I don't know if the minor-league deal the Sox offered to veteran fatboy Bartolo Colon is a good thing, but I think I'm pretty excited about it. Two seasons removed from the Cy Young Award, the consummate tub of lard may not be his former bad self, but he is still really overweight and there's something to be said for that.
Manny Ramirez and Colon should make quite a pair in the dugout, being old friends and long-time jokesters. But I'm wary of Manny incorporating Colon's iffy eating habits...a fat Manny is a slower, less fast Manny...a more lethargic, less energetic Manny...a less productive, more unproductive Manny. That would be bad...very, very bad.
24 February 2008
15 February 2008
Hot Balls
I figured something out last night. Ever wondered what it's like to have the kind of STD that burns your ball sac?
I made a favorite meal of Lauren's last night, in celebration of Valentine's Day. Included in this raw tuna salad is one chopped jalapeno pepper, seeded. I seeded the damn pepper with my bare fingers, chopped the shit, and put it in the salad. I then mixed up the rest of the dish, set it in the fridge to marinate, and proceeded to the lavatory to pee.
No sooner than when I was shaking out the last drops did I realize what I had done. Bare balls are NO PLACE for jalapeno hands. I started to feel the burn and immediately I dampened a towel and patted myself down, desperately trying to remove the hot seed residue from the base of my shaft and balls. It was an act of futility. The next half hour of my life was some of the worst elapsed time that I ever hope to encounter. Being that it was Valentine's Day and all, I had planned on grabbing some wine before I served dinner...so I had to deal with this shit at the liquor store. At one point, the woman behind the counter asked me if I needed anything and I was ok. I nodded as I grimaced in pain and tried ever so desperately not to scream "my fucking balls are on FIRE!!!!"
Misery. Absolute misery. I also liken the experience to having fire ants in your pants. I haven't had this pleasantry thusfar in my life, but I have had those fuckers between my toes before. Same deal as the jalapeno. In fact, it's almost as if a fire ant is simply a regular old ant that lives, eats and breathes inside a jalapeno.
At least it's Friday. But I came to another realization this morning, pertaining to men's room etiquette/usage/expectations. Let me begin by stating that I will no longer venture into the men's room here before 11am on a Friday morning.
In corporate Boston, particularly in the whole recruiting/headhunting circle, there exists a particularly social fabric within every organization. Here at Hollister it's no different, as plenty of men and women venture out to the bars on a regular basis. Much like college, Thursday night is THE night to go out and libate oneself until the point of vertigo. What does this mean for the men's room on a Friday morning? It means that you can be pretty damn certain that you'll encounter max occupancy at any time between 8am and 11am as the social crowd of men proceed to engage in their weekly rectal exodus. And make no mistake about it, they're not in there for any other reason than to feel the literal burn from the Budweiser they consumed the night before. And the eventual 2am sausage they inhaled before retiring to some bed/couch/floor. Whatever, it's fine. My aggrevation with the whole situation is little price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing that these drunks are going to have trouble sitting down for the next three hours or so.
Please, enjoy your long weekend. Not only is it a celebration of Presidents, but it's also the best time of the year to buy a car. Once again, I'll close with a suggestion for Gilbert:
Dude, buy that expression of masculinity that you call a truck. Enough deliberating. Give me a call if you want to chop some wood later. Or maybe if you want to shoot some stuff.
I made a favorite meal of Lauren's last night, in celebration of Valentine's Day. Included in this raw tuna salad is one chopped jalapeno pepper, seeded. I seeded the damn pepper with my bare fingers, chopped the shit, and put it in the salad. I then mixed up the rest of the dish, set it in the fridge to marinate, and proceeded to the lavatory to pee.
No sooner than when I was shaking out the last drops did I realize what I had done. Bare balls are NO PLACE for jalapeno hands. I started to feel the burn and immediately I dampened a towel and patted myself down, desperately trying to remove the hot seed residue from the base of my shaft and balls. It was an act of futility. The next half hour of my life was some of the worst elapsed time that I ever hope to encounter. Being that it was Valentine's Day and all, I had planned on grabbing some wine before I served dinner...so I had to deal with this shit at the liquor store. At one point, the woman behind the counter asked me if I needed anything and I was ok. I nodded as I grimaced in pain and tried ever so desperately not to scream "my fucking balls are on FIRE!!!!"
Misery. Absolute misery. I also liken the experience to having fire ants in your pants. I haven't had this pleasantry thusfar in my life, but I have had those fuckers between my toes before. Same deal as the jalapeno. In fact, it's almost as if a fire ant is simply a regular old ant that lives, eats and breathes inside a jalapeno.
At least it's Friday. But I came to another realization this morning, pertaining to men's room etiquette/usage/expectations. Let me begin by stating that I will no longer venture into the men's room here before 11am on a Friday morning.
In corporate Boston, particularly in the whole recruiting/headhunting circle, there exists a particularly social fabric within every organization. Here at Hollister it's no different, as plenty of men and women venture out to the bars on a regular basis. Much like college, Thursday night is THE night to go out and libate oneself until the point of vertigo. What does this mean for the men's room on a Friday morning? It means that you can be pretty damn certain that you'll encounter max occupancy at any time between 8am and 11am as the social crowd of men proceed to engage in their weekly rectal exodus. And make no mistake about it, they're not in there for any other reason than to feel the literal burn from the Budweiser they consumed the night before. And the eventual 2am sausage they inhaled before retiring to some bed/couch/floor. Whatever, it's fine. My aggrevation with the whole situation is little price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing that these drunks are going to have trouble sitting down for the next three hours or so.
Please, enjoy your long weekend. Not only is it a celebration of Presidents, but it's also the best time of the year to buy a car. Once again, I'll close with a suggestion for Gilbert:
Dude, buy that expression of masculinity that you call a truck. Enough deliberating. Give me a call if you want to chop some wood later. Or maybe if you want to shoot some stuff.
13 February 2008
Malibooyeah
I really struggled with the name of this blog, and in the process of trying to come up with something catchy, I'm pretty sure I lost a bunch of the material that was fresh in my head yesterday. But I've got to push on...push through the cobwebs that resulted from our usual redeye back to Boston. Anyone else have trouble sleeping on planes? I suck at it, and this latest endeavor offered no revelation as to how to effectively sleep on a plane. La and I had a whole row to ourselves, so we both kind of sprawled out and tried to snooze. She encountered great success while I spent the better part of the flight swallowing and yawning, trying to pop my fucking ears.
The Last Pick: I like this kid. He recently moved to the area from someplace like India or China and he's never seen a basketball before. He has speed beyond any comprehension and the heart of a lion but his basketball aptitude is below that of junebug. Honestly, passing him the ball is about as smart as shooting at the other team's basket. He's the kid who might make one shot all season and when he makes that shot, the coach actually runs on the court and hugs him. Also, only his dad comes to the games and he sits in the back corner of the gym. He'll not say much, and he leaves the gym with his head down. He doesn't understand the game either, but his son cries about all the other parents being there for their kids. So he goes. And he's miserable.
The Star: Every team has one of these kids. He shoots the lights out, is maybe 100 times better than everyone else on his team and the other kids know it. Other kids will pass him the ball regardless of the situation, even when he's covered by everyone on the other team. I can't understand the level of play of the Star, because he will have perfect form, a smooth crossover and crazy handle. Yet, 9 times out of 10, he'll hit puberty and lose all coordination. Nate, if you're reading this, you know what I'm talking about.
I miss the days when trophies are all the same size so no one feels better than anyone else, and the team party offers a box of cupcakes with the first letter of the team name on them...and they give out the Sportsmanship Award. I always won that award, probably because I worked really hard but didn't quite have the skills to be rewarded as the MVP or the leading scorer. I suppose that still holds true for me, in a sad, sad way. Why can't I dribble a basketball? WHY??
I've put a few parting photos below here for your viewing pleasure. In closing, I love hot tubs.
1. My two new friends as a result of this trip. That's Danny on the left and Jackie on the right. Wait, no it's not! I'm kidding! No dude named Danny would be sporting such an impressive set of...sunglasses as the ones J is wielding here. Nice work, J. Looking good. Notice the Pink Taco sign behind us. I think it's pretty awesome how Danny's head is perfectly in place of the 'O' on the sign. We didn't even mean to do that, either. I know, it's crazy shit. Crrrrazy, man.
2. I'm trying to start a new drink name at Starbucks as a result of the trip/meeting the aforementioned Danny (no boobs). It's called the Pischke, and it's the equivalent of a Double Black Eye at Starbucks...I am accustomed to ordering a regular Black Eye, which is a coffee with two shots of Espresso. During one of many Coffee Bean experiences in LA this last time, I allowed Danny to order my drink for me, whatever he was having. Yeah, well...that happened to be four shots of espresso over ice..sans sugar, cream, etc. For all you cokeheads out there, this is a much cheaper alternative to an eight ball. Anyway, go order a venti Pischke at your local Starbucks and when they inevitable deny its existence, tell them you ordered one in LA and then describe what it is. I'm willing to bet you can convince the Barista on duty to write it on his or her chalkboard. Before long, the Pischke will be a national obsession. The drink, Danny. The drink. You're a ways off from being a national obsession, but if you play your cards right, you'll soon be a blog phenomenon.
3. I am an average eighth grade student. I did an assignment for La's youngest brother Zander while we were there, and it took me a few hours. I had to write an outline for an essay about Manifest Destiny and westward movement...this included shit like the Alamo, the Gadsden Purchase, etc. After a lot of hard work and reading, she gave me/him a sideways but nearly right-side up Tigger stamp.
The tigger stamp is the grading method of one teacher out in the Malibu school system. Her name will remain anonymous to Zander's protection. If you receive a right-side up TIgger, it means you got an A. So my slightly sideways Tigger is like a B/B+. These kids are eighth graders, dude. Not second graders. Tigger?
I usually leave Malibu scratching my head, because I can't beat this new teen in HORSE or Madden on Wii, or NBA Live, or Guitar Hero. But now I can't even compete on the scholastic level, either. Time for me to do some serious soul searching, methinks.
4. I realized that I'm not going to be a very good father in terms of watching my son(s) play sports. I attended a youth basketball game while we were out there and I gotta tell you, I've never been so heated at a youth event. But it has lead to understand that there are several defined roles for youths in terms of basketball:
The Ballhog: my inspiration for this character is a real douchebag in my opinion. This is the kid who never, EVER passes, hoists up NBA threes that nearly touch the rafters, charges on every play, travels twice per play and takes layups that go careening off the backboard with such violence that dent a sedan. I hate this kid...the Ballhog. I found myself very irritated by this kid at the game, muttering things like "oh, is this kid serious with that shit" and "pass the fucking ball, you asshole". These kids are 13. I have problems.
The Last Pick: I like this kid. He recently moved to the area from someplace like India or China and he's never seen a basketball before. He has speed beyond any comprehension and the heart of a lion but his basketball aptitude is below that of junebug. Honestly, passing him the ball is about as smart as shooting at the other team's basket. He's the kid who might make one shot all season and when he makes that shot, the coach actually runs on the court and hugs him. Also, only his dad comes to the games and he sits in the back corner of the gym. He'll not say much, and he leaves the gym with his head down. He doesn't understand the game either, but his son cries about all the other parents being there for their kids. So he goes. And he's miserable.
The Star: Every team has one of these kids. He shoots the lights out, is maybe 100 times better than everyone else on his team and the other kids know it. Other kids will pass him the ball regardless of the situation, even when he's covered by everyone on the other team. I can't understand the level of play of the Star, because he will have perfect form, a smooth crossover and crazy handle. Yet, 9 times out of 10, he'll hit puberty and lose all coordination. Nate, if you're reading this, you know what I'm talking about.
I miss the days when trophies are all the same size so no one feels better than anyone else, and the team party offers a box of cupcakes with the first letter of the team name on them...and they give out the Sportsmanship Award. I always won that award, probably because I worked really hard but didn't quite have the skills to be rewarded as the MVP or the leading scorer. I suppose that still holds true for me, in a sad, sad way. Why can't I dribble a basketball? WHY??
I've put a few parting photos below here for your viewing pleasure. In closing, I love hot tubs.
