Impatiens

Bathrooms and Crystal

2010-10-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

Some things just inspire me. Babies, yes. Extra meat toppings, yes. But most of all, Crystal Oaklee and bathrooms.

In my new fancy downtown office, everything is automated. You pee, it flushes. You wash hands, it gives you soap. You dry, it papers. You poop, it wipes. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea.

This phenomenon has made a fool of me. In my own home, and in the homes of those dear to me, I have stuck (stucken?) my hands beneath the faucet and waited for the flow, which didn't come.

Let me paint you a picture here: I'm at a rest stop in Eastern Ohio. I've been in a car with same six people for about twelve hours now. I've been driving for the last five of those hours. I'm nursing a tall coffee and a two-day hangover. The time is either 4:15 am or 3:15 am, because supposedly Indiana doesn't believe in Daylight Savings Time and in certain months that leaks into Ohio, or something. Like I said, I'm tired. The drive back from Boston is long.

I shuffle into the door, catching an unfortunate reflection of myself in the single-pane door. My hair is disgustingly everywhere. Also disgusting everywhere. I just remember to hold the door for my brothers, with a look like "you're welcome, and who's driving next?" which they didn't even notice because they're almost as tired as I am.

Then it's in to the bathroom, picking urinals with the requisite empty in between so that we take up almost the whole nine-peeshot-row. I know just enough to ignore the sludge on the urinal cake, but not enough to avoid eye contact. I stare into his eyes, and both zippers are down. That's a nay-nay.

But we shake it off, share an awkward chuckle, and move to the sinks. And that's when it happens. I lift my red eyes to meet his, hoping that this too shall pass. But he's busy turning the faucet on, so that when he turns and notices me, he's washing his hands. And what am I doing? Shuffling dry hands in an empty sink and staring. And nodding a little, until I realize, that once again, I'm the creeper, and automation has gotten me.

I'd make like those freaks from the New York Times who forswore all bathroom luxuries, but that's just gross. Plus, I think I might have just pooped in my pants.

So thanks for that, Crystal.

Four months later...

2010-07-14T12:18:00.000-07:00

I moved into the city a week and a half ago, and I thought about titling a post "My Big Movement," but that was pretty easy to abandon, with its scatological implications. Plus, if you write about something that is actually important, it gets gay real fast. At least that's what I tell myself as I write super-important super-gay entries in my diary before I cry myself to sleep.

An anonymous commenter suggested that I blog again, and I was 65% tempted to tell him to fuck himself, since he has told me before that I blog like a pussy, or something like that. But then I remembered that his pubes are golden and honestly remind me of Aslan's mane, and I thought, "how can you deny that?" So, you're welcome, Jake.

As I waited for the train today, I couldn't help noticing the bald black guy on the other platform brushing his hair with a lint remover. You know what I'm talking about: those double-edged felt things that you see rich dudes in movies use on their suits -- only not the rolly ones, the slidy ones. So here this guy was, brushing hair that was maybe a quarter inch long, and going at it intensely, switching hands and smoothing with the free hand, switching hands and stroking and smoothing again. And he went at it assiduously for a good six minutes (I timed him). Had he just come out of the dryer or what? How do you get a black man to stop jumping on the bed? Sprinkle dust in his hair and hand him a lint remover. Simple.

In conclusion, I would like to offer you this horrific joke. Stop reading if you have any decency. How is a gay man like shoes from the clearance rack? Neither one comes in a box.

Shut up, I was already leaving.

Bathrooms so automatic they poop for you

2010-03-04T18:42:00.000-08:00

I'm about to finish my third week at a new job, working in this building. Fancy, right? I've never worked downtown before, and this is very much downtown. So far, this is what I'm thinking:

1. Working downtown is fun. The city and the people and the bustle and all of that. For about a second, when I caught myself looking up at the building as I was walking in, I made a pact with myself that I would always look up to admire the view on my way in. Naturally, I haven't done that since. Maybe now I will tomorrow -- that might make some kind of sense. But I don't really get sense.

2. The girls are a lot cuter, and there are a lot more of them. In the suburbs, it's just kind of different. In the suburbs you have families and white trash, and not a lot in between. In the city, you have all those girls who used to be part of a family but wanted to rebel and didn't have anywhere else to go because they didn't like the way white trash folks smelled. So now they're out there in the grand metropolis, distracting themselves from daddy with makeup and boots that aren't quite slutty. But then they all get on the Brown Line when I'm waiting for the Green Line, and I get disappointed.

3. Yesterday on the morning train, I smelled phenomenal for some reason. Believe me, it's unusual. So every time I would catch a whiff, I would stop and look around, like, "heck, who smells so good on the Green Line?" and then I would remember it was me and I'd take a big sniff of my jacket and smile and even manage to freak out the bag-lady across from me. And that's no small feat.

4. After that, I had sort of an off day -- you know, when you just feel dumber than usual, and think, "oh, this is what it's like to be everybody else," and then you spend ten minutes trying to remember where the "Save As" button is in Vista, and then you decide that maybe a nice cup of coffee will do the trick, but you can't figure out how to use the nice high-tech coffee-hot-beverage machine in the office, so you just poke at it for a while and then fill your travel-size mug with water and pretend that's what you wanted all along, and shuffle back out of the kitchen, remembering a second too late to wink at the cute girl from Room 33-something, so you're actually winking alone in the hallway.

5. But then I found myself giggling at my bed last night. This tends to happen when I go to bed early. And there I was, chuckling while I shimmied out of my pants (I'm kidding -- I never shimmy out of my pants, except that one time). So I guess the whole day couldn't have been that bad.

6. But the coffee machine does bother me. Flavia? Anyone ever heard of this? Supposedly it's God's gift to the 4:30 blahs, but my problem is that when I have the 4:30 blahs, I'm in no mood for cool, zany, hipster machinery. I bet if I ever had a nice big cup of coffee out of that machine, it would put me in the perfect mood to make myself one. Which doesn't exactly work.

7. Everything else in the office is all high-tech too. Like in the bathroom (come on -- you knew I was going there), it's automatic flushing, automatic water, automatic soap and automatic paper towels. My first time through the gamut, I had to stop before I got paper towels and say "ooooh" while doing Jazz hands.

8. Going back to a regular job in a regular office, which I haven't done in a while, reminded me of my old routine, and part of that was this blog. So while I'm making no guarantees, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself pouring out my poopful thoughts with some regularity again. I guess we'll see.

Seeing red?

2010-02-04T01:22:00.000-08:00

Red makes you look fat. Who knew? Here I was thinking it was just the snazzy, sharp color to wear for a night out, and all along it's just a recipe for making yourself into a marshmallow. And as anyone who has ever appreciated a sexual food metaphor knows, marshmallows may be delicious, but they're not worth the mess.

I guess pinstripes are supposed to be the answer, but you know what? Fuck that. I look good in red, I don't care what your camera says. I look marshmallowy and delicious, and maybe, just maybe, worth the mess.

And no, your breath is not bad because of what you did in bed, it just gets that way when you stay awake too long after drinking. Let that be a lesson to you. Seriously, buy some mints or something. Or else just go to sleep; no one wants to deal with this.

I went to California between Christmas and New Years for my cousin Jake's wedding. I was in it; I had to. My flights were overbooked and then canceled and then retarded for one thing after another (naturally), and by the time I got there, I had missed the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner. I was just in time to drink scotch and hear that I would be the first groomsman in line the next day. And that all struck me as fine at the time - because I was wearing red and I thought I looked good, and also because scotch is delicious.

The next morning the rain had cleared (I didn't tell you it was raining? Yeah, I didn't tell you it was my birthday either, but it was. Deal with it.) and the sun was out. It was that stupid kind of great California weather that makes you hate yourself for some reason, probably because you just saw the pictures of yourself wearing red the night before. Mimosas and Crabcakes Benedict happened for brunch (fucking California) and then there was the wedding.

I danced in line behind a guy in an electric wheelchair, and some other stuff happened, and then the next day, I went home. And on the flight, I snored so loud that I woke myself up, and no one even elbowed me.

On the practicalities of the search in infinite possibilities for true love, and on farts

2009-08-07T08:40:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in the Library yesterday, reading, quiet. The woman sitting to my left was not as quiet. I don't know what she was doing; I wasn't ballsy enough to look over (Zounds!), but I do remember thinking, right at that moment, that she and I could never be happy together. That struck me as sad. Sure it's only one person, but still, to say that a human being that God made, loved by her friends and family, could never make me happy - that's a little sad, isn't it?

It was because she was doing this weird snerking thing, like she was sort of trying to clear her sinuses but then also her throat at the same time. And I was sitting there, trying to focus on my book, rereading a longish periodic sentence to find an especially tricky antecedent and- SNERRK! That did it for me.

But I don't give up hope (who am I kidding, of course I do); I know that it is possible to find the perfect someone, because my brother just did. The day after tomorrow, my family and I leave for his wedding in California. And we're driving, which is equal parts exciting, daunting, and gastrointestinally intimidating. Snakes on a Plane haven't got jack on Farts in a Car.

That reminds me of another long family roadtrip, ten years or so back, to Denver, I think, when we passed through Nebraska. Have you ever been to Nebraska? The whole state smells. It's really unbelievable. It's marvelous. Seriously, from border to border, the state of Nebraska is covered by a blanket of dry fart. It's like South Dakota just gave it a Dutch oven. We got out in some podunk town to hit up bathrooms, and for the first five minutes, I was convinced that everyone else in my family was emitting a constant stream of flatus - I think we all thought that. But as the time dragged on and we realized that no one can fart for twelve minutes straight, the sad truth soaked into our consciousness like the butt-dust into our clothes and hair: this town always smelled like doody.

Back in the car, on the highway, with the air on recycle, we tried to shake fart smell out of our shirts and wondered what it would be like for someone who grew up in a town like that. What happens when Charlie Jim ships off to college, opens his suitcase and pollutes his dorm with the stored smell of dry shucked taint? And does Charlie Jim ever come back once he's gotten a whiff of the outside world?

But I guess there are some things that just don't bother some people as much as they bother other people (me). That's why there can be towns and states full of Charlie Jims and why even though I could never bear to love the woman at the library, maybe there's someone out there who can. Still though, dude, yuck.

It's the attitude

2009-03-30T15:58:00.000-07:00

I’m always interested to hear from or read stories of the Free Spirits. There are people whose MO is to bounce around through life, from job to job, relationship to relationship, sometimes family to family. And with the bolstering provided by 20th century art from Kerouac to Bridget Jones, the Free Spirit attitude is becoming more and more popular.

I have considered myself to have something of a Free Spirit streak for a long time. It’s a secret pride of mine that gives me a special balanced feeling in the face of my orthodox convictions and traditionalist bent. It’s something I can grab onto where no one else can see, whenever the dull, hard, traditional life becomes more than I think I can handle. And when my fingers touch it, the Free Spirit streak that I carry at the small of my back, I become part of a special club that no one around me knows about, a club to which no one I love belongs.

That’s why I have long hair and smoke cigarettes, and why loneliness gives me a secret melancholy delight. It’s a much more sophisticated attitude, of course, than that of a teenager who says no one understands him; it says, “some people understand me – you’re just not one of them.” Then it blows a confident thin stream of smoke and turns away, bored.

It whispers to you about long road trips with the sunroof rolled back and the music playing, about the big beauty of mountains and the crisp glitz of cities, New York and Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. You listen with a heartbeat only slightly elevated and then whisper back about sitting on a park bench watching people and feeling like yourself, and about standing on a bridge watching the water twist beneath you. It pulls your eyes to the stars, clashing splashed in the dark, ventures on the potential of sound in space. You spin around with your arms extended, dizzy, seize its hand and walk through crowds where the women’s eyes are dark and their teeth are white, where your old best friend’s favorite song plays and one girl you thought you’d never see again presses against your side.

That glamor diffuses the feeling of uselessness that smacks most people in the face from time to time. It makes it possible to take on life all at once, every moment from now until forever, planned in various vaguenesses with the overarching security of having no limits, no boundaries. It encourages you to jump at life and swallow it whole, promises you that you are bigger than the world. It transcends the day-to-day and moment-to-moment modes of living and supplants the ordinary with the promise of guaranteed extraordinariness. And all you have to do is believe. All you have to do is tell yourself that you are a Free Spirit and the universe opens in front of you like a flower.

When I’m walking down the street and I remember that feeling, I have to straighten my shoulders, smile then frown for appearance’s sake, and pat myself on the back, the small of my back.

It loves when you pat yourself on the back.

25 Questions

2009-03-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

I saw this going around with a few mothers of young children, and thought a new perspective might be interesting. So I asked the 25 questions to my brother Ed, who is 20, but sometimes acts like he's two (who doesn't?). The answers:

1. What is something mom always says to you?
Get a job.
2. What makes mom happy?
When I do my chores
3. What makes mom sad?
When I sleep in too late
4. How does your mom make you laugh?
When she's sassy
5. What did your mom like to do when she was a child?
Ride her bike
6. How old is your mom?
59
7. How tall is your mom?
5'8" 5'6" I dunno, 5'10" ... 5'9"!
8. What is her favorite thing to watch on TV?
Biggest Fattest
9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
take a nap
10. What is your mom really good at?
Spider solitaire
11. What is your mom not very good at?
computers
12. What does your mom do for her job?
Takes care of the family
13. What is your mom favorite food?
Roasted beast
14. What makes you proud of your mom?
Her smarts
15. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Fiona's mom
16. What do you and your mom do together?
Make dinner and eat dinner
17. How are you and your mom the same?
We're both smart
18. How are you and your mom different?
She has more common sense
19. How do you know your mom loves you?
She helps me with stuff
20. What does your mom like most about your dad?
His hard-workingness, his hard work, his work habits
21. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
Michigan
22. What is one thing you wish you could change about your mom?
Her computer-savviness
23. What would your mom do with a million dollars?
Help pay off her kids' student loans
24. What do you wish you could go and do with your mom?
Go shopping
25. What is one thing you hope never changes about your mom?
Her awareness of human nature.

A charming mix of childishness and childishness, I thought.

My dream

2009-03-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

"Wouldn't it be neat if your life had a soundtrack?" That's what people say.

I respond, "yeah, it would be ok. Although I think my soundtrack would consist of Funky Cold Medina on repeat."

I had a dream that I was the featured entertainment at by older sister's graduation party - doing stand-up comedy, which of course I've never done. I remember I got up in front of the twenty-or-so people there, inconveniently gathered in front of my garage, and started into my prepared beginning.

"What's up dudes?" I said, and then closer to the mic so it crackled loud with reverb. "What's up dudes?"

I put my hands on the podium and leaned close, close to the mic. "I'm going to do my best Dane Cook impression... and get saliva ALL OVER this podium," I said. Scattered laughs.

"People told me I was going to be nervous, and they were right. They told me I'd freeze like a deer in the headlights up here. So seriously, all you, and especially the people in the front couple rows... please don't point a car at me."

And that's all I remember of my monologue. But I made that shit up in my sleep. That's the funniest thing I've done while unconscious since I peed in this girl's bed in college. Just kidding, sort of.

But seriously, do you ever remember making up an original joke in a dream? Am I special? Please God, let me be special.

Pregnant Moments

2009-03-01T11:27:00.001-08:00

There are moments when everything comes together, and there are moments when everything, it seems, falls apart. And the two develop with such similarity that sometimes you can’t tell which one it is until it has passed. You have a vague feeling that this is important, that what happens next will make a difference, and an image comes to mind of a pot boiling over. There was no way to keep a slow explosion like this from happening, only, maybe, to determine whether this will be a moment when everything comes together or when everything falls apart. But it’s usually too late to make that difference. You just watch it happen. Times like these give new meaning to the word momentous.

The world is a stage, and all men are players on it. In other words, life is very shallow. That shallowness is often captured in the moments that turn worse, the moments when everything falls apart. We had ourselves a play within the play, and it was fun, maybe because we could hide our shallowness by making fun of it, the way junior high kids in the locker room act about modesty. It was a theme party that we had in our room, and the theme was “Thank God I’m not...” Everyone came dressed up as something he was glad not to be. By consensus, the best costume was the girl’s who came dressed up as pregnant. It was a pretty simple costume, just a blanket stuffed under her shirt. We had fun, we played cards, we drank Peroni and Prinz beer from Leon. We listened to music, and sang some, but nobody danced.

Hamlet was there, dressed as Claudius. We all thought that was pretty clever. Claudius was the one who killed his dad. Ha ha. He played cards some of the time, but he didn’t talk much, just sat there with a beer. But he was cool. We were like him. But later on, as we were playing quarters (my team won – I’m pretty good at quarters), I noticed that Hamlet was killing Claudius. I hadn’t even noticed when Claudius came in, dressed up as the older Hamlet. That was pretty clever, too. It looked like a re-enactment of the first murder. And Hamlet was stronger, too; he had Claudius down, pinned with a green chair we had borrowed from another room. He was strangling his step-father. I was shocked, but I couldn’t look away.

And then, he reached up to the shelf above his head and grabbed Jake’s butterfly knife from Athens. I tried to breathe in, but I couldn’t. My stomach felt like I was on a roller coaster, but I couldn’t speak. No one else noticed; they were playing quarters, Then Hamlet stabbed Claudius in the side of the head, right through the ear. Claudius screamed. I have never heard a noise like that, low and long and cracking. And Hamlet cut his throat – I was surprised that the knife didn’t go very deep. But there was so much blood. It leaked out of his old, wrinkled neck, and got all over the floor. At least we had a towel that we used for spilled beer from the drinking games. Hamlet was playing the part he was dressed for, killing Claudius like Claudius had killed his father.

By this time of night (the murder had somehow taken about two hours), the quarters were done (did I mention that I’m good at quarters?). Look at the costumes around me. Fill your eyes. Thank God I’m not pregnant. Thank God I’m not suicidal. Thank God I’m not retarded. Each person is a horrible image, a reminder of sin. Our sin. The whole point is that we’re glad not to be any of these things. It would be a bad thing if we looked like this. So let’s look like this.

She still has a blanket under her shirt. But is the slight imperfection in her makeup intentional? She has just a little too much lipstick on the top left part of her mouth. And her ponytail is not well held together; there are wisps of hair falling around her face. And it strikes me, hard, that she looks tired. There are huge bags under her eyes, and her back slumps, but she is always trying to smile, or at least showing her teeth, trying to please and to look very pleased. She looks like an unwed mother. And she’s wearing a tube top. A smallish tube top. This girl, who has made herself pregnant, either by her lust or by her dressing up, still thinks it’s important to look sexy. Sexy?

“I have a major crush on that guy,” this girl tells me, in honest confidence. You have too much makeup on, you’re wearing a slutty little shirt, and you’re pregnant. I guess that fits. Are these costumes. The suicidal guy is trying to play chess drunk. And it really is an exercise in self-destruction. He loses twice, then quits.

Hamlet killed Claudius. I guess I’ll have to clean that up tomorrow. And I am dressed up as “Thank God I’m not retarded.” But I am. I have too much to drink. Again.

The pregnant girl tries to kiss “that guy” while they’re “wrestling.” It doesn’t happen. She picks a fight with her roommate. I didn’t see it happen, but her roommate, dressed up as “Thank God I don’t give a shit,” is screaming and crying pretty soon. “Thank God I’m not turns into “No, I actually am” one more time.

I meet the pregnant girl on her way out of my room. She is on the verge of tears, and I comfort her. She gives me a hug, which is rather awkward because of her distended belly, and says, “Thank you, Joe.” And I am not revolted by everything about this situation for the same reason I don’t really mind that “Don’t give a shit” is breaking open house hours in my room. Because I’m retarded.

The girl in my room will be led away soon, and offered a place to sleep in another guy’s room. He thanks God he’s not still in high school. I don’t know. Find the poetry in that.

The night is over, and more than over. Over the course of the party, the only people who danced were two girls on their way in from Rome. They were dressed up as themselves, but they weren’t themselves. They were horribly drunk.

I don’t even know where the girl dressed up as the “baby’s father” went. She took off when all the drama started, and no one’s seen her since.

When I wake up the next morning, Claudius’s body is gone. There is no blood, just a lot of empty bottles, and quarters glued to the table with dried up excess. The two girls remember that they had a fight the night before, but they honestly cannot remember what it was about. I am not retarded any more. Or maybe I am... I don’t know.

Hamlet had one of those turning point moments when he decided to kill Claudius. And his, like ours, was one where everything falls apart. He had a play within the play, like us, and became his enemy... when to create the moments when everything comes together, all you have to do is tell the truth. Because being pregnant, being retarded, are occasions for grace, calls to special sainthood. But not like that.

So the world is a stage, and all men players on it. In other words, drama is very deep. And in the same way that the shallowness of life can be captured in the moments when everything falls apart, the depth of drama can be captured in a moment when everything comes together. Like this moment.

Just like the party, the play, was a moment when everything fell apart, remembering the party was when everything came together, like an examination of conscience. Before the party, it seemed like everything was set up right, like things made sense, but it was the opposite. And before remembering the party, it seemed like all there was to realize was failure. But in one long, slow explosion, all the failure boiled over, to reveal what really was. And that must be encouraging.

Tolerance?

2009-02-24T20:10:00.000-08:00

Today I saw a post by the vibrant and witty Chelsea of Chelsea Talks Smack that really summarized the attitudes of most (or at least many) "twenty-somethings" toward Catholicism. I'd encourage you to read it; it gives a good sense of the overwhelming mindset of our demographic - how we relate to orthodoxy, and what we mean by tolerance.

Liberal-minded young people take great satisfaction in the virtue of their own tolerance: they accept anyone and everyone for who they are, no matter what they do, accept an infinite plurality of separate but equal truths, and in short, strive to annihilate a system of values which could hurt someone's feelings - which could, God forbid, judge someone. Whether this is primarily a self-defense mechanism, to protect themselves from judgment, especially self-judgment, is a good question for another time.

Instead, I'd like to focus on the prevalent attitude among these twenty-something liberals toward those people who disagree, those people who subscribe to (the liberals would say manufacture) the system of absolute values. Like Catholics.

Chelsea mocked the Catholic practice of praying for God's mercy on the soul of the deceased at a funeral.

Now let's forget the question of whether they're right - we'd be here all day. Instead let's just imagine that some people, doddering old fools though they may be, believe in praying for God's mercy - believe all the Catholic hocus-pocus and mumbo jumbo. Let's imagine they believe that God is all-powerful and all-loving, and that one's relationship with him is all that matters. Won't those poor old fools want to pray to him? Want to pray for his mercy, and pray that their recently deceased loved one can enjoy the glory of his presence forever?

And won't an open-minded, tolerant, compassionate soul, even one who knows the old farts are way off-base, allow them the measure of comfort they gain from their silly rituals? Won't the tolerant, fresh-faced, future of America allow them unbegrudgingly the practice of their separate but equal beliefs?

Because if the young liberal refuses such magnanimity, which I find to be the case more often than not, he or she should take a closer look at the mantle of all-inclusive pan-religious tolerant peaceability he or she is wearing. And he or she might find that it's actually a mask and cape of militant atheism.

In which case, the escape from self-judgment has led to self-delusion, and the courage to face down tradition has led to cowardice which perverts good, tolerant intentions against themselves.

25 Things

2009-02-06T10:21:00.001-08:00

1. When this note-writing frenzy started two weeks ago, I thought it was stupid and lame with a capital A. But then no one tagged me. And no one continued to tag me. And I started thinking... "anybody?" It was like sour grapes in reverse.

2. I think chick music can be angry sometimes, like Kelly Clarkson or Alanis Morissette, and it's just kinda cute, like "ooh, you're angry, arentcha? grrrr!" and you kind of pat their head and laugh and then dance your butt off. But when guys sing angry music, it inevitably comes off whiny. Even when they think it's shouty, it's still actually whiny.

3. I used to hate Brussels sprouts, asparagus, wine and spaghetti, but now I love them. I used to hate eggplant too, but I don't know if I like it, because who ever eats eggplant?

4. Studying many diverse subjects in college helped my Trivial Pursuit game.

5. After my baseball coach caught me climbing from balcony to balcony outside the third floor of our hotel rooms in California at 3:00 am in my underwear, he still let me pitch the next day.

6. When I was three years old or so, I sometimes ate sticks of butter, and once, confused, I took a bite of a bar of soap.

7. When I started school, I prided myself on knowing every single swear word. I guess the soap didn't take.

8. Books are good, except Pulitzer prize winners, which suck a surprising amount of the time - like that "Guns, Germs and Steel" book: utter hogwash.

9. I haven't thrown up from the flu since I was five.

10. I was 5'6" as a freshman in high school, and made money by betting several classmates (who were all of 5'10") that I would be taller by graduation. I grew a foot, cashed in, and then tried the same thing in college, except I bet that I would have more chest hair than my opponents by graduation. No one ever tells you this, but chest hair takes a looooong time to grow.

11. When someone tells me, "space and time are the same thing," or "God is three persons in one being," and I say, "oh, ok, yeah I can kinda see how that makes sense," am I faking it? Those things are supposed to be impossible to understand, so I guess I must be. Then again, if someone told me, "the square root of epic poetry is a bologna sandwich," I wouldn't say "yeah, that makes sense to me." Or I would, but I would say it while I was slowly backing away.

12. I think people take themselves too seriously. Like me, when I pester Ed, "should I shave my goatee or keep it? What do you think? Shave it or keep it? Do you think it makes me look older?" What a queer.

13. My mom and sister Cathy still like the show, "The Biggest Loser," but by means of constant subliminal repetition, we have trained them to call it "The Biggest Fattest" like the rest of us.

14. Whenever someone mentions the drink named a "hairy navel," I am quietly amused. And when someone mentions a "buttery nipple," I am quietly uncomfortable.

15. I am glad that the phrase "anal-retentive" can be shortened to "anal," with no loss of meaning, but sometimes it makes me think that "penal" is a dirty word, too. Like "fiduciary," and Uncle Joe's favorite swear, "Shih Tzu."

16. You know how a human being would explode in the vacuum of space because of the body's internal pressure? What if a human just pooped into space? Would it explode? No one can answer this to my satisfaction, and my mom won't let me poop in the vacuum cleaner to test my theory. I guess it's just one of life's mysteries, like why people like Shia LaBeouf.

17. Little Jackie "The Stoop" is my new favorite song. Or something. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpmlDhIDkqA

18. My sister Julie was surprised that I could make gravy, and I was like bitch please, this is child's play and then my dad told me to watch my mouth and that only part of this story was true.

