Nice Doggie

Has anyone actually ever heard someone say "nice doggie" in reality? Seems to me that this phrase's sole intended use is for the screen. For instance, if you should ever find yourself in a situation where a large, angry dog is shooting you menacing looks, your first reaction probably isn't going to be saying "nice doggie". I'd like to think that the first thoughts you might have are more along the lines of "fuck this, I'm out of here" or "good lord that's a big dog". Let's face it, if you say "nice doggie" there is absolutely nothing good that can come from that.

Keeping on the topic of large canines, I yearn for a big dog in my life. I can safely say that once I am in possession of such a being, I will feel like I have made something of myself. I guess I couple owning a pet and being successful in the same light...I see people, usually in pairs, walking dogs all the time and my obligatory mental reaction is to think to myself, "look at you, you've made something of yourself...you can own up to the responsibility of having a pet." I just want a fucking dog, is that really such a tall order? Apparently is will be for me until I am firmly implanted into a locale where green grass and ample space to roam are on the docket. Such a place will ultimately be known as Southern California...which reminds me, my self-declared summer anthem has officially become "Santa Monica" by Everclear. Oddly, the last time this song bore any meaning to me was 1996. Coincidentally but having nothing to do with the meaning that song had to me at the time, that was also the first year I visited the west coast.

Why do I want a big dog? Lots of reasons. For one, I have just always assumed that I would own a big dog someday. Quite possibly I may not, as La would much prefer a smaller breed such as the beagle. However my penchant has always tipped the scales towards the heavier breeds like the English Sheep Dog or the Saint Bernard. I've not yet decided if I would have my Saint Bernard wield a keg around its neck, but that certainly must be an option if I should ever possess such a beast.

I really just want to run through fields of green with a giant dog at my side, that's really all there is to it. Screw the guard dog line of thinking, that's why we keep baseball bats under out beds right? Yeah, I don't actually keep one in the house at all but surely some of you do. God forbid anyone breaks into my apartment over the next two nights, because that hypothetical fucker is going to get a healthy dose of tv remotes and various dirty articles of clothing tossed his way. Aha, theretofore...eat my shorts. And let it be noted that this is the first time I have ever quoted Bart Simpson...let's hope it's the last.

I have nothing against smaller breeds of pooches. Mon pere's little guys are great dogs, just ask him...I'm sensing a sentimental comment from you here, pop. And ode to Wilson and Beasley, perhaps? I digress...little dogs can be held, they can sit on your lap, they travel well and they generally live longer than their brethren of larger carriage. All pros, indeed. I guess there's just something inherently funnier about a big dog to me, potentially. You can dress him up in your clothes, for one. And any dog that can sit eye-level with the dinner table is bound to resort to some drooly antics when a morsel is merely inches from his snout. Dogs and the stealing of human food is pure entertainment, is it not? I guess one could argue that it doesn't take a big dog to steal food, get caught, be scolded and inevitably have a massive bowel movement in the living room when no one is looking. But a huge dog is much more likely to make a hilariously big turd on said living room floor. I suppose I'm admitting, in a way, that the size of the dog's shit is directly proportional to the level of amusement that hound can provide. Also being admitted here: it's 2:30am and I have no idea what I'm saying anymore.

A few quick hellos here...Lisa, hope this long overdue entry finds you well and optimistic about life and love. Perhaps a beer is in order sometime before the end of July. Bowen, same goes for you...and I'm now putting the ball back in your court after your last quip about me writing a post again. Hello and thank you to the Goldstein clan of Pacific Palisades, CA. For the last week or so, I sat on your couches, cooked your eggs, ate your food, drove your cars and pureed your tomatoes. You guys are awesome and I can't wait to do it again real soon. Take care of my baby until I can do it again full time.

I Ain't Die Yet

The much anticipated return of Le French is coming...