And I hate HORSE...below is a shot of me and Zander trying to retrieve the ball in the bushes following one of my atrcious shots. Terrible.
Hey Gilbert, buy the fucking truck. Do it.
06 February 2008
La Cynique
I have three partial blogs sitting in the pipeline...all very recent but not soon to be published. You see, they just wouldn't make any sense at this point because when I started to write them was when they were pertinent. For instance, I began to write about some folks who have already failed in terms of their New Year's Resolutions...excerpt:
Plaxico Burress failed in his attempt to refrain from saying dumb shit in 2008. Give him credit, though. He lasted until nearly the last day of January. If only the Giants hadn't accidentally won the NFC Championship...he wouldn't have made this list. Sorry, Plax. I don't have a problem with you predicting a Giant victory, but were at the first meeting of the two teams this year? Did you happen to miss the fact that 73 points were scored in that game? 23-17 is a stupid prediction. Boy, I hope I don't eat those words. Go team!
Yeah. I know. I even mentioned hoping that I don't eat the words and here I sit, chewing on my own shit. That was quite a prediction, indeed. I didn't intend on waxing on about XLII, though. It's really not necessary.
My intention when I started this lovely piece of penned ponderings was to indicate my thoughts on an ever increasing inner cynicism that I have found lately. Not a displeasure per se, just a general cynicism towards things that I encounter on a daily basis. For instance, La and I have spoken recently about certain individuals who feel the urge to speak nearly entirely in cliches. The more I think about this one, the more I realize how much of a true pet peeve this is. Have people become so unoriginal that they can't even form their own thoughts and therefore, words? Or is it merely a sign of commercialization? Maybe some people are just stupid and can't truly think for themselves; therefore, cliches are counted on to act as responses more often than original thought. A few of my least favorites:
"Sounds like a plan..."
Circumstantially, a person will utter this cliche when some kind of plan, whether well-formulated or scatterbrained, has been laid out suggestively or matter-of-factly. I have to imagine that in most cases, such a plan is known to be a plan, or known to come off as sounding like a plan. Therefore, why is it necessary to say "sounds like a plan"? It is/was a plan! Hey, jabroni, if it "sounds like a plan", that's probably because it was a plan indeed. But thanks for pointing out the blatantly obvious there, pal.
"That's funny..."
Ok, maybe not a cliche in the way that we all know a cliche to be, but it's become a cliche for "that's not funny at all". I hear people say this all the time, yet they're not laughing. In fact, there's not even a semblance of a smile. If it's clearly not funny to you, why say "that's funny"? If it was funny, wouldn't you be laughing? Yes! You would! Instead, just say "that's not funny at all", or "that's dumb". On the flip side of that, if it's funny, do everyone a favor and let out a chuckle or something. Saying "that's funny" is worse than the fake laugh, because at least the fake laugh takes some sort of effort and it shows that you're at least trying to make someone feel good.
Maybe I'll stop there, because I could go on and on and on, and it's kind of getting on my nerves just simply thinking about it.
I got to thinking about umbrella etiquette this morning, as I trudged through puddles on my 1/2 mile walk to the office. I have to begin by saying that walking any distance in the city of Boston with an umbrella is a fucking futile effort. (my co-worker just said "that's funny" to something not funny at all...French is getting upset) It's so windy in this city...I've already busted two umbrellas, neither of which were mine. Anyway, there are some very different variations on the umbrella hold...I witnessed several of them this morning.
1. The Mary Poppins
Generally resevered for a woman in a poofy sun dress in the middle of summer, as she twirls away in an effort to be fashionable or something. The umbrella will sit on the shoulder with the hood of the umbrella angled upwards, almost giving the face a backdrop. I saw a middle-aged dude doing the Mary Poppins this morning. Awful.
2. The Invisible Man
For some reason, people think that their umbrella makes them invisible when it's covering their field of vision except for what's directly in front of their feet. They don't know what's in front of them, nor do they care. These people are generally a menace to pedestrian traffic and they should be hauled off to an area that faces a firing squad. Watch where you're going, asshole.
3. The Wet Willy
I feel really sorry for this guy, chiefly because I have been this guy several times and it sucks. Badly. This guy's umbrella is about as useful as a mesh cap, yet it's far more ridiculous. You'll see a guy struggling with what would appear to be a piece of synthetic material with a few metal sticks in it...there's no semblance of an umbrella whatsoever. Yet, the Wet Willy carrier shows no signs of giving up. As wet as he is and as frustrating as his umbrella is, he's driven to win. He laughs in the face of the driving wind and rain, at the expense of his once dry socks and pants, and his once crisp and unwrinkled poplin. This same guy can be seen making love to the hand dryer in the bathroom, trying desperately to regain his original form. I am him, he is me.
I'm calling it a day here. I'm off to LA in the AM and I'm not looking back. Bring on the 70° weather.
Plaxico Burress failed in his attempt to refrain from saying dumb shit in 2008. Give him credit, though. He lasted until nearly the last day of January. If only the Giants hadn't accidentally won the NFC Championship...he wouldn't have made this list. Sorry, Plax. I don't have a problem with you predicting a Giant victory, but were at the first meeting of the two teams this year? Did you happen to miss the fact that 73 points were scored in that game? 23-17 is a stupid prediction. Boy, I hope I don't eat those words. Go team!
Yeah. I know. I even mentioned hoping that I don't eat the words and here I sit, chewing on my own shit. That was quite a prediction, indeed. I didn't intend on waxing on about XLII, though. It's really not necessary.
My intention when I started this lovely piece of penned ponderings was to indicate my thoughts on an ever increasing inner cynicism that I have found lately. Not a displeasure per se, just a general cynicism towards things that I encounter on a daily basis. For instance, La and I have spoken recently about certain individuals who feel the urge to speak nearly entirely in cliches. The more I think about this one, the more I realize how much of a true pet peeve this is. Have people become so unoriginal that they can't even form their own thoughts and therefore, words? Or is it merely a sign of commercialization? Maybe some people are just stupid and can't truly think for themselves; therefore, cliches are counted on to act as responses more often than original thought. A few of my least favorites:
"Sounds like a plan..."
Circumstantially, a person will utter this cliche when some kind of plan, whether well-formulated or scatterbrained, has been laid out suggestively or matter-of-factly. I have to imagine that in most cases, such a plan is known to be a plan, or known to come off as sounding like a plan. Therefore, why is it necessary to say "sounds like a plan"? It is/was a plan! Hey, jabroni, if it "sounds like a plan", that's probably because it was a plan indeed. But thanks for pointing out the blatantly obvious there, pal.
"That's funny..."
Ok, maybe not a cliche in the way that we all know a cliche to be, but it's become a cliche for "that's not funny at all". I hear people say this all the time, yet they're not laughing. In fact, there's not even a semblance of a smile. If it's clearly not funny to you, why say "that's funny"? If it was funny, wouldn't you be laughing? Yes! You would! Instead, just say "that's not funny at all", or "that's dumb". On the flip side of that, if it's funny, do everyone a favor and let out a chuckle or something. Saying "that's funny" is worse than the fake laugh, because at least the fake laugh takes some sort of effort and it shows that you're at least trying to make someone feel good.
Maybe I'll stop there, because I could go on and on and on, and it's kind of getting on my nerves just simply thinking about it.
I got to thinking about umbrella etiquette this morning, as I trudged through puddles on my 1/2 mile walk to the office. I have to begin by saying that walking any distance in the city of Boston with an umbrella is a fucking futile effort. (my co-worker just said "that's funny" to something not funny at all...French is getting upset) It's so windy in this city...I've already busted two umbrellas, neither of which were mine. Anyway, there are some very different variations on the umbrella hold...I witnessed several of them this morning.
1. The Mary Poppins
Generally resevered for a woman in a poofy sun dress in the middle of summer, as she twirls away in an effort to be fashionable or something. The umbrella will sit on the shoulder with the hood of the umbrella angled upwards, almost giving the face a backdrop. I saw a middle-aged dude doing the Mary Poppins this morning. Awful.
2. The Invisible Man
For some reason, people think that their umbrella makes them invisible when it's covering their field of vision except for what's directly in front of their feet. They don't know what's in front of them, nor do they care. These people are generally a menace to pedestrian traffic and they should be hauled off to an area that faces a firing squad. Watch where you're going, asshole.
3. The Wet Willy
I feel really sorry for this guy, chiefly because I have been this guy several times and it sucks. Badly. This guy's umbrella is about as useful as a mesh cap, yet it's far more ridiculous. You'll see a guy struggling with what would appear to be a piece of synthetic material with a few metal sticks in it...there's no semblance of an umbrella whatsoever. Yet, the Wet Willy carrier shows no signs of giving up. As wet as he is and as frustrating as his umbrella is, he's driven to win. He laughs in the face of the driving wind and rain, at the expense of his once dry socks and pants, and his once crisp and unwrinkled poplin. This same guy can be seen making love to the hand dryer in the bathroom, trying desperately to regain his original form. I am him, he is me.
I'm calling it a day here. I'm off to LA in the AM and I'm not looking back. Bring on the 70° weather.
29 January 2008
State of the TV Union
My post from yesterday regarding current cable tv shows has stirred a few interesting arguments from the likes of Mon Pere and BeachBum...I'm sure there's more to follow from the western contingent as well.
I do agree with BeachBum in terms of there being some very intelligent and thought-provoking programs that have come to air over the last several years. I was a very loyal watcher of Alias and I can say the same about Lost...JJ Abrams does good work. But the culmination of my frustration with television lies in that new reality show on FOX where contestants are basically paid to tell the truth. "The Moment of Truth" is a fucking joke. I watched a very small portion of one of the episodes and as far as discomfort is concerned, this show can certainly be put ahead of the rest of the pack of reality tv. I squirmed for the contestant, his wife and his friends that were in his contingent on stage.
This show is absolutely outrageous, but the creator is a genius because the show must have an immense draw from the average American viewer that thrives on watching other people struggle with morals and values as they try to win a million dollars. Forget knowledge and intelligence as a means to wealth, why not pay people that can be brutally honest at the risk of ruining every other institution in that person's life? Sounds like a sure shot for the American public. With questions about thoughts of infidelity, impurity, dishonesty in the workplace, mischievous behavior socially; there are enough oohs and ahhs from the audience to make a porno producer foam at the mouth.
I guess most reality tv hinges up on the embarrassment of its contestants to be the main attraction. '5th Grader', 'Idol', "Biggest Loser', etc. They're all the same. Sure, the contestants know what they're in for when they sign up to be on the show. And again, the creators are smart enough to know what the money makers are nowadays. But I don't have to like it. The best reality television is on the Discovery Channel, the Food Network and the Learning Channel because at least you can walk away from them with a sense of having gained something from the material. At the risk of sounding hokey and domesticated, my television viewing has been relegated to Food Network and sports.
I do agree with BeachBum in terms of there being some very intelligent and thought-provoking programs that have come to air over the last several years. I was a very loyal watcher of Alias and I can say the same about Lost...JJ Abrams does good work. But the culmination of my frustration with television lies in that new reality show on FOX where contestants are basically paid to tell the truth. "The Moment of Truth" is a fucking joke. I watched a very small portion of one of the episodes and as far as discomfort is concerned, this show can certainly be put ahead of the rest of the pack of reality tv. I squirmed for the contestant, his wife and his friends that were in his contingent on stage.
This show is absolutely outrageous, but the creator is a genius because the show must have an immense draw from the average American viewer that thrives on watching other people struggle with morals and values as they try to win a million dollars. Forget knowledge and intelligence as a means to wealth, why not pay people that can be brutally honest at the risk of ruining every other institution in that person's life? Sounds like a sure shot for the American public. With questions about thoughts of infidelity, impurity, dishonesty in the workplace, mischievous behavior socially; there are enough oohs and ahhs from the audience to make a porno producer foam at the mouth.
I guess most reality tv hinges up on the embarrassment of its contestants to be the main attraction. '5th Grader', 'Idol', "Biggest Loser', etc. They're all the same. Sure, the contestants know what they're in for when they sign up to be on the show. And again, the creators are smart enough to know what the money makers are nowadays. But I don't have to like it. The best reality television is on the Discovery Channel, the Food Network and the Learning Channel because at least you can walk away from them with a sense of having gained something from the material. At the risk of sounding hokey and domesticated, my television viewing has been relegated to Food Network and sports.
