasma TV.
seeing other people
Can we please be objective? -- #721
It's Monday morning, around 8:00, cold and rainy, and I'm driving west toward school, listening to Belle and Sebastian, thinking to myself, "I should just keep driving." Drive straight past the school, out of the state, looting my checking account every 300 miles and eventually losing the scent of my creditors. Settle out west, somewhere near Portland, in a shady logging camp where no one asks any questions. Maybe kill a drifter or two on the way. Anyone else have these thoughts from time to time? Anyone? Just me?
Of course I go to class, but on the way I stop at the post office for my mail. You know that you're in law school when you get rejection letters from employers that you don't even remember applying to. They could literally send out preemptive rejection letters -- "we know you didn't apply, but just in case you're thinking about it, the answer is no" -- and we'd just have to take it. There are very few people on the planet with lower self-worth than a jobless third-year law student in T.S. Eliot's cruelest month. The hierarchy looks something like this:
6. Death row prison inmates with no pending appeals
5. Infantile fetishists that pay people to change dookie in their diapers
4. People being paid to change dookie in the diapers of infantile fetishists
3. Man being interviewed by Chris Hansen
2. Jobless third-year law students
1. Chicago Bears quarterbacks
It's Monday morning, around 8:00, cold and rainy, and I'm driving west toward school, listening to Belle and Sebastian, thinking to myself, "I should just keep driving." Drive straight past the school, out of the state, looting my checking account every 300 miles and eventually losing the scent of my creditors. Settle out west, somewhere near Portland, in a shady logging camp where no one asks any questions. Maybe kill a drifter or two on the way. Anyone else have these thoughts from time to time? Anyone? Just me?
Of course I go to class, but on the way I stop at the post office for my mail. You know that you're in law school when you get rejection letters from employers that you don't even remember applying to. They could literally send out preemptive rejection letters -- "we know you didn't apply, but just in case you're thinking about it, the answer is no" -- and we'd just have to take it. There are very few people on the planet with lower self-worth than a jobless third-year law student in T.S. Eliot's cruelest month. The hierarchy looks something like this:
6. Death row prison inmates with no pending appeals
5. Infantile fetishists that pay people to change dookie in their diapers
4. People being paid to change dookie in the diapers of infantile fetishists
3. Man being interviewed by Chris Hansen
2. Jobless third-year law students
1. Chicago Bears quarterbacks
chocolate jesus: requiem
Veil of virtue hung to hide your method ... -- #358
Sad news from the Land of Fudge today: Chocolate Jesus got canceled. Yeah, I'm pretty broken up about it too. The interesting thing to note about the article is that apparently Chocolate Jesus was also anatomically correct and featured a fully visible chocolate schlong and some chocolate nuts (no confirmation whether they were almond).
I won't comment further on the sad saga of Chocolate Jesus, lest I offend some of those "Christian sensibilities" that the Catholic League has their pious undies in a bunch over. And frankly, I think it was stupid for an artist to carve a six-foot naked Jesus out of milk chocolate and not think that some people might be upset over this. [Insert joke about Chocolate Jesus = outrageous while pedophile priests = concerning.] Something something, freedom of speech, Chocolate Jesus spoken about in Revelations, can't we all get along, blah blah blah.
Anyway, all this discussion about Chocolate Jesus makes me hungry, which brings up my next question: What is the cut-off age for it being acceptable to get an Easter basket from your parents? I still get one. I'm 33 (ironically same age as non-chocolate Jesus when he died). I still want one, especially if it has those shitty hollow boxed bunnies with the candy eyes and clever names like Fuzzy Candytail or Mostly Sucrose. I'm not talking about coloring eggs or anything stupid like that. Just getting some candy from your Mom and Dad, in a decorative basket, on a Sunday morning. That's still OK, right? Right?
Sad news from the Land of Fudge today: Chocolate Jesus got canceled. Yeah, I'm pretty broken up about it too. The interesting thing to note about the article is that apparently Chocolate Jesus was also anatomically correct and featured a fully visible chocolate schlong and some chocolate nuts (no confirmation whether they were almond).
I won't comment further on the sad saga of Chocolate Jesus, lest I offend some of those "Christian sensibilities" that the Catholic League has their pious undies in a bunch over. And frankly, I think it was stupid for an artist to carve a six-foot naked Jesus out of milk chocolate and not think that some people might be upset over this. [Insert joke about Chocolate Jesus = outrageous while pedophile priests = concerning.] Something something, freedom of speech, Chocolate Jesus spoken about in Revelations, can't we all get along, blah blah blah.
Anyway, all this discussion about Chocolate Jesus makes me hungry, which brings up my next question: What is the cut-off age for it being acceptable to get an Easter basket from your parents? I still get one. I'm 33 (ironically same age as non-chocolate Jesus when he died). I still want one, especially if it has those shitty hollow boxed bunnies with the candy eyes and clever names like Fuzzy Candytail or Mostly Sucrose. I'm not talking about coloring eggs or anything stupid like that. Just getting some candy from your Mom and Dad, in a decorative basket, on a Sunday morning. That's still OK, right? Right?
what would chocolate jesus do?
It wouldn't pain me more to bury you rich, than to bury you poor. -- #467
So I'm not really sure where I stand on the "Chocolate Jesus" controversy. Don't know about the Chocolate Jesus controversy? You can read about it here.
Apparently, some creative artist who specializes in the medium of food decided that it would be a good idea to sculpt a six-foot statute of the Son of God out of delicious milk chocolate, just in time for Easter celebration. And he called it "My Sweet Lord" which I guess is better than some of the alternative (My Sweet Creamy Lord, for example). Obviously people are offended by this, and not simply because the Messiah melts both in your mouth and on your hands, which I'm pretty sure has been against Catholic dogma for centuries, ever since the infallible Pope Pius IV declared that Jesus had a "thick candy shell."