Schne, I fully intend on waxing on about big dogs and shit, so keep those peepers peeled. Everyone else, just back up for a second. We all know that life takes twists and turns and on occasion you find yourself in an emotional chasm of depression and self-loathing. It's the good ones that find a way out of that chasm and finally find themselves squinting at the blinding light of the sun...which will imminently burn you because it's a hot sun and that's what it tends to do...right baby?

I shall return...

...And We're Back

You know, just because I posted the lyrics to 'Hurt' doesn't mean I'm suicidal. It certainly could but I'm not. I'm thinking I still have quite a bit to live for, so let's just knock off those thoughts of despair and remorse. At least for now...for now. I've always had a flair for the dramatic.

I've recently realized that is T S Eliot had been reversely named S T Eliot, his name backwards would read 'toilets'. Too bad, really. Thomas Stearns could easily have been Samuel Thomas, or some shit. I wish my name backwards spelled 'toilets'.

When did Pepperidge Farm start making Goldfish with an eye and a smiley face? Where have I been? Goldfish, by the way? Maybe the number one snack of all time...oh, there we go! Finally, some fucking positive inspiration for a blog. This blog is dedicated to all those teachers who told me I'd never amount to nothin'. And all the brothers in the struggle.

Although I've only had them once, Dunkaroos are awesome. Any snack that involves cookies and a separate tray of frosting to dip the aforementioned cookies in is tops in my book. You don't just eat, you dunk-a-roo.

I have to go, but I will revisit the snack issue. Some ponderables for later posts as well, or a look into the French future if you will:

Manny's swing and the effects on my heart

500 HR

The perfect beer

Homeless people

Enormous dogs

Hurt

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hold

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns

Upon my liar's chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

What have I become

My ssweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

If I could start again

A million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way

Strange Bedfellows

As I laid in the California King-sized bed of a Sox player last night, watching 'Go Diego Go' with his 3 year-old step son, I couldn't help but wonder...how soon can I get in front of a computer so I can write about this in my next blog entry?

Yeah, it was totally weird and amazing at the same time but I made it through. In case anyone was wondering the sheets are white, the spread is white and there's some light green accents. But it's pretty simple in terms of color...and ONLY color.

Here are a few things that I learned last night during the last several hours of La's workday, during which I was able to hang out and play with a 3 year-old:

1. No matter how big the tv, if you can't work the remote/cable it's a fucking moot point.

2. Fool-proof way to feel like a kid again: spin around with your arms out for 30 seconds, as fast as you can, and then run until you fall down. Try not to barf.

3. No matter if you have xBox 360, PS3 and Wii, if you can't work the remote it's a fucking moot point.

4. The universal color for money according to a 3 year old is geen, not green. Also, grass is geen as is everything green. Geen, not green.

5. After spending most of our time in a giant room filled with toys (like similar to the movie 'Big'), it occurred to me that my attention span within a room such as this is less than that of a 3 year-old. I couldn't get to the next toy fast enough.

5a. And after all that toy stuff, my favorite toy remains the nerf basketball hoop. There's nothing as fun as seeing how many different things you can throw into the hoop from all angles.


That's a pretty good synopsis of my night yesterday. Since we couldn't get the game systems working, it wasn't possible for us to play Rock Band together. But that's in our future, for sure.

A few odds 'n' ends that popped into my head yesterday:

If Julio Lugo can keep up his error pace, he'll end the season with 96 errors. Whatever, he's a clubhouse guy, right? I hate him. Can't we just plug Jed Lowrie in there and hope for the best? I mean, what could really go that wrong by doing that? Richie predicted that Youk's errorless streak would end on a low throw from Lugo and I couldn't agree more. I'd like to predict that Lugo will be run down by a 2005 Saturn Ion over the next couple days...he won't be harmed per se, but he will be hypnotized and made to think he's a Yankee. That oughta do it.