28 January 2008
Look, A Wagon Wheel.
The recent talk of Salute Your Shorts in the comment section of the last post has lead to a few realizations. One, TV sucks. It used to be so much better, and I really miss some of the shows that I grew up with. Two, I loved that Time for Timer commercial...hankering for a hunk of cheese. I'm pretty sure Family Guy spoofed that commercial in an episode, which was unreal. Here's a brief list of shows I'd love to see back on tv. I mean, if Nick at Nite is going to play reruns of Who's the Boss, why can't they broaden those parameters to a few shows that were actually worth watching? Granted, when Alyssa Milano eventually sprouted on that show, it was nearly worth watching. Ahh yes, fond memories of being a pre-pubescent boy.
1. Danger Mouse.
Come on now. Characters names Pinfold, Baron Von Greenback...this is the single greatest cartoon of all time...well, maybe it's a tie between DM and Ren and Stimpy.
2. Ren and Stimpy
Who can forget Ren's beloved ice cream bar? Our supplies are dangerously low...fortunately, we had to eat what was left of the ship. The reason why your boyfriend doesn't love is...is probably because you're too styoopid. Sure, I'm randomly quoting episodes but who cares. What about Powdered Toast Man? Good Lord.
3. Salute Your Shorts
'Nuff said in the comments for the previous post. Donkey Lips had the greatest lisp of all time.
Plus his name was Donkey Lips. Amazing.
4. You Can't Do That On Television
Blue skies, Barfy Burgers, GIRLS...hey, it's where Alanis got her start. Little did she know that having slime dumped on her would be the highlight of her career.
5. Yo! MTV Raps
May this show rest in peace. Where's Flav?
1. Danger Mouse.
Come on now. Characters names Pinfold, Baron Von Greenback...this is the single greatest cartoon of all time...well, maybe it's a tie between DM and Ren and Stimpy.
2. Ren and Stimpy
Who can forget Ren's beloved ice cream bar? Our supplies are dangerously low...fortunately, we had to eat what was left of the ship. The reason why your boyfriend doesn't love is...is probably because you're too styoopid. Sure, I'm randomly quoting episodes but who cares. What about Powdered Toast Man? Good Lord.
3. Salute Your Shorts
'Nuff said in the comments for the previous post. Donkey Lips had the greatest lisp of all time.
Plus his name was Donkey Lips. Amazing.
4. You Can't Do That On Television
Blue skies, Barfy Burgers, GIRLS...hey, it's where Alanis got her start. Little did she know that having slime dumped on her would be the highlight of her career.
5. Yo! MTV Raps
May this show rest in peace. Where's Flav?
23 January 2008
Gym Dandy? Not Always.
Fridays are always good days, no matter where I am, where I have to be or what I need to do. The gym is a wonderful place on Fridays because most of the regulars at my gym choose not to work out on these days. What does this mean for me? For one, I don't have to sift through a sea of hairy, chubby asses and dangling phalluses in the locker room when I need to shower and get dressed in a timely manner.
I usually don't mind waiting for a treadmill or for any given weight contraption to open up on the gym floor because there's never a lack of options to replace the occupied option. But the locker room is a different beast; it's often times a beast that I don't like to tangle with, for an amalgam of reasons. Thus...
I usually don't mind waiting for a treadmill or for any given weight contraption to open up on the gym floor because there's never a lack of options to replace the occupied option. But the locker room is a different beast; it's often times a beast that I don't like to tangle with, for an amalgam of reasons. Thus...
1. Close quarters in the locker room are not for the faint of heart. You've got to be adherent to several rules, regardless of the situation, time of day, what have you. I don't break these rules, and most of them are akin to the Urinal Etiquette Regulations (see prior posts for a refresher).
1a. Eyes forward, up or down. No one appreciates a wandering eye in the locker room. Here's what happens when a dude is caught peering outside of his world: rumors start to surface about his sexuality, no matter what. Perhaps he was looking for an open space to blow dry his jumblies, who knows. But he's now attracted to men. It's just how it goes.
1b. Conversation must be kept to a minimum in there. Beyond the usual "excuse me", or "my bad, dude", keep your mouth shut and just do your business. I've noticed that every time two guys are having a conversation, it's just a little weird. Ever seen that Entourage where Eric is in the locker room with Josh Weinstein and Weinstein asks him, "Not a locker room guy?" Waht exactly is a "locker room guy"? A dude who likes to be in the presence of several sausages? I don't want to be lumped into this category...don't know about you. Which leads me to the next point...
1c. Everyone who showers in the locker room needs to be nude at some point, preferably either in the shower or directly in front of your locker. Why then, do some guys feel like the need to walk around sans towel when it's just not necessary? I do this at home sometimes, but it's MY HOME. And I can't recall a time when I changed next to another dude. There's only one person I'll change in front of happily. On the other end of this, I don't subscribe the theory of showering in a bathing suit at the gym. I think that's taking it a little too far, but homophobes are as they are. I can't blame them, I guess. But a part of me feels like these dudes are the same ones who wear a t-shirt in the pool.
1d. The lockers are close together and the room is usually packed at 8am. It is not necessary to spread your towel on the floor, covering the area of several lockers. There are spacial regulations...in front of your locker, spanning the width of the locker. I don't want your stinky socks near my feet, nor do I want to feel the residual spray from your Gold Bond powder as you pat your balls down. I can appreciate the cooling, soothing feeling of Gold Bond as much as the next guy, yes. But keep it to yourself.
1e. If you go for a steam before you shower, leaving your shit in one of the showers is not indicative of you 'saving' that shower. You can't save a shower, nor can you save a sink. I mean, really. Is this summer camp? We're not at Camp Anawanna, Donkey Lips (name the TV Show...please, someone get this reference). If you leave your shit in the shower to claim it, expect to see that shit on the floor in a pool of piss and lungies. (not mine...that's just what gathers on the locker room floor from time to time)
I just feel like I pay too much money to have to deal with some of the locker room antics that go on daily at the gym. On another note, any reason why the towels they provide are the size of hand towels? And they're about as thick as a paper towel, which is just silly. I have to use three different towels to dry my balls, for pete's sake. What can I say, I'm a little OCD about them being totally and utterly dry.
You'll notice I now have a new logo for the blog, thanks to my brother Mike. He sent me this pic last Friday...apparently he was making a sandwich and as he applied le moutarde, he thought it would be an appropriate logo. I concur.
22 January 2008
Deep Thoughts
Leo the Lion, seen here at the National Zoo in Washington DC this afternoon, was in a reflective state upon hearing about the death of Heath Ledger earlier today. The two briefly worked together in 1997 on the FOX television show Roar. Shown in the photo with a bone, the lion would not comment on whether or not he and Ledger had ever shared a bone together; it is supposed that Ledger's death was drug-related.
16 January 2008
Gilbert for President
When I've seen the err in my ways (blogs), I've tried to make amends and thus, I am going to attempt this again.
A-hem...let me clear my throat, first...ok.
I would like to present a formal apology to my dear friend JG/Gilbert/Johnny Boy, whom I wrongfully accused of leaving a senseless, brainless, dickless comment on the post "Mirepoix". I believe I went as far as to offer that he hang himself, which may or may not have been over the line for just about anyone. John, please avoid the gallows going forward. I see no reason why you should cease to exist.
You see folks, John is cut from a cloth of genuine, fine fabric that is rich in moral fiber...abundant in ethical material. Only those without a pair of testicles might leave a belittling, anonymous comment on a blog (aside from family members/close friends who have good reason). I assure you, Mr. Gilbert possesses a healthy pair of nuts. Go ahead, make fun. I only know this because he has spawned two (and counting) healthy children, with help from Nina of course. Also, the locker room at Winter, Wyman and Companies is a tight squeeze. This also happens to be the reason why I know that there are a few ethnic individuals over at 950 Winter that are simply horrible at hygiene. Perhaps ESL courses can start to include a piece on hygiene, or how to effectively wash oneself. Look, I don't care that other cultures are unique and have grossly different views/ways of life/beliefs/what have you. I'm open-minded, liberal, etc. I just don't tolerate stink in terms of humans. Unless you're just not financially able to wash, you have no excuse. Get in the shower or bath and scrub. WITH SOAP.
Alright, Johnny. Is that enough? Have I undone this indignification of yore? You're my idol, ok? I strive to be like you.
One person I do not strive to be like: Igor Olshansky. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the recent anonymous comment on the blog, because this man does not have a brain. He'll get his on Sunday. All I'm sayin.
My new love is the handicap bathroom at 75 State St, 9th floor. Nevermind the high seat, the obstacle-free TP holders or the fact that there's always reading material in there (you can always find TMQ in there on a Tuesday morning...simply a great piece of toilet reading since it's always loquacious and inane). There's a machine in there that dispenses a) napkins, and b) tampons. Figure that one out. I figure that this caters to two sets: the bathroom eater, whom I've discussed before; and distressed girl that totally spazzed on coming to work with a fully-stocked purse. That reminds me, purse? Is that ok? What about pocketbook?
A-hem...let me clear my throat, first...ok.
I would like to present a formal apology to my dear friend JG/Gilbert/Johnny Boy, whom I wrongfully accused of leaving a senseless, brainless, dickless comment on the post "Mirepoix". I believe I went as far as to offer that he hang himself, which may or may not have been over the line for just about anyone. John, please avoid the gallows going forward. I see no reason why you should cease to exist.
You see folks, John is cut from a cloth of genuine, fine fabric that is rich in moral fiber...abundant in ethical material. Only those without a pair of testicles might leave a belittling, anonymous comment on a blog (aside from family members/close friends who have good reason). I assure you, Mr. Gilbert possesses a healthy pair of nuts. Go ahead, make fun. I only know this because he has spawned two (and counting) healthy children, with help from Nina of course. Also, the locker room at Winter, Wyman and Companies is a tight squeeze. This also happens to be the reason why I know that there are a few ethnic individuals over at 950 Winter that are simply horrible at hygiene. Perhaps ESL courses can start to include a piece on hygiene, or how to effectively wash oneself. Look, I don't care that other cultures are unique and have grossly different views/ways of life/beliefs/what have you. I'm open-minded, liberal, etc. I just don't tolerate stink in terms of humans. Unless you're just not financially able to wash, you have no excuse. Get in the shower or bath and scrub. WITH SOAP.
Alright, Johnny. Is that enough? Have I undone this indignification of yore? You're my idol, ok? I strive to be like you.
One person I do not strive to be like: Igor Olshansky. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the recent anonymous comment on the blog, because this man does not have a brain. He'll get his on Sunday. All I'm sayin.
My new love is the handicap bathroom at 75 State St, 9th floor. Nevermind the high seat, the obstacle-free TP holders or the fact that there's always reading material in there (you can always find TMQ in there on a Tuesday morning...simply a great piece of toilet reading since it's always loquacious and inane). There's a machine in there that dispenses a) napkins, and b) tampons. Figure that one out. I figure that this caters to two sets: the bathroom eater, whom I've discussed before; and distressed girl that totally spazzed on coming to work with a fully-stocked purse. That reminds me, purse? Is that ok? What about pocketbook?
14 January 2008
Mirepoix
You're about to get the carrots, celery and green onions in the following soup-esque blog. It'll have some basic ingredients but in the end, they'll all come together to form some sort of cohesive entry that may or may leave a good taste in your mouth; depending on who you are and what you be.
Today is as follows: It's a veritable snow globe out there. Ipso facto, I feel as though I'm trapped in a snow globe as some douche bag little kid continually shakes the thing vigorously. But I'm not dizzy...as I might be if I was in fact inside a shaken snow globe. Today's Nor'easter didn't hit at the right time for me. Had it been a little shittier when I left the gym this morning, I may have been able to justify a snow day. However, there just wasn't enough on the ground for that to be ok. Nonetheless, plenty of people from my office didn't show up, claiming they'd 'work from home'. I love this. Granted, I can probably be found guilty of the same things but so far today, those who 'worked from home' have replaced 'work' with 'watched soap operas and ate junk food', as well as 'played with self' and 'picked nose'. Working from home in terms of snow days is a farce. Just call in and be honest. I mean, for one thing, you won't be deemed a big liar by your peers when we eventually find out that you're not working at all. You'll more than likely be revered for saying you'll be doing absolutely nothing all day and that we shouldn't bother to contact you.