19. I can sympathize with masochism when I'm on the toilet. Anyone? Anyone? No?

20. Call me crazy, but I believe it is possible to love an ugly person. It requires intense concentration, and can only be achieved for brief intervals, but it is possible. But that's just my opinion. You could be right.

21. I think Ryan Seacrest, while a shade on the smarmy side, is vastly underrated and unappreciated. Boy can host a damn show.

22. Always remember that you are unique. Just like everybody else.

23. I could write in cursive when I was four years old. Or at least I used to think that I remembered that. I used to say I remembered being in the womb, too, but so many people have told me that's impossible that I don't know if I really remember it, or if it's a fake memory I've fabricated. They ask me what it was like and I say, "Umm... warm... dark," and I think I must be making it up. But then later, I remember that the most noticeable thing about it was there was no sense of up and down, or any direction, and hardly any sense of space at all. But then I don't know if I just made that up too.

24. I love chocolate milk and I love alcohol, but my attempts at a chocolate milk drink have invariably been disappointing. I guess a White Russian is as close as the human race can come to that particular perfection.

25. I don't know what to put for 25. Something about how I love my family because they're the best and pizza is my favorite food and baseball is the best sport and I get a kick out of you.

I believe that the second syllable of "buttock" should rhyme with "luck" not "lock"

2009-01-29T21:54:00.001-08:00

"We live in uncertain times," I said to my brother tonight, and I think it's true enough as far as it goes. Barack Obama is our president, which some students of history are calling another step in the slide toward socialism. (As a quick aside, did you know that Obama's tax cut plan calls for more than 50% of the populace to pay no taxes (or less). Do you know what that means? That means that beginning with the advent of graduated income tax (thanks to the Progressive movement of the early 20th Century), and through the governmental gluttony of Wilson, FDR and LBJ, we have now created a voting majority who pay no taxes. Or are on welfare. Guess whether those folks are going to vote for Obama, who pays their bills (with our money), or some Republican. It's easy to say, "stick it to the fat cats," but what we're talking about here is the brink of class warfare, when the many can become a mob and take from the few... and, call me George Orwell, totalitarianism.

Yes, it's years away, certainly. But it's over 200 years closer than when Tocqueville saw the same thing coming.

I'm afraid that was a bit of a tangent, when I promised you a brief aside. These are uncertain times. I'm in a bit of a maelstrom myself, and a few of the people around me are paddling gamely through their own, and sometimes it seems like the Bermuda triangle because it's so marvelous.

How fast can you run?

How well can you spell?

If the meteor hits tomorrow, whose bra will you grab?

Do you know how to dance?

Can you explain how calculus curves define the economic balance of the last thirty years?

Those are the questions that I'm interested in. And none of them are easier to answer than the next.

30-second video spot

2009-01-28T08:19:00.000-08:00

If you've got the time, I'd love to hear what you think of this. Love it? Hate it? Disrespectful? Ingenious? Misleading?

Don't be afraid to ruffle feathers.

A post about OpenOffice in which I devolve into griping, as usual these days

2008-12-16T19:11:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this post in OpenOffice.org Writer instead of Word. I switched recently, partly because my free trial version of Microsoft Word was expiring, but also because I think the idea of OpenOffice is just so cool. “Open source programming”? Where anyone who wants just chips in like Wikipedia to write a program, and it works just as well? That's such a cool idea to me that when I heard it, I knew I had to have it. I'm like that sometimes: anyone who has a cool idea, a product I think is “neat” or an innovative sales pitch, I fall in love with immediately. Multiple times before I've bought something I didn't need just because I thought the salesman really did a heck of a job. It's not a good philosophy, it's poor business sense, but I just can't shake the habit.

I'm also compelled to respect OpenOffice because I don't understand it. I thought I did, of course, but then my mom asked me to explain it, and I found myself completely unable to do so. The same thing happened with the whole idea of social networking (and blogging, for that matter), which I was at a loss to explain to my mom too. But the most ingenious solution is usually the easiest, isn't it? So I just did what I always do when someone older than I am doesn't understand anything remotely technological: I laughed a little and then shook my head as if to say, “oh, you'll never get it – you're so cute and fuddy-duddy.”

That approach always made me feel much better about myself until the other day when my high-school-age cousin tried unsuccessfully to explain to me why he couldn't go with Hayden and Alice and Fiona all together to the Christmas dance as a double date, and then gave me the exact same look after he finished explaining and I said “huh?” At that exact moment, I realized that my parents probably think I'm a jackass and that their feelings toward me lean less toward envy of my tech savvy than toward simple, mild contempt.

It's snowing like balls outside right now. Started at noon or so and supposed to last all night. Winter is depressing, but snow makes it a lot better. It's awful pretty. But emphasis on the awful there.

But at least Obama's our President-elect, right? Oh wait, that guy sucks. Since the election, he has backed off his “out-of-Iraq-now” pose, deferring to “the judgment of commanders on the ground,” and has in fact promised to deploy active military within the United States – 20,000 by 2009 (wtf?). He's ramped up the bailout package too, now tossing in bones for the Big Three (which should just go bankrupt already) and pushing the total to over a trillion dollars. And he's announced a gigantic public works program. Oh yeah, and he's promised that his first act as president will be to sign FOCA, which aside from its murderous character, is also a decimation of states' rights. With the shit he's announced, bigger military than he promised, huge government intervention everywhere else across the board, forget about calling him as bad as FDR; the closest twentieth century leader to Barack Obama is Joseph Stalin. I'm so not even kidding. But we elected him fair and square, and all I can say is we got what we deserved. It's going to be a godawful ride.

Umm, so, cheers! Have a great day anyway, what the hell.

Part Three - Chapter One

2008-12-10T08:14:00.000-08:00

It all started so innocuously, the way the worst things always do, when Jenny fed too many scallion tails down the disposal drain. When you chop scallions, Jenny said, you clip off the squidian roots with the long green tails and only use the middle. The ends, short and white or long and green, you toss aside into the garbage. Or the disposal – which of course is anything but.

Another labor-saving device, the disposal never lived up to the spirit of the automatic bread-slicer in purely literal terms. A bread slicer sliced bread like the best thing since... whenever – and the disposal only disposed of mushy leftovers and baby food... maybe every once in a while something as strong as a carrot, but certainly never anything as strong as these scallion tails.

Once Jenny had heard of using a food processor to chop the most stubborn leftovers and then flipping them to the disposal. Saves your disposal, saves your garbage-hauling costs, saves everything. Except that twenty seconds of sanity that you save by chucking the damn things into the garbage can, and sometimes that's worth a lot more to you than a green world forever. If it came to going green, sometimes Jenny felt fine to peppering the garbage can with scallions.

Except this one time, she decided not to decorate the Glad bag with a garnish of green; she put her environmentalist hat on and threw the long strands down the drain. The environmentalist hat, Jenny always said, was too small for her, so small that it cramped her brain. An environmentalist hat would stop anyone from thinking, Jenny said.

I never understood that about her, her heartless conservatism, but there was a lot about her that I didn't understand, starting with everything. Starting with everything, culminating in something, and coming to a head with scallion tails dropped down the disposal.

Like a shot I was over there when she called me, because that's what good boyfriends do, right?

It was 8:30 in the morning. Who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning? I wondered. So I asked her when I arrived at her apartment, “who cooks scallions at 8:30 in the morning?”

“I was making an omelette,” she growled at me. She pointed to a tin bowl full of eggs, mixed, next to neat piles of shredded cheddar cheese, crumbled sausage, green pepper and yes, green onions.

Her hair wasn’t done for the day, and she was wearing big gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Her face was flushed with anger, the pink settling high on her cheeks, near her cheekbones. Her eyes, that opaque blue, tried to flash with fury, but only twinkled. She looked gorgeous.

I’ve heard a lot of people say it before, that some girl or other looks her best when she’s steaming mad. But for Jenny it was really true. I just wanted to smile and hold her as close as I could and make her laugh or love me. The only time she looked as good as when she was mad was when she was sharing an inside joke, across the table or across the room, when anyone else might see it but no one did.

Suddenly I realized that I was just standing there in front of her sink with a half-smile on my face, thinking about her while she was three feet away, staring at me and waiting. So I stuck my hand into the drain and started groping around.

I’d never fixed a disposal before; I’d never even tried. So I just made exploratory humming noises for a while, hoping to feel something inside the sink’s throat, or better yet, hoping the thing might magically fix itself. After about a minute and a half, almost enough time for her to realize that I was clueless, I pulled out my hand, rinsed it and shook tiny water droplets that spattered into the sink. “Feels jammed,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, with surprising patience. “Can you unjam it?”

I indicated her chair and white-formica-topped table next to the window. “Why don’t you sit down,” I said, “and tell me where I can find a screwdriver. Or maybe a pair of tongs.”

She reached up over my shoulder and grabbed tongs from where they hung on the wall above the stove. I took them with nodded thanks and ushered her out of the kitchen, the full twenty-five feet to the opposite end of her apartment to have a seat so I could concentrate on my work... or at least on figuring out what the hell my work was.

The apartment was almost as wide as it was long, almost twenty feet by twenty-five, but still, obviously, a very small place. The kitchen occupied one half of one of the short walls, separated by a wall from the entryway that took up the other half of the short wall. On the other short wall were her bed, opposite the kitchen, and her table, opposite the front door.

The front door, Jenny always called it the front door, although there was no back door or side door anywhere in the apartment. But she had a habit of domesticizing; her aparment was her home, and that door was the front door. I loved it about her – the habit of making things comfortable, not the door; there was nothing really special about the door. Not that it was a bad door or anything, I’d just never–

I saw her still staring at me from the table, so I hefted the tongs in a silent toast to her and poked them into the drain. For all her tendency to make things comfortable, she could still make people uncomfortable with almost no effort. It was funny when she did it to someone else.

After a minute or so of wiggling, I said, “Aha!” and removed the tongs from the drain. There was a smallish piece of scallion-tail clutched between the fingers. I raised my eyebrows in what I estimated to be a confident glance, paused for a dramatic moment, and then reached for what I thought was the disposal power switch. The light above the sink went on, then off again. Then on.

I cleared my throat. “Can see better now,” I said, and peered into the sink. I couldn’t see shit. Jenny reached over to the shelf at her shoulder, pulled out a book, and opened to the first page.

Well

2008-12-07T20:57:00.000-08:00

Hi. I guess it's been a while. I have no idea how many Google Readers this is going to show up in. Maybe what we had wasn't as great as I thought it was... then again - what do we have to lose, you and I.

My name is Joe White.

Hi.

Here am I

2008-10-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

Almost a year ago now, I decided to sign up for NaBloPoMo, which some of you may remember, a blogging group dedicated to posting every single day during the month of November. The inspiration for NaBloPoMo was NaNoWriMo, a group dedicated to writing an entire 50,000 word novel in the month of November.

Bloggers, as is their wont, saw a good idea and tried to find a way to make it easier. Naturally, I was right there with the rest of them. The truth is, I had heard of NaNoWriMo before I even knew what a blog was, and the idea fascinated me. I've continued to fancy myself an excellent writer of fiction even though I haven't finished a single story since high school summer writing assignments, when I would pound out fantastical stylized pieces like this little gem from my sophomore year.

Since then, I've finished nothing, not a single story (at least nothing over 1,000 words), but I've always supposed that if I really wanted to, I could jump up at the drop of a hat and produce a passable, above-average novel. I don't really know if that's true. I'm afraid it's not.

But after trying my hand at NaBloPoMo last year, and finding out that I couldn't even keep up with that easy a task, it was only natural for me to decide that this year, I would take a stab at the big kahuna. So bring on NaNoWriMo, I thought. That was about three weeks ago.

My plan was to bring myself gradually back up to speed by finishing the series of stories I had started in high school. The one I posted here, you see, was only the first installment. The next year I had written “Nature Calls” for the high school summer writing assignment, and sometime shortly afterwards, I'd begun working on the third story, tentatively entitled “The Milk of Love.” Each story corresponded to one season - “Winning Atalanta” to summer, “Nature Calls” to fall, and the third and fourth to winter and spring, respectively. Three weeks ago, I had the idea that if I finished the third story during September and wrote the complete fourth story in October, I'd be warmed up enough to write a whole real book in November.

Well, I added enough to “The Milk of Love” to bring it to a grand total of fifteen pages, about ten less than I planned, and that was all. Apparently, it just doesn't come back to you like riding a bike. Perhaps also, I was underwhelmed with the quality of my stories from high school when I went back for a second look... and maybe, I have to say, disillusioned.

It's depressing to find out that at least in some ways, you aren't as exceptional as you always half-believed you were, and coming down from that feeling into the choking quiet of reality in a slow hollow thud can leave a bruise. It did for me.

So for now anyway, I'm going to try to finish that third story, and then if it's in me, write the fourth story, just to finish something, to be done. If that's done by November 1st, I may see about taking Roy and Emi out for a spin. I've already got 6,000 words or so on it, so it's technically cheating, but I'm not worried about that. In the meantime, I think I'm going to post the stories that I'm writing online as a way to keep myself honest. Anyone who cares to know can know exactly how much I've gotten done and when I've done it. We'll see if that helps. So that will include moving “Winning Atalanta” off of this page, where it doesn't really belong in the first place.

And I think that does it for housekeeping – plenty enough for me anyhow.

So I'd like to throw one more thing out there. I'm Catholic and I'm American, and I'm very proud of both. And projects like this one, which is run by my brother-in-law and is starting to get national attention, including mention in this past Sunday's New York Times, are genuinely exciting to me.

God bless America.

McCain-style Straight Talk... As in "heterosexual"

2008-10-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Today I’d like to talk about Sarah Palin. You may have heard of her – John McCain picked her to be his running mate. Well, I don’t know about the running, but I would have no problem picking her as a mate. We’d hole up in a den under Denali and she’d nurse my cubs while I foraged for berries, arctic hare and the occasional stray caribou.

Can’t you just picture her, lounging in a dark cave, covered in a bearskin with just her feet and face peeking out. You can see her glasses shining bat-like in the ambient light, but other than that, who knows if she’s wearing anything? Whew, I need to go take a cold shower.

I think it’d be best if I broke this down into sections here, otherwise I’m just going to waste my time and yours by talking about how I get lost in her eyes. So let’s start with

1. The reaction to her selection. When McCain’s choice of Palin was announced, the reaction was intense, from the most positive end of the spectrum to the dumbest. Liberal feminists everywhere realized that in one swift stroke, McCain had illegitimized the entirety of their movement. The history of feminism, from Cady Stanton and Dorothea Dix to Jackie O and Oprah, from Sharon Stone to Tina Fey to most bloggers, was immediately rendered meaningless. Suddenly it was clear that women don’t have to wear pants and kill their unborn children to have a meaningful life. Just look at Sarah Palin. She hardly ever wears pants, especially in my imagination, and she’s super successful.
This catalyzed intense jealousy, which found a surprising mouthpiece in Matt Damon. Like countless dumb others, Damon tried to pawn off his jealous rage as a critique of her credentials, but the façade was transparent. And when, for heaven’s sake, will actors realize that no one cares what they think? Even if you’re a good actor, odds are you’re still retarded. Just look at Alec Baldwin. Remember those voicemails he left his daughter? Great actor… just retarded.
There was another crucial reaction that Palin garnered. All of a sudden, men across the country were entranced with the presidential race, reading up and watching videos in every spare moment. Women have always outnumbered men at the polls, but the Foxy Factor could change that. It’s a well-known statistic that extremely horny men are the #1 untapped demographic nationwide, especially in the plains states, which are renowned for the ugliness of their women.
And finally, there was the hardcore conservative reaction. Somewhat unimpressed with McCain’s conservatism, the large right-wing block was energized by a woman who is as conservative as they come. She even sold the governor’s plane, or something! Immediately, the red states got even redder with the flush of sexual arousal.

2. Todd Palin. Sarah Palin’s wife, I mean husband, Todd, is affectionately dubbed the “first dude” by the admittedly redneck Alaskan populace. Todd is a man’s man who works on the oil pipeline, allegedly working security to keep the other workers safe. Some skeptical democrats wondered who he might be protecting against, since there are no people in the wild hinterlands of Alaska, but it turns out that mostly he fights fucking bears. A representative of McCain’s campaign provided this video as evidence.
Bill Clinton is also a fan of Todd, which, let’s be honest, is probably just some backhanded attempt to get in Sarah’s snowpants. I mean, let’s look at the choices here: which would you rather?

Yeah, me too.

3. Bristol Palin is pregnant. I just don’t understand why this was in the news. We’ve all been pregnant before, some of us worse than others. This is a private matter, to be settled between Bristol, her family, that hick she was dating, and me. Seriously, Bristol, I could make you so much happier than the hockey player. I have a beard and two rifles, even though the beard is a little homo-looking. Be with me! You and your halfsquatch baby can move in with me right after the inauguration (propriety, naturally).
There was a lot of confusion, with some liberals calling the Palins hypocrites for not using birth control, or not living chastely or something, and then conservatives said the liberals were hypocrites for judging her use of her body or something, and it all got a little convoluted and confusing. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the clear glimmer of the Northern Lights I see when I look in her eyes. And think of her mom.

And here are a few resources on the great lady I think we should all take advantage of:
Sarah Palin facts – great for researching the background and experience of the candidate.
Sarah Palin baby name generator – predict the name of her next child... Sell the story on exclusive to Us Weekly... Use the money to buy a lobbyist’s spot in the Oval Orifice – Office, sorry.
Sarah Palin naked portrait – This is kind of creepy, especially because I hang out in this bar at least once a month, and now it’s going to be awkward. I’ll have to stand right up against the bar the whole time, pressing my stomach against it.

And finally, if that hasn’t convinced you to vote Republican, I offer this shocking video of Senator Barack Obama visiting a McDonalds with his family when his daughter Malia asks if she can get a parfait AND an apple pie. Is this the man you want beating your children? McCain could never move that fast. Vote Sexy, vote Sarah.

2008-09-24T14:32:00.000-07:00

Waking up in a park on a Saturday afternoon with literally no idea of where you are or how you got there is not as glamorous as it sounds. It’s not even grungy-glamorous, like your life is the next poppy production of the National Lampoon.

And it’s not because it’s trashy, or because it’s dangerous, or because it’s immoral – even though it is all those things – the reason that waking up in a park with no memory is not all it’s cracked up to be is that you don’t remember anything. It might have been fun, it might have been awful, but you have no idea.

Then you have to try to gauge the time of day and the directions from where the sun is in the sky, and then try to hail a cab while you remember bits and pieces of where you’d been and what you’d done in the last 24 hours since the party started. Images of a bouncer telling you that you can’t come into a bar, of hiding a full bottle of vodka in the tank of a tavern toilet.

I suppose that this is what alcoholics are referring to when they say rock-bottom – the strange feeling that you don’t even know who you are any more, that you can’t even tell whether you’re awake or dreaming. It’s not glamorous, it’s not romantic, it’s not nice.

Three weeks ago tonight, I was sitting on my back porch with my younger brother Ed after a softball game, drinking beers and shooting the shit until about three in the morning, when we decided to go to Nashville. So we left, got into South Bend around 6AM, stayed to eat with our cousin Jack, and then left heading South. I called in sick to work that day and the next, and we wandered up and down Broadway in the rain in Music City, USA. We saw the Country Music Hall of Fame, and the Grand Ole Opry, and we saw Second Avenue and Jack’s BBQ and the famous Wildhorse Saloon.

When I got back home on Sunday, I had an email waiting from my boss. I was being transferred to another department. So I’ve been a little busy since then, which is too bad. But I’m tired of talking about it, so don’t ask. I’ll be right back.

I don't care if New Orleans floods

2008-09-03T12:50:00.000-07:00

Politics are all over the news these days, what with McCain’s choosing a woman as his running mate to pander to feminist Democrats and Obama’s choosing a crusty old man to appeal to crusty old Republican men. Neither strategy seems to make much sense to me. Feminist Democrats are crazy bitches who would rather wear a skirt than vote for John McCain (maybe that’s a bit of a stretch), and all the old Republican men are going to vote for the old Republican man no matter what. “A black president?!” they’ll exclaim. “Pshaw!”

But I don’t want to spend too much time with politics for now. Also in the news the past few days has been the anticlimactic onslaught of Hurricane Gustav.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I was hoping for the drama and excitement of another Katrina-scale disaster. I mean, the stories of heroism, the heartbreak, Kanye West making an ass out himself… that’s just compelling television.

But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted Gustav to slam into New Orleans and flood it again. I also felt that New Orleans kind of deserved it. All everyone ever talks about is how hard it was and how sad and yada yada, who gives a crap?

The Lower Ninth Ward is constructed almost entirely below sea level. You know what happens to places that are below sea level? The sea flows into them, and they get wet. I don’t care how much quick-dry cement you dump into those levees; sooner or later, that shit is going to collapse and your stupid town is going to flood. So live there if you want, but don’t come crying to me when your retarded plan blows up in your face. Suck it up and move to Nebraska, bitch.

My dad has a theory that people build out below sea level just so they can have a great story about a boy who heroically stuck his finger in a dike, and I’m all, “Rosie O’Donnell sorta looks like a boy.”

But we don’t need to literally stick our fingers into sandbags or lesbians here in America just to make a point. If that’s your thing, that’s your thing, I guess, but I would disagree with your dirty doings.

Instead of sticking a finger somewhere inappropriate, we can stick our whole hands.

Let me explain. On Monday night, the long weekend wound down with a barbecue at the home with the whole family. After dinner, as usual, the men went out to the porch to smoke cigarettes and pass gas, and it was a few minutes after this stage, as I was sitting in the kitchen, sipping the last of my Bookers when I heard a cracking sound and a loud grunt.

I looked over to see my brother Ed straining with all his might against the giant rack of cupboards that sit above the stove, which had somehow suddenly decided to fall off the wall. Most inappropriate behavior for a four hundred pound cupboard. I helped him hold it up and we awkwardly scrambled to empty the shelves enough that Ed could hold it up while I ran to get help.

My parents were watching tv and drifting off in the front hall, and I could clearly picture Ed, holding out for as long as need be, the boy with his finger in the dike.

I tried to be calm. “The cupboards above the stove are falling,” I said.

My mom looked up from the tv. “Like falling, falling?”

“Yes.”

The two of them immediately whirred from their seats like rocketing pheasants and we bustled back to the kitchen.

It took a while for us to empty the rest of the cupboards, turn off the requisite circuit breakers, unscrew the hood of the stove and lift the giant piece of furniture to the ground, but that’s not the image I want to leave you with. I want you to picture Ed, alone, straining to hold on. He might not have had his finger in a dike, but that cupboard must have weighed almost as much as Rosie O’Donnell, and that’s good enough for me.

In conclusion, this is why I don’t care if New Orleans drowns once and for all.

My first kiss: I kissed a girl and I liked it

2008-08-26T11:28:00.000-07:00

I was incredibly tame in high school. I never smoked, I never drank, I never went out. The first time I smoked a cigarette was after the last baseball game of my high school career, late in the spring of my senior year. I never drank until college. I never took a date to prom; in fact, I never went to a single dance or went on a single date. Or kissed a girl.

Well, I drink and smoke more now than I did then, and even though I've still never been to a dance or been on a date, I have kissed a girl. High five.

I made it through an entire semester without getting remotely close. Or remotely trying. To be honest, I wasn't that interested. I was more focused on drinking vast quantities of beer and then making it to class the next morning.

Along with my cousin Jake and his roommate Zach, I went out every night for the first two weeks of school. Every night, we'd go to the beer store for a thirty pack of Keystone Light, split it between the three of us, and then head out to whichever upperclassmen's house was having a party to see who could get the most phone numbers.

It was a pretty sweet setup. We got along with all the seniors, who had all the apartments and all the houses and threw all the parties. That meant, for the rest of the freshmen, being friends with us meant you could get in to the cool parties. So the numbers weren't hard to come by.

Seven nights a week for the first two weeks (and five or six nights a week after we slowed down a little), we'd each have our ten beers and then make a call or two, encouraging the company we'd selected for the night to make sure to "bring a friend! Bring three!"

The first few months were too busy a torrent of collecting phone numbers to leave any time to call them, to follow up, to close the sale. Forget the "wait three days" rule – girls were getting pushed six, seven days back just because the schedule was packed until then. We had to split up some nights to make sure we were going out with all of the right people often enough, make sure that the queue wasn't getting too long.

But of course, the number of numbers we had to go through was limited. On November 1st, for the first time, we did not go out on a weekend night. As December rolled around, our really intense partying nights were cut down to four or five nights a week. The numbers, although they were still coming, were dwindling. There were only so many girls at the school.

By the end of the semester, Zach had met his future wife, and they were getting serious. Jake had begun another dysfunctional relationship (he had a history). We were still the biggest carousers on the campus, but we weren't as rabidly devoted to the cause of partying as we had been at the start.

Early in the second semester was the annual out-door backwoods barbecue party that the school put on – probably the biggest party of the year. Everyone was there – pretty much everyone in the whole school. That meant that the three of us were going to be stretched to our limits. Add to this the fact that my foot had been run over by a drunk senior girl in a minivan two nights before and I was on crutches, and it was promising to be even busier.

In preparation for a long night when we might be too busy taking care of every Jilly and Jane in the wide forest to have a beer or two, we made sure to drink extra beforehand. Actually, the beer distributors were closely watched at the school parties too, and since we weren't twenty-one, that ought to have been a problem – and more reason to drink beforehand since you can't get your share at the party. Problem was, all the senior friends we had would insist on getting us beers and making us slam them behind the port-a-potties pretty much all night. But we didn't know this at that point. So we drank with gusto.

After fifteen to twenty beers, we drove over to catch the bus that would take us to the hayride that would take us to the party. Zach pulled up near the cul-de-sac where the buses were waiting, finished the last of a beer and threw up all over his own running board. We declared ourselves ready.

The next four hours were a blur. I actually ended up in a different hay-truck than Jake and Zach because I couldn't keep up on crutches, and I didn't see them again for the rest of the party.

After talking to them afterwards, I know it was just as chaotic for them as it was for me. One conversation, one group, one excuse, one promise to hang out after another – dashing back and forth between desperate friend-sets for five minute intervals by claiming to each that I was going to the bathroom.

For the duration of the party I felt like one of those airline pilots you read about who have two or three different families across the country or across the world that they only see for four months out of the year and still manage to convince them that "you are the ones I really care about, I really love, I really want to be with."

If you're good, you can make them believe it.

As the party wound down, and the hay-trucks took more and more revelers back to campus, I found myself talking to a girl who had been pushed to the “hang out with her once every two weeks” folder in the queue. Her name was Aida, she was from Mexico, and she was actually pretty cute and pretty cool, but her English wasn't great, so hanging out with her took a high level of concentration. Hence the two weeks folder status.