I know that pretty much all of you are entrenched in baseball and the C's now, but let's not forget about the classic original 6 matchup between the B's and the Habs. The last time this matchup occurred, the tables were flipped...Les Canadiens were the 8 seed and the Thornton B's were the 1. Do I need to remind you how that series turned out? 2 words: Saku Koivu.

Opening Day at Fenway today. Three cheers for the harbinger of Spring...the REAL harbinger of spring. The robin can kiss my ass.

L'Assessment Premiere

I have to start this post by giving out my first throwback accolades of the season to the Jays for their polyester performance last night. Shades of powder blue, dark blue and white, thoughts of Dave Steib and Pat Borders and the most ridiculously forgotten part of the new Jay uniforms, the Jay himself. They seriously need to bring those hats back because they're probably the greatest hat of all time next to the Garvey era Padre caps.

Ok, enough ogling. Hammen asked and he shall receive because, and I'll be totally honest here, I am a giver. Not a taker, like some bloggers I read. You're right though, Jimmy boy. I've been hankering to write a Sox assessment but I wanted to wait until the season was at least a few games in so there could be things to complain about. Sure enough...

At 3-2, the bright spots are Daisuke and Youk. As far as I'm concerned everyone else has been totally mediocre and yet to get into the flow of the season. I can't blame any of them because after all, the boys were on a fantastically absurd road trip to start the season (and still are). But Dice has looked pretty sharp early on and Youk has pretty much picked up where he left off...rock solid in pretty much all phases of the game. Other than that, the offense has been sluggish and pretty sparse while the bullpen has looked both great and horrendous at different times.

I've got to interject here, as I just got back from a mid-blog evacuation during which I read a Men's Health snippit involving my most favorite Sock, Jake Ellsbury. Apparently his encore to the groundbreaking breakthrough he made last year is to break the MLB record for the strength test that scouts use to rate talent. It's a mix of jumping, shuffling, running and throwing medicine balls and his scores are fucking legit. I just love his work ethic, drive and everything about his approach to playing in the majors. He says that he doesn't want to just be great, he wants to be relied upon by his teammates. That's something pretty mature to say for a 24 year-old with minimal MLB experience, isn't it? I think so. But these are just more reasons why Sox fans abounding are salivating over the thought of having Jacoby roaming around center for the next several years. He's the man.

Early predictions, a la Francaise:

1. JD Drew will surpass his homerun total from 2007 by June 15th. Yeah, I know. That's not exactly an achievement, but it's something. As long as he can stay OFF THE DL...he should be swinging sweetly all season.

2. Bartolo Colon will prove to be more valuable to this rotation that anyone could have ever predicted. I don't know why, but I just feel like having him in the 5th slot when that time comes will be huge. A productive Colon will mean a whole hell of a lot to that 'pen.

3. Jacoby will steal 50 bases...playing in less than 100 games. How much is he going to play? I really don't know yet, do you? Coco is serviceable but I really hope his timetable is short. I gotta believe that Tito is dying to implant Ellsbury permanently in center and just platoon Coco when needed to blow Manny or Drew.

I think that's about all I'm going to say for now. It seems to be shaping up that the AL East could be a three team race for much of the year, if the Jays can keep it together. The pitching, as always, will be the key. I don't know what to expect from the Yankees, but all indications early on point to them just not having the pieces to contend for the Division. But they are the Yankees, and that usually supercedes all else.

My Final Four picks were UNC, KU, Memphis and UConn, so I'm pretty much out of contention in my pool. I've got Memphis winning it all but mathematically I can only finish as high as 2nd. Good luck to all those who still have a chance to bring it home.

French Knows Best

The comment section recently has been an interesting place for the faithful to discuss my well being and such. As someone who prefers to make most of his own decisions in terms of what he does on a daily basis, I feel the need to address some of those comments. note: I say 'most' decisions because there are decisions that are joint decisions which I make with La and for the most part, I like her to have her way with stuff. Again, French knows best after all.