Has it been a while since my last post? I know its been a fairly significant amount of time since I've written when my father emails me that it's time to post something. I have realized that most of my blog posts consist of several ideas that never really warranted an entry of their own; thus, they become part of a mirepoix.
I've just devised a foolproof plan to make money. Hatch, a guy I work with, stopped over and said he is seriously thinking about making a t-shirt that shows a pickle inside a circle with a line through it...he hates pickles, and thinks he could sell a t-shirt stating this same feeling and people would buy it. I love pickles, so I offered to him that if I made a t-shirt that said "I love pickles", it would be more profitable. So maybe we can make both and ensure that there would be a market for at least one of the t-shirts. I am of the school of thought that more people love pickles than hate them. What say you? Might I point out that both Lauren and I drank the juice from a container of cornichons this weekend....and it wasn't my idea. Thus, we invented the cornichontini, which is a dirty martini with the juice from cornichons instead of olives.
Another product of this weekend/conversations with Lauren was the collective realization the blessing someone after a sneeze is just ridiculous. I was reluctant to post this part because I recently found out that Dane Cook has a bit on this very thing...but fuck it. I'm not a big Dane Cook fan anyway. So apparently Lauren has always kind of had an issue with blessing people following a sneeze and after talking about it yesterday, I have to agree. And the way I see it, should we therefore be offering some sort of pardon or blessing after a fart? A cough? A burp? On one hand, I think the world would probably be a better place if a fart were a socially forgivable offense, like a sneeze is. I know I'd be a lot happier...I wouldn't constantly have to hold in my gas and take the occasional trip to the men's room, just to pass the built-up gas. I gotta say, most dudes in the men's room don't feel good about the guy who comes in, farts and leaves.
If you don't want to read about football, skip this paragraph. Let me start off by saying that the playoffs were shaped up to feature the 4 best QB's in the league in the championship games: Brady v. Manning II and Romo v. Favre. (I only say 'II' for Brady-Manning because of the AFC title game last season) I was pulling for those matchups and I was let down. I hate the Giants, especially Eli Manning. He doesn't belong in the NFC championship game...I'm not even sure he belongs as a starter on any team in this league. Sure, I haven't seen him play all that much, but I really don't like him and that's enough, in my opinion. Romo played well, but not well enough...especially for the investment that was made in him by the Cowboys. As I've said from the very beginning, this guy is NOT what most people say he is. He's a serviceable quarterback, but he's not a superstar and he's not the 3rd best QB in the league. He's got some serious talent around him and the Cowboys should have handled the Giants. I can't see him taking that team to the pinnacle of pro football. I just can't. That being said, Tom Brady. I'm not going to toot the Pats horn here, but I feel it necessary to mention Brady. Again. His performance on Saturday was (insert adjective synonymous with tremendous here). There, I've created my first mad lib.
That's all I've got today.
Today is as follows: It's a veritable snow globe out there. Ipso facto, I feel as though I'm trapped in a snow globe as some douche bag little kid continually shakes the thing vigorously. But I'm not dizzy...as I might be if I was in fact inside a shaken snow globe. Today's Nor'easter didn't hit at the right time for me. Had it been a little shittier when I left the gym this morning, I may have been able to justify a snow day. However, there just wasn't enough on the ground for that to be ok. Nonetheless, plenty of people from my office didn't show up, claiming they'd 'work from home'. I love this. Granted, I can probably be found guilty of the same things but so far today, those who 'worked from home' have replaced 'work' with 'watched soap operas and ate junk food', as well as 'played with self' and 'picked nose'. Working from home in terms of snow days is a farce. Just call in and be honest. I mean, for one thing, you won't be deemed a big liar by your peers when we eventually find out that you're not working at all. You'll more than likely be revered for saying you'll be doing absolutely nothing all day and that we shouldn't bother to contact you.
Has it been a while since my last post? I know its been a fairly significant amount of time since I've written when my father emails me that it's time to post something. I have realized that most of my blog posts consist of several ideas that never really warranted an entry of their own; thus, they become part of a mirepoix.
I've just devised a foolproof plan to make money. Hatch, a guy I work with, stopped over and said he is seriously thinking about making a t-shirt that shows a pickle inside a circle with a line through it...he hates pickles, and thinks he could sell a t-shirt stating this same feeling and people would buy it. I love pickles, so I offered to him that if I made a t-shirt that said "I love pickles", it would be more profitable. So maybe we can make both and ensure that there would be a market for at least one of the t-shirts. I am of the school of thought that more people love pickles than hate them. What say you? Might I point out that both Lauren and I drank the juice from a container of cornichons this weekend....and it wasn't my idea. Thus, we invented the cornichontini, which is a dirty martini with the juice from cornichons instead of olives.
Another product of this weekend/conversations with Lauren was the collective realization the blessing someone after a sneeze is just ridiculous. I was reluctant to post this part because I recently found out that Dane Cook has a bit on this very thing...but fuck it. I'm not a big Dane Cook fan anyway. So apparently Lauren has always kind of had an issue with blessing people following a sneeze and after talking about it yesterday, I have to agree. And the way I see it, should we therefore be offering some sort of pardon or blessing after a fart? A cough? A burp? On one hand, I think the world would probably be a better place if a fart were a socially forgivable offense, like a sneeze is. I know I'd be a lot happier...I wouldn't constantly have to hold in my gas and take the occasional trip to the men's room, just to pass the built-up gas. I gotta say, most dudes in the men's room don't feel good about the guy who comes in, farts and leaves.
If you don't want to read about football, skip this paragraph. Let me start off by saying that the playoffs were shaped up to feature the 4 best QB's in the league in the championship games: Brady v. Manning II and Romo v. Favre. (I only say 'II' for Brady-Manning because of the AFC title game last season) I was pulling for those matchups and I was let down. I hate the Giants, especially Eli Manning. He doesn't belong in the NFC championship game...I'm not even sure he belongs as a starter on any team in this league. Sure, I haven't seen him play all that much, but I really don't like him and that's enough, in my opinion. Romo played well, but not well enough...especially for the investment that was made in him by the Cowboys. As I've said from the very beginning, this guy is NOT what most people say he is. He's a serviceable quarterback, but he's not a superstar and he's not the 3rd best QB in the league. He's got some serious talent around him and the Cowboys should have handled the Giants. I can't see him taking that team to the pinnacle of pro football. I just can't. That being said, Tom Brady. I'm not going to toot the Pats horn here, but I feel it necessary to mention Brady. Again. His performance on Saturday was (insert adjective synonymous with tremendous here). There, I've created my first mad lib.
That's all I've got today.
03 January 2008
This Much I Know
This Celtics team is as easy to love as the 2004 Red Sox...at least for me. The way Garnett involves the crowd, feeds off of the Garden's energy...the way Paul Pierce looks like he's back at Inglewood High...the way Scot Pollard generates a standing ovation for playing his ass of against Yao in some very rare but important minutes...the list goes on.
In a town with so much animosity waved in its direction on a daily basis from a professional sports standpoint, the C's are the saving grace in Boston. They're a brotherhood of high character, hard working guys that care about each other and winning games. And they love Doc. And they respect the tradition of Celtic green and what's up in the rafters at the Garden. It's a beautiful thing.
02 January 2008
Mixed Bag
In terms of a rating for the new year thus far, I've got to go with something in the vicinity of 7.7. Sure, I like the number 7. In fact, it's my favorite. But that rating should be higher, methinks. However, a few things have happened over the last 34 hours that have lowered it from its original score of 10. You see, at the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2008, it was a perfect year.
Yesterday got off to a good enough start, I guess. Lauren and I were in bed a little before midnight, but awake enough to realize the new year as it chimed in. We arose from our sleep pallet upon her hunch that fireworks might be visible out the back windows on the other side of the apartment. She was right, so we enjoyed a 10-minute display of decent light explosions as we rang in the newest year. It was a good way to start things off.
The night went off without a hitch as far as sleep in concerned. I slept well enough and awoke hungry. I then proceeded to make an admittedly phenomenal breakfast: an egg scramble with garlic, rosemary, mushrooms, onions, spinach and cheddar cheese. I served this up with points of toasted pita and sliced avocado. The only bad part was the sinewy avocado, which I struggled to understand. It was ripe, but refrigerated overnight. I'm guessing the temperature changed the texture a little. Score at this point of the morning: 9.6...the avocado brought it down that much because I love avocados and sometimes there's just nothing more disappointing than a bad one.
Somewhere over the course of breakfast or just after, it was brought to my attention that there was a marathon of 'America's Next Top Model'* that day. Score at that point: 8.3. I can stand this show, yes. And I did, no complaining to speak of. Truth be told, it was either that or one of several mediocre bowl games that were on yesterday. I know what you're thinking here, but I really had no interest in any of the games that were on yesterday other than Michigan/Florida. I missed this one and to be honest, I have no idea what time it was even on. What I can tell you is that lupus is a disease that attacks the immune system and it's a chronic illness. I can also tell you that Italian male models will provoke American female models to libate themselves too much and ultimately be unfaithful to their boyfriends. So disappointing.
We watched a few episodes before deciding to shuffle off to Target and eventually a few grocery stores to collect some dinner materials. Much to our delight, Target had what we were looking for: Rummikub and clothes hangers. And Rummikub and the hangers combined cost us a whopping $11.28 (we also bought paper towels, but those aside, that's a sweet deal for a dope board game and 13 quality hangers). Score after learning the cost of the items: 9.1. As I paid for this stuff, Lauren went off to get us a coffee at Starbucks. Score after learning that the coffee was about as tasty as cod liver oil: 8.1. Look, I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee and it sucked. SUCKED.
Continuing onto Stop & Shop, we searched for a new brand of tea that might please our pallets. We found a few, but over the course of looking for them Lauren decided she would make a special dinner of sea bass and spinach with a goat cheese and roasted garlic appetizer. So we put the tea back and left for home so we could retrieve the recipe for the sea bass and spinach. Then it was onto Whole Foods Market to get the ingredients. Score as we arrived at Whole Foods: standing pat at 8.1.
We found everything we needed at the market and more, and a very helpful produce lady made us up a fresh sac of basil for very cheap. I was pleased. We spent ample time choosing a dessert and searching for all the items we were there to buy, but it was fun. I find food shopping to be one of the more soothing things to do, as well as satisfying (most of the time...if I can't find anything I came for, I get really fucking stressed out for no good reason and fall into a bad mood) and this was no exception. Plus, the quality of most things at Whole Foods is top notch. That reminds me, 'top notch' is a modifier that I plan to incorporate into my vocabulary this year. I find it to be quite underused, but at the same time, it's a great way to describe something great. "Hey babe? This stew is fucking top notch. TOP NOTCH." Saying it twice in a row and really stressing it that second time is key to its effectiveness. Digression. Score upon leaving the market: 9.4.
On the way home, we stopped at a local liquor store to pick up some wine to have with dinner. I've been going to this liquor store near our apartment for a long time and I've never noticed their wine selection until last night. Incredible, and I got a $30 bottle of Merlot for $13.95. Score: 9.9. Nothing like getting a sweet deal.
The rest of the night was very good. Lauren's meal was fantastic and dessert was also very good. Reality began to return to the evening as I fell back into routine mode. I ironed my shirt for today and made lunches and that was pretty much it for the rest of the night. Score upon climbing into bed: 8.8. Normalcy brought the score down a bit. Then I couldn't sleep at all, tossed and turned all night, felt like shit as the night wore on and then this at 6:00am: I am rousted by the sound of someone yacking outside of our apartment, right in the parking lot. I open the blind a bit to see a younger man with a backpack on (on of those string-strapped Red Sox backpacks 'Ramirez' and the number 24 on the back, like a jersey. And he's pulling the trigger to induce the vomiting. At 6:00 in the morning. In our parking lot. I've seen some strange things in my life, but this one was right up there with the strangest. But it definitely woke me up for good (granted out of a very light sleep), which made me wonder if there's an alarm clock out there that plays the sounds of someone barfing. Score at this point: 7.7.