Ha! I just searched for her on Facebook and she's actually really cute! I didn't remember exactly what she looked like, to be honest. Just like I don't really remember what we were talking about, just that after about twenty minutes, she said, "can I kiss you?"

I said ok, so she did. And there we were, standing pretty much in the middle of an emptying party. I'm on crutches, I'm supposed to be playing it cool, keeping everyone happy, and instead I'm straight up mugging down, and I mean wet from my nose to the tip of my chin, teeth-clacking against each other mugging down.

And who better to tap my shoulder no more than twenty seconds into the affair than my older sister. Yes, honestly. She was a senior, I was a freshman, and this display was most extremely inappropriate.

So I said, "oh, hi. Nice to see you to. You're leaving? Oh, I think I'm going to stay. Oh, I'm coming with you? I'm too much of an embarrassment to stay and you can't even believe you're talking to me? Oh, ok. See you later, Aida."

My sister walked me to the hayrides most solemnly, while I attempted to agree with her decision and simultaneously make light of the dire awkwardness by reinventing the lyrics of Aretha Franklin's famous "Respect" to spell out "R-E-T-A-R-D-E-D!" which I sang the whole way. I meant it to apply to myself, but I don't know if she got that.

And that's the story of my first kiss. Romantic, or what?

She loves me; I love me not

2008-08-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

I spent most of the day yesterday lamenting my sad, sad history with women.

I’ve described before, you might remember, my basic MO when it comes to interaction with the opposite sex. Basically, the approach consists of two distinct steps:

Step 1: Get her to like you. And I mean really, really like you. There are a variety of tricks to this, including, but not limited to:

Hinting vaguely at serious commitment.

Using her name whenever possible.

Telling her friends that you like her but never telling her.

Winking knowingly across the table/room during parties.

Picking her for your beer pong team even though she probably sucks.

Calling her right after she leaves a party to tell her you miss her already and then running out the door and across the lawn to kiss her romantically in front of everyone.

Step 2: Nothing. This is basically as simple as it sounds. Once she really, really likes you, you just do nothing. You don’t ignore her – that’s not what I mean. You keep talking to her, but just refuse to move the relationship forward. When she questions you on this, you ask “what relationship?” She stammers for a minute and then says… “you know, us.”

After a moment of furrowed-brow stare, you make as if it just dawned on you and go “ohhhh, ok. I didn’t know what… haha, yeah.” Then you shake your head. “So, can I get you another drink?”

This really drives the girls crazy. First it drives them crazy like “oh, she’s going crazy for you!” crazy. They think you’re mysterious, they want to know more about you, they want to crack your hard exterior, they’re convinced they understand you better than anyone else, etc.

Then, after a while, it drives them crazy like angry, pissed off “you’re driving me crazy!” crazy. They want commitment, or at least to know what the hell is going on and is this a relationship, or what the hell is it? And you’re just dodging the questions, dancing along the verbal tightrope like an old pro, and she gets tired of it. At this stage she usually threatens to go after other guys. You have this conversation:

Her: “If you’re not even going to tell me what you’re thinking, then maybe we shouldn’t be exclusive, then!”

You: “I didn’t know we were exclusive.”

Her: “Very funny. You’re impossible.”

More often than not, she’ll get drunk one night and convince herself that she deserves better. She’ll find some male shoulder to cry on and probably end up hooking up with him. Then she’s better for a week or so. She’s independent, she’s happier, she looks great. Then she gets drunk again and this time, feels incredibly guilty. She comes back to you doe-eyed, apologizing with tears glistening on her mascara and swearing “I know we can make this work,” only to deflate like a blow up doll when you tell her you don’t really care that she scored with that dude. Except more emotionally than a blow up doll.

At this point, it drives her crazy like literally “holy balls, you’re batshit insane!” crazy. Her reactions can range from trying to hook up with your friends to accusing you of rape to quitting her job and moving to Poughkeepsie.

The problem is, the point is, that approach doesn’t really work. I know what you’re thinking – come on, that’s GOT to work! It’s pure gold! But you’re wrong, it doesn’t.

It makes you laugh, and it makes you feel like a powerful person when you tell your friends the story and laugh, but after a few years of breaking down girls emotionally so that they’ll need you - only to see them break down so far and so hard that they’re not even fun to hang out with any more, you start to feel like a lonely husk of a man.

But just before you get to that absolute low, that terrible feeling of self-loathing, while you’re still, just barely, in normal mode, you hit a marvelously strange intermediate point, a point at which you will, to your later disbelief, mail a $200 bouquet of roses to a girl with a note that says, simply, “whatever.”

And then, before you can really begin to appreciate what is clearly a new brand of insanity, you find a website on which you can watch every single episode of Arrested Development for free, and you never find out what that next stage would have been. Not yet, anyway.

Twenty-somethings suck

2008-08-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

I think I’m going to write a book with this title; there’s certainly enough to say. But before I even begin to enumerate the ways in which twenty-somethings suck, perhaps it’s best for us to discuss just what is a twenty-something.

A twenty-something is someone who refers to himself or herself as “twenty-something” or “a twenty-something.” Remember these terms, as they will be important in our conversation. Also remember that they suck. If you are a twenty-something, remember that you suck.

First of all, “twenty-something?” I get pissed when people in their thirties and forties refer to themselves as thirty-something or forty-something. I just think “why?” I’m twenty-two. Next year I will be twenty-three. In fifteen years I will be thirty-seven. Why are you afraid of your age?

Most people who call themselves “forty-something” are at least forty-eight anyway. The guys are balding and struggling with impotence, and the women’s biological clock clicked to a desperate zero nigh on a decade ago. That’s your company when you refer to yourself as twenty-something. Is that the image you’re looking for?

And that’s people in their thirties and forties! You’re in your twenties, for fuck’s sake. You’re not old. You might be a fucking loser, sure. But it’s not because you’re old, it’s because you’re just a loser.

Here’s the bottom line: anyone who’s going to make automatic negative judgments about you based on your exact age is a douchebag. So why do you care what they think? The rest of us are just going to say, “oh, 25. ok. Oh, 29. ok.”

When you refer to yourself as “twenty-something,” what you are saying is that you don’t think your age is cool. You think people who are your age suck.

The problem is, if you think that anyone any age automatically sucks, then you automatically suck. See how that works? Whereas if you just bit the fucking bullet and said, “yeah, I’m 28; yeah, I’m 43,” then who gives a shit? So you’re 28.

It’s just a number, people. And when you try to control it by referring to yourself as a “twenty-something,” all you’re doing is showing everyone around you that your age controls you – that you fear the power of the number. You, who fancy yourself clever and educated, are controlled by a fucking numeral. How sad is that? You suck, that’s how sad it is.

The real question is this: do you consider yourself a disappointment for the age you’re at?

And whichever way you answer, you’re probably right.

So suck it up, stop being a little bitch and grow a pair. You’re 28 after all, right dipshit?

It runs in the family, apparently

2008-08-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

So yeah, my family's really close - both my immediate family and my extended family.

But are we too close? Too loyal to each other? Too caught up in a feeling that blood runs thicker than water?

You tell me. After my post earlier today, I got an email from my cousin Jake. He told me that he'd had similar dreams in the past: a family member committing unspeakably horrible evil, and then, when push comes to shove, we just go along with it. And not only that, we worry about their leaving evidence behind. We do everything we can to help them get away.

We do our best to get around the situation by pretending like it never happened, like we can just sweep it under the rug.

None of our family members is a murderer, that I know of. But I still found it pretty odd that we'd had such similar dreams, and so did Jake. Here's his.

I had a test to think about. First one of the new year, I hate it when christmas break ends and you have to go back to school. Never a worse time in a midwest child's life that between about January 3rd and February 28th. Long, dark, cold winter mornings when you have to wake up at what seems like 4am to go to school. That was today. My dad was taking us to school that day on his way to work. It's overcast outside plus it's early and still pretty dark. And cold, really cold.

I'm sitting with Maggie in the back seat while my Dad checks a message on his phone. We know to be quiet, not as if we would have anything to say this early on, but still we knew. It hadn't been thirty seconds since we had left our driveway, hadn't seen any other cars yet cause it's early and our road isn't very busy anyway. I was zoning out watching the trees go by, drifting in and out of a dreamy haze huddled inside my big winter coat. I'm not sure if it was the jarring shock of a frigid metal zipper touching my cheek or the sound of the engine coming to life as my dad finished his call that brought me back, but either way I was aware again. Then something bright caught my attention up ahead- it was almost blocked by the bend in the road at first but it quickly came into view. As we neared the curve in the road I heard the hum of the engine grow rapidly louder. Then the car straighted out instead of taking on the gradual turn in the road. I see him. Does my dad? He's right fucking there. Wham! nailed him.

He barely even turned around before we smacked into him. I couldn't even see his face yet, just his ear and nose as he was beginning to turn and face us. He didn't stand a chance cause he never got to react. No jumping up to roll over the hood, just a slight turn in time to probably know he was fucked. We hit him and he went down. I followed the path his body took with my eyes as we passed over what I now presumed was a mangled corpse. I swear I heard crunching under my feet as the front passenger tire came back to the ground and the rear passenger tire lifted up over his body. What an odd feeling it is to be sitting one moment in your seat and then the next to be sitting in that same seat only a foot or so higher up and knowing full well that that increase in altitude is due solely to a human being's body being crunched under the tire of the three thousand pound car you're in.

Somehow I knew it wasn't a mistake. The car didn't slow before impact, it revved and sped up. The front bumper never dipped, maybe if it had he would have stood a chance over flipping up toward the windshield, but not this poor bastard. He went down under. Wait. That fucking song. It was on the radio right then. What a coincidence I thought. That's funny, this song is so catchy. The car was stopped. It had been for a while. Maybe an hour or two, or three seconds, I don't know, but it was long enough for my dad to be out of his seat. His door was shut. His coffee hadn't spilt. Good thing he brought that one cup with the safety top. The steam escaping the small opening in the lid was fogging up the windshield. I leaned forward to hit the defrost button and turn on the heat. Man was it cold. Wait a second. "Maggie, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just cold."

I wonder if that guy was okay. When I got out of the car my dad was stuffing his body in the trunk. He looked at me and casually mentioned that he was dead. "Oh, okay. What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna put him in the dumpster, it's garbage day today."

I nodded and followed the trail of blood back to where we hit him. I started scooping fresh white snow on top of the blood stains. My dad told me to hurry up or we'd be late for school. So I did. I covered up all the blood spots and erased my dad's tracks by kicking snow over them. I jumped back into my seat and shut the door.

"Sure is cold out there huh Jake?"

"Yup."

Yeah, I don't know. Analyze that.

I don't know why I act differently in dreams

2008-08-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

I had the scariest fucking dream last night. It was the first time in about ten years that I actually lay awake for a while, afraid to get out of bed and get myself a glass of water.

I was out at an Italian restaurant with my younger brother Ed. It had a really Mediterranean feel to it, with arched doorways, tan stucco walls and an open, airy dining room.

As my brother was walking to the bathroom, he got the evil eye and a shoulder from some heavyset guy that we’d met the day before, a friend of two friends of ours – they were at the restaurant too. At least, I assume that’s what happened, I didn’t really see. But Ed wasn’t coming right back from the bathroom, so after about ten minutes, I went in to see what was up.

He was standing there by the sinks, not doing anything, just standing. And then I realized the heavyset guy had followed me into the bathroom. I could see that he and Ed had business.

"I’ll wait out in the back," I said, and started for the door. I didn’t offer to help; I knew he didn’t need help. Before I even reached for the handle, Ed had grabbed the big guy, lifted him bodily off his feet and slammed his face down into the sink with tremendous force. The body fell to the ground limp. He was dead for sure.

Oh shit, I thought. Oh shit. We’ve got to get out of here.

Next thing I knew, we were running along a path behind the restaurant towards a deck high on a bluff that overlooked the lake and the wide beach, and Ed was dragging the guy’s body behind him. Fifty feet behind were our two friends, a guy and a girl, calling to us and wondering what the hell was going on.

I was past the deck and down ten stairs or so when they caught up to Ed right at the top of the stairs. "We’ve got to go, we’ve got to go! People will be coming!" I called to Ed.

But he wasn’t listening. He was crouched with the body, quiet, rocking back and forth. And then he started talking to our friends. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but they looked like they were trying to comfort him. Soon all three were sitting down together, embracing and crying. And then Ed had them hug the dead man, bracing the body up so the two could hold hands behind his back while they held each other close in front.

I was getting more and more nervous, jumpy. We really needed to go. Right down the stairs, some hundred and fifty feet, I could see the beach where we were supposed to meet the rest of the family for the afternoon.

But I couldn’t call out, I was mesmerized by the three people and the corpse at the top of the stairs. Ed seemed to be directing them through a series of strange arm movements and gestures. They would clasp each other’s hands, then release, twist arms around and clasp again.

And then Ed pushed them back, with their arms caught behind the dead man’s back, stepped onto his chest and started the chainsaw. The calm trance-like expression fell from their faces and they squirmed to try to free themselves from the weight of the dead body, but they were hopelessly stuck.

Then Ed lowered the saw and started cutting off the dead man’s head. Immediately, in a second, they were covered in the warm spray of blood and they screamed and tried to wipe the blood away from their faces, out of their mouths.

The cutting was done quickly, and Ed bent to pick up the severed head. I looked away, to the side down the bluff, only to see it bounce and roll past me, down toward the beach.

Back up to the deck – Ed held a dull black machine pistol. He shot the nearer of the red squirming figures, the guy, in the head, paused and then shot him again in the head. Then he turned to swing the gun to the girl.

There was a click. He was out of ammo. The girl, who didn’t look like a person any more, struggled anew with desperate hope of escape, but Ed just stepped back so that the thrashing arm and legs didn’t get blood on his pants. He pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and threw the empty case off the bluff. I thought for a moment how careless he was being with the evidence.

Then he slid the new magazine into the pistol grip and jacked a round into the chamber. "Don’t try this at home," he said with a smile, and then shot her in the face. Her head snapped back against the wood with a force that would have left a bruise, but instead there was just a wet thunk, and then her head rolled to the side. There was blood everywhere.

As we ran down the stairs toward the beach, Ed seemed to be throwing one thing after another over the railings out onto the bluff. I couldn’t see what, I just encouraged him, "get rid of it, get rid of it."

We hit the sand and I just ran. I ran toward the water as fast as I could, but it just kept getting farther away. My lungs were burning and my legs were heavy and still I ran and still I got no closer. Finally, I threw myself down under a log of driftwood and lay there clenching my eyes closed to keep out the sand that blasted up under my breath.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that the family was already there, the kids playing in the sand up nearer to the bluff. And thirty feet from them I saw the dead man’s head lying in the sand, eyes open. Right away I ran to get it, to hide it, to take it away.

"He got rid of it, he got rid of it," I was repeating to myself, only it came out as a whining moan, "he got rid of it, he got rid of it."

Bridget, my niece, heard me coming when I was fifty feet away, squinching across the sand, and looked to see where I was running. She saw it, and stood up right away. Then she started walking towards it. The face was towards her, the mouth slightly open, the eyes rolled back.

"What is that?" she said, and the alarm was clear in her voice. And then she started sobbing, "is that a hea- a head?"

"Bridget!" I yelled, and reached out across the blankets. I opened my eyes in the dark and I was in bed.

Advance screening

2008-08-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

I wrote a longer piece today (that's what she said! -no, "wrote," not "rode"). It's a guest post scheduled to run on Citizen of the Month on Friday. But seriously, it's kinda long. So I figured I'd put up some of it now. And here's how the rules go: as soon as five people say "where's the next part?" or "put the next part up!" I'll put the next part up. There are four parts total, I guess, and I definitely will save at least the fourth and final part for Friday on Citizen of the Month... But for anyone who wants to, here's a special preview. Five people say they want more, we do more. Clear on the rules? OK. Here we go.

My First Day as the Chicago Cubs New Mascot to Attract More Gay Men to the Park – the Chicago Red Hot

It was one of those times in a young, impetuous man’s life when he mortgages the love of his family for the pursuit of an ignoble passion.

Philosophically, technically, I believe in the dominion of the intellect over the will and the will over the passions. If you ask me the order, that’s how I’ll answer: intellect over will, will over passions – that is, your passions impel you, but your will controls your submission to those passions; and your intellect determines the resolution of the will.

I’ve learned that from an early age, from 18 years of Catholic School. Yes, that’s right, eighteen years. But also, I believe in that pecking order of the personality (intellect, will, passions – repeat it like a mantra). It makes sense to me – that it should be true.

As a matter of course, as a matter of empirical reality, I know that sometimes things don’t work that way. I know this because I have an intensely addictive personality. I am addicted to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling. The only reason I’m not hooked on more serious drugs is because, thank God, I’ve never tried them. But don’t worry – addiction to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling is quite enough.

People have told me that a lesser man would have broken by now. I know that being a lesser man is the only thing that’s kept me sane. The reason I haven’t broken is because I bend. And it feels so good when I bend, stretch like a sapling under strong weight, and it hurts so bad when I snap back upright. The weight of addiction has bent me like an old man’s years bend him.

When I was younger, I wondered why old men didn’t just stand up! I wanted to straighten them out myself, flatten them on a table – lay them on their backs and push against pelvis and clavicle until they unfolded under my hands like a road map. I imagined that then they would breathe, freely, deeply, for the first time since their first Social Security check slipped through the mail slot in 1981.

Now I know it doesn’t work that way. Which is why I don’t try to unkink my own hunched back, just manage it; just make sure my shoulders aren’t banging on my knees, my forehead between my calves. Manage the bend, that’s my motto. Control my handicap.

It was gambling that got me into this mess, smoking and drinking that had made it worse. God knows where the sex would take me.

My First Day as the Chicago Cubs New Mascot to Attract More Gay Men to the Park – the Chicago Red Hot

2008-08-05T11:46:00.000-07:00

Well, it's already been posted at Citizen of the Month, but here's the rest anyway.

It was one of those times in a young, impetuous man’s life when he mortgages the love of his family for the pursuit of an ignoble passion.

Philosophically, technically, I believe in the dominion of the intellect over the will and the will over the passions. If you ask me the order, that’s how I’ll answer: intellect over will, will over passions – that is, your passions impel you, but your will controls your submission to those passions; and your intellect determines the resolution of the will.

I’ve learned that from an early age, from 18 years of Catholic School. Yes, that’s right, eighteen years. But also, I believe in that pecking order of the personality (intellect, will, passions – repeat it like a mantra). It makes sense to me – that it should be true.

As a matter of course, as a matter of empirical reality, I know that sometimes things don’t work that way. I know this because I have an intensely addictive personality. I am addicted to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling. The only reason I’m not hooked on more serious drugs is because, thank God, I’ve never tried them. But don’t worry – addiction to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling is quite enough.

People have told me that a lesser man would have broken by now. I know that being a lesser man is the only thing that’s kept me sane. The reason I haven’t broken is because I bend. And it feels so good when I bend, stretch like a sapling under strong weight, and it hurts so bad when I snap back upright. The weight of addiction has bent me like an old man’s years bend him.

When I was younger, I wondered why old men didn’t just stand up! I wanted to straighten them out myself, flatten them on a table – lay them on their backs and push against pelvis and clavicle until they unfolded under my hands like a road map. I imagined that then they would breathe, freely, deeply, for the first time since their first Social Security check slipped through the mail slot in 1981.

Now I know it doesn’t work that way. Which is why I don’t try to unkink my own hunched back, just manage it; just make sure my shoulders aren’t banging on my knees, my forehead between my calves. Manage the bend, that’s my motto. Control my handicap.

It was gambling that got me into this mess, smoking and drinking that had made it worse. God knows where the sex would take me.

------

“Do you think you could make it onto the field during a Cubs game – for more than a full minute?” my friend Eddie had asked me five weeks before, while we were – wait for it – drinking. Of course I could. I knew I could. In the warm friendly haze of a dozen beers, I was certain.

I loved that haze; it made anything possible. It meant she loved you, your life was on track, your friends were the best in the world and you were strong, smart, good-looking. I’d written a poem a few years before

When the sun has gone down and the moon takes its place
And the revelers rise to give darkness new grace,
When the harshness of daylight has dwindled to night
And all beauty increases, by softness of sight,
Then the friends are more friendly, and enemies too,
Which is more than the unreserved drinking can do,
For there’s magic about, and it’s all through the air,
And as long as you’re with me, I long to be there.

That feeling. That fucking feeling was what made me take the bet – a thousand dollar bet, which was about nine hundred and fifty dollars more than I could afford to lose. That made me take the bet. That, and my certified addiction to gambling.

Every day I would think about calling Eddie, calling it off – knowing he wouldn’t mind that much. I’d pay him twenty bucks, he’d make fun of me, we’d be done with it.

And then every night, I’d drink until that feeling got me again, until I was past the point of talking myself into it. “I played baseball in college for four years,” I’d say. “Of course I can do it. I’m an athlete. Hell, I could do five minutes, let alone one.”

That was how my first attempt happened: July 8th, 2008 – the first month of the second half of the year: new beginnings. And I was celebrating by hefting my ass over the low fence to the left of the Cubs home dugout in the middle of the fourth inning. New beginnings. If you were watching the game, that’s why the commercial break took an extra thirty seconds or so.

It all started off well enough: a quick sprint and I was across the foul line, moving into shallow left field. Edwin Encarnacion, the Cincinnati Reds third baseman, made a half-hearted grab for me, but I was past him.

And then I ran out of gas. The two years of steady smoking since I’d last run regularly had an unbelievable effect. I swear I hadn’t gone more than fifty yards when I was sucking wind, slowing down, looking over my shoulder for the inevitable security. I dodged once, turned to my right and was immediately tackled and smothered. And I was so gassed I was almost relieved. Total time on the field: forty seconds.

Needless to say, the blue-coated security and ubiquitous ushers were on the lookout for my face the next few home series. Three times in the next two weeks, I was nabbed before even setting foot on the playing surface and then, once last week, I was denied entrance to the stadium. Denied entrance to the Friendly Confines that I know and love so well. I needed a new plan.

------

When I saw the flyer advertising for “specialty mascots,” I had a glimmer of hope. When I called in and heard that there was still one position unfilled, that hope swelled inside me. And when I arrived to interview to find that somehow, no one there recognized me as the would-be trespasser, that hope filled my heart and overflowed. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get the spot. I barely listened as they described the job, the position, my duties. I signed the waivers, the contract with a smile on my face. And last Sunday, July 27th, I reported for duty.

The game was at 6:00; I was there by three, knocking on the “Personnel Admitted” door right next to Gate 14. A girl about my age with a clipboard and headphones swung the door open. “Are you the red hot?” she said.

I was confused. The red hot? Was she coming on to me? What?

“No, you’re the red hot,” I said, and then added, reading from her nametag, “Amy.”

She shook her head but I could see the smile at the corners of her mouth. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, spinning me in front of her down the hallway. I was smiling to myself in congratulations of my smoothness halfway down the walk when I remembered, “Red Hot! Fuck! That’s my job! Ohhh yeahhh.” I turned to say something, but she was talking on the headset, “I left it right there… Ok, I’ll be up in a second. Yeah, he’s here.” She turned to me, swinging me by my wrist to a door in the right wall, and with a hand over her mouthpiece, whispered, “I’ll help you with your costume. Strip.”

And then she walked away down the hall. I watched her go, her white sneakers susurrating on the cement. Not a bad-looking girl. Strip, huh? Ok, Amy, you got it.

I pushed my way into the cement room, decorated with green lockers on walls to the left and right. An old, and by the looks of it, unused vending machine stood at the far end of the room, some thirty feet from me, and on the floor in the middle of the room lay what looked like a red kayak with rounded bottom and edges, so rounded that it was basically cylindrical.

I took my shoes off, and my shirt, and then I stopped. Couldn’t mascots wear clothes under the costumes? Didn’t they all? Was it just too hot this time of year? I was paused with my belt halfway undone when I heard the door rasp open behind me. Amy walked into the room, closed the door carefully behind her and took off the headset, setting it on top of the first locker.

She shook out her hair with her fingers as she walked past me, blowing out a sigh. I turned, my fingers still on my belt, to see her hefting the kayak-thing and turning back to me. “Pants off,” she said, and then smiled, a full, not-just-corners-of-her-mouth smile. “Part of the job.”

I had no idea where this was going, not a clue in hell, but I was liking it so far. I kicked out of my socks and then slid out of my jeans.

“Whoah, does the smell in the locker room turn you on or what?” she said. I glanced down. “Must be something,” I said. She dragged the red thing over to where I stood, flipped it over to I could see another hole like the one on the top, except instead of being in the middle, like a kayak, this one was at one end.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me the end. It was round, and wide, about two and a half feet wide, no narrower at the end than the middle, with a little clip on the very tip, a small steel loop. I took this in quickly in the half-second before she reached over and pulled my boxers down to my ankles.

I passed off the “mmm” sound that escaped me as an “mmm-hmmm!” clearing my throat. This was weird. Amy looked up at me, a confused expression on her face. There was much to be confused about. “Aren’t you gay?” she said.

I looked down, narrowed my eyes, and tried to shrug, which was difficult with the giant red thing in my hands. “No,” I finally said, “I’m not.”

Amy stood up and looked at me. Then at her watch. Then she reached over my shoulder and flicked the power switch on her headset to ‘off.’

She was very energetic.

------

I was sure we were going to be late. I really didn’t want to be late. It must have been getting close to time when she told me to climb inside the red thing. “Are you nuts?” I said, but she was busy tucking in her shirt. “Hurry up!” she said. Ok, the dominatrix thing. Fine. I wasn’t into it, but I owed her, I figured. I started to climb headfirst into the top hole hear the end. It was slow going, my legs waggling in empty air. And then she smacked me, hard, right on my bare ass. I jerked and banged my head on the inside of the red plastic, then crawled out.

She was giggling, but obviously still in a hurry. “Oh, shit,” she was saying, “I left a huge welt on your ass.” Why would she worry about that? Ten minutes ago, she was scratching up my back like a damn leopard. I turned once and a half around, craning to try to see the welt, like a dog chasing its tail. She giggled again and pushed me back to the red thing. “Go!” she said, “feet first.”

“What?”

“Feet first!” she said.

“…” I said.