Hey Bowen, I actually think your idea about getting together on lonely weekends whilst my girl is out cavorting with the Wives Club is a sensational idea and I will add that maybe my Pop can actually join us sometime. I mean, he's a faithful Daily Diversions reader and French reader so the company of the three might make for some interesting conversation. Although I fear that should a conversation revolving around religion arise, things could get a bit dicey...quickly.



Let's put this out there: I have zero tolerance for alcohol anymore. For the most part, I'm as good as comatose after three or four drinks and from that point on it's moot for me to continue to consume alcohol unless I just really, really want the caloric intake on a given night. As Lauren puts it, I get that look in my eye suggesting that I'm not all there. That being said, Bowen, I can either practice for our impending afternoon binges or I can just put you in charge of my care as we consume PBR's. Or Stellas. Mind you, I liken that to taking care of an 90 year-old man with an intense knee problem. And he's drunk. And he has Alzheimers. And he doesn't speak nor see well.

I realize that my lack of tolerance may not be too appealing to many people out there, namely my girlfriend, any guy that might want to hit the town and have a few pops, my father, etc. But I still love beer, so let's not go getting all crazy here and suggest that I give up beer. I really doubt that mon pere was suggesting this at all, but he is right in advocating my new lifestyle which has made me my current fit French self. And I actually went to a bar last night with La and didn't consume any alcohol...just water. Granted I had just come from another hot yoga session and the thought of alcohol after that is sickening. So JB, we're on. You tell me when you want to share a case and a sure-to-be-forgotten conversation. You have yourself a date.

Umass v. Ohio State, NIT Championship.

7pm this evening.

Go.

Go U.

Go Umass.

Go - U - Mass.

I'd also like to throw a congratulations out there to our boy Youk, who set the Major League record for consecutive games without an error at first base. Meanwhile, he's tearing it up offensively as well. I don't know how encouraging the first few games of the season should be but I like what I see out of several players so far. Lester looked mint last night. You know what, it's 4 games. I'll save it.

Out Like a Smaller, Less Aggressive Lion

March came in like a fairly aggressive lion with a small chip on his shoulder and it's leaving us as a lesser version of its former self. Or if you'd prefer, it's going out like a pretty bad ass lamb. You know, a lamb on a chopper with black, dread locked wool, shades and a butt hanging out of his mouth. My point is that the weather is still a heaping spoonful of shit and I've had enough.

First off, let me apologize for the abomination of a blog that drunk French posted this weekend. Truthfully, I had to go back in and edit some of the garbage that I put in there originally. I can't for the life of me remember what prompted me to alert the faithful that I love salt. I mean I do...I really love it. Hey Bowen, kudos to you for pointing out that I sounded a bit rattled in that last post. You've got a keen sense on you, pal.

Onto other things...I've got a serious problem with the Outback Steakhouse jingle. "Let's Go Outback Tonight" is the jam I'm referring to. Not "Let's Go TO Outback Tonight". Or "TO THE" Outback. The jingle suggests that we should all go out back tonight and that life will still be here tomorrow. I don't see how they can make that claim though, considering the fact that if the average patron consumes part of a Bloomin' Onion, a good portion of those who "Go Outback Tonight" might indeed develop a serious heart condition. Check it out: 2310 calories and 134g of fat in that bitch. And that's before you chow down on a Caesar salad, jackaroo chips, a bonzer Ribeye and probably several Oil Cans worth of Foster's. Outback: Australian for coronary.

The funny thing about the Outback is how hard they try to be Aussie. No, I'm not a French Aussie but I was friendly with a group of Aussie exchanges during my senior year at UMass and they had never heard of this place. I told them about it and of the ridiculous sayings they used on the menu and obviously they demanded that we go there. And we did. And I've never seen people laugh as hard as they did when they got a load of Outback Steakhouse. Apparently the word 'bonzer' isn't really used. They also found it quite amusing that the walls were well adorned with boomerangs. It's funny how over-the-top a place like the Outback can really be, but at the same, how ridiculous it all appears to be to an actual Australian. Now, any Mexicans out there that would care to accompany me to On The Border to detect authenticity?