So there you have it. I'd like to close by wishing my dad a very happy 66th birthday today, as he bathes in the Florida sun. Hope it's a 10 for you, Pop. Enjoy.
*In no way did Lauren make me watch this show. I willingly agreed to watch it and I didn't express any displeasure with it at all yesterday.
Yesterday got off to a good enough start, I guess. Lauren and I were in bed a little before midnight, but awake enough to realize the new year as it chimed in. We arose from our sleep pallet upon her hunch that fireworks might be visible out the back windows on the other side of the apartment. She was right, so we enjoyed a 10-minute display of decent light explosions as we rang in the newest year. It was a good way to start things off.
The night went off without a hitch as far as sleep in concerned. I slept well enough and awoke hungry. I then proceeded to make an admittedly phenomenal breakfast: an egg scramble with garlic, rosemary, mushrooms, onions, spinach and cheddar cheese. I served this up with points of toasted pita and sliced avocado. The only bad part was the sinewy avocado, which I struggled to understand. It was ripe, but refrigerated overnight. I'm guessing the temperature changed the texture a little. Score at this point of the morning: 9.6...the avocado brought it down that much because I love avocados and sometimes there's just nothing more disappointing than a bad one.
Somewhere over the course of breakfast or just after, it was brought to my attention that there was a marathon of 'America's Next Top Model'* that day. Score at that point: 8.3. I can stand this show, yes. And I did, no complaining to speak of. Truth be told, it was either that or one of several mediocre bowl games that were on yesterday. I know what you're thinking here, but I really had no interest in any of the games that were on yesterday other than Michigan/Florida. I missed this one and to be honest, I have no idea what time it was even on. What I can tell you is that lupus is a disease that attacks the immune system and it's a chronic illness. I can also tell you that Italian male models will provoke American female models to libate themselves too much and ultimately be unfaithful to their boyfriends. So disappointing.
We watched a few episodes before deciding to shuffle off to Target and eventually a few grocery stores to collect some dinner materials. Much to our delight, Target had what we were looking for: Rummikub and clothes hangers. And Rummikub and the hangers combined cost us a whopping $11.28 (we also bought paper towels, but those aside, that's a sweet deal for a dope board game and 13 quality hangers). Score after learning the cost of the items: 9.1. As I paid for this stuff, Lauren went off to get us a coffee at Starbucks. Score after learning that the coffee was about as tasty as cod liver oil: 8.1. Look, I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee and it sucked. SUCKED.
Continuing onto Stop & Shop, we searched for a new brand of tea that might please our pallets. We found a few, but over the course of looking for them Lauren decided she would make a special dinner of sea bass and spinach with a goat cheese and roasted garlic appetizer. So we put the tea back and left for home so we could retrieve the recipe for the sea bass and spinach. Then it was onto Whole Foods Market to get the ingredients. Score as we arrived at Whole Foods: standing pat at 8.1.
We found everything we needed at the market and more, and a very helpful produce lady made us up a fresh sac of basil for very cheap. I was pleased. We spent ample time choosing a dessert and searching for all the items we were there to buy, but it was fun. I find food shopping to be one of the more soothing things to do, as well as satisfying (most of the time...if I can't find anything I came for, I get really fucking stressed out for no good reason and fall into a bad mood) and this was no exception. Plus, the quality of most things at Whole Foods is top notch. That reminds me, 'top notch' is a modifier that I plan to incorporate into my vocabulary this year. I find it to be quite underused, but at the same time, it's a great way to describe something great. "Hey babe? This stew is fucking top notch. TOP NOTCH." Saying it twice in a row and really stressing it that second time is key to its effectiveness. Digression. Score upon leaving the market: 9.4.
On the way home, we stopped at a local liquor store to pick up some wine to have with dinner. I've been going to this liquor store near our apartment for a long time and I've never noticed their wine selection until last night. Incredible, and I got a $30 bottle of Merlot for $13.95. Score: 9.9. Nothing like getting a sweet deal.
The rest of the night was very good. Lauren's meal was fantastic and dessert was also very good. Reality began to return to the evening as I fell back into routine mode. I ironed my shirt for today and made lunches and that was pretty much it for the rest of the night. Score upon climbing into bed: 8.8. Normalcy brought the score down a bit. Then I couldn't sleep at all, tossed and turned all night, felt like shit as the night wore on and then this at 6:00am: I am rousted by the sound of someone yacking outside of our apartment, right in the parking lot. I open the blind a bit to see a younger man with a backpack on (on of those string-strapped Red Sox backpacks 'Ramirez' and the number 24 on the back, like a jersey. And he's pulling the trigger to induce the vomiting. At 6:00 in the morning. In our parking lot. I've seen some strange things in my life, but this one was right up there with the strangest. But it definitely woke me up for good (granted out of a very light sleep), which made me wonder if there's an alarm clock out there that plays the sounds of someone barfing. Score at this point: 7.7.
So there you have it. I'd like to close by wishing my dad a very happy 66th birthday today, as he bathes in the Florida sun. Hope it's a 10 for you, Pop. Enjoy.
*In no way did Lauren make me watch this show. I willingly agreed to watch it and I didn't express any displeasure with it at all yesterday.
31 December 2007
L'Annee en Review
I've taken some time to reflect on 2007 and I'm realizing that my mother was actually right this time. She told me about a year ago that 2007 would be MY year, for whatever reason. I'm not exactly sure what 'my year' meant, but I can say with absolute certainty that this was the best year I've had in probably 10 years.
Looking back 10 years, I was in high school and living out those days with little to no responsibility, playing sports constantly and I was in really good shape. Then I went to college, became kind of fat, borderline alcoholic, prone to smoking weed on a regular basis and a host of other things that probably don't deserve any mention. But who's counting? Isn't this essentially what college is for? As an 18 year-old kid who had lived a fairly sheltered life up until college, it wasn't exactly difficult for me to go catapulting into that black hole of mischief and malaise. Alas, here I sit at 28 and I'm back at the weight I was in high school. This only bears mention because at the start of 2007 I weighed in at a chunky 197lbs. This morning I was 167. That's right bitch, 167 pounds and I'm proud of it. I turned a new leaf in 2007, and it was a giant fucking leaf.
I don't know why, exactly, that I waited as long as I did to try and regain some form of fitness and health. Oh wait, yes I do. Because implementing an entirely new and challenging way of life into my routine is akin to passing a stone (or so I would imagine). No matter now, because it's done. I think Christmas was most indicative of my current state of being, as was manifested in some of the gifts I received: health-conscious cookbooks and a gift certificate to a running store that ultimately paid for my new running shoes. Really good stuff there, and elsewhere in the presents, too...but those are representative of the new me, I guess.
Enough about my metamorphosis, because I'm sure you're all just tickled pink that I've found this new path. I'm done talking about that for the year. I'll move onto the year in sports, but I'll keep it nice and terse for all of you non-sports fans. Besides, I'm sure there will be a much more in depth analysis of the year in sports on Hammen's blog over the next week or so. (no pressure, bud...but get it done) I can turn to Christmas gifts as a fair representation of 2007 in Boston sports once again. As a way to bring my father back down to earth from his Red Sox & Patriots euphoric utopia, my oldest brother Chris presented him with a pin from the 1986 Super Bowl and a blown up photo of Buckner and the infamous ground ball off the bat of Mookie Wilson in 1986. What a year that was, indeed. I thought these were the most creative gifts of the holiday season, especially coming from Chris. He's not what you might call a "sports fan"; at least not in the traditional sense. But he know exactly what might conjure up past turmoil in the eyes and heart of our father. That being said, I don't think my dad gives a shit anymore. I already know that the highlight of his current vacation in Florida occurred on the 4th day of the trip, when he was able to watch the Pursuit of Perfection in his motorhome...something that was previously thought impossible due to the NFL Network. I'll say this about 2007 for Boston sports fans: I might not deserve this success, nor may thousands and thousands of other fans in this area and nation-wide who are currently living the proverbial dream as a result of said success. But for the older generations, such as that of my father and other baby boomers...they deserve this. They went through far more than I have in terms of disappointment and misery. (hang in there, Cubs fans. It'll happen.)
The past year brought some certain high points for me in the travel category. When all is said and done for 2007, my feet will have stepped foot in the following states: MA, CT, NY, NH, ME, VT, OH, IN, CA, NV and PR. PR is technically the 52nd state...Guam being the 51st. That's not too bad, especially considering I went to Cali three times over the course of the year. PR was the best trip by far, though. It was my 28th birthday gift from Lauren along with a few other things and it was the best birthday present to date. Thanks baby.
2007 was a momentous year for this blog, too. Hell, I made and kept plans with some dude from North Dakota that I know as a result of our blogs. Because of that, I have corresponded with some fine, young men who make their homes in various parts of our country. I gotta say that those friends are much more manageable than local friends of any variety because there's never any pressure to see or contact them. Cheers, boys. And Ben, I'm waiting for the re-ship on the Very Schneweis Holiday 2007. And to the rest of you blogworld inhabitants...Bowen, Ponch, DVJS, D-Lo, Alex, Hambone, Lovetron, Tallman from ND...Happy New Year. Here's hoping we all continue to litter the virtual literary world with non-sensical babble for another year.
To the various and sundry category, I've got new outlooks on so many new things because of 2007. I now pay close attention to every urinal I piss in; I have a great, new appreciation for breasts and breast cancer (you know who you are, Ms "feel this and tell Lauren what it's like"); I've now been to 2 Sox Playoff games and both were walk-off Sox wins; I've successfully orchestrated a charity event and attended two other fancy ones; I've learned to be ok with the love of my life loving another man (even if he is 4 years old); I've greatly expanded my horizons in terms of sushi that I am willing to eat; I've parted ways with red meat and pork and also my jiggly gut and puffy thighs; I don't smoke anything anymore; I know a good amount more about wine, albeit only red wine and it's really not that much at all...just a lot more than before this year...that might be it.
I think I'm ready for 2008, as I prepare to enter my final year of being in my twenties. Man, now I'm not so sure that I'm ready for 2008. That prospect alone is a shitty one at best.
Some goals for 2008:
Go to France, trim down to a lean 160 by the summer, be able to bench 200lbs at least 5 times, make 100k and one more thing that I don't feel like mentioning on here because it's not necessary. If I can do all these things in 2008, it will surpass 2007 as the best year of my life.
Good luck to you all on your resolutions and remember: make enough of them so that even if you only accomplish a couple of them, you can still view those as successes. And listen, don't go getting too fucked up tonight, whoever you are.
Looking back 10 years, I was in high school and living out those days with little to no responsibility, playing sports constantly and I was in really good shape. Then I went to college, became kind of fat, borderline alcoholic, prone to smoking weed on a regular basis and a host of other things that probably don't deserve any mention. But who's counting? Isn't this essentially what college is for? As an 18 year-old kid who had lived a fairly sheltered life up until college, it wasn't exactly difficult for me to go catapulting into that black hole of mischief and malaise. Alas, here I sit at 28 and I'm back at the weight I was in high school. This only bears mention because at the start of 2007 I weighed in at a chunky 197lbs. This morning I was 167. That's right bitch, 167 pounds and I'm proud of it. I turned a new leaf in 2007, and it was a giant fucking leaf.
I don't know why, exactly, that I waited as long as I did to try and regain some form of fitness and health. Oh wait, yes I do. Because implementing an entirely new and challenging way of life into my routine is akin to passing a stone (or so I would imagine). No matter now, because it's done. I think Christmas was most indicative of my current state of being, as was manifested in some of the gifts I received: health-conscious cookbooks and a gift certificate to a running store that ultimately paid for my new running shoes. Really good stuff there, and elsewhere in the presents, too...but those are representative of the new me, I guess.