Amy shook her head. “Did you even read the job description?” she said. She lifted my feet in the end hole and scooched me down farther. Soon my ass was in the tube. She kept pushing, telling me to “scoot!” until I was completely inside the red thing, staring out the opening at the cement ceiling where a bare light-bulb hung. I could feel the cool of the cement floor against my ass through the other hole, and slowly, gradually, the words from my job meeting started coming back to me.

Amy was at the door, opening it, and I could hear more people coming in. Three or four, maybe. There was a shuffle of feet and a clink of steel at the clip on each end of my red sarcophagus, and then I was hefted into the air. I could feel the rush of air across my backside.

As I was hefted out of the tunnel, squinting in the bright sunlight and hearing someone reminding me to “smile!” I remembered everything, and I realized why Amy had been so nervous about the bright hand-print she left on my ass.

I was the Chicago Red Hot. My job? To attract gay men to the park. My MO? To be trussed up like a giant sausage on a rotisserie next to the visitors bullpen, and rotate for nine long innings, cooking evenly in the sun and offering the crowd alternating views of my smiling face and my bare white ass. With Amy’s handprint gleaming on it.

I won the bet. Damn right I did. And I also boosted gay attendance in a big way. Already the section just up the line from the bullpen is known as “Queer Corner.”

But when my family found out, my conservative, traditional Catholic family, it wasn’t an easy thing for them to swallow. It was one of those times in a young, impetuous man’s life when he mortgages the love of his family for the pursuit of an ignoble passion.

Intellect, will, passions – I can say it like a mantra. But sometimes, when you live in a world as addictive as this one, an experience can turn everything on its head… or in my case, on its ass.

Or at least get run over by a bus

2008-07-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

a sestina, by me

I certainly didn’t expect to
Have to write a sestina when
I had this great idea in the first
Place. They’re super complicated, plus I
Am not that good at this to begin with.
But I’ll give it a shot.

That’s what I thought: a shot
In the dark is the only way anyone’s going to
Come up with
Sestina as their poem of choice when
They leave their comment. I
Should have thought this over first.

Most people just made fun of me. The first
Few were hacks taking their shot –
Which is fine – that’s what I
Expected to
Happen. But that was when
I didn’t know what I was dealing with.

Out of nowhere, with
Malice like Cain’s first
Murder, when
He shot
His brother to
Get back at him, I

Was blindsided. I
Was nailed with
No mercy by Falwless, pinned to
My own promises. First
I did a shot
Of whiskey, and when

I had one, I wanted another, and when
I had ten, I
Decided to not even give it a shot.
It was a lucky stab anyway, and I didn’t deserve to be stuck with
Punishment for that. But that was only at first.
I knew I couldn’t bring myself to

Go back on my word just to make things easier. When
Someone gets me first, I
Turn the other cheek. But when I do, I’m secretly praying that she’ll get shot.

2008-07-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

I was in Michigan last week, nine days of lying on the beach, eating grilled meat, playing golf and beach volleyball and drinking to my heart’s content, or maybe a little past that point. I actually got back from vacation exhausted, like I needed a few ten hour workdays to really wind down and relax.

I guess I’m still like a kid in that sense – for me, vacation is like recess for me. I get out of where I’m trapped all day every day working, and for a specific, limited amount of time, I get to do whatever I want as long as I don’t throw up or make anyone cry. And let me ask you this: do you see a lot of first graders lying around the blacktop with a kickball under their heads, or flipping through Calvin and Hobbes while they lounge on the playground’s bouncy bridge like it’s a hammock? No, you don’t.

So I went and I ran around and I got sunburned and cut my feet running through the woods shoeless playing Foxes and Hounds, and bruised and abused myself so that I was physically sore for the whole second half of the week. That’s just how I roll.

And I ate and drank too much, because the food – my goodness, the food. With as many family cooks up there as we had, the food was abundant and delicious. The dinner rundown:

Saturday: Grilled brats, burgers and hot dogs, with whatever accoutrements
Sunday: Grilled beef tenderloin
Monday: Barbecued pulled-pork sandwiches
Tuesday: Lasagna
Wednesday: Beer-butt chicken and cheesy cornbread
Thursday: Shrimp, mussels, corn, chorizo sausages
Friday: Grilled whitefish with cherry salsa
Saturday: Grilled pork loin

Oh, you could almost hear us all getting fatter.

On Sunday, before we left, my brother and I were sitting in the car when he decided that it would be fun, if you had a dog, to name the dog a crude or suggestive word. Groper, Fuckstick, Anus, Herpes, Buttplug, Merkin, Phallus the Fister and Whore are a few possibilities.

And now I’m back, sitting at work, and it seems somehow fitting that the list of names keeps running through my mind. Over and over and over again.

Sipping on

2008-07-18T08:16:00.000-07:00

I have two things to say. Firstly: I don’t remember what the first thing was. Secondably, I am a little bit drunk.

As I have been know to say before, someone put gin in my grapefruit juice. I don’t know how this happens (I do), but every three weeks or so, my morning wake-me-up has alcohol in it. Why? How? Who knows? (I do.)

I actually never drink grapefruit juice, because I don’t like it. It’s bitter and pink, like a grandparent who’s moved to Florida, and we all know no one likes old folks. Or grapefruit juice. And that’s the point.

This would be a good time to point out that the first time I tried to spell “gin,” I wrote “finger.” I guess that means I’m a fast typer. A fast, bad typer. Fast, bad and drunk. I think that should be the title of my autobiography.

Oh, I think the first thing (back to the first sentence, ignoranuses), was something about how I said Brandy hated to swear and then she said the “fuck-word” in a comment (for shame, Brandy!) and also about how allthewine got mad and jealous that I wrote a post about Brandy (I did?) and not her (I didn’t). Meanwhile, Lil is ignoring me, despite the alleged fact that she had a crush on me once (never gonna forget that one), except for very gracious responses to my corrections of her sports-related posts, which I reply to drunk. That’s kind of an inside joke, huh.

Let me explain. Actually, never mind. Suffice it to say that the ladies seated around me are laughing at me right now and I think they have a pool going as to whether I will cough or burp next. I’m guessing cough.

Yes! I was right. Even though I sorta fake-coughed it, and burped a little at the end. Aaaaand I just saw money changing hands. I guess I was right – they are literally betting on my physical condition. I don’t know whether to be flattered or depressed. I guess, like Jane Austen says, “when in doubt, be flattered.”

Ok, she just said “oh! Sounds like it’s breaking up though.” Talking about my chest-phlegm. Why are these people in the office? Wait, why am I in the office? I ought to be on the beach, drinking beers and trying to hook up with someone.

Waaaaait a minute! I remember what the first thing was. (first and fourth paragraphs, retard.) It was about how a bunch of people read and commented on my last post. What? Why? I felt like I was at a grungy club, just hanging out with the people I knew, then all of a sudden people start grinding up on you from every side, and at first you think “gypsies! Whoah, is my wallet safe?” and then you think “what if I was getting interrogated and the police guy said ‘where on the doll did you touch her’ and I would just have to rub the doll all over like I was giving the poor thing a full-body massage,” and then you think “oh this is bad,” and then “hey, this ain’t bad!” But eventually you realize it’s neither good nor bad. It’s just a bunch of people rubbing up against your blog.

See what I did there?

Yeah, me neither.

Credit to rs27 for the style of this post (is he just drunk all the time? is that his little indian secret?) and to Chris because he just kicks ass and I don't know how else to mix him in - I always make friends when I'm drunk, what can I say?

I'm off to Michigan for a week, so you peeps take care. I'll see you in August.

When people stop being polite and start being "get me Robitussin"

2008-07-16T09:26:00.000-07:00

People who know how to write well say, “write what you know.” But that can be difficult for people like me who don’t know very much, and don’t have very interesting lives. I’m kidding, of course. Nothing is difficult for me.

And because nothing is difficult, I can write about what I know, or I can just make up stories. Did you know I make up a bunch of the stories on here? It’s true. Like the one about the naked chick on the beach, and the Supreme Court justices running down the street with guns, and the awkward conversation with my coworker, and really hating BlogHer, and that one about the guy getting arrested, and about wearing silk underpants.

I hope that doesn’t bother you. No, let me rephrase: that shouldn’t really bother you, should it? It’s not like we’re best friends and I lied to you. Sure, a story might not have happened, but it could have.

That’s one reason I didn’t get the big flap over the guy James Frey who wrote the book and called it a memoir, but then it turned out he changed a bunch of details, and he was on Oprah and then everyone hated him for it… why? They didn’t know him – so who cares if the story really happened or if it’s just a story. If it’s a good story, it’s a good story. That’s what I say.

If this really bothers you, then whatever, maybe this is actually the post that’s made up. Convince yourself of that. Or don’t.

Oh hey, I have a question. How do people set it up so that only a little bit of their blog posts show up in Google Reader… because then people have to click through to their blog and so you can see who’s reading, right? Mine was never set up like that, so I could never tell, which is why I didn’t find out until today that Brandy has me in her reader. She came over because of an overwhelming impulse to comment on my highly intellectual BlogHer post, and I was all, “heck yeah, Brandy’s got me in her Reader, what up now, bitches?” But then I got nervous because I have the feeling she doesn’t like bad language, and sometimes I use bad language, especially if I am really worked up or bored. Sorry about that, Brandy. I shouldn’t have said “what up now, bitches?” a little bit ago. Also, I shouldn’t have repeated it just now.

There’s something of a ruckus going on across the internet right now about something I wrote about gay dudes for my work. I can’t really get too specific, unless I just come ahead and disanonymousize, which I was thinking of doing anyway (thoughts?), but suffice it to say that there’s kind of an uproar about whether I am a homophobic bigot.

Well, that’s hogwash. I have tons of gay friends. Well, that’s not really true. But I think I saw a gay person once! Plus, I call my friends gay, you know, if they’re being gay. I’m not coming out like I planned. Wait, I wasn’t planning to come out – shoot, that just made it way worse. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I should stop now.

The final thing I have to say is this: I have a cold, a bad cold. It’s ninety-five degrees and I have the worst cold I’ve had all year. This is (look away, Brandy!) bullshit. But anyway (you can look back, Brandy), I blame the complete incoherence of this post on my cold... and on the fact that, like I said, when you write what you know, it’s just kind of boring. The end.

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. The second greatest was convincing you that you're interesting.

2008-07-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

So. Oh my gosh. Have you guys heard? BlogHer is coming up! Zomg! Only like a week, or like, two weeks or something!

You’ve heard about it, right? San Francisco, tons of FAAAAB female bloggers from all over the country! And international, too! Everyone’s posting on their blogs about it, about how fun it’s going to be, about how many awesome shoes are going to be worn, and ohmigoodness, we are going to have a cocktail. Maybe even three! Then we will take pictures of ourselves with our cocktails! Can you believe it?! Pictures!

Wait. Just wait. Stop, take a deep breath.

You forgot about the part where I don’t give a shit. Maybe that should be your next post on the topic: “BlogHer is coming up, but I’m not going to talk about it because Fort Knocks does not give a shit, at all. Not even a little bit.”

Because, let’s face it, if I don’t find your blog entertaining, that’s probably because it sucks. If I don’t find a topic interesting, that’s probably because it’s fucking boring.

It’s not that I’m calling you a boring person… just your mind. Your mind and your ideas and what you like to talk about. Pretty fucking boring. But not you personally. You are a unique snowflake.

One time one of my friends asked me to proofread his paper in high school. So I did. And you know what? It was boring, and I told him so. But he didn’t believe me. He kept the story. And one week later, he got struck by lightning and died.

So what I’m saying is, if you keep yammering about BlogHer and how fun it’s going to be to meet someone who you feel like omg you already know, you’re probably going to die.

So don’t say you weren’t warned. Don’t come spooking about in ghost form after the terrible earthquake that destroyed the convention center in San Francisco, saying “oooooo if only I’d knoooowwwwnnnn.”

Here’s a list of topics and activities that would be more interesting than posts about BlogHer:

1. Margarine vs. butter
2. What’s the longest word you’ve ever spelled with alphabet soup?
3. Watching your toenails grow
4. Counting the number of times you can count to one
5. Waiting for a bus
6. Watching Twelve Angry Men on mute in slow motion
7. Blowing your nose
8. Beating a dead horse
9. Literally
10. Blowing a dead horse
11. Trying to fit two golf balls in your mouth
12. Choking on one of them
13. Betting on the exact date of the Apocalypse
14. Farting in a wetsuit
15. Saying “hamburger” over and over until it sounds weird
16. Learning to speak klingon
17. Stretching a rubber band, then letting it unstretch
18. Growing a mullet
19. Saying “hamburger” in klingon over and over until it sounds weird
20. Writing this boring, boring list

If you’ve got anything to say, I’d love to hear it. No, of course I’m not serious.

Nude beach conversations

2008-07-11T09:43:00.000-07:00

There’s a beach on the California coast, somewhere in the Central Valley, I think? Does that even make sense? I don’t know, I was out there for a week-long trip and didn’t do any of the navigating, so I never really knew where we were. Plus I was drinking. But the exact location doesn’t really matter for the story.

We were at this beach. In California. And man, let me tell you, it was gorgeous. I grew up with Lake Michigan beaches, and as impressive as those are, they’re not quite as big as beaches on the ocean. People who first see our beach in Michigan are always surprised at how big it is, at the fact that you can’t see across the lake, that the sand is so much finer than ocean sand, that the waves are actually big – but still, nothing like a Pacific Ocean beach.

They’re just so much bigger. The waves break over a long gradual slope of a hundred feet instead of twenty. The waves are eight feet instead of four.

We lay back on the fluffed brown sand in our sunglasses and sucked on Bud Lights, and that’s when I noticed the woman without a shirt on.

I was surprised, naturally, to see a woman topless on the beach, which one of my friends had described as “semi-private” – I don’t know what that means, but I was doubly surprised because most nudists you’ll run across are sixty, sweaty, and swinging. This woman was none of the above.

She looked young thirties, but I suppose she could have been pulling off a lithe forty. She was lying on a towel on her back, with her knees up and her head up, propping her elbows on the ground behind her for support. She was only about thirty feet down the beach to our right, sitting with another woman who was wearing a full two-piece swimsuit. This girl wasn’t. Black bikini bottom – and that’s it.

Quite honestly, none of us made too much of it.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was a nude beach.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it is.”

“Huh.”

“Hey, pass me another beer.”

End of conversation. We went back to drinking, minimal talking, and watching the waves beat the beach.

But then the guy happened.

This guy was probably fifty, but he could have been forties. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he had some kind of pot-belly working, and I think it must have been a new development, because he’d definitely gotten his swimsuit before he packed on the pounds. It was snug, a little blue and white number that left most of his thighs breathing free and the seams might have split if he started doing lunges.

But he wasn’t doing lunges. He was walking over to the woman purposefully, his hair-covered gut preceding him like the advance guard in a royal fat parade. The man shuffled up, careful not to kick sand onto her towel, pushed his sunglasses onto his head and began, “could you please put a… you know… put a shirt on?”

“I’m not trying to bother anyone,” the woman said. My ears perked up immediately. This could be good.

“Well, some of us would just like to enjoy the beach and not have this… immodesty going on.”

And this is when the exchange got so outrageous I literally could not believe it.

The woman shifts position a little, looking as cocky as you can when you’re lying on the ground talking to someone standing over you, and says, “it’s just my body.”

The guy is not about to take shit. “Yeah,” he says, “and it’s just my erection.”

I was amazed that the woman could even respond, but who knows, maybe she gets this all the time. “You don’t have to look at me, you know,” she says.

“Yeah, but when I look somewhere else, I still imagine them. And they’re even bigger in my imagination.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t even laugh, I was so shocked. My mouth fell open and a little beer dribbled out.

But he topped himself. “And what if…” he stumbled. “What if in my imagination, you don’t have pants on?”

The woman was confused and ready to acquiesce. But she had one last rejoinder: “even if I put a top on, you’ll still have your imagination.”

“I hope so,” he said, and it was a withering blow. The woman was overwhelmed, defeated. She grabbed a matching black top and threw it over her neck, then hurried to tie it behind her back.

I couldn’t blame her. At that point, the guy’s next move could have been to ask her to put suntan lotion on her back or strip off his swimsuit, plop down on the towel and say, “scooch over, will ya? And then tell me a little about yourself.”

But he didn’t. Instead he shuffled back in the direction he’d come from, farther up the beach. The women picked up and left about ten minutes later, possibly because they heard us snorting with uncontrollable laughter.

That was the only time I’ve ever seen someone naked-ish at the beach, but I have no desire to do it again. I can’t imagine ever topping that.

Just had this awesome exchange

2008-07-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

I was walking out of the bathroom not ten seconds ago when one of the jackasses I work with was walking in - the same one who sent an email to the entire company to "use white-out sparingly." I don't even know what that was about. Does anyone even use white-out any more?

Whatever. Anyway, he goes in, immediately turns around, sticks his head back out and calls to me, "Hey!"

I turn around.

"Are you the one that layered the toilet seat with toilet paper?"

"No."

"But you were just in there."

"Ok."

"So you peed right through the middle and didn't get any on the toilet paper?"

I thought about it for a second. "I was just washing my hands," I remembered.

He starts walking toward me in that jokey-bossy way where people want to be friends with you but also have authority over you. "How bout you let me smell your hands."

"How bout I let you put my balls in your mouth."

Long, awkward pause.

Finally, I say, "I'm sorry," and turn and walk away.

Probably going to get an email about it tomorrow, with the whole company cc'd.

A peek inside my outbox

2008-07-10T11:25:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a poolside barbecue and then drank far too many beers for a weeknight while sitting on a 35th story balcony at State and Superior downtown, trying to flick cigarette butts into the pool two hundred feet below, watching fireworks explode one block away and listening to the echoes boom off the sides of the skyscrapers. I don’t have a good post in me right now.

Then, my little muse of a cell phone informed me that my message memory was full. So I thought, hey, let’s post all the text messages in my inbox. And here they are, 112 gems, for your viewing pleasure.

1. What?
2. Oh no sanks. Even though that does sound delish right now.
3. That apple was epically delicious.
4. Cheers! Let’s get drunk about it!
5. Maybe we should get there a little early to make sure the bar is ok and taste-test the Guinness.
6. Still at work, leaving in ten… Be at the bar around ten to six?
7. 55 90 armitage Ashland Belmont?
8. Don’t smoke without me.
9. You read my scene?
10. Hey thanks. It still very much sucks, and we could still very much do it.
11. Guess whether or not I am yammered and have your number.
12. Someone put gin in my grapefruit juice.
13. She’ll probably do it too… I’m still in bed.
14. You have no idea. No, you probably do.
15. In. Tonight we go out. Joe’s birthday.
16. Long and drunk.
17. Way to go, dude! I found my phone in the driveway yesterday. In shards. Go us!
18. Actually just stayed in and got ploughed with my brother. You do anything?
19. I left my life in Irving.
20. Compound bow, carbon-fiber arrows.
21. Shut the fuck up.
22. Yao or Yaos?
23. Where are you?
24. That is incredibly ironic.
25. A tradition unlike any other.
26. Cubbies!
27. Cuckin Fubs.
28. I don’t know what the deal is.
29. I did. I sent him an email. Where do they live? Email me directions?
30. When are you getting to J&J’s?
31. Did you call me?
32. You get drunk last now?
33. Oh yeah, sorry, got it.
34. Did you get her evite idea? Do you want to do that or should I? Prolly you.
35. I don’t know
36. .
37. %
38. Parked for the third time so my smoking engine can cool. In Bellwood or something.
39. No thanks, I’m sure I’ll make it. Eventually.
40. Haha ‘moral’… good one.
41. Movie?
42. Thanks, who’s we?
43. Miss y’all too. Let’s hang out sometime.
44. Grand!
45. Seems to be the story of the day…
46. I think men should be more embarrassed of their nipples.
47. No, I meant because they can’t possibly compare to how perfect mine are.
48. Don’t fuck with me, man.
49. Boohoo. (hug)
50. It’s been arranged.
51. Murder any rodents lately?
52. Oh yeah, just got back.
53. Yup.
54. Aim for the black fag
55. Splendid! I’m about to be a pro baller, hopefully, what more could you ask? What are you up to?
56. I diggoo
57. Feck off
58. No offense
59. That’s from sitting on the copier.
60. Throat, head, body.
61. I just want you to know I have no memory of texting you last night.
62. Entirely p-bear.
63. Are you serial?
64. Broooodaaaayyy
65. For sure. Also have to say ‘oh em gee I hate spence’
66. Score. You’ll totally get on TMZ
67. I’ll give you eighty bucks if you do all my laundry.
68. What?
69. Are you sure it wasn’t him? Yeah I want to go to Michigan too for sure.
70. Hey, just finished golfing, ready to go. What’s the plan?
71. Yeah, let’s all hang out. I don’t care where…
72. I’m all hopped up on Mountain Dew!
73. Holy crap caffeine buzz. I just had two jumbo monsters, which is the equivalent of… wait for it… thirty cups of coffee.
74. Aselin Debison
75. Working?
76. What the shit, Tiger?
77. And he needs it now tonight, he fuckin needs it more than ever.
78. Right back at ya.
79. It’s likely.
80. Let’s boogie!
81. If you blow low enough.
82. I’ll drink it.
83. Etoh walks if you blow a James Bond.
84. No dude- gave up a twenty-four point halftime lead.
85. Yup. I’m starting the second game tomorrow.
86. It’s Friday, everyone’s goodly. I still don’t like Boston.
87. Don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time for me to drink waaay too much.
88. How’s downtown?
89. Parents tropical disease. Children of incest.
90. Emi typed confessions, girl’s therapist.
91. Time to start a new streak
92. He’s at an evening of recollection.
93. Heading now as in leaving now? Haha, you’re going to miss the game.
94. I’m leaving.
95. Oh wait, I just got a pitcher of beer.
96. Supplemental income?
97. Waiting for his brother to get to the bar.
98. YES IT IS!
99. What’s imd?
100. I said ‘cot’ mother.
101. haha, no, I really have baseball.
102. How bout now? Six minutes?
103. Four minutes? Four minutes?
104. You’re so immature.
105. You spelled ‘ynur’ wrong.
106. Aah, you fucksteak. I didn’t even notice the sandwich till now.
107. Nice, supreme court.
108. That and sex.
109. I dunno. Plan?
110. He’s at a wine and cheese party, isn’t he? Lottie’s might work.
111. Let me know.
112. Oh. Well. What are y’all doing?

Now we can do several things (damn, typing that took me longer than I expected). We could say everyone picks one text that they want more context on (or two). Or we could have fun trivia like this quiz entitled “Mom or Booty call: which is which?”

1. 43 and 97
2. 17 and 87
3. 100 and 45
4. 4 and 81

And then you have to figure out which was which. Ok, you’re right, that wasn’t much fun. So you think of a game. My head hurts.

Not for the faint of shart

2008-07-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

One of the things that I like best about baseball is the road trips. Playing at home is great, sure – you’ve got the home fans, a familiar playing surface and a much easier commute. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing like the fun you can have on a baseball road trip.

After ten, or fifteen, or fifty hours on a bus together, guys get pretty punchy, pretty familiar with each other and pretty bored. I can’t describe the feeling, I guess – so let me sum it up with one example. The baseball road trip environment is the one where one guy creeps up the aisle behind another guy who’s watching a movie and sees how long he can rest a part of his naked anatomy on the guy’s shoulder before he notices. Then the guy notices and yells, startled, and then tries to punch the other guy in the balls while he trips back down the aisle and everyone giggles and screams and hollers like they’re seven years old and someone just got pantsed.

Not everyone likes this kind of atmosphere. It’s crude, it’s immature, it’s petty, and very often it’s genuinely unkind, sometimes even cruel. I understand those reactions. If you’re one of those people, I say “you’re right – that’s a valid complaint. Also, don’t play baseball.”

On one road trip to Washington, D.C., after seeing the mall and the Smithsonian and everything else good and great around the city, some of us started to get bored. It was the second day we’d been there, just around that time when guys start getting slap-happy and someone does something crazy. Well, this particular time, that person was Lance, our left-fielding leadoff man, working in coordination with Mark, the backup catcher.

They bought Ex-Lax – neatly packaged in miniature chocolate bars.

But the execution of the plan was the real genius. They picked a target: Rob, the closer, the butt of a lot of the team’s jokes and a man with a beast of a temper. And then they struck – moving up from opposite directions, Lance with two full bars of Ex-Lax chocolate and one of Hershey’s.

“Hey Rob,” chirped Lance, “you want some chocolate?”

Rob was not buying it. “Yeah right,” he said. “You put something in there that’s gonna make me throw up or something.”

Mark popped over his other shoulder at the perfect time. “What? Rob, you need to relax, man. Not everyone is out to get you, you know,” he said, and grabbed a piece of chocolate from Lance’s hand.

Rob watched carefully as Mark put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. And that was that. They had him. Before fifteen minutes were up, one bar of the Ex Lax was in Rob’s stomach. The recommended dosage was one square – or two in cases of extreme constipation. Each bar had six squares.

Rob didn’t sleep all night. He was in the bathroom. All. Night. Long.

What made it worse was that his roommate, in fear of having his stash of porn discovered, had put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, which meant the maids had not replenished their toilet paper that day.

By midnight, Rob had run out of toilet paper and switched in desperation to hand towels, then bath towels.

He did his best to make his tormenters suffer with him though, screaming periodically from on the toilet, “Lance, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” Several times, after a few minutes of silence, the following yelled exchange occurred:

Lance: How’s it going in there, Robbie?
Rob: I’m going to beat the shit out of you, asshole!
Lance: [giggles] Oh, poor baby!
Rob: Ghaaaa! Fuuuuuck!

I don’t know what else to say. I laughed as hard as I could for each item in the next impossible sequence:

Rob’s roommate, who had left the sign on the door, got his karmic due when he took a shower in the tub where Rob had thrown the pile of used hand towels, which clogged the drain and left him unknowingly standing in a puddle of poop-water.

Rob was visibly waddling the next morning as he carried his bags to the bus, and when he tried to chase down Lance in the parking lot, he pulled up after four steps with a cry of pain.

Lance somehow managed to convince Justin, the 350 pound first baseman, to eat SEVEN squares of Ex Lax. For the next two days, Lance would ask him every hour or so, “So Justin, how you feeling? Pooping much lately?” And the answer was always no.

When Justin finally found out what he’d eaten, he just shrugged and said, “yeah, I’d been a little backed up, but since then, I’ve been fine.” Unbelievable.

On the trip home, I learned what the term “fruitbowl” meant, as well as discovering that it is possible for one man to urinate 40 ounces in a 7-11 cup. But I guess that’s a story for another time.