Five For Blogging

It's not too late...it's never too late.

There's some shit to discuss, friends. Aside from the fact that this represents five entries in five days, this also represents some pretty big doins in the lives of Le and La French. As follows:

La got her wish. She is now the nanny/Personal Assistant of a certain local sports figure's wife and she gets to leave her current job of several dudes' bitch. She's pumped, I'm pumped but I'm a little bummed about the fact that she gets to ride back on the team plane following road trips this season. Also, no divulging the date of the start of said season.

In a way, I got my wish too.

...oh god yes, Tyus Edney commercial. So sick. I know we all remember that shit. And I just realized that Davidson beat the Badgers. Awesome, awesome, awesome. Stephen Curry, friends. Listen, Nate and I used to rain threes with Dell Curry in NBA Live so it's only fitting that the man's son makes all this noise from a mid-major in the ultimate clutch time pertaining to college basketball. Keep it up.

I love salt.

Peanut Gallery

The peanut gallery that I also know as the comment section of the blog has had a particular suggestive presence as of late. Don't get me wrong, it's a real joy to login and find such pleasantries as "seek help", or something along the lines of "double check that you have a dick". But it's all in the spirit of keeping the blog world a place where one can be literally free...verbally voluptuous and totally ignorant of feelings and opinions. I have an obsession with urinals. There, you happy now DK? They're a little piece of inventive genius with just so many little nuances from one piss guard to the next. And how each man approaches each visit to the urinal deserves a Harvard PHD's dissertation. Just my opinion.

Frankly, I'm only writing a blog today because of Hammen's comment from yesterday's post. Hey, when a fellow blogger speaks, I listen...especially when that blogger owns and enjoys plaid shorts. (more on this later...plaid should be incorporated in the pro sport unis)

Just once I'd like to hear Dan Rather (well, the former anchor Dan Rather) sign off from CBS News as such:

"Thanks for watching. This is Dan Rather, CBS News. Peace."

Rather had that little whistle lisp, much like Herbert in Family Guy. I always wanted to hear him give a outro that involved the word "peace" and he never did. But it would have been a real treat, I can assure you of that.

I did 'hot yoga' this past Tuesday night. For those of you unfamiliar with this, it involves typical yoga positions only you're in a room where the heat blows to maintain a comfortable 108 degrees F. I survived. 90 minutes of something that could be on par with any form of Central Intelligence torture...and it gave me just about all I could handle. I've done double sessions in full football pads...in 100% humidity and 95 degree heat. This was worse. My heart rate stayed at roughly 170 bpm and I produced enough sweat to drown a small Somalian village...filled with thirsty Somalians. Hot yoga is a nightmare and I don't know if I'll ever do it again. But know this: once you walk out of that studio and into the brisk winter air, you feel totally out of body. And you're hair freezes because it's soaked with sweat.

Enjoy tomorrow, friends. It's Friday. It's almost April. Warm weather is a sniff away here in New England, and the Sox are back from the Land of the Rising Sun (and the land of glorious sushi). It's getting there...we're getting there. Happier moods are imminent and they will manifest themselves within a month.

I'd like to give a shout out to my love, who is awaiting something pretty, pretty big right now. It's going to be ok, baby. Good things lie ahead.

Peace.

And I'm Spent

Three blogs in three days is bordering on insanity for me at this point. In fact, I think I'm still at work for the sole purpose of banging out a blog entry. To tell you the truth, I had some good stuff running through le brain last night but it's gone. Poof. Just like that. But I got some interesting emails today about the fucking crazy comeback that UMass made against Syracuse yesterday in the NIT (No one's Interested Tournament? No good? Took me a while to come up with that one). Down 14 with under 8 to play and they pulled it out. Go. Go U. Go Umass. Go U - Mass. Alums will appreciate that cheer, as will mon pere.