Enough about my metamorphosis, because I'm sure you're all just tickled pink that I've found this new path. I'm done talking about that for the year. I'll move onto the year in sports, but I'll keep it nice and terse for all of you non-sports fans. Besides, I'm sure there will be a much more in depth analysis of the year in sports on Hammen's blog over the next week or so. (no pressure, bud...but get it done) I can turn to Christmas gifts as a fair representation of 2007 in Boston sports once again. As a way to bring my father back down to earth from his Red Sox & Patriots euphoric utopia, my oldest brother Chris presented him with a pin from the 1986 Super Bowl and a blown up photo of Buckner and the infamous ground ball off the bat of Mookie Wilson in 1986. What a year that was, indeed. I thought these were the most creative gifts of the holiday season, especially coming from Chris. He's not what you might call a "sports fan"; at least not in the traditional sense. But he know exactly what might conjure up past turmoil in the eyes and heart of our father. That being said, I don't think my dad gives a shit anymore. I already know that the highlight of his current vacation in Florida occurred on the 4th day of the trip, when he was able to watch the Pursuit of Perfection in his motorhome...something that was previously thought impossible due to the NFL Network. I'll say this about 2007 for Boston sports fans: I might not deserve this success, nor may thousands and thousands of other fans in this area and nation-wide who are currently living the proverbial dream as a result of said success. But for the older generations, such as that of my father and other baby boomers...they deserve this. They went through far more than I have in terms of disappointment and misery. (hang in there, Cubs fans. It'll happen.)
The past year brought some certain high points for me in the travel category. When all is said and done for 2007, my feet will have stepped foot in the following states: MA, CT, NY, NH, ME, VT, OH, IN, CA, NV and PR. PR is technically the 52nd state...Guam being the 51st. That's not too bad, especially considering I went to Cali three times over the course of the year. PR was the best trip by far, though. It was my 28th birthday gift from Lauren along with a few other things and it was the best birthday present to date. Thanks baby.
2007 was a momentous year for this blog, too. Hell, I made and kept plans with some dude from North Dakota that I know as a result of our blogs. Because of that, I have corresponded with some fine, young men who make their homes in various parts of our country. I gotta say that those friends are much more manageable than local friends of any variety because there's never any pressure to see or contact them. Cheers, boys. And Ben, I'm waiting for the re-ship on the Very Schneweis Holiday 2007. And to the rest of you blogworld inhabitants...Bowen, Ponch, DVJS, D-Lo, Alex, Hambone, Lovetron, Tallman from ND...Happy New Year. Here's hoping we all continue to litter the virtual literary world with non-sensical babble for another year.
To the various and sundry category, I've got new outlooks on so many new things because of 2007. I now pay close attention to every urinal I piss in; I have a great, new appreciation for breasts and breast cancer (you know who you are, Ms "feel this and tell Lauren what it's like"); I've now been to 2 Sox Playoff games and both were walk-off Sox wins; I've successfully orchestrated a charity event and attended two other fancy ones; I've learned to be ok with the love of my life loving another man (even if he is 4 years old); I've greatly expanded my horizons in terms of sushi that I am willing to eat; I've parted ways with red meat and pork and also my jiggly gut and puffy thighs; I don't smoke anything anymore; I know a good amount more about wine, albeit only red wine and it's really not that much at all...just a lot more than before this year...that might be it.
I think I'm ready for 2008, as I prepare to enter my final year of being in my twenties. Man, now I'm not so sure that I'm ready for 2008. That prospect alone is a shitty one at best.
Some goals for 2008:
Go to France, trim down to a lean 160 by the summer, be able to bench 200lbs at least 5 times, make 100k and one more thing that I don't feel like mentioning on here because it's not necessary. If I can do all these things in 2008, it will surpass 2007 as the best year of my life.
Good luck to you all on your resolutions and remember: make enough of them so that even if you only accomplish a couple of them, you can still view those as successes. And listen, don't go getting too fucked up tonight, whoever you are.
26 December 2007
Tidings of Boredom and Complacency
Ahh yes, the day after Christmas in the working world. It's days like these that allow me to sit at my desk with no regard for anyone else in the office, simply because there's really no one else in the office to regard. I'm pretty sure someone in the lobby of the building could hear Zeppelin's The Ocean emanating from my desktop speakers (which I stole from someone else who's not here today), but the lobby is and will remain empty throughout the day.
another hiatus...
I've got to stop taking these breaks between paragraphs...it's killing my train of thought, which is entirely different today than it was when I began to write this post on Wednesday. I've got no reason as to why I haven't been able to finish this post since I began to write it. These last three work days have been positively fruitless from a business standpoint. I suppose plenty of people are off this week and the rest of us who have chosen to go into work are battling those holiday hangovers that accompany the typical three and four-day marathons of family, food and fun. I'm not talking about actual hangovers from booze, because I didn't consume too much alcohol during the marathon this year. I'm talking about the hangover that comes as a result of catching up with so many people...eating so much crap...driving all over the map.
Oh, that reminds me...I need to welcome another reader to the blog. This is someone who has felt it necessary to hide his identity on the blog for the last several months, although he has only commented a couple times. Cousin Brian...the one cousin I have that is just about my age. You do understand that since your identity has been revealed, you need to comment as such from here on in? Well, I suppose I am jumping the gun here, assuming that you actually read this with any regularity. But if you choose to comment again, I hope I can expect to see some sort of alias that suggests it's you. Either way, thanks for reading, B. Welcome, and good luck wherever grad school accepts you.
Speaking of my cousin Brian, I'd like to add that he is a part of one instance in my childhood that I wish I could have back again...one stretch of about three minutes that I want to do over again. See, being that we were about the same age and from neighboring towns, we had the opportunity to play against each other in a Little League game one summer when I was 11 and he was 12. This was the age group that plays to get to Williamsport, or the LLWS. It was a big deal to me back then...to be an All-Star second basemen and on a team of really good players. Anyway, I was a reserve on my team and Brian was probably the best player on his. It also happened that he was a pitcher above all else, and he indeed pitched for his Salem National squad against my Beverly East squad. All you need to know as a reader is that the opening paragraph of the article in the local news the next day was something like "Chad Benoit struck out on three pitches against his cousin Brian Benoit in Salem National's win over Beverly East in District 15 action last night, but he shouldn't feel bad..." The writer was saying that I shouldn't feel bad because B struck out everyone on my team that evening, sending us to the Loser's Bracket (where we would eventually lose in the final round) of the tournament.
Well, I want that at-bat back. I want it back so I can get a better look at that first-pitch fastball instead of being all nervous and overwhelmed by the situation. I want it back so I don't watch the second fastball whizz by me, just as my knees stopped shaking. And finally...and most of all...I want that fucking third pitch back. That off speed junk that was served up, which I missed badly. Whaddya say, Bri? Me, you, a bat and a ball and field...rematch. You up for it?
I think that's all I have for today/the last three days. I'm kinda thinking that all the shit that's in my brain right now might be on lockdown because it's not coming out. Oh, here's one thing...
La and I had drinks and appetizers at the upstairs bar at the Four Seasons in Boston a week or so ago, and the urinal at this place was phenomenal. It was like pissing into a giant salad bowl, but the beauty of it was the angle of the bowl. It was tilted ever so slightly forward, so that all streams could gently deflect off the inside lip of the bowl and spray harmlessly outward...not back towards you. I tried to take a photo with my phone but to no avail. Regardless, I was really pleased with that urinal.
another hiatus...
I've got to stop taking these breaks between paragraphs...it's killing my train of thought, which is entirely different today than it was when I began to write this post on Wednesday. I've got no reason as to why I haven't been able to finish this post since I began to write it. These last three work days have been positively fruitless from a business standpoint. I suppose plenty of people are off this week and the rest of us who have chosen to go into work are battling those holiday hangovers that accompany the typical three and four-day marathons of family, food and fun. I'm not talking about actual hangovers from booze, because I didn't consume too much alcohol during the marathon this year. I'm talking about the hangover that comes as a result of catching up with so many people...eating so much crap...driving all over the map.
Oh, that reminds me...I need to welcome another reader to the blog. This is someone who has felt it necessary to hide his identity on the blog for the last several months, although he has only commented a couple times. Cousin Brian...the one cousin I have that is just about my age. You do understand that since your identity has been revealed, you need to comment as such from here on in? Well, I suppose I am jumping the gun here, assuming that you actually read this with any regularity. But if you choose to comment again, I hope I can expect to see some sort of alias that suggests it's you. Either way, thanks for reading, B. Welcome, and good luck wherever grad school accepts you.
Speaking of my cousin Brian, I'd like to add that he is a part of one instance in my childhood that I wish I could have back again...one stretch of about three minutes that I want to do over again. See, being that we were about the same age and from neighboring towns, we had the opportunity to play against each other in a Little League game one summer when I was 11 and he was 12. This was the age group that plays to get to Williamsport, or the LLWS. It was a big deal to me back then...to be an All-Star second basemen and on a team of really good players. Anyway, I was a reserve on my team and Brian was probably the best player on his. It also happened that he was a pitcher above all else, and he indeed pitched for his Salem National squad against my Beverly East squad. All you need to know as a reader is that the opening paragraph of the article in the local news the next day was something like "Chad Benoit struck out on three pitches against his cousin Brian Benoit in Salem National's win over Beverly East in District 15 action last night, but he shouldn't feel bad..." The writer was saying that I shouldn't feel bad because B struck out everyone on my team that evening, sending us to the Loser's Bracket (where we would eventually lose in the final round) of the tournament.
Well, I want that at-bat back. I want it back so I can get a better look at that first-pitch fastball instead of being all nervous and overwhelmed by the situation. I want it back so I don't watch the second fastball whizz by me, just as my knees stopped shaking. And finally...and most of all...I want that fucking third pitch back. That off speed junk that was served up, which I missed badly. Whaddya say, Bri? Me, you, a bat and a ball and field...rematch. You up for it?
I think that's all I have for today/the last three days. I'm kinda thinking that all the shit that's in my brain right now might be on lockdown because it's not coming out. Oh, here's one thing...
La and I had drinks and appetizers at the upstairs bar at the Four Seasons in Boston a week or so ago, and the urinal at this place was phenomenal. It was like pissing into a giant salad bowl, but the beauty of it was the angle of the bowl. It was tilted ever so slightly forward, so that all streams could gently deflect off the inside lip of the bowl and spray harmlessly outward...not back towards you. I tried to take a photo with my phone but to no avail. Regardless, I was really pleased with that urinal.
13 December 2007
When You're Strange
Or maybe that title should read "When I'm Strange". I'm not sure about that one yet, but I'll keep you informed. Ok, I'm pretty sure I'm strange. The whole "It's All French To Me" is just a different way to purport that I'm kind of a weirdo, deep down. Stay tuned to see if I decide to change the title of the blog to simply "I'm Weird". Then again, I feel as though "weird" is all relative. It's not like I'm out there molesting family pets or something. I do, however, like to think that I have unconventional thoughts that occur in my brain on a daily basis. My blog is my vehicle for these thoughts.
I get in these moods sometimes...such moods that make it so that I will make an effort to strike up a conversation with anyone who I encounter over the course of a day. Not people in the street that I pass necessarily, or people in the elevator. I mean, it could be these people, for sure. But it varies. I just find it incredibly amusing to test people that you don't know and that don't know you.
Lunch lines are a good place to make off-the-cuff remarks to those around you. Depending on what others order and maybe what you order, this can be a good way to spur on a random remark. "Yeah, that looks healthy." You can say this to pretty much anyone who orders something revoltingly unhealthy, wherever you're eating. (you can say this to anyone at Boloco) I've only done this once, and it was more of an oral vomit situation in this case. I didn't mean to say it, really. But I did and thankfully, the guy wasn't pissed off. He replied, "Well, it's Friday and I'm hungover. So it's fine." Well played, well played. I think most would concur that hangovers breed unhealthy, greasy food cravings. Another good one in a food line is as follows: when the person in front of you orders something really whacky with all sorts of modifications like "hold this" and "add this" and "no tomatoes" and "extra sprouts", say to him or her "Oh my god, I was going to order the same, exact thing!" Without fail, he or she will say "really?" Then you say, "no, not really" and proceed to order whatever you were going to get. You get weird looks, but whoever hears it will laugh.