July 4ths Past and Present

2008-07-02T10:58:00.001-07:00

Fourth of July weekend coming up, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I could either a) go up to our summer house on Lake Michigan with some of my brothers and sisters to rock out on the beach for three days, b) go up to Wisconsin to hang out with my cousin Jake, play golf, drink beer and play Polish horseshoes, or c) stay here in Chicago, go see the free Old 97’s show downtown and then head to my cousin Joe’s kegger at his apartment in Lincoln Park. Decisions fucking decisions.

Meanwhile, I love summer, I fucking love it. Some people complain about the heat; I don’t really have a problem with it. I actually don’t really mind sitting around and sweating. It’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but I never had a problem with “oh, ew, it’s gross, it’s getting on my clothes, it’s soaking up my armpits, everyone can see it.” Yeah? So everyone can see it. What? I’m sweating.

There’s always the debate whether the heat of summer or the cold of winter is worse – always at that critical moment: getting in your car. In the summer, it’s an oven; the heat smacks you in the face when you open the door, the steering wheel burns your fingers. In the winter, your ass is an iceblock for the first five miles of driving. I’ll take the heat any day. The freezing feet, the ice-chapped face, cheeks, nose, ears, fingers… yeah fuck that.

So I’m a fan of summer, big fan. And coming up to the Fourth as we are reminds me of the Fourth of July Weekend I had a couple years ago, I guess in 2006, my Wisconsin cousin Jake was living in town working at the University of Chicago, and we drank beer together a lot with my other cousin Jake who lives in Chicago and is the same age.

July 3rd, I think it was a Monday, was when all the haps were on, since no one wanted to be out all night on a work night. So after spending all afternoon drinking at the Taste of Lombard out in the suburbs where you bought beer with little paper tickets and then swinging by a party at the house of another cousin, we headed into the city around 10:30 to make bad things happen.

Quick side note: check out the Taste of Lombard sometime, it’s actually really fun. Decent bands as long as you don’t listen too closely, cheaper food than the real Taste even though it’s still way too expensive, and $3 beers or something like that, so you can get ten or so and not go totally broke.

Anyway, we headed in on 290 and then up into somewhere near the Wrigleyville area to meet with Wisconsin Jake’s ex-girlfriend and a bunch of her hot friends from the University of Miami and U Florida.

You’ll pardon me while I go on a tangent about Jake’s relationship with this girl, we’ll call her “Allie.” It’s hilarious. It was the weirdest relationship you’ve ever heard of, and a genuine testament to two things: first, you can really change a lot in four years, and second, ohmygosh you are literally fucking crazy.

Jake and “Allie” became an item sometime in their sophomore year in high school after a process of courtship that began, when, in Jake’s words, “I thought it would be fun to just pick out the hottest girl in the whole class and try to make her like me.”

It’s ok for Jake to say things like that because he has a new girlfriend now, and so he obviously doesn’t care about the old one.

And also, I can understand that impulse he’s talking about – it’s definitely something I’ve done before, and definitely the most fun part about a relationship: trying to get the girl to really, really like you. You don’t even need to like the girl, but it helps if she’s cute and it’s really intense if she’s considered ‘hard to get.’ You start slow, with a tiny bit of extra eye contact, knowing glances during drinking games, and pretending to like her favorite movie. And you want to know the secret killer move? It’s so easy, but I swear, so effective. Just use her name. Every time you’re talking to her, just say her name more often than you would in normal conversation. I don’t know why, but girls love this. Seriously, it’s dynamite.

After a while, if you’ve played your cards right, the girl is really going to want you – and not in a physical, lusting way (although probably that too) – she’s really going to want to be with you. It’s possible, and in some cases likely, that she’s already thought of marriage, already imagined your initials embroidered on a new set of his and hers bathrobes. She’ll talk about you to her friends, her mom, wonder if you’ve been hurt in the past and that’s what’s slowing you down, and wait for you to ask her out, which she thinks is inevitable.

Girls, you think this is classifying you as foolish, impetuous and petty. That’s not what I’m saying. Well, some of you. But the girls this game has been run on have not been foolish. They’ve just been overmatched. Some guys can do it, they really can.

When her friendships and her performance at work or school start to suffer because of how much attention she’s giving you, you’ve reached the point of no return. At that stage, there’s usually nowhere to go. Inevitably, she will end up disillusioned, crying at least once, possibly in need of therapy, and you may be missing a lamp or some other household fixture that she threw across the room, plus she probably slapped you and you might feel guilty.

It’s actually pretty easy to ride the storm out. All you have to do is… nothing. Ever. She’ll really really like you, you do nothing. She’ll ask you how you feel, you give some vague response. She might even ask you out, but you’re busy. Not that you don’t love hanging out with her, you’re just busy that night…. No, you’re busy that night too. But you’ll see her at the party this weekend, right? Awesome. Soon she’s not too sure of her feelings. This is when you either stop answering her calls, or if you’re a real dick, kiss her when she’s drunk. That’ll really fuck her mind up. But even so, after a few months (yes, unfortunately it does usually take that long), she’ll be over you. At least she’ll say so. She’ll probably need therapy to actually get over you.

But Jake lacked the discipline to pull the trigger before things got too serious. Plus, he started actually liking “Allie.” Before you knew it, he had a three-year relationship on his hands.

They shipped off to different colleges after graduation with vague plans (they weren’t together-together, but they still talked on the phone every night). I know, Jake’s such a pussy, right?

But those nightly phone calls dwindled to weekly, and when she came to visit second semester, things were just a shade different. Plus, I think that weekend, they got in a big fight and “Allie” went off and smoked a bunch of cheeba with people-that-weren’t-Jake.

Over the next however-long, the relationship tapered off. But they still considered themselves “friends,” as long as you include the quotation marks, and so when she happened to be in town for the Fourth of July 2006, it was of course a good idea to get good and liquored up and then meet at a bar downtown amidst a covey of friends to “catch up.” Good lord, I’m laughing right now remembering that night.

I wasn’t 21, which means you can’t drink legally in this country, but thankfully the first bar we went to didn’t card, so we snagged a table in the back and the two Jakes took turns going to buy pitchers while we waited for the girls. I remember being super nervous about being caught drinking underage, so to calm myself down, I was sucking down beer at an extra-quick pace. We all got drunk.

Soon the girls got there. They were about five of them, maybe? I don’t really remember. But there were some good-looking Florida-tan honeys among the bunch, including a tall redhead who was just my style.

In case you’re wondering, there’s not going to be any drama or fighting in this story, except Jake fighting to drive in a straight line and me fighting not to throw up out his window later.

The second bar we go to checks my ID and the fake is rejected. Shit. So we wander a block or so, and then the three guys, who have to go to the bathroom, gleefully do it in a crevice between apartment buildings directly across the street from Wrigley Field. Yes, I have pissed right across from the right-field ivy.

Thankfully, the second bar, a 5 am bar, takes my ID, and we’re in. Immediately, I head to the bar while the guys negotiate the girls to some open space in the back because the place is packed well past the point of fire hazard full. For the next two hours or so, Jake and Jake and I take turns heading to the bar to pick up six Bud longnecks, two apiece. At some point, Jake thinks shots of Jaegermeister are a good idea, and somehow in the bump and scuffle, I end up next to the cute tall redhead, cheersing and happy-fourthing.

Her name was Megan, she went to the University of Florida and she was an agnostic – that’s all I remember from that conversation. And then, after about a hundred “do it already’s” from Jake and Jake, I got her number and typed it into my phone, which had a broken screen.

I can just picture it now, and it’s an embarrassing thought: leaning up against the wall typing carefully and squinting hopelessly into a blank black screen. For all I know, the fucking phone was off the whole time. But then she called it and it vibrated and everything was ok. I think one of the Jakes gave me a high-five.

Next thing I know, the bar is closed and we are outside, where Wisconsin Jake is, I shit you not, trying to convince a crazy homeless woman to believe in God. This went on for about twenty minutes. Every time he thought he was making progress, she would just start laughing insanely, throwing her head back and cackling.

Eventually we dragged him away and started off down the sidewalk.

Jake and “Allie” were having a conversation and lagged behind the rest of the group, and Jake was up ahead, flirting and cavorting with the girls. I was in the middle, falling behind the main group. At first I thought it was because I wanted a view of Megan’s butt (which was terrific by the way – a little short on bosom, but perfect pear-shaped badonkadonk), but soon I realized it was because I didn’t know where the fuck we were going. “Where the fuck are we going?” I asked reasonably.

One of the girls shouted back that she knew or had a place right down the street where we could have a beer and then crash, but we’d have to be up and out early because her parents were coming to help her move at eight in the morning. I looked at my watch. It was 6:15.

After Chicago Jake and I discussed this fact (“an hour of sleep? Yeah fuck that.”), we slowed down enough for Jake and “Allie” to catch us and then waited until she decided to go talk to the girls. Then, without saying anything, we just started walking slower and slower, a collective thought of “this is retarded” gathering strength in our minds.

So we turned around, found Jake’s car, and swerved home under the rising sun. Yeah, about twelve miles.

But not before we stopped at McDonald’s for breakfast sandwiches, where Jake tried to convince the cashier that his McMuffin had come without cheese and I laughed so hard that I literally fell off my chair.

I used to be such a badass.

Now I can’t even decide what to do this weekend.

A landmark decision from the bench: Fire at will!

2008-06-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have two notes regarding yesterday’s post. First, I am really disappointed that I failed to refer to Charlie Crist as “the lovable Messiah with a crush on the red-headed girl.” Second, I would like to say that I respect both of the candidates. Well, let me rephrase that: I respect one of the candidates, and I think the other one is an ass.

But there are other political matters to discuss today. The Supreme Court, in a hotly contested 5-4 decision, struck down a Washington D.C. handgun ban as unconstitutional, finding it in violation of the Second Amendment.

Chief Justice John Roberts, who sided with the majority, had this to say of the landmark decision: “I sure look good today, don’t I? Can’t wait to get the hell out of here and go sip lemonade on my yacht.”

Justice Antonin Scalia, renowned for his quick and acerbic wit, authored the majority opinion, which stated, in part, “to deny the traditional right of the individual citizen to the implements of self-defense is about as American as Osama Bin Laden taking a dump on an apple pie. Furthermore, I would like to point out that I exercise my own right to bear weapons by carrying nunchucks beneath my voluminous robes, with which I will not hesitate to pummel the shit out of reporters who ask me stupid questions.”

The newest member of the court, Justice Samuel Alito, did his best to avoid attention, eventually dressing up as a janitor in an attempt to sneak his way through the press. Indeed, the erstwhile judge had nearly made it home free before he was recognized. As the flash bulbs burst around him, Alito just squinted and looked around nervously and when pressed for comment would only remark, “I just do what John Roberts tells me.”

The two other consenting judges, Justice Anthony Kennedy and Justice Clarence Thomas, were unavailable for comment, but were seen sprinting down the Washington mall firing handguns into the air in celebration. Numerous reports indicated that the pair were referring to themselves as Wyatt Earpp and the Lone Ranger while they brandished their firearms and discharged them wildly.

On the other side of the fence was David Souter, who, on announcement of the decision, reportedly shouted, “read the Constitution, dumbass!” to no one in particular. Much of his time during the trial was spent attending to 93-year-old Justice John Paul Stevens, who was admitted to the courtroom on a hospital bed as the nonagenarian is currently in a coma, diapers and constant state of near death.

Despite his extreme condition, the ancient man was still able to pen a dissenting opinion in which he condemned the use of “muskets [as] detrimental to the stability of the colonies, except in the case of extreme pressure from redcoats or roving Indian bands.”

Stephen Breyer wrote a second dissenting opinion, consisting of only two short sentences, which read, “No, I am not named after fucking ice cream! What the hell is the matter with you people?”

Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the fourth and final dissenting Justice, gnashed her teeth for some time in her seat at the bench, refusing to leave for more than two hours. Curious reporters were ushered away by security, who warned that she gets hungry this time of day. She is not expected to leave the building until tonight, because direct sunlight will turn her to stone.

Fans of the decision are pleased, although many expressed chagrin that the question had even been raised. One such citizen said, “It’s right fucking there in the Constitution: ‘A well regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.’ That’s as clear as Waterford if you ask me.”

Opponents feared that the decision might be the first step toward repealing some of the nation’s assault-weapon bans, and open the door for more and larger firearms to move freely through the hands of the people.

“Exactly right,” said Dick Cheney, who the press finally hunted down on the west lawn of the White House, where he was shooting at the ornamental birdbaths with a 12-guage pump action shotgun. “A year from now, I’ll be able to hunt quail with a bazooka.”

Obama or McCain? Black or Old? The hippie candidate of Change? Or the candidate of Change My Diaper?

2008-06-25T12:53:00.000-07:00

The upcoming presidential election is all over the news, and Barack Obama is still a douchebag. A stunning report revealed today that Barack Obama charges $115 for a turkey sandwich. What the hell is that about, huh?! I mean, turkey is pretty good, but at least throw on some roast beef if you’re breaking the century mark, am I right?

I really don’t know what the story is about because I didn’t have time to read the whole thing, but apparently in between campaign stops, Obama runs a deli or something. I’m surprised he’s got the time.

John McCain, meanwhile, is older than ever. Earth-shattering photographs splashed the front pages yesterday, revealing the Arizona senator wearing a band-aid on his wrinkly head. Can you believe it?! Fucking band-aids!

Despite his claims that he just hit his head on a car (what?), it’s pretty clear-cut evidence that his campaign is deceiving the public about the fact that he has head cancer. Some speculate that he’s already dying, and plans to croak after winning the November election but before taking office in January. His “expiration date,” if you will, is set for the week of Christmas.

Liberals fear that if this occurs, George Bush intends to declare martial law, suspend all elections and appoint himself dictator-for-life, shortly before expanding the war on terror to include massive attacks against Iran, India, Belgium and Ohio.

In both camps, rumors are circulating in “the great running-mate debate,” which is a pretty gay name for it (John Edwards loves it). The talk of a “dream ticket” featuring Obama and Hillary Clinton seems to have fallen by the wayside. Obama rejected the idea for a couple of reasons: first, he was afraid that Hillary would have him assassinated within the first year of his presidency; and second, he was afraid of having her manwhore of a husband Bill around, since the former president is liable to have sex with most of the White House staff during meetings. Obama of course wants his own fair crack at the “power” hungry insiders, but is also paranoid that his wife Michelle might either fall or leap into Wild Bill’s clutches.

McCain, of course, would not have such problems, since his wife is an android and he hasn’t been able to achieve an erection since 1931. Then again, he thinks Hillary is kind of scary, and wouldn’t pick her anyway.

Instead, according to the buzz, McCain might be leaning toward Charlie Crist, or former Secretary of Kickass Colin Powell. Powell is a favorable choice because of his ability to counteract Obama’s blackness – the dynamic of black factor, or “blacktor.” Except not “blacktor,” because that sounds like “black actor,” and God knows they’re all voting for Obama no matter what you do. McCain could run on a platform of Slavery Reparations, chicken and rap music and still have no chance.

My personal choice is to steer away from Powell, who is 70 years old (more like swollen Colon Powell), and pick up Charlie Crist, who can attract a variety of disillusioned Americans, especially, because of the similarity of his name, fans of the late Charles Shulz of Charlie Brown and fans of the late Jesus Christ.

For Obama, I would recommend anybody except that whore from Kansas whose name I can’t remember. But she’s a total bitch. I heard she was actually the mastermind behind Michael Vick’s dogfighting ring as well as the sinking of the Titanic. Oh yeah, Kathleen Sebelius is her name. Huge slut too, I think. She’s got that vibe – Bill Clinton would love her. Hell, he probably already has.

Then again, Obama’s choice doesn’t matter as much. He could probably choose Will.I.Am or Ronald McDonald or some other fake person and still ride his cultish support to the big win in November.

Remember then, remember that I warned you now: he’s a big tax candidate. You think $4 for a gallon of gas is bad? Try $115 for a turkey sandwich.

Weddings make me hurt so good

2008-06-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

Before I even start, just know this: this weekend was crazier than I can possibly explain. Ok.

I was pretty much out of commission yesterday with a hangover that may well have been the worst I’ve ever had in my life. It was so bad I was dizzy, shaking and disoriented for a full twenty-four hours after my last sip of alcohol. My walking was unstable, my head pounded and my stomach churned non-stop, over and over and gurgle and bubble.

Needless to say, it was a hell of a weekend. My cousin Becca, who is super gorgeous and on whom I’ve had an inappropriate crush for about fifteen years, got married on Saturday in Wisconsin.

To make a real weekend of it, my two unmarried brothers and I left work a little early and headed up on Friday to the house of our other cousins who were waiting with a keg. That night, my brother Ed and my cousin Jake told me that my blog sucked. And I couldn’t have agreed more. Basically, they told me I write like a pansy, try to sound like “a blogger,” and generally act like a pussy bitch – when honestly, in real life, I’m more of a prick.

So right now, I’d like to say I hate that kind of writing: about half the blogs I read I find boring and self-centered and begging for compliments. And I’d like to say, to all those who write like that: shut up. Please, for God’s sake, your whining makes me want to kill myself. Turn it off. Shut your mouth. Get a pet goldfish and tell him about your body image issues, because no one else cares.

So we drank keg beer and played polish horseshoes (kickass game), where my cousins John and Broc ran the tables, because John was throwing the Frisbee overhand, and it came out upside-down and wobbly and fucking impossible to catch. After about ten games, I decided to try throwing that way too. I can throw pretty hard, so once I got the hang of it, it was pretty much unstoppable. Conveniently, just then it was “too dark,” and “we need to change the rules to maintain fairness,” and I was feeling a bit “you guys are such duplicitous pussies.” But then I drank some more and the people from the rehearsal dinner showed up (10, 11pm?), so I was distracted.

We finished the keg, told everyone we were going to go to a bar and then watched them pile into their cars. After about fifteen minutes, they got tired of waiting and took off, which was fine with us, because there was a liquor cabinet to empty before Aunt Jeannie moved to Texas. We broke out the scotch and sat around the fire until it was ready to be urinated and hosed into a pile of wet ash, and then headed to the basement, except for my brother Peter who decided to sleep in the car. The cement floor didn’t bother me much as I slept, but the bottle of vodka that Jake tipped over, soaking my sleeping bag and waking me up in a horror that I had pissed myself wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.

Saturday dawned gorgeous. (yes, that is grammatically correct.) Small breakfast, off to Holy Hill for the 1:30 Mass. We stood outside the big church doors waiting for the parents to get there, looking out at the miles of countryside below us, smoking cigarettes in suits and sunglasses and talking about how waiting outside made us look like a receiving line, or maybe like ushers. And then we went in, sat down, prayed and waited.

I am a huge bitch at weddings. I well up usually four or five times and sometimes actually get tears running down my face. What a pussy. On Saturday, I think it was four times: once each during the first reading and the Gospel, once when the groom was saying his vows, and one time randomly later in the Mass, when I was either despairing of getting married myself or thinking about an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

And then it was on to the reception. Holy hell, what a party. I don’t even know where to start.

Put it this way: within one hour of the guests arriving, the bar had sent away for and were bringing in a case full of twelve new handles of gin. This family loves their G&Ts. The hors d’oeuvres, most of them having been created by my mom, were delicious.

The reception was at the home of the bride’s parents, a huge white tent filling up their back yard, which conveniently abuts a golf course. Earlier that day, we had stopped for posterboard, marker and a bottle of Jameson (party essentials), and then right around dinner, had a 32-man closest-to-the-pin tournament. I don’t even remember whether it was before or after dinner. I think it was after. Wow, it was a crazy party.

At dinner, Jake had saved me a seat with a bunch of young good-looking folks that he didn’t know, but I had met before – friends of the bride and of my sister. At that dinner, I remembered why Jake and I had been so popular in college – why our parties were always the ones that everyone talked about. When we’re hanging out together with other people at a party, it’s just a show. We straight-up dominated that meal: girls choking with laughter, guys either toasting and cheering or else looking uncomfortable because Jake was making fun of them. By the time we left the table, I think we’d been invited to three different homes around the country “whenever you feel like dropping in,” we'd appointed a “designated drunk driver,” and Jake had shouted with glee “he has a blog!” before I made fun of him for his inability to grow facial hair.

At each toast, Jake prided himself on bellowing “cheers!” before anyone else. I tried to sneak in a “hear hear!” by basically spending the entire toast muttering it over and over “hear hear hear hear hear hear hearhearhearhear,” at which one girl sprayed champagne between her fingers, which made me laugh. Of course, right then, the toast ended, and Jake sprang in with an enthusiastic “Cheers! Haha! In your face!” which I think confused some of the other tables.

When dusk started to fall (not until late, thank you June 21st), someone started handing out glow-in-the-dark bracelets for the kids, which some of them stuck together to make necklaces and a variety of other jewelry. I grabbed one, of course, filled up my pitcher of beer (yes, pitcher) and started heading out with everyone else to the golf course to see the fireworks. Yes, full-size fireworks, just for the party. Unbelievably gorgeous.

And then, right as the fireworks were finishing, Uncle Mike (the bride’s dad), who had apparently been organizing the whole while, screamed the charge and all the kids went sprinting off down the fairway. This was seriously one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen: seventy, eighty kids, all bedecked in glow-in-the-dark jewelry, screaming in a clustered line into the gloaming. And then when they came running back, it was actually a little bit frightening, like a horde of screeching alien attackers.

And then Uncle Mike yelled for “Everyone! Let’s go!” and we were off, sprinting over the even grass with beer sloshing around the edges of the pitcher in my right hand and the red glow of my bracelet on my left.

The party devolved from there. “The dance floor is now open!” was soon followed by “the dance floor is now open and I am making a fool of myself out there.” I danced feverishly. I danced well, poorly, I danced like Casanova and I danced like an asshole – like no one was watching and like everyone was watching. I grabbed girls from cousins to strangers, from young to old. Actually, not old – I don’t like dancing with old people. I think the oldest person I danced with was like 26.

I love weddings. Obvious, right? No, I fucking love weddings more than life.

They’re just the ideal party. The perfect balance of old friends and new, attractive ones. Family that you see every day with family you haven’t seen in forever. Families are joined! You have new relatives! Some of them are probably cute girls! I’m sorry, could it get any better? Oh yeah! It could – everyone’s drinking champagne!

The next day, Sunday, we made it out to the 12:30 Mass back at Holy Hill and then stopped at Asiankp’s house, where we met her lovely short parents and took advantage of their hospitality, drinking a beer or three and playing bags in the backyard. When the thunderstorms started up, we said goodbye and thank you to Wisconsin and Wisconsonians, and headed back toward Chicago. But not home. Not yet.

Instead, we went out to my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lombard to have dinner with Grammy and another uncle and two aunts. That was a pretty uproarious dinner too. Everyone was still winding down from the weekend, and the wine was good and copious. Highlights included my mom calling my sister “you bitch!” to the horrified gasps of my aunt and I think my dad, and my overenthusiastic use of the phrase “elbow-deep in blood!” to describe my experience gutting a deer.

I got home Sunday night exhausted and dehydrated to the point of pissing caramel. My legs and ass were sore from dancing, my forearms were extremely sore from I don’t know what. My sunglasses are gone, as is one pair of my shoes. It was a hell of a Monday. But worth it, 100% worth it. Hoo-boy.

Not in this issue:
My cousin Jake plays wingman for me on a girl that is married.
The fucking Cubbies
I don't wash my hands in the port-a-potty, then handle hors d'oeuvres.
My mom is called out to the dance as "my favorite aunt" to dance to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe Malfunction. Except with no lion or witch.

2008-06-19T12:23:00.001-07:00

Margarita once asked me what kind of underpants I was wearing – or something like that – and I said boxer-briefs. As a matter of fact, I generally wear boxer-briefs. I’m wearing boxer-briefs right now.

But this past weekend, I had an experience that brought home a glaring and heinous flaw in the design of men’s underwear with staggering force. That flaw? The inexplicable open fly. Why? Why does every pair of underpants, from tighty-whities to silk boxers to my favorite boxer-briefs, have the expandable hole directly in the crotch?

Don’t tell me for a minute that it’s to make bathroom functions a step easier; that’s crap. That’s like saying you never unbutton your pants, just crank down the fly. Maybe at a picnic when you only have one free hand because you’re holding a beer, but that’s about it. Every man knows in 95 cases out of a hundred, you just pull the whole kit and caboodle down and out of the way.

Yet the hole remains.

On a well-worn pair of undies, the seams can stretch a little bit. There might be a little flap in the ass-fabric, the waistband might have lost some elasticity. When the crotch-portal starts flapping open uncontrollably, then you have a problem.

I pitched the second game of a double-header on Saturday, and after the a shitty game, I was getting into some shorts because I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a boy scout Jamboree. I don’t know if it was the friction of the snug-fitting baseball pants, or the one-footed, spread-eagle jouncing as I peeled the high socks down that did it, but suffice it to say that one moment I was looking up to hear the coach remind us to clear the dugout and the next I was staring down at my own crotch with dismay, surprised to see that a new teammate had joined the post-game meeting.

You know how embarrassing it is when you find your fly open – with underwear on underneath. Imagine how you’d feel with your genitals on full display in front of sixteen disgruntled teammates and six hundred-some fans in the stands.

I had two options: go the baseball-jokey-jokemaker route and start dancing and describing eerie pelvic figure eights; or tuck the offending party out of sight and pretend nothing had happened.

I tucked, pulled my shorts on, and tried to act casual (should I whistle? Shit, these shorts don’t have pockets!), but the looks I got from a few unfortunate teammates assured me that no matter what I pretended, like the fox and his sour grapes, like a rape victim who suppresses her memories until they eat away at her very soul, I couldn’t change the truth.

And the truth is that I think I’m going to start wearing speedos instead of underwear. Because even a bright lime-green banana-hammock could not have been more inappropriate than that.

Part Five: A Tale of Too Shitty

2008-06-16T15:05:00.000-07:00

My Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue (the parents of Rory, in case you were wondering) hosted their share of family parties when I was a kid – heck, even now: two years ago they had the reception for their daughter’s wedding right in the back yard… just like old times.

Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the oldest couple of their generation (at least on my dad’s side of the family) and also have the distinction of being double-cousins with my family. Uncle Joe is my dad’s brother and Aunt Sue is my mom’s sister. No, look it up, it’s not illegal.

In addition to being the oldest, or maybe on account of being the oldest, Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the most serious of all my aunts and uncles. Their house is usually dark, and always quiet except for the squeak of the old wood floorboards and sometimes Irish music. You walk carefully in their house, afraid of breaking something, like ancient dusty vases that always seem to sit too close to the edge of the piano.