Today I was in the urinal at work and I noticed that guy a few urinals over was in an interesting pose. I'm wondering if any men out there have seen the likes of 'the croucher' at the urinal. He stood there, knees bent, head nearly in the urinal itself, seemingly having a battle with the stream of his urine. I know, you're thinking that I probably had myself too long of a look to be mentioned in the hetero crowd anymore, but I was a bit taken aback by his stance and his gritty disposition. I mean, he was really fighting it, and his stance was one that suggested that his life depended on this evacuation. If I can analogize this scenario, picture a guy bending down with his head forward. He's got a beer in his hand that he just can't get the cap off of and he's really, really thirsty. That was this guy at the urinal. Has anyone been this guy before? God knows we've all taken a painful piss before, but this was something extraordinary.

Last Friday I bought a can of Tab soda. I didn't buy it because I wanted to drink it; rather, I bought it because it was Tab. Who sells Tab??? I'll tell you who. The Middle Eastern market on the corner of Broad and State St. in Boston. If you should venture in there and attempt to purchase a Tab, be sure to exclaim "I can't fucking BELIEVE this shit...TAB!" as you hand the cashier your money.

I gotta get out of here.

Could It Be?

I mean, is this an illusion? Am I really seeing a second blog in two days from French? These questions may or may not being fleeting through your mind at this time. But more than likely, you're rolling your eyes and silently accusing me of being presumptuous. Well played, well played.

As I was mentally thumbing through BeachBum's Daily Diversion this afternoon, I felt suddenly inadequate as my eyes glanced over to the right sidebar of this blog where you can see previous posts and the total for 2008: 52 posts. I have to say, he rarely posts a mail-in, or a gimme, if you will. There's always substance and some heartly, good, old-fashioned witty rhetoric in there for the blogging buddy's consumption. John, I applaud you and your seemingly expansive curiousity compartment of the brain. You're a cool cat. Did anyone get that? No? Ok. Eat shit then. Just not chicken because of this: http://www.goveg.com/factoryFarming_chickens.asp

I'm piggybacking onto the second part of BeachBum's blog because it warrants a second mention. I feel informed as of yesterday, thanks to my loving and concerned girlfriend, and I feel as though you should be informed, too. So, read the shit. Knowledge is power, remember? 'Tis also a burden at times.

I was asked about March Madness the other day and to be honest, I'm just as in tuned with the current brackets in the NIT. Even though Umass once again took a steaming shit on their season during the A-10 Tournament this year, they are still the #2 seed in the NIT and they have a rematch with 'Cuse (the #1 seed) that could be very entertaining. Umass won round one...

I think I gotta can this post for today since I'm losing control of what's happening at this point. You know the cliche "when it rains..."? Well it rained on my desk, then the equivalent of a silo full of water was dumped over my head in the last 10 minutes. I love it when that happens because it's awesome.

Someone do me a favor and crack open a can of Moxie please. Enjoy its bitter, unusually terrible flavor and think of me as you wonder why someone invented this vile soda.

Cheers.

Lies...ALL LIES!

I lied. I promised I would make a more concerted effort to be faithful to the French Faithful in this month of March and I have failed miserably. I continue to write partial blogs that never amount to anything more than a brief peep of chit chat and then suddenly my brain goes "oh fuck...my bad...totally forgot what I was going to say..." I got no other excuse. But in the span of two days, I've received comments from my brother Mike and Dunny about the lack of posting lately. And when Krechmer tells me it's been a while since I've blogged, I know that I have to get back on le horse and bang out a post...no matter how much it drags on and on and on about schtuff. Gimme a schtickle of fluoride.

I love/hate March. I hate it because it's the purgatory that exists between Winter and Spring and it can never make up its about which way it's leaning. This morning it was bone-chillingly cold yet this afternoon, it's a pleasant 45° and being outside kind of makes me feel like being alive again. What I love about it is this lack of belief that exists in those who spend a good portion of their commute outdoors.