I also like to talk to people who are walking around outside during incredibly inclement weather. This morning, for instance, it was 15° in the city as I walked to my office. The reported wind chill was right at 0°, so it was frigid. For some reason, people seem to be a lot less guarded, maybe because that sort of thing (weather) bonds people together. Like, everyone has the mentality that we're all in this thing together, and we can all sympathize with each other. I was beaten to the punch this morning, as I approached a meter maid. I had literally removed my hood just before I passed this woman on the street and she says to me "Where's your hat?" Keep in mind, she says this as we pass each other. So I reply, "I have a hood." But as I mentioned, I had just taken it off. So she remarks "Put it on!" What could I do or say? I put on the fucking hood.
I get in these moods sometimes...such moods that make it so that I will make an effort to strike up a conversation with anyone who I encounter over the course of a day. Not people in the street that I pass necessarily, or people in the elevator. I mean, it could be these people, for sure. But it varies. I just find it incredibly amusing to test people that you don't know and that don't know you.
Lunch lines are a good place to make off-the-cuff remarks to those around you. Depending on what others order and maybe what you order, this can be a good way to spur on a random remark. "Yeah, that looks healthy." You can say this to pretty much anyone who orders something revoltingly unhealthy, wherever you're eating. (you can say this to anyone at Boloco) I've only done this once, and it was more of an oral vomit situation in this case. I didn't mean to say it, really. But I did and thankfully, the guy wasn't pissed off. He replied, "Well, it's Friday and I'm hungover. So it's fine." Well played, well played. I think most would concur that hangovers breed unhealthy, greasy food cravings. Another good one in a food line is as follows: when the person in front of you orders something really whacky with all sorts of modifications like "hold this" and "add this" and "no tomatoes" and "extra sprouts", say to him or her "Oh my god, I was going to order the same, exact thing!" Without fail, he or she will say "really?" Then you say, "no, not really" and proceed to order whatever you were going to get. You get weird looks, but whoever hears it will laugh.
I also like to talk to people who are walking around outside during incredibly inclement weather. This morning, for instance, it was 15° in the city as I walked to my office. The reported wind chill was right at 0°, so it was frigid. For some reason, people seem to be a lot less guarded, maybe because that sort of thing (weather) bonds people together. Like, everyone has the mentality that we're all in this thing together, and we can all sympathize with each other. I was beaten to the punch this morning, as I approached a meter maid. I had literally removed my hood just before I passed this woman on the street and she says to me "Where's your hat?" Keep in mind, she says this as we pass each other. So I reply, "I have a hood." But as I mentioned, I had just taken it off. So she remarks "Put it on!" What could I do or say? I put on the fucking hood.
two-day hiatus...
I'm back from the aforementioned hiatus now. I couldn't finish up this entry over the last two days and now, here I sit, trying to finish it up by the end of business today. I keep getting distracted by various things. The latest came in the form of a piece of organic swiss milk chocolate that was waved in front of me. But what do you care? I'll tell you what, the chocolate sucked. I had a tiny nibble, just because I wanted to delight myself in some organic chocolate and I was let down. But I will rest easy because the chocolate I ate was produced in an environmentally friendly way. (it still sucked)
I want to now talk about another kind of encounter that I create in the elevators at work sometimes. I was recently in one of said elevators with a colleague of mine and one other person; an older woman who ultimately got off on a floor before ours. We were talking about a few different things at once...the Santana deal, the frigid temperatures...she was clearly listening and looking at both of us as we chatted. I was aggrevated by this, and upon her exit, I said "Hope you enjoyed our conversation. Have a good one." She turned slightly, but the door shut and that was that. I haven't seen her since that day, either. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut, but understand that I didn't use a negative tone when I spoke to her. It was light-hearted, and for all she knows I was being somewhat serious because of the fact that she had to be subjected to our conversation. As in, maybe she didn't have a choice but to listen. We're loud, she's got ears. I really wasn't trying to be a jerk, honest injun.
The whole uncertainty of a situation when you make some sort of comment to a stranger is what makes these things fun, isn't it? More often than not, I find that people are generally nice and open to partaking in a totally surprise, unsolicited conversation. Unless, of course, you're a total dbag and you totally make someone feel like an asshole. One thing I'd really like to do is go into Boloco during peak lunch hours, holding up a sign with the caloric value of their most popular burritos. I walked past there today and the line was out the door. Hey , it's -4° in the sun. Do you really need Boloco that bad? By the way, what you're about to eat has about 1150 calories. What's that? No, I have no idea what you're about to order but all of that shit is BAAAAD. I feel like Kramer in the Kenny Rogers Roasters episode of Seinfeld. Don't eat the burritos...baaad burritos. Mess you up. I've got to say again that I'm really not against that place because they're just another fast food joint, trying to make a buck off of something that tastes pretty good. It's just that, I feel like they advertise as though their product is somehow good for you, and it's just not. It's garbage.
In closing, I need to extend a huge THANK YOU to Jackie, whom I welcomed to this blog no more than a week or so ago. You'll recall that I posted a plug for the Toy Drive that I'm doing with Youk's Kids. I received a delivery from Jackie yesterday, with some toys to donate to these kids and a card saying that she and her fiance wanted to help in some way. And that's awesome. Thanks Jackie and Jason. You guys rule. Hell to the Yeah.
12 December 2007
Bobby Petrino Is...
"HIGH ON THE HOG".
This was the leading headline on ESPN.com this morning. I don't even want to go into the many, many innuendo-tastic ways in which this headline is wrong.
I'm sorry, I can't resist writing this next quip. (for those family readers, I apologize ahead of time...it's beyond me) ***DAD - DO NOT READ THIS ONE TO MOM OUT LOUD. BIG MISTAKE***
Gay men are sometimes referred to as "cocksmokers". Thus, they are also "high on the hog", no? Too much? Listen, if you read this blog then you've read the disclaimer right below the title. It explicitly states, welcome to my brain and its daily malfunctions. They can't all be warm and fuzzy.
11 December 2007
Urinal Etiquette, Take Three.
Interesting comments thus far regarding Urinal Etiquette and the multitude of quandaries that we, as men, are presented with daily.
Another thing I failed to mention about the three urinals in my office is that the one on the far right smells like a piece of haddock that's been sitting out in the summer sun for three days. But I'm drawn to it because the one on the far left doesn't have a splash guard (more to come on these fucking things) so I choose to hold my nose but keep my pants dry.
D-Lo, I can't explain the 45° angle at the urinal. But I have to think that this dude has a bit of stage fright when it comes to emptying the old tank in public. He wants to make absolutely sure that not a sole on this earth can see his peter, much less see him pee. It's weird as hell, though. For sure.
Ok, onto urinal splash guards and why the fuck man can't seem to find a viable way to avoid the urine bouncing back and spraying a man's slacks. The thing that I find to be most confusing is the layout of the guard in the urinal. It's almost always just over the drain in the urinal, making it so you have make sure your stream is pointed straight down at all times. Now, I don't know about you but my trajectory totally varies on a day-to-day basis. If I'm not guiding it, it can go straight down on some days and straight ahead on another. Thus, a splash guard that covers both angles would be great. And I've seen these from time to time and I applaud those urinal manufacturers that use these types of guards. But not nearly enough of you manufacturers do and it's alarming. Here's what happens to me nine times out of ten when I use a new urinal. I take a very basic, bare bones inventory of the unit upon entering the latrine. As long as everything seems pretty normal, I let fly and, as I've mentioned is my norm, look skyward and either whistle or just close my eyes and enjoy the evacuation. The problem is, most of the time I haven't taken a comprehensive enough inventory and I overlook the fact that the splash guard isn't where I'm peeing. I go to zip up and half of the urine is festively decorating the upper part of my slacks.
Why can't all urinals just be lined all around with some sort of foamy piece of material that absorbs the piss? Like a spongy thing that doesn't allow any splashing? Is that too much to ask? I have to figure out how to get the piss out of the sponge so that it doesn't fester...not sure about how that can work from a logistical standpoint but surely there can be some sort of action when you flush that presses the sponge and releases the pee. Feel free to expound on this if it behooves you.
Another thing I failed to mention about the three urinals in my office is that the one on the far right smells like a piece of haddock that's been sitting out in the summer sun for three days. But I'm drawn to it because the one on the far left doesn't have a splash guard (more to come on these fucking things) so I choose to hold my nose but keep my pants dry.
D-Lo, I can't explain the 45° angle at the urinal. But I have to think that this dude has a bit of stage fright when it comes to emptying the old tank in public. He wants to make absolutely sure that not a sole on this earth can see his peter, much less see him pee. It's weird as hell, though. For sure.
Ok, onto urinal splash guards and why the fuck man can't seem to find a viable way to avoid the urine bouncing back and spraying a man's slacks. The thing that I find to be most confusing is the layout of the guard in the urinal. It's almost always just over the drain in the urinal, making it so you have make sure your stream is pointed straight down at all times. Now, I don't know about you but my trajectory totally varies on a day-to-day basis. If I'm not guiding it, it can go straight down on some days and straight ahead on another. Thus, a splash guard that covers both angles would be great. And I've seen these from time to time and I applaud those urinal manufacturers that use these types of guards. But not nearly enough of you manufacturers do and it's alarming. Here's what happens to me nine times out of ten when I use a new urinal. I take a very basic, bare bones inventory of the unit upon entering the latrine. As long as everything seems pretty normal, I let fly and, as I've mentioned is my norm, look skyward and either whistle or just close my eyes and enjoy the evacuation. The problem is, most of the time I haven't taken a comprehensive enough inventory and I overlook the fact that the splash guard isn't where I'm peeing. I go to zip up and half of the urine is festively decorating the upper part of my slacks.
Why can't all urinals just be lined all around with some sort of foamy piece of material that absorbs the piss? Like a spongy thing that doesn't allow any splashing? Is that too much to ask? I have to figure out how to get the piss out of the sponge so that it doesn't fester...not sure about how that can work from a logistical standpoint but surely there can be some sort of action when you flush that presses the sponge and releases the pee. Feel free to expound on this if it behooves you.
10 December 2007
Urinal Etiquette, Take Two.
Ok, no joke...I just went to the bathroom immediately after posting the previous post about urinal etiquette and I encountered a brand new situation. This fucking guy just brought a sandwich in there with him. And then he didn't wash his hands.
I'm not even going to go into how many things are wrong with this scenario. Be your own judge. I'm gonna be sick.
I'm not even going to go into how many things are wrong with this scenario. Be your own judge. I'm gonna be sick.
Urinal Etiquette, Take One.
Let me start off by congratulating the dynamic duo of Chuck and Steve, who collaborated to come up with the correct answer to my lyrical inquisition:
This line:
I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.
is from the Rage Against the Machine song "Tire Me", off of their Evil Empire disc. As my father so appropriately pointed out, Steve is a Yankee fan/member of the Evil Empire...wait, the former Evil Empire. Some things are just meant to be, I guess. And as of this morning, both my father and Steve are proud owners of a Hollister fleece. Navy blue with white typing on the left breast. Quite nice, quite nice. More contests to follow...the next one will involve a prize of a Hollister fleece blanket. It's nice, you'll like it.
I had a few thoughts at the urinal this afternoon, as I drained my bladder for the third time today. There has got to be some sort of set guidelines for the bathroom, especially the urinals. The stalls carry their own set of codes and regulations but they're far less stringent since it is, after all, a private stall with a door. In terms of the urinal, there are some unspoken laws that need to be addressed because as some guys prove almost every day, these laws aren't universal.
First off, depending on the layout of your men's room, there are probably several stalls in a line or something of that nature. I have not been blessed with stall walls, or dividers, at this building's men's room. So privacy is at a minimum. Nonetheless, there are three urinals total. As a rule of thumb, when all three stalls are vacant, you are to choose either stall on the end. Further, if either end stall is taken, you choose the opposite end stall. The point here is that it is imperative to maintain as much space between urinators as possible. It's a matter of comfort, a matter of privacy and a matter of common sense...in my opinion.
Second, we have GOT to determine a universal distance for standing at the urinal. As in, you should be standing no more than three inches away from the actual urinal when you start to urinate. Ever been next to that drunk d-bag at the bar who stands like three feet away and kind of acts like he's shooting fish in a barrel? Yeah, unacceptable. Peeing is not a game, it's something we all do quite often as a human necessity. Let's keep it on that level and just stand no more than 3-4 inches away as we piss, ok?