When there were parties at this house, the kids were gently encouraged to get [and stay] the hell out of the house. Weather didn’t matter – that’s why you have snowpants.

But writing your name in the snow doesn’t fly in mixed company, and when nature calls, even at Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue’s house, you had to go inside. The bathroom was located on the north side of the house, through the library (yeah, exactly – it’s the kind of house that has a library). This room was usually occupied by older teenage cousins, who are basically the most frightening people in the world when you’re six years old.

The worst part about a trip to the bathroom, though, was the doorknob on the inside of the bathroom door. It was a miniature knob, which was unfortunately missing some crucial screws. Opening the door required a jiggle left, pushing in while twisting, and then pulling out sharply while applying strong pressure upwards. Or something. No one knew, really. You just jiggled and jerked and twisted and sometimes it would open.

Fortunately, the door also had a lock, a simple deadbolt, and what you could do, if you were really careful, is just barely close the door so that the knob didn’t engage, and secure it using only the deadbolt. Then, when you were ready to go, you just unlock the door and push it open – no knob-fiddling necessary.

I had set it up just so one night, had finished at the toilet, and was washing my hands, lathering up with white foam, when someone knocked on the door. I was already nervous enough, and my gurgled response died in my throat.

So whoever it was tried to open the door, shook it twice, and horror! The hasp clicked into place. Immediately, without thinking, I sprang to the door and grabbed the knob with soap-covered hands, crying “wait, wait wait!” and twisting furiously in vain.

And there I was, scrabbling with a slick knob, scared and alone and trapped. I unlocked the door, and tried every combination I could think of. I rinsed the knob, dried it, tried the knob, cursed it. I considered using the shower-curtain rod to pole-vault out the window, but it wasn’t flexible enough.

Eventually, I just started beating on the door and, I think, crying. I’ve blotted out most of the memory successfully, thank God, but I think they had to take the hinges off the door, and for about twenty minutes, everyone thought I was too stupid to unlock the door and kept yelling at me through the inch of wood to “unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”

“Fuck you!” I should have yelled, but I didn’t know that word. I think instead I went with “Mommm!” And that damn bathroom still makes me nervous.

And just to let you know, right when I thought going over all these bathroom adventures would get it out of my system (ha!), this past weekend, I did the following, in this order:

Exposed myself to strangers while intoxicated
Shit my pants while napping
Exposed myself to strangers while sober
Ate a snack
Got drunk of high-end liquor at the downtown Hilton
Nearly had a coronary watching the US Open
Found more shit in the work garbage cans first thing Monday morning

Aahh. Bet you can't wait to hear about it.

Part Four: Actually this is more about Dean Koontz

2008-06-13T08:57:00.000-07:00

I meant to write yesterday, but I was pretty hungover. This whole week, I’ve been working in a backed-up licensing department trying to help them “get back up to speed.” This consists of filing and… and that’s all.

Fortunately, the woman who was describing the filing tasks to me was not what you’d call an A-Plus Explainer. After asking her to repeat herself three or four times, I just pretended like I understood and then sat there at the desk doing nothing, poking every once in a while at the stack of papers like an animal that you’re not sure is dead.

Speaking of which, have you ever done that? It’s actually really fucking intense, especially with a big animal like a deer…. You creep up to it slowly… make some noise at it… poke it in the but with a stick… and then finally, your last step to make sure it’s dead is to whap it in the eyeball. Then you slice it open to remove the intestines. Eviscerating Bambi sound gross? Whatever, don’t kill the messenger.

Ok, before I forget, the bathroom story. Disclaimer: the story is not funny or interesting, and this post is going to be super disjointed, so keep that in mind.

When my cousin Jake used to come over almost every day in the summer, we’d play all day outside. Sunup to sundown. When we had to go to the bathroom, going all the way inside seemed like such a bother, so we used to just jump into the garage, which was unfinished and full of lumber, and save ourselves some time.

One day, it was time for Jake to leave, and my mom was coming out the back door with her purse and keys to drive him home. “Jake, if you have to go to the bathroom, do it now!” she called. So Jake turned, ran into the garage and unloaded. Right in front of my mom. I don’t know, he’s a dumbass.

For some reason, my mom still loves me, a fact which I rediscovered last night, when she left a new hardcover copy of Odd Hours standing on the stairs where she knew I would find it on my way to bed. Any of you read Dean Koontz at all? Because Odd Thomas is one of the greatest characters ever created, and the books are a total joy to read. Plus, they make me want to write stuff like this:

‘Walking down the road, I lost track of time. It took deliberate effort to put one foot in front of the other, and then the other, and the other. The muted squeaks of my sneakers on the cobblestone street were washed away and lost in the groan of the wind – only in the late over-ripeness of August can the wind groan like that, not a howl, not a whisper, but a throaty, painful creaking like the ragged breath of a long-dead lover, returned, wasted by the grave, to lament his lost sweetheart.

The hair on the back of my neck, no – on my whole body, stood straight. I was awash in a fervor, fever of terror. I’ve seen dead men before, but never like this. The scene was a gruesome work of art, the masterpiece of a demented mind. Around the body bluebells were scattered, drizzled with blood. A stake stood in the center, rising straight from the victim’s sternum, the blood-caramel-brown rays stretching across his chest in sharp contrast to the white of his naked body. His arms were splayed neatly, evenly, shining clean in the moonlight, but his excised eyelids left him staring blindly skyward, a mutilation to voice the killer’s silent cry, “notice me!”

We noticed the crime, but God help us, we were ignorant that the murderer was one of us.’

Ok, except that started sort of sounding like a detective novel or something, plus I didn’t use the word “susurration,” which Dean always does. Anyway, read Odd Thomas, it’s a really kickass book.

To wrap things up, I would like to make note of the following: someone in my office shit in the garbage can again. Is this a fetish, a practical joke, a cry for attention? I don’t know. Is it fucking disgusting? Yes.

The End

Part Three, I guess: Is runny-dump-pass a football term?

2008-06-10T11:16:00.000-07:00

Holy crap, oh my goodness. I was a little tired/hungover coming into work today, so I ran out to the gas station to grab a little pick me up. Then I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the blue or green jumbo Monster, so I got them both. Then I drank them.

That’s 3000 mg of caffeine. The average cup of coffee has 100 mg. For those of you who aren’t good at mathing, that’s the equivalent of 30 cups of coffee. Now my hands are shaking like the dickens (what are the dickens?), and I feel like I’m going to throw up. No, seriously, I’m getting very nauseous. Also, I’ve smoke four cigarettes this morning.

Guess where my brother was on Thursday. At the R. Kelly trial. That’s right. For any of you who might have been there, he was the one who came out with the judge, sat in the second row, and was called up during the recess before the defense was even dismissed. That means R. Kelly sat in his place while my brother clicked across the floor to chat with the jumbo-judge. Man, being a downtown lawyer has its perks, even if you’re only a clerk.

I guess I should tell you the Octoberfest story now, even though I’m kind of tired of the Tales of the Fewmets.

Every year we have a family party (this stories all start that way, don’t they?) in October, titled, ingeniously, Octoberfest. The whole family gets together for – wait for it… drinking and hanging out outside. We always play football or soccer. Little kids get run over, cry. Old people get cramps, moan. I score touchdowns, rejoice.

Except the year when I was a freshman in high school and had a little bit of a stomach flu. We played soccer that year, and I was just getting old enough that I thought I could play with the big guys – namely, my six-four cousin Matt. I was battling for the loose balls, spreading the field and holding my own… until.

I was running for a ball that had squirted out of a scrum near midfield, and Matt had a full head of steam toward it from the other direction. He got there first, squared it, and stopped short. I tried to pull up, jumped to avoid him, and got his hip square into my stomach.

It was a full-on knock-the-wind-out-of-you shot, and I went down, gasping for breath. People gathered round while I squirmed on the ground with my mouth open, struggling for that first breath. And then, after I made it to the sideline for a break, I felt a warm sensation between my buttcheeks.

Head to the outhouse, and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve got a full diaper – a nice runny little squirt, straight into the soccer shorts. So I stripped off my undies and chunked them into the blue port-a-potty water and went to get sweatpants from my mom.

And that, I’m fairly certain, is an original experience. Has anyone else ever had poop squeezed out of them by someone’s hip? During a soccer game? Yeah, didn’t think so. Go me.

Ok, this caffeine buzz is getting to be more than I can handle. I’m starting to hum now and jouncing my legs viciously under my desk. What is this song I’m humming, even? Is this the Russian national anthem? You know the one… it goes hmmm-hmm-hmmmmmm, budummm…. Hmm hmm hmmmmm-hm-hmmmmmmm, bummm hmmmm, dnt dnt dnnnnnnnnnn!

No? Okay. I’ll ask someone smarter.

Funny shit. This post has nothing to do with shit (foreshadowing!)

2008-06-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, we’ve got to take a quick break from the Chronicles of Bathroomia. If I ever even get back to that… the next three episodes tell the story of how 1. I got body-slammed and shit my pants 2. my friend pissed in my garage right in front of my mom and 3. I got trapped in my aunt’s bathroom.

See that? That’s called foreshadowing.

I am leaving work in half an hour to go to Michigan, for which I am excited. (More foreshadowing, you dig?)

Did I tell you I bought a car? No? I did. Black Chevy Impala LTZ – leather, sunroof, Bose stereo, the whole deal. I am even more fly than before, if that’s possible.

But the most important reason I needed to take this little break was to refer you to a post that I found on a fucking hilarious blog. Foreshadowing: it’s this blog.

The post: For real, like, for real. It’s funny. If you don’t like it, no offense, but you’re a retard. Have a good weekend, dudes.

Part Two: This is why bathroom doors should have locks

2008-06-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

In a conservative family with lots of kids, there are more than the usual “where do babies come from?” questions to make parents and other bigger people feel awkward. There are questions of “do I need to have a groom at my wedding?” (answer: “In this day and age… I mean, yes, you do.”) There’s “what’s divorce?” (answer: “we don’t talk about that in this house.”) And there’s “why don’t Uncle Bob and Aunt Carol have any kids?” I actually still don’t know the answer to this one. Impotence? Their kids are all off at boarding school? Unfortunate cheese-grating accident?

But whatever the reason was, I had an aunt and uncle who were childless – an aberration in my family. And of course, that aunt and uncle were the coolest ones. First of all, the relentless grind of parenthood hadn’t driven them to the appropriate bitterness toward children, and secondably, they wanted kids to like them – they bribed kids with cookies and cigarettes, just like grandparents, only they didn’t pinch your cheeks or smell funny.

This cool couple, the only members of the upper generation that you really felt like you could “hang out with” as a ten-year-old, had a party for Memorial Day every year. That was their thing. They’d bring out the flag and the Frisbee, the cooler and grill and let the kids play bocce in the big back yard until one of the cousins got the inevitable ball to the head and the blood-soaked field was declared unplayable.

When I was seven years old, I made a fatal mistake at this party and overindulged in that special barbecue party ingredient. No, not Corona… baked beans. For an hour I was as happy as a pig in shit, dunking hot dogs in the beans, topping my burger with beans, mixing beans with cole slaw, and spooning them down straight.

But those beans mixed with the five Pepsis, and an unfortunate chemical reaction began bubbling inside me. At first I tried to sweat it out, running extra hard for freeze tag. I went to the bathroom to pee and wash my hands, trying to psyche myself that if I drained the bladder, there’d be enough room for my other insides to relax. But when I got back outside, I couldn’t even run; the best I could muster was an awkward canter.

I knew I had to do it. So I waited for something exciting to happen outside that would keep everyone distracted. I prayed for a plane crash, I considered swatting little Jack in the face with a badminton racquet. I was ready to burst when Aunt Mary finally chimed “has anyone seen Annie’s shoes?”

That was good enough for me. I was up the stairs and through the kitchen in a flash, down the hallway and into the bathroom, where I slammed the door behind me and reached for the lock.

There was no lock.

Of course it made sense – with no kids in the house, only adults who come factory-installed with common sense, they didn’t need a lock.

I bit my lip. I needed this door to have a lock. I scooched the stool under the sink over in front of the door and even put the soap dispenser on top for extra weight, but I knew it was an insufficient barricade.

Now I was frantic. I had the choice to either shit in my pants or poop in the toilet with the door unlocked, vulnerable. Both seemed equally horrible. I danced at the door, doing that hop-hop-rub-the-crotch-furiously that little kids do when they really have to go.

And finally, out of options, I ran the ten feet to the toilet, sprang aboard like the Lone Ranger onto Silver and tried to speed through the task at hand. All was well for a minute. That minute stretched into two, and I was almost clear, almost free. I was getting excited. I had pulled it off! Within two minutes I would be back outside, blending in with the rest of the kids looking for Annie’s shoes.

And then I heard the worst sound in the world. The knob turned with a tiny squeak. I was frozen, horrified, my heart in my mouth.

The door swung open, pushing the footstool with a grating whine across the tile floor. I looked over, peeking around the sink as I leaned forward, a wad of toilet paper in my hand, halfway to the wiping zone. My bigger, older, scary cousin Rory looked at me. Square in the eyes.

“Hhhaagghhaaa…” I said, desperately.

He closed the door. I closed my eyes and wished God would just let me die.

I made it back outside in two more minutes, and was called over by my cousins, my friends – the people who thought they knew me. “Come on,” they said, “we’re playing whiffle ball! Paul and Rory are picking teams!”

I said “I don’t feel like playing whiffle ball right now.” And I didn’t.

Next up: I get more than the wind knocked out of me

Part One: In introduction - I am different

2008-06-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

I come from a big family – big immediate family, big extended family, overall large-ass family (yes, large-ass). I’m one of seven siblings, with about forty cousins on my mom’s side and sixty-and-counting on my dad’s. Also have a brother-in-law, two sisters-in-law, three nephews and six nieces (with another bambino on the way).

We’re also really close, the whole family, which means that on multiple occasions throughout the year, we all get together for big family parties: Christmas parties, New Year’s Eve parties, big barbecues for Memorial Day, July 4th and Labor day, etc, etc ad infinitum.

Quick note to anyone out there who thinks this post is not about the bathroom: hold your horses, of course it’s about the bathroom. That’s what I do.

The parties are a blast. Rain or shine, hell or high water, the family gets together and has a good time. Drinks are drunk. Drunks are drunk. Drunkards are drunker. And with all the good-hearted socialization and all the liquid being ingested, the bathroom is a popular destination.

Thinking about it now, I’m realizing I won’t be able to fit all this into one post. So consider it my introduction, the first of the five-part series: the bathrooms at family parties.

As a method of introduction, let me describe to you now what a trip to the bathroom at a party is like for me. Perhaps then you can begin to understand the real power of my childhood experiences in this department.

You know what it’s like when you go to the bathroom at a party: your laugh and smile stay glued to your face for the first few seconds, inexplicably, while you close the door behind you and muffle the sounds of conversation and music to a hum. Then, right about midstream, you sigh, shake your head and feel how buzzed you are and then maybe you giggle. Anyway, I do. “Ahh, I love parties,” you think, and then you try to hurry up so you can get back out there sooner and probably jet blast a little too hard and splatter a couple tiny droplets out of the toilet bowl.

And you go to the sink, look in the mirror, suck in your cheeks like a fish and say “ahkkowakkha!” in a fishy voice and then giggle again.

But here’s where I’m a little different (you were with me up until then, right?). Here’s where I’m unique. Here’s where my usual self-assuredness goes right out the window, and my calmness under pressure is forgotten.

I have a paralyzing fear that when I come out of the bathroom, someone (probably one of my aunts) is going to ask me skeptically, “did you wash your hands?”

And worse, I’m afraid that when I respond “of course I did,” NO ONE WILL BELIEVE ME. They’ll all start gathering around me, moving slowly like hygiene-obsessed zombies, and asking “Really? You did? Really? Prove it. Uhh, what color is the soap? What color is the towel? Did you dry your hands? Let me smell them.”

Has this ever happened to me? No. In all the years at all the parties, I’ve never experienced that particular adventure. Is there a Freudian explanation? I don’t know.

All I know is that I can’t get rid of this phobia. All I know is that every time I’m in the bathroom, I obsessively check the brand of the soap, I smell the scent, I check for monograms on the towels, I crack the medicine cabinet to see if they use Listerine or Scope. I’m frantic, trying to memorize every detail, leaving the sink run so it sounds like I’m still washing my hands, and hoping to God that Aunt Alice isn’t waiting outside to ask me, staring into my soul with a sideways tilt of her head, “which direction do the stripes on the wallpaper run?”

“Damn it! Shit! I didn’t check, Aunt Alice! You got me! Balls noooooo!” and everyone will laugh and laugh, and send me out to the back yard to play with the dog.

Never mind that this has never happened. Never mind that I don’t have an Aunt Alice. Never mind that remembering the stripes on the wallpaper has nothing to do with washing your hands. Rationality has no place in the desperate compulsive’s mind.

I’m not like the rest of you.

Coming next: This is why bathroom doors should have locks.

It's a musical thing, language

2008-05-29T12:51:00.000-07:00

Once I wrote a [super shitty] poem and posted on this blog and no one commented on it and I died a little bit inside. Then I convinced myself that really no one had understood it and felt much better. Also, crap, I forgot that I wrote a poem specially to introduce this post. Okay, it's okay, I can just use it at the end. So, in introduction, I would like to say: I'm always amazed at how much meaning can be packed into a simple-looking poem.

----------------------------------------

Run from Love

Someday, I’ll go to Mexico
And wear a poncho made of wool
With a picture of a village
At the running of the bull.

I’ll drink some cheap tequila
From a bottle on the street
And I’ll take a long siesta
With a sombrero and bare feet.

I’ll eat a bowl of beans
And tell senora that they’re bueno
Even though they taste like cardboard
And will make me gas-insaneo.

When a boy of twelve insults me
I can challenge him to duel me
And I’ll ram him through the heart
With my epee because I’m cruel me.

Yes someday I’ll go to Mexico
And I’ll meet a dark-haired girl
And I’ll hold her hand beneath the moon
And hurl on a cactus.

----------------------------------------

This poem is dedicated to my cousin Jake, who is the pickiest bastard in the known universe with his waiters. Also is cheap.

I was sitting in a bistro with my back against a bench
and deciphering was difficult calligraphy in french;
Dairy dishes, though delicious, my GI does not digest,
just like honey gives me hives and puts my bowels to the test.
So I sat there and I squinted and I asked the waiter twice
If the pasta came with cream sauce, could I get it over rice?
Might the scrambled eggs be poached instead, and would it be too much
if they bake the fries, leave off the chives, and toast the bread a touch?
With a coolness and a calmness that did credit to his kind,
he repolished all my silver and removed the bacon rind.
So it made me mildly wistful as I sprang with happy feet,
as I dropped six pence, and hopped the fence, and flew off down the street.

----------------------------------------

Hard Wood

With crazy torque and a short dress
She twirls on the dance floor,
With a stamp and snap, and a "Who's next?"
High heels on a hard floor
Now, her curly hair isn't bouncing any more;
The song changes, the dancing changes, the dancers.
After the ball is over, not yet the break of day,
she'll sit on a white bench by a tall hedge
with whispering love and a graying sky
And the glitter dies in her eyes at the edge
of unaccustomed weakness. In the meantime
she says, play trumpets, clash cymbals and spin
while the music plays dancer spin.

----------------------------------------

From time to time I find in fine
to find the time to write a rhyme.
Recalling now the pleasure I
derive from such an exercise,
I find it wise to thus surprise
your eyes with this. bye-bye. By I.

----------------------------------------

Hey, I got an idea. If anyone writes a poem-comment, then they get to choose a style and I'll write a mediocre poem about them in that style: haiku, sonnet, ballad, sestina, villanelle, you name it. Only no epics.

Ugly people are friendly and vice-versa (your ugly friends are still people)

2008-05-28T13:13:00.001-07:00

There I was, slaving away at work, which has for some reason come to involve a lot of work lately - wtf is that about? All of a sudden instead of ten minutes of checking email and maybe twenty minutes of looking something work-related up on the internet, I now have hours worth of work to do EVERY DAY. I know, who could believe it? But there I was, make it 30 seconds ago now, when it suddenly hit me: I don't feel like working right now. It hit me with a delightfully comfortable impact, like landing on your head in a Moonbounce, when you think it's really going to hurt but then it's just air-filled and cushy, and you don't even realize until hours later that you may have sprained your vertebrae or your job standing or whatever.

Anyway, for now, I'm just going to enjoy the fact that the impact didn't break my neck and worry about the cosmetic complications of wearing a neck-brace tomorrow, when my boss slaps my face, handcuffs me to my desk and stands behind me all day watching me type and humming the Jaws theme.

Jeez, what is with me and stupid metaphors lately? It's like I've fallen into a giant bin of applesauce and I can't convince the pygmy African tribesman to throw me the extra set of snowshoes because he thinks I'm racist or something. (The applesauce is bad figures of speech, the snowshoes represent reason, and I think the tribesman is a box of buffalo wings.)

Did you know that most people are ugly? I think I've mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. Next time you're walking down the street, take a good look at the people around you: crooked teeth here, a pot belly there, neck flap yonder, lazy eye there, someone with different-colored skin here, a cripple there.

Odds are, if you're a person, you're ugly. So forget about next time you're walking down the street - the next time you're in front of a mirror, look a little closer. Do you have body image issues? because you probably should.

I noticed the fact on Sunday when I was out obscenely late down in Chicago. There I was, hanging out by the bathroom door of a late-night bar, watching my friends get hit on by random dudes. And you know what? They were all ugly. (Not my friends... well, they're kind of ugly.)

Some of these friendly guys were even cool, bought us all drinks, did shots with us, but then at the last moment, when one of them would do the awkward guy-on-guy ask-for-phone-number - because you know, this was fun and we should hang out and get drunk again some time - I'd just think, "no. You know, you're cool, but you're ugly." And I look down on ugly people.

There was even this chick who wanted to be on me, or maybe inside me, I don't know, she was doing all kinds of weird scrunchy winky faces that either meant "I'm digging you" or "I'm digging you a grave in my head right now" and she kept sucking the straw in her drink so hard she was puckering up and her eyes were bulging so she looked like a fish, and it was about that time that I thought, you know, maybe the priesthood wouldn't be so bad. Especially if I could only offer the Tridentine Mass (facing the altar) and hear lots of confessions (from behind the screen) so I didn't have to look all the ugly parishioners in the face.

And also, if I ever start a band, it's going to be called Neck Flap Yonder.

A story you have to read

2008-05-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so it's a Christmas story, yeah so it's kind of long, yeah so this isn't even a post I wrote, but damn it, if I have to read this story and get eyes full of tears sitting at my desk and deal with the confused glances of co-workers, then you can nut up and read it too. It's only fair. So read it, read the whole thing if you can at all, and remember what it feels like to believe in something.

Reprinted in toto: Our Christmas letter

I just couldn’t bear to actually send this out because it’s so long-winded, but it’s a good story:

‘Twas the week before Christmas….and we had to decide what to give to Brian’s brother Pat, his wife Mary, and their 5 kids (they have 5, we have 5, we match!) In the Burch family, we “pick names” for Christmas, so we only had this one present to get. And this year, in an effort to “simplify” (i.e. make cheaper), we all decided the present had to be something homemade. So we got the brilliant idea to make an outdoor nativity scene out of wood. We’d seen one around the neighborhood, just a 2-dimensional, white silhouette made out of plywood. Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, a bare outline of a stable, and oh yeah, two little sheep…no problem. What a great family project, we thought. Even the kids can help make it. It will truly be a thoughtful gift from our whole family to theirs, expressing the true meaning of Christmas. Perfect!

“Shall I order the pattern off the internet?” I asked Brian. “Nah”, he replied, “It’s so easy we can just draw it”. “Us?” I replied with a raised eyebrow, “with our artistic talent?” We both had a good laugh. “Ok, then, we’ll get John to help us draw it”. Well, it turned out that we walked down the block to a neighbor who had the nativity scene in his front yard and asked if we could trace his. Luckily, he had kept the pattern, so we borrowed it. With some carbon paper, a sheet of plywood, and a pencil, we soon had everything drawn and ready to cut out (in our living room). Bridget and Sara helped Brian with the tracing, Sam kept running over the plywood to make sure it stayed level, Therese and Hopi borrowed carbon paper and traced American Girls out of the catalog, and Martin poked his nose out of his book to offer occasional advice. Then Brian and the twins headed out to the garage to start the cutting. Despite frigid temperatures, Brian managed to hold the jigsaw steady and make all the cuts. It turned out beautifully. We were a little surprised at how nice it looked! A few slaps of white paint and it was ready to go.

Hmmmm…. how are we going to get it to Phoenix? This thought had occurred to us before, but we had glossed over it, sure that the thing wasn’t that big. It really is a modest size, which was one reason we had tackled the project in the first place. But once it was finished, we realized we didn’t have a box big enough. It was about 48″ x 48″ by 1/2″. “Don’t worry,” said Brian, “with enough cardboard and tape, I can make a box.” And sure enough, the resourceful man did it. So the package was ready to go. Plenty of time to get it to the post office for Christmas delivery. But I thought of something - our friends the Altosinos had asked us to take them to the airport for their flight to Phoenix the next day. Maybe they could just take the package with them on the plane. Sure, they said, we wouldn’t mind. So I checked on the internet for Southwest Airlines baggage restrictions. Uh-oh… if it’s over 60 inches (length plus width plus height) it counts as oversize baggage, and if it’s between 60 and 80 inches, it’ll cost $50. We had hoped not to have to spend that much, and besides it was even over 80 inches, so I checked out the US Postal Service website - their size allowance was larger, and since the package wasn’t very heavy, I was sure we could mail it for less than $50.

So on Tuesday, Dec. 18, the crazy day began. Last day of school for the kids - special fancy clothes for everyone, teacher gifts, casserole for the Christmas luncheon, frenzy of last day…. then a slight break before the afternoon rush - Therese had her Irish dance party, Martin had basketball, and we had a trip to the post office to make. So about 3:30, Sara loaded up all the kids for the short drive to the post office. Martin helped me lug the package, huge and unwieldy, inside, while strangers looked at us with incredulous smiles. When it was our turn, the lady at the counter rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I checked your website,” I said, “I think it’s small enough”. She brought her tape measure around and proceed to measure the length plus GIRTH (twice width plus twice height). Doh! It was 162″ and the post office won’t take anything over 130″. “Even at a cheaper/slower rate?” I asked. “Nope, not at all”, she said. Back to the car we went. At home, I looked up the UPS rules - they would definitely take it, I saw, and when I plugged in the numbers to their rate calculator, it didn’t look bad - maybe only $20-$30. Just in case, I called Southwest to talk to an actual person. “You’re sure there’s no way you can take it?” ” No way,” they assured me.