The way I see it, there are three different kinds of people out there in the purgatory:

1) Winterlings

These people, no matter what the forecast or the temperature when they walk out the door in the morning, bundle up like it's Christmas in the North Pole and they don't let it go until about May. And I can't blame them because 50% of the time, mother nature rears back and pukes up a giant storm in the middle of fucking April, debilitating the city for a few days. The Winterlings will happily sweat like Frank Purdue at a PETA convention until it's beyond every fathomable doubt that it's Spring.

2) 'Tweeners

These indecisive hopefuls can't decide from one morning to the next what the hell season it is, so they kind of do a little of both in terms of dressing. For instance, I might see this one dude in the morning with flip flops and wool hat, or a woman in a mini skirt sans leggings but a massive wool scarf all but cutting off her circulation. They're caught in this purgatory like none other and you can almost feel their morning struggles in front of the closet based on their outfits. Listen, just go one way or the other. Trust me. And remember, you can always shed layers...but you can't add once you're out that door.

3) Springlings

I envy these people as they continually display the hope of Spring and Summer on their morning walk to work. Light jackets, pastels, iced drinks...you name it, they're supporting warm weather regardless of how nippy it might be on a given day. But this is one of those conditions that exists only in New England, where most people yearn so deeply for the warmer months that they start to go a little loopy and thus, dress like idiots.

There, I actually managed to get something fairly complete into a blog. It only took me two weeks.

What Color Is Your Parachute?

Better question: what gauge is the rope you use to strangle people? I gotta tell you, I've had some really vivid imagery lately...in terms of how I might go about maiming a few of the people that I work with. It's just that my mind has been working overtime today and I've had several urges to go postal.

One thing that I fantasize about often is taking a colleague of mine from the back of his head and proceed to pound his face against the keyboard on his desk, as I watch the screen type "bgyukyuk" over and over with each impacting thrust. I imagine doing this four or five times, real quick-like, then putting him back in place in his swivel chair. I turn back towards my cube and fix my cuffs and say "Now, can a guy get a fucking cup of coffee around here?"

Another one I have is less violent and involves another individual that irks me on a daily basis...usually more than once in a day. I go over to his cubicle area when he's on the phone with a client and pick up his monitor very deliberately and then wind up throw it as hard as I can into the adjacent wall. I look at him after this and say "Next time, it's your motherboard, motherf*cker."

My office anger goes far beyond the usual PC Load Letter anger. I don't care to deliver a body blow to the printer in the copy room, nor do I wish to jab my right fist clear through the slim monitor I am currently watching as I type.

How To Kick A Habit In 10 Days

It has been brought to my attention that one of my scant few readers would like to know how to stop biting his fingernails. I've decided that he's got a great suggestion and that I should indeed dedicate a blog to it. If I'm going to keep any sort of regularity with this thing, suggestions are definitely welcome in the comment section. Also, feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up at any point in time.

How To Stop Biting Your Nails in 10 Days

Day One

Before you leave the house in the morning, halve one jalapeno pepper. Proceed to dig out the seeds with your fingers, ensuring that each of your fingers touches seed. Take heed when urinating or touching any part of your body, for that matter...for the rest of the day. I can assure you that the first time you raise a fingernail to that stinky gullet you call a mouth, you're going to regret it. This should be something you will need to repeat over the course of the ten day period because while it's effective, it does need to be repeated in order to sustain effectiveness.

Day Two

Get yourself out there and find a nice girl who cares enough about your hygiene to slap your hands or yell at you each time she catches you nibbling on your fingers like some sore of rodent. If she's good at this, she'll make you feel downright abhorrent about your little habit, and eventually you'll feel so shitty about yourself when you're doing that you'll be more likely to not do it. Now, if you're lucky enough to find a young lady that is so good at this that merely a glance in your direction is enough to get you to stop the bullshit, be thankful. I've been lucky enough, but unfortunately my self-control in the nail-biting department is ever-wavering. But my fingers used to resemble bloody stumps and now they're at least respectable. I just need to quit gnawing on my thumbs.