Third, you may look up, you may look down, you may look straight ahead. Side to side is absolutely out of the question. Me personally, I'm a fan of looking up at the ceiling and whistling as I do my thing at the urinal. It's a great way of saying, "don't talk to me while I pee".
Fourth, if you must converse with another dude at the urinals, please keep this conversation contained within the following topics: sports, beer, cars. Actually, can't we just can all urinal discussion in general? There seems to be this feeling in corporate America that the urinals are a great place to catch up on the weekend, talk about the game, etc. Just wait until you're at the sink to do that shit. Conversation may spark the urge to look at the other person in the conversation and that's not supposed to happen at the urinal. See above.
Finally, there's this issue of noises that you may be allowed to make while you evacuate. This morning, and this kind of prompted this whole post, I was at a stall over from this janitor-looking fella who was making some truly weird noises at his stall. His etiquette was atrocious, by the way. Eyes side to side, standing a foot away and his method of getting out the last drops appeared to be borderline pornographic from my periphery. I digress...we're talking moaning, grunting, panting...everything. Aside from a medical condition, I can't think of any good reason why a man would have to grunt and moan while taking a piss. I'm ok with the occasional "oh, man" or "good god" if it's one of those times where you've been in a car for eight hours and your bladder nearly exploded. But avoid the noises. ***extenuating circumstances here might include passing a stone...noises totally ok in this case***
I think that does it, but feel free to add your own clauses and amendments to this list. One alternative form that I've seen and used at the urinal is the lean-to. I've used this in the past when inebriated....you put your forearm on the wall that the urinal is attached to and lay your head on your arm in a resting pose. This leaves out any possibility to look astray or talk. And it's relaxing.
This line:
I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.
is from the Rage Against the Machine song "Tire Me", off of their Evil Empire disc. As my father so appropriately pointed out, Steve is a Yankee fan/member of the Evil Empire...wait, the former Evil Empire. Some things are just meant to be, I guess. And as of this morning, both my father and Steve are proud owners of a Hollister fleece. Navy blue with white typing on the left breast. Quite nice, quite nice. More contests to follow...the next one will involve a prize of a Hollister fleece blanket. It's nice, you'll like it.
I had a few thoughts at the urinal this afternoon, as I drained my bladder for the third time today. There has got to be some sort of set guidelines for the bathroom, especially the urinals. The stalls carry their own set of codes and regulations but they're far less stringent since it is, after all, a private stall with a door. In terms of the urinal, there are some unspoken laws that need to be addressed because as some guys prove almost every day, these laws aren't universal.
First off, depending on the layout of your men's room, there are probably several stalls in a line or something of that nature. I have not been blessed with stall walls, or dividers, at this building's men's room. So privacy is at a minimum. Nonetheless, there are three urinals total. As a rule of thumb, when all three stalls are vacant, you are to choose either stall on the end. Further, if either end stall is taken, you choose the opposite end stall. The point here is that it is imperative to maintain as much space between urinators as possible. It's a matter of comfort, a matter of privacy and a matter of common sense...in my opinion.
Second, we have GOT to determine a universal distance for standing at the urinal. As in, you should be standing no more than three inches away from the actual urinal when you start to urinate. Ever been next to that drunk d-bag at the bar who stands like three feet away and kind of acts like he's shooting fish in a barrel? Yeah, unacceptable. Peeing is not a game, it's something we all do quite often as a human necessity. Let's keep it on that level and just stand no more than 3-4 inches away as we piss, ok?
Third, you may look up, you may look down, you may look straight ahead. Side to side is absolutely out of the question. Me personally, I'm a fan of looking up at the ceiling and whistling as I do my thing at the urinal. It's a great way of saying, "don't talk to me while I pee".
Fourth, if you must converse with another dude at the urinals, please keep this conversation contained within the following topics: sports, beer, cars. Actually, can't we just can all urinal discussion in general? There seems to be this feeling in corporate America that the urinals are a great place to catch up on the weekend, talk about the game, etc. Just wait until you're at the sink to do that shit. Conversation may spark the urge to look at the other person in the conversation and that's not supposed to happen at the urinal. See above.
Finally, there's this issue of noises that you may be allowed to make while you evacuate. This morning, and this kind of prompted this whole post, I was at a stall over from this janitor-looking fella who was making some truly weird noises at his stall. His etiquette was atrocious, by the way. Eyes side to side, standing a foot away and his method of getting out the last drops appeared to be borderline pornographic from my periphery. I digress...we're talking moaning, grunting, panting...everything. Aside from a medical condition, I can't think of any good reason why a man would have to grunt and moan while taking a piss. I'm ok with the occasional "oh, man" or "good god" if it's one of those times where you've been in a car for eight hours and your bladder nearly exploded. But avoid the noises. ***extenuating circumstances here might include passing a stone...noises totally ok in this case***
I think that does it, but feel free to add your own clauses and amendments to this list. One alternative form that I've seen and used at the urinal is the lean-to. I've used this in the past when inebriated....you put your forearm on the wall that the urinal is attached to and lay your head on your arm in a resting pose. This leaves out any possibility to look astray or talk. And it's relaxing.
06 December 2007
Oh, Jackie.
Anyone that can name this tune gets a free fleece from the company I work for. Seriously, I'll send it to you...the first one to get it.
I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.
Don't use google, that's just pathetic.
How many people named Jackie do you know? I don't know many, that's for damn sure. The one Jackie that I remember is someone that I never even met. She was a friend of a friend from college and she was someone that a group of girls playfully referred to as 'Jackie Buttcrackie'. I always loathed to hear this nickname spoken, because it really got under my skin. I don't know why, and it still does to this day. There's no reason for it, except for maybe not liking the people that came up with this nickname. That must be it. Wow, I just figured out why I hate it so much. Today is a good day.
I'd like to tell you of a girl named Jackie that is slowly becoming more of a part of my life as time goes on. I've spoken with her recently, but we've never met in person. Her story is one of true beauty and wonder...achievement and defying odds...struggle and depression. I'd like you all to listen to this story and think about what it means to you. It may mean nothing at all, and truthfully that's what I expect. But that just means you're a terrible person without a heart, soul or modicum of decency. Nah, I'm kidding. 'Tis the season to be a sardonic asshole, right?
Jackie is special. I know her through a close friend of mine that wanted me to have a chance to know someone like Jackie. There aren't many people in the world like her and you're about to find out why that is.
Standing not a shade under 7 feet tall, Jackie is a behemoth. Born a normal size, she sky-rocketed to over six feet tall by the fourth grade. Imagine the torment of fourth-graders to a six-footer...that happens to be female. Forget about glories on the basketball court at recess...no one wanted her on their team, no one wanted her as a friend...even teachers were reluctant to have Jackie in their classrooms. She was intimidating, gangly, and downright scary to be around. And it's pretty tough to make yourself invisible at that height. She had to have a special desk, a special cubby hole, a special coat hook and even a special lunch. Her appetite was massive and no single taco, apple sauce and snack pack pudding lunch was going to feed her rapidly growing frame. (the local high school would send over three regular lunches on a daily basis for Jackie...at least someone cared)
By the end of fourth grade, a six-foot, four-inch Jackie couldn't take it anymore. She told her parents that school wasn't for her and there had to be something else out there...something that would make her feel accepted; feel like a part of something where others were like her. After some careful research, she finally found a group of people that shared her plight. Enter Barnum & Bailey and their travelling freak show; more specifically, freakishly tall.
You've probably all at least heard of the freaks at the circus, right? And don't be afraid to use that term loosely because Jackie will be the first one to tell you that she's an absolute fucking freak. She interviewed with 20/20 once; they were doing a piece on such circus folk. When asked if it upset her that she had been cast out in such a cold way, she replied "Are you serious? Look at me. I'd have done the same thing if I were on the other end. I'm seven feet tall, open your eyes." Indeed...and I suppose it's better to accept your freakishness early on. It's probably much less damaging.
Since the normally tender age of nine, Jackie has been travelling with the B&B Circus and loving her life. People look at her in awe every day. Children ask for autographs all the time, a far cry from pointing and either laughing or screaming in fear. She's famous, in a way. She has fans, many friends and a family of circus folk who are just like her. She's even found love with a man named Igor from Romania. Igor stands over eight feet tall and has been featured on several documentaries on the Discovery Channel. To Igor, Jackie is not a freak. She's more normal, more beautiful and more special than any average-sized human could ever be. They've been married for three years this January and are expecting their first child over the summer. Odds are, that kid will be a fucking freak, too. But not to them.
Sure, none of this is true. But there really is a girl named Jackie that I don't know all that well. And for all I know she is in the circus.
And now I've wasted a really decent chunk of my day coming up with this mumbo-jumbo. And it was all for you, Jackie. Oh, Jackie. Maybe we'll meet someday.
I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.
Don't use google, that's just pathetic.
How many people named Jackie do you know? I don't know many, that's for damn sure. The one Jackie that I remember is someone that I never even met. She was a friend of a friend from college and she was someone that a group of girls playfully referred to as 'Jackie Buttcrackie'. I always loathed to hear this nickname spoken, because it really got under my skin. I don't know why, and it still does to this day. There's no reason for it, except for maybe not liking the people that came up with this nickname. That must be it. Wow, I just figured out why I hate it so much. Today is a good day.
I'd like to tell you of a girl named Jackie that is slowly becoming more of a part of my life as time goes on. I've spoken with her recently, but we've never met in person. Her story is one of true beauty and wonder...achievement and defying odds...struggle and depression. I'd like you all to listen to this story and think about what it means to you. It may mean nothing at all, and truthfully that's what I expect. But that just means you're a terrible person without a heart, soul or modicum of decency. Nah, I'm kidding. 'Tis the season to be a sardonic asshole, right?
Jackie is special. I know her through a close friend of mine that wanted me to have a chance to know someone like Jackie. There aren't many people in the world like her and you're about to find out why that is.
Standing not a shade under 7 feet tall, Jackie is a behemoth. Born a normal size, she sky-rocketed to over six feet tall by the fourth grade. Imagine the torment of fourth-graders to a six-footer...that happens to be female. Forget about glories on the basketball court at recess...no one wanted her on their team, no one wanted her as a friend...even teachers were reluctant to have Jackie in their classrooms. She was intimidating, gangly, and downright scary to be around. And it's pretty tough to make yourself invisible at that height. She had to have a special desk, a special cubby hole, a special coat hook and even a special lunch. Her appetite was massive and no single taco, apple sauce and snack pack pudding lunch was going to feed her rapidly growing frame. (the local high school would send over three regular lunches on a daily basis for Jackie...at least someone cared)
By the end of fourth grade, a six-foot, four-inch Jackie couldn't take it anymore. She told her parents that school wasn't for her and there had to be something else out there...something that would make her feel accepted; feel like a part of something where others were like her. After some careful research, she finally found a group of people that shared her plight. Enter Barnum & Bailey and their travelling freak show; more specifically, freakishly tall.
You've probably all at least heard of the freaks at the circus, right? And don't be afraid to use that term loosely because Jackie will be the first one to tell you that she's an absolute fucking freak. She interviewed with 20/20 once; they were doing a piece on such circus folk. When asked if it upset her that she had been cast out in such a cold way, she replied "Are you serious? Look at me. I'd have done the same thing if I were on the other end. I'm seven feet tall, open your eyes." Indeed...and I suppose it's better to accept your freakishness early on. It's probably much less damaging.
Since the normally tender age of nine, Jackie has been travelling with the B&B Circus and loving her life. People look at her in awe every day. Children ask for autographs all the time, a far cry from pointing and either laughing or screaming in fear. She's famous, in a way. She has fans, many friends and a family of circus folk who are just like her. She's even found love with a man named Igor from Romania. Igor stands over eight feet tall and has been featured on several documentaries on the Discovery Channel. To Igor, Jackie is not a freak. She's more normal, more beautiful and more special than any average-sized human could ever be. They've been married for three years this January and are expecting their first child over the summer. Odds are, that kid will be a fucking freak, too. But not to them.
Sure, none of this is true. But there really is a girl named Jackie that I don't know all that well. And for all I know she is in the circus.
And now I've wasted a really decent chunk of my day coming up with this mumbo-jumbo. And it was all for you, Jackie. Oh, Jackie. Maybe we'll meet someday.
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