Initially I was torn by this. On the one hand, I'm theoretically Catholic. I don't go to church or anything, I disagree with/disobey most of the rigorous disciplinary doctrines (particularly the ones involving my penis), and I'm embarrassed by the leadership -- but I plan on acting like the religion matters to me when I have children or approach certain death, whichever comes first. So that side of my life is infuriated that someone would dare to mock my Lord and Savior with a representation of His Holiness as an ephemeral sugary delight. Under no circumstances should someone be able to enjoy biting the head off of Jesus. I feel pretty strongly about this.
On the other hand, chocolate is delicious. So there's always that argument.
When I first encountered this story, I did not realize that we were talking about a large sculpture, but rather I thought that some budding Willy Wonka was mass producing these things to line Easter baskets for the coming Sunday morn. Now this would have been awesome. I totally would have loved to get a Chocolate Jesus, wrapped in shiny Jesus foil, perhaps with a creamy nougat center. They could have made a different Jesus for all fourteen stations of the cross. Heck, I would get behind all sorts of Easter-themed candy treats. Virgin Mary jellybeans. Crown of Thorns rock candy. Depictions of the crucification made of Peep. What better way to get the kids fired up about the resurrection of Christ than to have him come back to life as tasty goodness inside their mouths?
And then I got a look at this thing. Holy Hell.
That is one scary looking Chocolate Jesus. I didn't realize that it wasn't going to be kind, friendly, just woke up from his nap Jesus. This is agonizing in his final moments Jesus, battered by Roman torture and suffering from his sacrifice into human mortality. This is what my Chocolate Jesus would look like a few days after Easter, with some of his back shaved off by my incisors and his ears missing. The fact that he's both yummy and horrifying stirs me with inner turmoil. By eating him, just as God intended, am I inflicting pain? Or should I simply stand by to watch him melt, his delectable body going to waste for some higher cause?
You can see my quandary. Like real Jesus, I think Chocolate Jesus came to this world to teach us above love and humanity and faith and a bunch of other stuff. He is also made to die for our sins, particularly the sin of gluttony. Either way, Catholics have been chowing down on Jesus for centuries. Imagine how different the world would be if the apostle Paul brought his fondue pot to the Last Supper like he was supposed to. So I say embrace Chocolate Jesus! Actually, don't embrace him -- you'll get Chocolate Jesus on your clothes. But figuratively embrace Chocolate Jesus! By eating him! Chocolate Jesus would want it that way.
So I'm not really sure where I stand on the "Chocolate Jesus" controversy. Don't know about the Chocolate Jesus controversy? You can read about it here.
Apparently, some creative artist who specializes in the medium of food decided that it would be a good idea to sculpt a six-foot statute of the Son of God out of delicious milk chocolate, just in time for Easter celebration. And he called it "My Sweet Lord" which I guess is better than some of the alternative (My Sweet Creamy Lord, for example). Obviously people are offended by this, and not simply because the Messiah melts both in your mouth and on your hands, which I'm pretty sure has been against Catholic dogma for centuries, ever since the infallible Pope Pius IV declared that Jesus had a "thick candy shell."
Initially I was torn by this. On the one hand, I'm theoretically Catholic. I don't go to church or anything, I disagree with/disobey most of the rigorous disciplinary doctrines (particularly the ones involving my penis), and I'm embarrassed by the leadership -- but I plan on acting like the religion matters to me when I have children or approach certain death, whichever comes first. So that side of my life is infuriated that someone would dare to mock my Lord and Savior with a representation of His Holiness as an ephemeral sugary delight. Under no circumstances should someone be able to enjoy biting the head off of Jesus. I feel pretty strongly about this.
On the other hand, chocolate is delicious. So there's always that argument.
When I first encountered this story, I did not realize that we were talking about a large sculpture, but rather I thought that some budding Willy Wonka was mass producing these things to line Easter baskets for the coming Sunday morn. Now this would have been awesome. I totally would have loved to get a Chocolate Jesus, wrapped in shiny Jesus foil, perhaps with a creamy nougat center. They could have made a different Jesus for all fourteen stations of the cross. Heck, I would get behind all sorts of Easter-themed candy treats. Virgin Mary jellybeans. Crown of Thorns rock candy. Depictions of the crucification made of Peep. What better way to get the kids fired up about the resurrection of Christ than to have him come back to life as tasty goodness inside their mouths?
And then I got a look at this thing. Holy Hell.
That is one scary looking Chocolate Jesus. I didn't realize that it wasn't going to be kind, friendly, just woke up from his nap Jesus. This is agonizing in his final moments Jesus, battered by Roman torture and suffering from his sacrifice into human mortality. This is what my Chocolate Jesus would look like a few days after Easter, with some of his back shaved off by my incisors and his ears missing. The fact that he's both yummy and horrifying stirs me with inner turmoil. By eating him, just as God intended, am I inflicting pain? Or should I simply stand by to watch him melt, his delectable body going to waste for some higher cause?
You can see my quandary. Like real Jesus, I think Chocolate Jesus came to this world to teach us above love and humanity and faith and a bunch of other stuff. He is also made to die for our sins, particularly the sin of gluttony. Either way, Catholics have been chowing down on Jesus for centuries. Imagine how different the world would be if the apostle Paul brought his fondue pot to the Last Supper like he was supposed to. So I say embrace Chocolate Jesus! Actually, don't embrace him -- you'll get Chocolate Jesus on your clothes. But figuratively embrace Chocolate Jesus! By eating him! Chocolate Jesus would want it that way.
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