Day Three

You should start to notice some progress in the length of your nails by now. This is a defining time of the process because habitual nail biters look at nail growth as a dynamite opportunity to bite those guys off and chew the shit out of them. AVOID THIS AT ALL COST. Go dig out a jalapeno if you have to, but don't bite. I know, you really want to chew that shit but you must not. Show some willpower, already.

Day Four

I'm confident that if you can get to day four without much of a setback, you're in the clear...for now. You'll have some good growth, maybe even enough to leave the house and shake a hand or two without being totally embarrassed. You may even experience a little bit of pride and satisfaction because you have actually withstood the test of time and grown fingernails. Be proud, bro. It's an achievement.

Day Five

Ok, enough with the fingernail saga. If it takes you ten fucking days to grow nails, you should probably just give up because you're a giant failure and always will be. Get on with your life and always remember what a jackass you look like when you're sitting there nibbling on your fingers like you used to.

Marches On

2008 hasn't exactly been the year of consistent bloggery for me. I haven't lost the inspiration but I have sort of lost my closeability. I liken myself to Bronson Arroyo in a Red Sox uniform...a guy who couls start off strong and appear like he could take it home, only to lose all momentum and come to a fizzling end halfway through his outing. I've been writing a lot of partial blogs and I never get back to finishing them...they are now in blog purgatory with access only to my eyes and Lauren's eyes. Sorry, but one of the only perks of living with me is getting to read my half assed, half done blogs. The other perks are negotiable in terms of actually being perks.

I'm going to ramble now.

I stumbled upon a new urinal phenomenom at the Oceanaire in Boston...ice in the urinal. It makes peeing both competitive as well as satisfysing. Go ahead and fill up a urinal with ice and see how many cubes you can melt down. if you have crushed ice, do the same but watch pockets of ice turn yellow. It's insanity!

If I tell you there's a man out there who can eat four donuts in a day, will you laugh at me? If I tell you that this same man will eat one of said donuts in the morning, be it a coconut donut, and then eat the coconut shavings off of his sweater later in the day as a snack, will you say 'boloney'? If I tell you there's a man out there who has managed to outfit himself in garb solely from the shelves and bins of Costco, will you call my bluff? Well my friends, I've now told you of the one and only Neal Goldstein...a man who never met a donut he didn't like. Keep your eyes peeled for a man about 6'2 with a jelly stain on his multi-colored sweater.

You know what's really scary? When you're walking the streets of Manhattan at night and a strange man barks at your girlfriend at point blank range. Like this: "Roof, roof ROOF." It's fucking scary, man. My question is, was he implying that she's a dog? Because that's just a crock of shit and if you've met her you'd agree. Perhaps he was implying that he wanted to hump her leg.

I think that's about all for today, but I am vowing that March will be a productive month for in terms of bloggery. I shall blog like I have in the past and I shall write of all things great and small. Future posts are sure to reflect upon the following topics: Cassell to the C's, the Sox, fingernails, urinals, some big event, jibberish.

Is That a New Colon You're Wearing?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Chubbo: Chubbo could very well have been me at the age of maybe 10 or 11. Chubbo can't run up and down the court, his defense consists of grabbing the jersey and hooking his opponent so he can't get away and tripping and his offense is nothing more than the occasional layup on a fastbreak as a result of his chubby ass not getting back on defense. Chubbo is a complete liability on the court, but dinner at his house after the game is nothing short of a celebration of deliciousness and grease. Put up with his shit on the court and you're setting yourself up for a mighty nice meal afterwards. This is the kid whose parents own stock in Little Debbie. For real.


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.

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.