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.
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