Fine, let’s go to UPS. Load up everybody, coats, boots, present for Irish dance teacher, grab bag present, drinks for party, let’s go. It’s dark by now, 5:15, rush hour. It takes so long to get to UPS that I know Therese is going to be late for her party. Oh well, I’ve got to get this package on it’s way or it’s not going to get there for Christmas! So this time Bridget helps me inside and the UPS guys greet us with “Whoa! Where you goin’ with that?” “Phoenix!” I say cheerfully, sure that this time, we’re almost done… they hand me a label to fill out, and then I pull out my credit card. “That’ll be $119.65″ the friendly guy tells me. “What?! Isn’t there any cheaper way?” No, they explain that the odd shape and size make it the equivalent of a 90 pound package. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, “I just can’t do that”. And Bridget and I stumble back to the car again. Now I’m holding back tears. I don’t know what to do. I hate to call Brian and give him the bad news. Maybe we should just give up, I think. Maybe we just can’t get this thing to Phoenix. It was stupid of us not to figure this out ahead of time. I don’t know how it’ll work unless we cut it up into a bunch of smaller pieces, which would just about ruin it. I’m so discouraged, but I say a little prayer, “Jesus, I trust in you”. Somehow, I know it will work out.

I drop Therese off and we head home, wolf down some chili, and then get back in the car to take Martin to basketball. I call Brian and explain. He’s on the train on his way home to pick up his car and head right to take the Altosinos to the airport. “Maybe you should just take it with you to the airport and TRY to get it on the plane with them,” I say. “There’s no way they’ll take it,” he replies, but after discussing our options, he decides it’s worth a try. I’m confident in Brian’s resourcefulness, and remind him to grease a palm if he has to. I keep thinking there must be a reason that we’re taking somebody to the airport to go to Phoenix on this day we’re trying to mail this ridiculous package there. I’m hoping somehow this is God’s Providence. So we drop off the package at his car, which is parked by the train station. Then on our way again, I say to the kids, “Ok, guys, we just have to PRAY, that somehow Daddy gets the package on the plane. Who’s the patron saint of shipping? Let’s say a memorare” So we do, and then I add, St. Joseph, pray for us. St. Rita (patron saint of hopeless causes), pray for us. St. Therese, pray for us.” “Why St. Therese?” asks Bridget. “I don’t know, she’s just a good saint. Help us get the package to Phoenix and send us some roses, St. Therese”

Skip ahead a few hours. After more back and forth, I’m picking up the last kid at the McCormacks’ house. When I mention the day I’ve had, they strongarm me into coming in for a drink. As I pour out the whole saga, they sympathize and Patrick reminds us that despite all the hectic frenzy of the season, we have so much to be thankful for. Then we get a call from Brian. He’s on his way home from the airport and says he’s going to stop and do a little shopping. Almost afraid to bring up a sore subject, I say, “you didn’t get the package sent, did you?” “First of all,” he replies, “WHO DID YOU PRAY TO?!” He tells me how he carefully planned out his approach with the Altosinos and brought the package up to the skycap’s stand. After giving their name and flight, the skycap gave Brian a weird look and he thought, great, this is not going to go well. “Altosino? Hank Altosino?” the skycap says. “Um, yeah?” Brian responds. It turns out the skycap grew up with Mr. Altosino right around Midway airport. “Sure we’ll get it on the plane for ya! I’ll walk it right down there!” We thought we’d be lucky to get away with the $50 fee, but they didn’t charge us anything!

We were so excited. I told the kids and they were so happy. What a wonderful lesson for them - to have their prayers answered so quickly and clearly! We were giddy with relief. “But we didn’t get any roses from St. Therese,” said Bridget. Martin replied that maybe Pat and Mary would send us a thank you note with roses on it. But who cares? We got the answer to our prayers! We got the present on it’s way without having to pay a million dollars! We went home and got the kids to bed, but before they were asleep, Brian came home. And what do you think he brought? You guessed it, ROSES. A lady in his office had given him something as he was leaving and he hadn’t even opened it up to look at it. But it turned out to be a tiny little church with snow all around it and a miniature nativity scene in front of it, surrounded by evergreens and three giant red roses. The kids all jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs to see this second affirmation that indeed, our prayers had been heard and answered. St. Therese is alive and well and so close to us.

We are so grateful for all our blessings this Christmas, especially our faith. Thank you God, and Blessed Mother. Thank you St. Joseph, St. Rita, and St. Therese! Thank you to all our good friends and family who love us and whom we love in return - thank you McCormacks and Altosinos! We wish all of you a joyous Christmas season and a blessed New Year. May your lives be filled with grace and may you recognize that the saints are all around us.

Love,
Brian, Sara, Martin, Bridget, Therese, Mary Hope, and Sam

That's it. Now go have a great effing weekend, and God bless you.

Mostly not bathroom humor

2008-05-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

Like the desperate meth-addict ex-boyfriend, I've changed. I've changed, I swear. I can respect you now. I can refrain from indulging my impulses, feeding my addiction. I know that stuff is bad for our relationship, and even though it's torture to me, I can resist the temptation to do what I've done before, to do what I know I shouldn't.

Sometime yesterday, a homeless person took a shit next to/on our garage, right in the passageway from the yard to the alley. And for your sake, that's all I'll say about it. I've been having a feeling that the poop talk is getting old, and I understand. So if that's what you want, I can do that for you.

Last night, my brother and I went to the Avenue Alehouse to watch the Cubs game (don't even get me started on the Cubbies - Sweet Lord, they look good). After the baseball was finished (including the cutaway to Lester's no-hitter in Boston), and after the basketball, and after the owner had seen us to the door at closing time, we went home, I grabbed a sandwich and headed for bed.

But you can't just eat in bed without doing anything else, that would just look depressing, and if there's one thing I hate, it's to look depressing when I'm in bed.

Lately, since my laptop's charger has gone to hell, I have nothing left but books. And last night, the nearest book to my groping hand was A.A. Milne's The House at Pooh Corner. It was awesome.

It may just have been because I was drunk - in fact, I'm pretty sure it was mostly because I was drunk - but I loved it. Also, the sandwich was delicious. I smiled quietly as wide as I could for the entire chapter, even going back occasionally to reread a particularly delightful pericope. Something about the phrasing, the simple This-Makes-Sense-ness, reminded me what it was like to be a kid, only without the bed-wetting. Fine, maybe a little bed-wetting.

The other day, my brother and mom were lamenting over their memories of childhood - and not lamenting as in "ah, the good old days," but as in "didn't it suck to be a kid?"

I was horrified, wondering what could have bothered them so profoundly - the limited social circles? Mosquito bites? Getting shampoo in the eyes in the shower? Being told what to do? Homework? Peer pressure? No dating?

It turned out that no, there was no specific grievance. What scarred their memories was more the overwhelming, constant state of confusion: not knowing what to do next, being afraid to ask the teacher to use the bathroom, starting at a new school with no friends and picking a table at lunch in the cafeteria.

Maybe I was just a dull kid, but all this never really bothered me. I was not an emotionally high-strung little dude. I was aware that these situations existed, but it never got through to me that I should feel bad about it. During 7th grade (7th!), I would routinely follow other kids as they walked around the parking lot after school - about fifteen, twenty feet behind them, just walking after them as they talked and threw rocks. And it didn't even seem pathetic to me. I didn't mind at all.

I think if I saw that happen now, I would probably make fun of the kid and then start crying, but my 12-year-old self didn't give a rat's ass. My entire childhood was a series of events, adventures, and not paying attention. The only things that would give me emotional distress would be if my mom said I disappointed her (not that often), or if the Cubs lost (a hell of a lot, back in them days).

Nowadays, I have it much worse. I still have the bewildering feeling of having no idea what I'm supposed to be doing, except now I realize it, and now I'm supposed to know what I'm doing. All of a sudden, I have responsibility for my life, but no more clue than ever what that means. I still have awkward interactions, only now they bug the shit out of me, and I get nervous about making a good impression.

What the hell is this? Just because I'm an adult, everyone thinks I'm going to know what I'm doing? Are you kidding? Screw that! I'm still blundering around through life, taking a dump in the public pool, getting bee stings, playing games, taking showers once a week. Metaphorically, I think. I only take metaphorical showers, because I have sensitive skin.

What about you? Which was your childhood?

A. Happy: Ignorance is bliss.

or

B. Scary: Oh shit, I wet my pants at school, I hope no one notices the giant stain on my crotch and the urine dribbling down the leg of my desk.

A few things happened

2008-05-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

Hi, how are you? Yeah, I’ve been gone for a few weeks. Where was I? Doesn’t really matter. I’m back now.

I forgot that my brother had the address of my blog, so when he asked why I wasn’t writing on it any more, it jarred me. Oh yeah, I have a blog. So I went to the computer, opened up this page, and started reading a few of the posts. And you know what? I liked them. I thought they were funny and well-written. And I wanted to read more.

So, duh, I knew I’d have to write them.

This morning I couldn’t find my keys. I can’t say I lost them, because for all I knew they were sitting in the pocket of my other jeans on my dresser. It wasn’t like I dropped them down a crevasse on a glacier, or left them at work, or they slipped out of a hole in my pocket and dropped out of my cuff just when I was walking across the catwalk above a giant pail of molten steel during my tour of the Wells Steel Mill (how do those giant pails not melt? What the hell are they made of?). Anyway, it wasn’t like that. I just didn’t know where they were, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had them.

Losing my keys sucked especially for the following reasons:

1. It was a workday. So I’m pissed that I can’t find my keys, checking the same places over and over, tearing up my bedding, cursing in my head – all the while knowing that my reward, the light at the end of the tunnel, is that when I finally find the stupid things, I get to go to work. At my job. Which blows.

2. Let me couch the second reason in broader terms: people try to help you look. This is a wonderful gesture, and truly generous. It really is. But you just know other people never know where to look, can’t retrace your steps, and honestly have an icicle’s chance in hell of actually helping. Meanwhile, they sacrifice their breakfast time to wander the house, exacerbating your pain with the following three rejoinders:

a. “When did you have them last?” I have no idea, sometime between four days and one hour ago when I realized they were missing. In which time I’ve been in and out of four vehicles and twelve buildings. Really narrows it down.

b. “Did you check [insert place here]?” There are two possible answers to this question: “yes, obviously, I checked there first and three times since then,” or “no, there is no way in hell they could possibly be there.”

c. And my favorite: “Any luck?” Yes, that’s why my face is scrunched and scarlet, my knuckles are white and you could hear my teeth grinding when I was in the basement while you were waiting for the shower to warm up with the doors closed, the stereo blasting an all-cymbal orchestra and a tiger on your bed killing a wild boar with a jackhammer.

That was the worst hyperbole ever. I know. Shut up.

After twenty minutes or so, I was really at my wits end. My room looks like an absolute war-zone at this point. I was trying to pull out my own hair, but was too exhausted, so instead I just stumbled around in a hopeless delirium, checking and re-checking all the places I had already checked and re-checked. Then, on my fifth time checking the pockets of the jeans on my dresser, I found them. I still have no explanation for this, so don’t ask. The point is that I got to work just in time to be late for filling out my “Notice of Days Absent” and “Time Worked Request for Payroll” forms, sure to garner extra attention from the bosses when they notice that under “hours worked in the last two weeks,” I have scrawled “45.” Whatever.

So how about Big Brown?

Let’s change the subject, shall we? Yes we shall. Did you watch the Preakness? The Derby? Have you seen Big Brown? Let’s itemize this:

1. I know the fields haven’t been the strongest, and I know the margins of victory haven’t been huge, but he has won both races easily. First of all, he came from the outside both times (and in at least one other race), which means he actually ran marginally farther than the horses on the rail. And even so, he’s never really been tested. His jockey said he completely eased up the last furlong or so because the race wasn’t close, and said he was returning him to the stables with “a half-tank of gas left.”

2. Big Brown is named after UPS, as in “what can Brown do for you?” Is this weird? Did they pay for that? Do they get a share of his winnings? Or after his retirement from competitive racing, is he bound by contract to ferry packages cross-country a la Pony Express?

3. Did I tell you that I bet on Big Brown in the Derby? And that I bet on Eight Belles to place? And made 434% on my money? And then bet on him again in the Preakness and won? Cause I did.

4. Do you find it weird that I’m talking about horseracing? Because I sort of do.

So that’s enough for today. I guess after that little break, this post is the equivalent of make-up sex, and I apologize for leaving you just shy of the brink of satisfaction. It was good for me, though, and hey, at least now there’s not a post about poop at the top of the page. And I didn’t even make a poop joke about Big Brown! That doesn’t count.

Just another post about poop

2008-04-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

We all know I love poop.

Quick side note for all the smartasses out there: did you just say, “well, actually, I didn’t know that, so you’re wrong.”? Did you? Because I didn’t say, “we all knew I love poop,” I said “we all know I love poop,” which, after having read that sentence, we all DO. So shut your damn pretty mouth.

Heretofore my accounts of poop stories have been the only worthwhile things I’ve written (I say heretofore because this post isn’t going to be worthwhile, and also because I think that word makes me sound smart). I’m fascinated by poop.

So naturally, when Tiff posted about this stuff yesterday, I was immediately engrossed (best usage of that word ever). [The link is not for the faint-of-heart. Basically it’s a product that makes you shit a ton and supposedly cleans out the poop-chute.]

The thought of rectal pollution got to me though, because really, if you have fifteen pounds of poo-gradually-ossifying-into-cancer wedged in your colon, you’ve got to want to shit it out, right? I mean, even the thought that one of those monsters might be lurking around the next bend of my large intestine had me breaking out in cold sweat.

At the same time, I knew this company was an exaggerated, charge-you-out-the-wazoo (ha), one-step-short-of-a-pyramid-scheme bunch of shlepps. I’ve asked my dad before if there really might be a couple stone (ha) of turd in the lower level of your GI and he said of course not. Oh yeah, I should mention my dad’s a doctor – otherwise it sounds like I’m four years old (and my dad can beat up your dad).

So at first, I thought I’d just let it go. But I couldn’t. Last night in bed, I tossed and turned. I probed my abdomen gently, wondering, fearing the worst: that I was basically the star of Aliens 4: It Comes Out Your Ass.

I needed my own version of the ass-blaster medicine. So this morning, in a minor panic, I broke into my mother’s All-Bran. I had dashed out a bowl of the mouse-turd shaped cereal and crunched a handful down before I saw that we had no milk. No milk for the cereal, real effing great.

Did that stop me? Hell no. I poured warmish water over the gravelly mix and started gamely spooning. Despite the fact that All-Bran and water is fucking disgusting, I got into a zone. I ploughed through that damn cereal like it was going to save me from cancer, which it might have been. Next thing I knew, I had eaten six bowls. Six fucking bowls of All-Bran!

This was bad. This was bad, I just knew it. And then I heard the loud, unmistakable creaking groan of an old sailing ship’s mast tilting in the wind. Or that’s what I thought. Then I realized the sound was actually my own bowel growl, registering at about 80 decibels. The ground was shaking a little bit, a light bulb shattered in the sconce, and beads of sweat sprang out on my forehead. I bolted for the bathroom.

Poop and I have been at it all day. Three times I’ve hit up the growler, and three times emptied the tanks, leaving a deposit the size of a swaddling papoose. It’s inexplicable. I can’t imagine how that much poop fit inside me. It’s like I just had triplets.

But you know what? I’m enjoying it. I’m really kinda digging the whole experience. It’s not every day you have the opportunity to poop the equivalent weight of an ottoman soaked in water.

And two seconds ago, someone walked behind my desk and saw the first paragraph declaring “We all know I love poop.” So now that everyone involved has far more information than they ever could have wanted, I’d better go. As a matter of fact, there’s another reason too. Excuse me.

You want answers?

2008-04-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

First of all, I promise I didn't think this post was going to suck. But I blame the suckiness at least half on you.

Answers to the questions.

First off, my cousin Jake asked me “why are you so gay?”

Obviously, I don’t know, because if I knew, I would do everything in my power to undo the causes since, as everyone knows, I can’t stand gay people. They make me feel uncomfortable and morally superior.

But if I had to guess, I’d say the reason I’m so gay is because of a story I once heard from a friend who I loved and trusted. This friend, a future roommate of mine, told me that once in high school, he had been extremely constipated. After half an hour on the toilet, he was getting desperate, and so he reached up his aft chute with one finger, curled his fingertip to hook into the turd, and yanked it out. Who wouldn’t turn gay after that story? You guys are all gay now, right?

Second, J. Hi asked “Who’s the best cereal mascot?”

Now, I was never allowed to eat cereal when I was a growing boy. My parents knew that too much sugar made kids hyper and too much playing with the toys that come in cereal boxes makes boys gay.

So I had to think long and hard about this. The best cereal is certainly Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but I don’t remember that having a mascot – so instead I’ll go with Captain Crunch. I actually mentioned him as an exemplar for the upcoming celebration of May as White Men’s History Month, and I think of him as a venerable old gentleman we could all learn something from. Or maybe not. But whatever, he’s not a pirate at least. (He’s not a pirate, is he?)

Tiff actually asked some serious questions, and serious questions, like gays, make me uncomfortable. But I’ll do my best. Just don’t expect this section to be entertaining.

What’s my best memory? My best memory is also probably the most sublime experience of my life: swimming in the Blue Grotto in Capri off the coast of Naples, at sunset, with my best friends all around me and the sea like a giant jewel backlit by fire.

What’s my worst memory? My worst memory is probably any one of several crises of conscience after doing something wrong, or finding out that my mom had cancer.

Where do I see myself in 5 years? Ideally, starting every fifth day for the Cubs. Realistically, who cares? Because I only care about ideally.

Have I ever been in love? Yeah, I think so.

Lil asked what Jake (anonymous) said. I was waaay over it.

Surviving myself asked if I was gay.

In response, I can only say, what are you supposed to do when you’re playing spin the bottle and it happens to land on a guy, and you have to play by the rules? And he sort of slips you the tongue to make other people laugh? And then maybe you blush a little bit and hold your cheeks? Your butt-cheeks. Exactly.

Falwless asked a question I didn’t even understand, but I think she finished by asking if she should sport more cleavage. So the answer to that is obviously yes.

Then later she called me an ass clown, so I’m changing my answer to no! No one wants to see your lame cleavage! I’ve seen better cleavage on a six-year old boy! What? He was kinda fat!

Asiankp went ahead and went there…
Who is my favorite sibling? My sister Mary Elizabeth, who my mom miscarried right before me!
Who is my favorite cousin? It’s a tie between everyone except Jake.
Who is my favorite person that my sister lives with? Her youngest son, Sam. HaHA! Escaped from your Pharisee-esque questions!

Jake then anonymously asked if I am susceptible to any cheeses. As a matter of fact, after my oldest brother poured a full glass of mild down my throat on my first birthday, I became allergic to dairy, and susceptible to all kinds of cheese through most of junior high school. No longer, thankfully.

Malice Blackheart asked why I chose the name Fort Knocks. Unfortunately, this story is boring as hell. I was drinking, and I thought it was an insanely clever pun. In case you haven’t noticed, it isn’t.

Kayleigh asked if I can do the limbo despite being 6’6”. I don’t know, I haven’t really tried it in about ten years, when I was pretty good at it (and 5’4”). If I had to bet, I’d bet on my knees going out before my competitors.

Margarita asked boxers or briefs. This made me glad, because then maybe it will seem less creepy when I say I had a dream about her. Ok, maybe that was more creepy.

Thing is, in the dream, she was more creepy, because she came up behind my while I was eating dinner, put her hand on my left shoulder and introduced herself. But then when I tried to turn around, she kept dodging and ducking behind me so I couldn’t see her face. But I could see that she had long dark hair. Which she probably doesn’t. I should probably stop telling this story now. Boxer-briefs.

And Tiff asked, “is this a trick where you’re like “ask me a question” but you never answer them?” …I don’t know, probably.

Ask me a question

2008-04-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows what "The Hills" is, right? And who Heidi Montag is, right? And everyone knows how some bad R&B can get so raunchy it's not even sexy any more, it's just more, you know, what?!

Well, this dialogue occurred earlier today - observe the intersection of patterns:

My friend: I heard Heidi Montag is coming out with a new single called “I want to be your toilet paper.”

Me: That is incredible.

My friend: I know, isn’t it?

Me: …actually, no.*

Well, that was a short post, so we better have something else to go with it. So ask me a question, any question at all, and I'll answer it, guaranteed. I won't even need to consult any sources, because the reservoir of knowledge inside my dome is an umplumbable depth.

This is sort of like that meme or whatever - except my answers are guaranteed to be better than anyone else's you've ever seen.

* This story is totally false. Don't look up the song; it doesn't exist.

So... questions?

H&R Block is easy, but I wish it was hard

2008-04-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

Here’s the deal: things that are funny make you happy – but things that make you happy aren’t funny. No one wants to hear a story about how “oh my gosh, traffic was totally fine today, the highway was empty and no one cut me off and I didn’t swear or curse the whole way home and I only cried once.” Because that’s boring.

Everyone wants to hear about when this guy in a white Monte Carlo cut you off and you honked and yelled “Where the hell do you think YOU’RE going, jackass?!” and he got out and said, “What’d you say, asswipe?” and you say “you heard me, you fat turd-burglar!” and then he pops his trunk and takes out a huge mother-effing bat and you shit your pants and screech over onto the shoulder to get around him and wave him the finger out your window as you go. And maybe he hurls the bat after you and just misses your bumper, but maybe the effort made his sunglasses fall off his head and they broke on the pavement and then maybe when he bends over to pick them up, a burly trucker jumps down from his cab and rapes him, and maybe you and your friends all cheer. Everyone loves that story.

For this reason, I was really hoping that doing my taxes was going to turn out to be a huge pain in the ass – because then at least it might make a funny story and my day wouldn’t be a total bore. No such luck. H&R Block is the Prince Charming of my Internet tax-filing fairy tale. That company up and swept me off my feet, took me on a crazy horse, magic carpet, Crazy Horse (holla, Pocahontas!) ride and left me breathless at my desk, with a sweet taste on my lips, a pounding heart in my chest, and a fire in my loins.

If I was a princess, and that was my first date with my Prince (both pretty much true), I would kill myself if he didn’t call back. H&R Block is lucky I don’t have his cell phone number because I’d already be peppering the old inbox with mushy text messages. “Hey boo, miss you already! Can’t wait to “do business” next year ;) call me! Muah!”

Good thing, I guess, because you just know he’d get turned off that I was so clingy and needy and then I’d probably go on anti-depressants and sleep with TurboTax, who’s basically the Rumpelstiltskin of the story, except with Turbo-charged libido – at least I hope so. (Don’t you hate when you’re doing that “try-to-get-over-him hook-up” and the guy you pick up at the bar whose pick-up line was when he said he liked your personality turns out to be kind of a pansy in the sack? Yeah, that’s never happened to me either.)

Where were we? Rumpled stilt skin? No, before that. Oh yeah, H&R Block and how much I want him to take me to the Prom. I know it’s kind of short notice, but I’m really hoping, because we really hit it off, and I know he’s really popular, but I don’t think he’s such a player. Deep down, we’re so similar, I can just feel it.

Plus, booyah! I get like $900 back from the government, which kicks ass! I know that’s just because of the economic stimulus package, but whatever. The economy’s not the only one getting his package stimulussed, you can bet on that. And I’m definitely giving all the credit to H&R Block anyway, just like girls in high school at the prom.

You know what I’m talking about: all these girls in high school with visions of romance compounded with the whisperings of a thousand slumber parties and two shots of cheap vodka who are dead-set on the idea of losing their virginity at prom and rationalize that the mop-top soccer player in his dad’s car is the dream boy because he bought her a corsage and smiled while he held the door for her.

My date was the only honorable one who told me that was what was really going on. Nice girl. Kinda outta my league, but at least she was honest. I think she might have let me kiss her, but she had to get home early.

No such excuse, H&R Block; you work round the clock, my heart you unlock, you harden my, resolve.

Guess what else is open 24 hours, H&R Block? My arms, and the other half of my bed. Like I said in the first place, you're easy; I just wish you were hard.

Shaving my goatee made me the rudest person I know

2008-04-10T14:46:00.000-07:00

or - The Butterfly Effect vis-a-vis Facial Hair and Excretory Hygiene

As a youthful act of defiance, I grew a goatee. It didn’t look that great, but I gave it some time, and after a month or so, it really started to fill in – I’d say I was halfway between Orlando Bloom’s fruit-stache in Pirates of the Caribbean and Jeff Bridges’ Dude a la Big Lebowski.

But this story is about poop. Jon at Extraneous Kickassery told a story today about a guy who had stunk up the bathroom at work (come to think of it, Lil was on a potty kick too), and it reminded me of the time when someone at work took a dump in the garbage can in the bathroom. This episode I did not understand. Clearly, the guy had made it to the bathroom on time, there was plenty of toilet paper; the situation was perfect for an ordinary, regular, put-the-seat-down-and-sit-on-it poop. Instead, he chooses to wedge himself up between the top of the can and the paper-towel dispenser and pinch a loaf for posterity – a loaf that will last.

When I came into the bathroom that day, and smelled that bitter oniony stank of a air-drying turd (you can tell a turd in water from a turd in air just as easily as you can tell a fart from an oops-I-just-shit-my-pants, sorry, tmi), I checked the toilet for “klingons,” then peeked into the garbage, saw the relic, and burst out with the only thing I really could say: “Oh, COME ON!”

But this story is about my goatee. Jon’s poop story also reminded me that I had grown a goatee – wait for it – as a youthful act of defiance. I started it around a month or so ago (call it six weeks), and it was just beginning to fill out nicely (I’m having the strangest sense of déjà vu here).

Then suddenly, two days ago, I heard from my coach about my upcoming tryout. I was excited, and decided that I needed to look as young as possible for the tryout (minor league coaches are notoriously pederastic – see those mustaches?), so I shaved the goat. And you know what? It had filled out more than I expected – so much so that I needed a hair clippers to get it down to length before shaving, so much that I dulled one and a half razor blades, so much (and here’s the kicker!) that I really looked different when I shaved it off. Why is that important? I wouldn’t let myself into bars? No. It’s important because (remember this) every time for the last two days I have seen myself in the mirror, I have gotten startled and have to check again for thirty seconds or so to make sure I am myself and not a vampire or Matt Damon or whatever.

But this story is about poop. Yesterday, I cruised into the bathroom as is my wont, and purged my colon (wow, sometimes it’s best to leave the descriptive writing at the door, huh? The bathroom door. Zing!). And as I stood up, I caught a glimpse of someone moving around suddenly, staring at me. When I stood still, he stood still; when I moved, he moved.

I was petrified. Slowly, slowly, I poked my head around the corner and saw… the mirror. Duh! It was the goatee, throwing me for a loop all along. I chuckled to myself as I walked to the sink buckling my belt, washed my hands and winked at myself in the mirror. Then I shook my head and gave the requisite shake-of-the-wet-hands-so-as-not-to-waste-paper-towels-by-drying-hands-that-are-soaked-and-could-easily-be-shaken-half-dry-at-least. Then I checked my teeth real quick, made a scary face at myself and laughed. And then I walked out.

There was one thing I didn’t do.

Go ahead, read back, see if you can see what it was.

Figure it out yet? I hadn’t. I was almost all the way back to my desk when it hit me.

You didn’t flush.

I panicked. I started hyperventilating. My face was flushed… but the toilet wasn’t.

So I scurried back toward the bathroom, and just as I rounded the bend and the door came into view, I caught a glimpse of a shoe retreating into the commode and the door clicked close…. I was too late. All was lost.

I shuffled aimlessly, despondently, over to the locked door, as if there was something I could do. And then I was startled by the bellow from inside, a screech of the most righteous indignation. “Oh, COME ON!”

I hustled back to my desk.

Betting, stealing and making restitution: an unsolved mystery in one part

2008-04-07T15:31:00.000-07:00

I enjoy the occasional prop bet as much as the next man – well, more than the next man if I’m being honest with you. I say that it never hurts to make a question more interesting by putting some money on the outcome.

A few times in college, I offered other students various amounts of money if they could eat a certain amount of a certain food in a certain amount of time… ten bucks for a bottle of mustard in fifteen minutes, twenty for a jar of grape jelly in ten minutes, forty for a gallon of Pace thick and chunky salsa in an hour. None of those three finished, and two of them threw up.

The most I ever had to pay out was $100, when one of my friends jumped into a sewage canal fully dressed and swam fifty yards to a ladder he could climb out on. Never bet against a drunk person doing something stupid.

Remember when I said that I pick my teeth with staples at work? I wasn’t lying. Well, it bothers the girl who sits closest to me, so we came up with a decent bet (if you can call it a bet): every time I pick my teeth with staples, I put a dollar in the jar between our desks. She has to put a dollar in every time she checks her Blackberry Pearl for messages. We didn’t really plan what we would do with the money after it accumulated for a while, but we had the feeling that we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

But another co-worker (Peggy, who happens to be my cousin) surprised us with a concern we hadn’t considered. “Someone is going to steal that money,” she said, pointing to the three dollars that I had dropped in the jar that morning.

“Surely not,” I said. “The employees here have integrity, class.”

But Peggy was unconvinced. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said.

And of course, being myself, I chimed, “well, care to make it interesting?”

In a minute, we had another prop bet on. If the money stayed in the jar for more than two days, Peggy would owe me four dollars. If it was stolen within a day, I would owe Peggy four dollars. If it was stolen on the second day, we would call it a push.

The first day, the first night passed. Evening came and morning followed. The money remained. Satisfied and confident, I let Peggy know that I couldn’t lose – that the best she could hope for now was a tie… and then I went home. Evening came and morning followed.

The second day, I came into the office to find the money gone, the jar empty. That was it, stolen and done.

I emailed Peggy my congratulations on her narrow escape, and was content to let it go at that. Until…

Evening came and morning followed, and on that morning of the third day, I noticed three crisp dollar bills in the bottom of the jar.

And paperclipped to the front, there was a thin strip of typewritten paper. I fished it out, and read it:

“Sorry, I took the three dollars for lunch money. Here’s some extra back.” Sure enough, beneath the bills were four shiny quarters. 33% interest, not bad. But not enough to cover my forfeited winnings from the bet.

I didn’t know whether to leave a scathing note back in the jar and hope that the mysterious borrower would return for another loan… or to cut my losses.

And then the “wait just one minute” moment occurred. Wait just one minute, I said to myself. The money was taken after I had left for the evening and before I had come in in the morning. So it was either a late worker or an extremely early riser… ok. But then why would this person steal money “for lunch” early in the morning or late at night? Breakfast money, perhaps. Money for a late-night snack, I can see. But lunch money? Really? Or is there a more sinister explanation?

And a possibility occurred to me. Maybe Peggy was just saving herself from losing the bet. Maybe those quarters she left afterwards were the product of a guilty conscience. Maybe she taken three and given four when she should have left the three and lost the four.

And I have two questions. Did Peggy take that money? And if she did, was she cheating, or did she just pull the wool over my eyes?

I want to play professional baseball

2008-04-01T10:27:00.000-07:00

I’ve mentioned a few times before that I play baseball. I’ve bragged about how good I am, about how hard I can throw. But I’ve never really talked about baseball – never said what I hope for, what my realistic prospects are, and what it would mean to me if I could nut up and get it done.

Instead, as anyone foolish enough to come back to this blog more than once can attest, I spend most of my time trying to be funny, or preposterously exaggerating a position I believe in. I don’t talk very seriously, because when you talk seriously, you’re asking people to take you seriously, and therefore becoming accountable for what you say. And obviously I’m not much for that… so I just goof around.

Baseball, though, has been the one thing I can’t even goof around about. But I’ve also not talked about it seriously – hell, no. Now, I guess I will.

Even though putting down in black and white what I want to do sets me up for a hell of a let-down if I don’t do it. Maybe a lot of you won’t understand why this is sort of a big deal, but maybe you will. A favorite professor of mine once told me to “be radically honest.” So I’m going to give that a one-time go.

I love baseball. I’ve always played (organized ball since I was six, yardball before that), and I’m pretty good. Four years I played in college, at a D-III school in a pretty good conference, and last summer (after graduation) I played in the Chicago Suburban Baseball League (former home to Tim Mahay, Curtis Granderson and Jerry Hairston) – where I was fortunate enough to be named to the All-Star Team: mine is one of these thirty names.

I’m a right-handed pitcher, I’m 6’6”, 225, and my fastball has been clocked at 92 mph. My slider needs work, but it’s not bad. My change-up is a good one as long as I stay on top of it.

My coach last summer asked me if I would be interested in playing professional baseball. I would. I’ve been fascinated with that idea ever since my pitching coach suggested the possibility my freshman year in college.

So hopefully, sometime near the end of April, I’ll have a private tryout with the coach of the Gary Railcats, an independent pro team that plays in the Northern League.

I’m pinning a lot on that tryout, and I’m nervous about not making it.

It’s a long shot. I tell everyone it’s a long shot. But there’s no way I’d do it if I didn’t think I could make it. I think I am going to make it. But it is a long shot.

I’ve been throwing into a tarp hung from the ceiling in the attic at my house to get my arm in shape. It’s not as good having someone to throw with, but hopefully it’s enough.

People have asked me if I have a dream job, and I always say no. People have asked me if I know what I want to do with my life, and I always say no.

This is my dream job. But I’ve been afraid to say so, because if I don’t make it, what does that make me?

It’s not like an interview. It’s not to see if you’re “a fit.” It’s not to find out if you’ll get along with your teammates, if you “mesh with the vision of the company,” or “correspond to the implementation of the mission statement.”

This is what it is: are you good enough? Do you throw hard enough?

They stick you on a short hill, sixty feet and six inches from the plate and you just have to throw the ball. Really hard, and really accurately. You have to be uncannily good. You have to be a sort of freak.

They won’t ask you “what’s your biggest weakness?” They’ll tell you. I’m not used to hearing that.

It’s April Fool’s Day, and I guess it’s ironic or appropriate or both that this is about the most serious I ever get. Every other day is a joke for me. But not today. Not this April.

OMGWTF The Best Idea Ever

2008-03-28T10:40:00.001-07:00

I just had the best idea ever.

"Really?" you say, because you are a skeptical punk-ass.

Yes, really.

It's sort of like a meme, I guess; it's sort of like a blogger meet-up; it's sort of like a dragon cage-match jello-wrestling berserkery. And it's awesome.

It's DWI. Drink. Work. Inform.

Step 1: On a designated day, all participating bloggers will wake up an extra half hour early and consume a minimum of three alcoholic beverages. Then go to work. (Genius so far, or what?)

Step 2: Funny and/or inappropriate things will happen at work. This is bound to happen, right? Or at least the work day will be a little more interesting.

Step 3: Everyone who did it goes back to their computer and tells us about it! Inform us! DWI!!!

And don't tell me you can't do it. That would be weak sauce. Eat an altoid if you're worried about your breath. And just imagine the feeling, sitting at your desk on the appointed day, nursing a little buzz and feeling that indescribably satisfying connection with other bloggers across the country. DWI, baby!

I thought everyone could post an announcement of their participation, and then take votes in the comments section for what kind of drink they'll get to enjoy... and I was thinking, maybe April 9th? An innocuous Wednesday? Except it isn't innocuous... It's DWI!

Or maybe I'm just an alcoholic. But seriously, I think it could work. One day, one shot, what a memory!

So tell your friends! Tell your readers! Don't tell your coworkers!

Christ is risen; he is risen indeed! Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia

2008-03-24T13:20:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter to all you believers out there, and as for ye heathens, I’ll say a prayer for you that you don’t burn in eternal hellfire.

Christians have just got to be psyched this week. I mean, if you really believe that Jesus literally died and then somehow ROSE FROM THE DEAD, how can that not change your life? Am I right? So thank you to the one true Catholic Church for preserving the glorious tradition, and thanks to the Jews for their work in the B.C., and also for crucifying the Messiah – because, duh, he wouldn’t have been able to rise if they hadn’t killed him.

I really love being Catholic because we’re right, because we don’t have to bother with reconciling inconsistencies in our faith (there aren’t any), and because there’s so much to get excited about: Christ really rose from the dead, Confession can really forgive your sins, and our sermons are shorter! It’s win-win-win!

I popped this line of excited reasoning on some fallen-away Catholic at the bar on Saturday after the Easter Vigil mass, and he ate it up. He didn’t even get offended when I told him he’d lost his faith… my exact words, I believe, were these: “I mean, I still have my faith, and you’ve lost your faith, but, you know, you’re still a person.”

He said, “right, right.”

But then I told a racist joke, and apparently we weren’t advanced enough in our relationship for that kind of intimacy (intimate relationships are all about judging others), so he tried to fight me, but I was in a peaceable mood and he eventually cooled off. We did shots, but then he started getting weird again when I told him I would pray extra hard for him. I guess I just don’t understand non-believers. Jameson, on the other hand, I understand full well.

But enough bar talk.

I’ve had an interesting development lately. Nothing as interesting as getting fired from my job or growing a fourth testicle—I mean, a third—but intriguing nonetheless.

Foreign people (here we go stereotyping again – isn’t it fun?) seem to have a big thing for pigsex. Ever since I happened to mention that a couple of times in this post, the foreigners have been flocking to this blog in droves. It’s pretty creepy.

At my last count, folks from no fewer than 26 foreign countries ended up on that post after searching “pigsex” or some derivative thereof on Google. That’s more than puzzling, that’s disturbing. I mean, they can’t all be swine-breeders, can they?

Most of them are in and out in a blink, probably because they don’t speak English. But one guy from Uzbekistan sent me an email that said: “You pigsex section is disappointing.” Well, anonymous Uzbeki, I’m glad it was, I really am.

Then I said a prayer for him too. Jackass.

Just today, I realized something—and I want to leave you with this… possibly the most profound thought that I’ve ever had:

I can only sympathize with masochism when I’m pooping.

Happy Easter.

Obama and Clinton: An Objective Take

2008-03-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

I believe that Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton may well be agents of the Prince of Darkness, Satan himself. So let’s discuss the campaign rationally, shall we?

This Democratic primary campaign has been the longest and most hotly contested since 1968, when Jimmy Carter stole the nomination from Grover Cleveland, who was killed in the Haymarket Riots, only to lose to Barry Goldwater in the general election in a stunning upset. Carter was stunned and upset.

This year’s campaign is proving to be just as shocking and vicious. A Yahoo! news story today refers to ‘an Obama campaign memo from last summer that criticized Sen. Clinton’s ties to India, referring to her as the “Democrat from Punjab.”’ Such politicking is of course disgraceful—Obama, who harps himself as the squeaky-clean candidate of change, should refrain from such “jabs” and leave the “poon” out of it. Above the belt, please, sir!

Hillary, on the other hand, has been no better, repeatedly calling Obama “the dark-horse candidate,” a clear reference to his abnormally long face and blackness. In my opinion, although the racism is cool, Hillary should steer clear of mudslinging campaigns, because she probably throws like a girl—and besides, calling Obama ugly? Has Hillary looked in a mirror lately? Can you say “ugliest woman since Tom Petty”? She looks like a gargoyle on speed.

In stark contrast, Obama truly could be the face of the party… seriously, he looks like a donkey… or at least a mule. Ever notice that? The long narrow cheeks, the protrusive ears and the flattened muzzle? You know what I’m talking about.

But we should steer away from such trivialities as physical appearances. This race is about substance. What do the candidates stand for? Well, they both like high taxes, cut-and-run foreign policy, affirmative action and gay marriage… but where do they disagree? What makes them unique?

Well, Obama is the candidate of change. Change from? What we have now. Change to? He doesn’t really know. But making a decision, taking a stand, could alienate people. As long as thousands of dumbasses keep flocking to his camp, why bother mentioning what you actually stand for, right? The following is the pro-Obama argument that is seriously galvanizing the nation:

“Yes, we can!”

You can what?

“Yes we CAN!”

What? What can you do?

“Change! We can change!”

What are you changing to? How do you want things to be?

“Yes we can!”

You can…? You can want things?

“Yes we can!”

Wait, what can you do?

“Shut up, that’s not the point. The point is that Yes We Can!”

And that’s why Obama is on such a tear. Because truly, it is impossible to win an argument with his supporters. The fact that his supporters are irrational, that his popularity is a product of hype, a whirlwind of delirium and hero-worship is irrelevant. Their most recent campaign slogan: “You don’t have to be rational to vote, do you? Vote Obama.” The Black Eyed Peas are expected to release a music video on that theme in the near future.

And Hillary? What makes her unique? Hillary is the “establishment candidate?” which basically means that she likes family-style restaurant “establishments,” expanding government “establishments,” and pandering to rich Democrats.

Also, did we mention she is ugly and has huge teeth? She looks sort of like a beaver who just finished building her dam, only the dam is built of crack. And some of it is still in her cheeks.

The unfortunate thing is that Hillary’s backing from “the establishment” means Obama is destined to be shot to death at a campaign appearance by a “deranged dissenter unaffiliated with the Clinton campaign,” just like Bobby Kennedy when he ran against Bill Clinton in 1988.

Clinton will climb the White House throne, stopping only to tether Bill in the front yard where he can pose for cameras and have guilt-free sex with despondent Obama groupies. The tradition of Bush, Clinton, Bush, Clinton will continue. In 2016, Jeb Bush’s son, George Bush III (not making him up), will be elected, and California will declare independence. In 2020, Chelsea Clinton will be elected and my head will explode.

Except oh wait, McCain is going to win, actually. Because he kicks ass. And Hillary and Barack suck.

You guys know I’m right, right?

Let's try this one again

2008-03-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Ok, so maybe the last ones were a little too hard, so this time I'm going to put twenty instead of ten but make them easier (hopefully).

Let's say everyone can get up to three guesses if you want 'em. Or maybe four. Don't just go down the whole list, because that's gay, and by gay I mean homosexual.

Besides, this is a good game.

Movie Quotes, Take Two... Action!

1. “Let’s kick the tires and light the fires, big daddy.” Independence Day -Asiankp

2. “Betsy said we had to break up or get married, so we got married.” Sleepless in Seattle --Crystal

3. “Run, Luke, run.” Star Wars -Crystal

4. “Run, Forrest, run.” Forrest Gump -Margarita

5. “I’m sorry, is that funny to you? Are you a comedian? Is that what you do now? …This is me leaving. This is me leaving.” Old School -Tiff

6. “Whatever comes out of these gates, we’ve got a better chance of survival if we work together. Do you understand? If we stay together, we survive.” Gladiator -Jacob

7. “I want to hear you say that you don’t love me. Because if you say that, then I won’t call you, and I won’t be in your life…” Good Will Hunting -Asiankp

8. “I hope you rot in hell, ya loser! You don’t deserve a car!” Kingpin -Jacob

9. “Jordan fades back; swoosh! And that’s the game! Nothing further, Your Honor.” Liar Liar -Asiankp

10. “There’s a monster outside my room can I have a glass of water?” Signs -Tiff, confirmed by Jacob

11. “No water, no thank you. No, fish make love in it. Thank you so much. No, I don’t like that. No, I really don’t want… No, no, thank you very much. No, thank you, madam. I’m a vegetarian.” Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade -Peter

12. “What we need to do here is drive the dagger home. Prepare yourself, Drew. I... am... an agent from the Internal Revenue Service.” Meet Joe Black -Peter

13. “First off, let me give another congratulations to Evan Backstabber- pardon me, Bastard… Baxter, rather! It’s good to see what someone with real talent can do when great opportunities are given to them instead of me.” Bruce Almighty -Asiankp

14. “The window of opportunity to drink and do drugs and take advantage of young girls is growing smaller by the day.” Road Trip -Tiff

15. “Nice man, very smooth! Shit that’s a shame, that was a nice jeep.” Black Hawk Down -Peter

16. “Your boy, Captain America, here. ‘The best of the best of the best, sir!’…‘With honors.’ He’s just really excited, and he has no clue why we’re here. That’s very funny to me… Y’all ain’t laughing, though.” Men in Black -Jacob

17. “Good for the Widow Talan!” The Quiet Man -Crystal

18. “Yeah, but there’s no crease in the paper. When your mom hands you a note to miss school, the first thing you do is, you fold it and you put it in your pocket. I mean, if it’s real, where’s the crease?” Catch Me If You Can -Margarita

19. “Yeah, the last few years have been really hard. Yeah, I helped my former husband start his business and as soon as he gets a little money, he starts screwing around. The he left me for a 20-year-old he met at the gym. Yeah, I walked in on them at a motel in La Jolla. She’s got him naked and handcuffed to the bed. So we divorced, I remarried, then this new one, Bob, he starts falling apart. And it’s just one shitstorm after the other.” Orange County -Jacob

20. “I mean, when I think about my new life and all the exciting things I'm doing, and then I think about what her life must be like—probably still getting up at 5:30 in the morning to pursue her pathetic little dreams—it just makes me sad. I mean where is she really trying to get to anyway? What is she doing in that limo? Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

Movie-Quote Guessage

2008-03-10T11:18:00.000-07:00

So here's a fun thing from Jon and Winter. If the quotes are too hard for you, well... get over it. If you cheat, Santa will rape you.

Here are the rules:
1. Pick 10 of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDB and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them here for everyone to guess.
4. GUESSERS: NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search functions.
5. One movie guess per blogger.
6. Put your guesses in the comments.

Oh, except that's retarded. I'm not going to IMDB, I'm just using quotes that I know. So here we go.

1. "I really hate that man." Jurassic Park -Jacob's rule-breaking ass

2. "Punch the fucking keys! ...You're the man now, dog." Finding Forrester -Crystal and Tiff

3. "How long you been wearing such tight pants?" That Thing You Do -asiankp

4. "I am your uncle, Argyle." Braveheart -Jon

5. "They thought they was all of that. Then you showed up, and bam! They was trippin' over themselves like babes in the woods. That really made me feel good to see that."

6. "I'm from Michigan." Mean Girls -Tiff

7. "Did someone call for a doctor?" Ocean's Eleven -Jacob

8. "I was a child. I was in love."
"I can only say I'm sorry so many times."
"Yeah, well why don't you say it again!!"
"I'm sorry." Raiders of the Lost Ark -Crystal

9. "So what I told you was true... from a certain point of view." Return of the Jedi -Jacob (sucks)

10. "No green pepper, no tomato." Sabrina -asiankp, impressive

Ok, fine, so they're really hard. Apply yourself, you lazy ass.

The following statement is false: the previous statement is true.

2008-03-05T10:18:00.000-08:00

You tell yourself it’s going to be ok, it’s all going to be fine.

It’s a habit we get into from trying to comfort other people: “Aww, hey, hey, it’s all going to be ok. It’s going to be fine.” And it’s easy enough to say it to the other people, easy enough to believe what you’re telling them—because you really have no idea. You don’t know whether everything is really going to work out for that person, you just want to make them feel better, so you make an optimistic guess and pass it off as prognostication.

That’s how the habit starts. It starts from telling other people “it’s going to be ok,” and then we get used to that kind of unjustified optimism because we’re convinced that it really helps people feel better, and what else are we supposed to do?

Then, because we’ve trained ourselves to accept the irrationality of the impulse, we start telling to ourselves, whispering or thinking, that it’s all going to be ok, that everything will work out for the best. When we’re most nervous, or when we’re really genuinely scared about the progress of our lives or the well-being of our loved ones, we slip back to that same hollow knee-jerk reaction.

It can give us some comfort sometimes, wrap us up in a blanket of illusion, protect us from the truth. Because really, truly, sometimes it’s not going to be ok. Sometimes it’s not all going to be fine.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people, sometimes good people do bad things, sometimes the ceiling that we thought was unmovable and indestructible comes crashing down on our heads in a shower of shards, broken. Sometimes bad chapters are written in our autobiographies and we suddenly realize that we aren’t the authors like we thought, and we can’t even go back to erase what was written. Sometimes there is real damage that cannot be undone. Sometimes it’s not ok.

Then the lies we tell ourselves, the foolish misplaced optimism vanishes, burned off like a low fog in the noon sun. It shrivels in front of us, mocking our belief in itself, exposing itself with pagan delight as a false idol of human thought, seizing its own last moment of existence in our mind and twisting the knife with its last strength before it returns to the abyss of nonexistence from which we were foolish enough to summon it.

We are left empty, called out by ourselves as liars.

Sometimes it seems like everyone is thinking the same thing, but we all still think it’s not right to say it, that it’s somehow impolite or abrasive or scandalous to the other people, even though we know they’re thinking it already. He knows. I know. We both know that the other knows—but somehow we’re afraid to say anything.

This reluctance to face the facts is the flipside of the lie. Instead of saying what we both know, we look in each other’s eyes and say “it’s all going to be ok.” We start out down a path of denial because we don’t want to face the hurt just yet, we want to hold onto the status quo, stretch the bubble as long as we can before it bursts.

Usually, it only makes the burst bigger, the fall harder. Usually it exposes us to ourselves as both timid and manipulative, afraid to face the truth but bold enough to bend it. The lie serves us no purpose in the end, only moves us heavily toward disintegration. Because sometimes it’s not all ok.

At least that’s what I’ve heard. For me, everything’s always been fine. But I feel bad for those other dudes sometimes.

Butt-clench crushes, giggling and pigsex

2008-02-29T10:35:00.000-08:00

Things that make me feel like a loser because I giggle about them, and come on, that’s gay.

1. My bed. Ok, so it’s not my bed, really. Maybe we better back up.

Actually, no, I don’t want to back up, that would take too long and be complicated. Plus the beep-beep-beeping that starts when I back up is annoying. Instead I will just describe to you the situation as it now stands.

A. My bed is big

I am used to sleeping on a twin sized bed. Now I am sleeping on a Queen. When you are 6’6”, and used to your ankles hanging off the foot of the bed (in danger of monsters! Hello!), this makes a big difference. Now I can lie diagonally, I can switch positions in the middle of the night, I can sleep on top of four or seven pillows… I churn around in my new digs like a pig in a mudhole. Seriously, that’s the best description—I roll around, covering myself with the softness, and grunt with pleasure. Also, a pig’s orgasm can last for half an hour, so there’s that.

B. My bed is soft and comfortable

Maybe this item is more about the fact that my old bed sucked. Because it was hard. I kept telling myself that real men liked a firmer mattress, that it was actually good for a heavier body, that it actually massaged me because it was hard and knobby. Yeah, that was bullshit. You know why I thought that? Because of those stupid Sleep Number commercials—you know what I’m talking about, when the girl always says “I like my bed nice and soft—about a 41!” and the guy’s all “I’m pretty tough. I’m rugged. Do you see my stubble? That’s why I like an 87 sleep number.” They’re like the bears from Goldilocks—the girl’s Baby Bear, the guy’s Papa Bear. Well, after years of deluding myself that I could be like Papa Bear too, I quit. And guess what? I’m not even Goldilocks with the medium-softness bed, I’m just another Baby Bear. I like a soft bed. Bite me.

C. My bed has sheets

Yeah, I went to college. College doesn’t do sheets. Let me rephrase: grungy college guys don’t do sheets. Fine, get grossed out. Get disgusted. Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it.

Anyway, I sleep about ten hours a night. It’s fantastic. It’s dangerously good.

On Tuesday night, I had Stephen Colbert’s “I am America” and Dean Koontz’s “Cold Fire,” climbing into bed at about 7:15 and I was giggling. I started bouncing on my butt while I got into bed, with gutty “hee hee hees” bursting out. I was ecstatic. I crawled around the bed in a circle like a dog marking his territory, laughing and laughing by myself, then I reared up on my knees and cast myself backwards onto the pillows, laughing and sighing and snuggling my face into the pillowcase. It was weird.

2. Eli Stone. Dude, that show is a delight to watch. It warmed my cockles so much, I almost burned my cockles. It was like cockle-fever. It was like hot-cockle-mania. If you don’t watch the show yet, this is a great time to start, for real. You’ve only missed three or four episodes, and it’s about to refresh anyway. New beginnings. So get in on the ground floor bitches. It’s right after LOST anyway, so you can’t miss it.

The writing is great, the hallucinations are hilarious, but what really makes it is the acting job of Johnny Lee Miller. He’s funny, sure, but also relatable. The heartbreaky plot elements might be contrived, but when he gets that look on his face at the beginning of one of those visions, you just want to be there to see what he’s seeing. And thanks to the wonder of television, you can. The best documentary in years.

That didn’t make sense to you did it? That’s because you’re not enlightened. Get with it. Eli Stone.

Oh, I almost forgot, the plotlines and dialogue are ridiculously liberal—I mean way out there leftist, throwing in Bush-hating blah when it doesn’t even make sense. But I excuse this because the show doesn’t take itself too seriously and everyone knows everything they say is a fantasy.

It might be sort of anti-Catholic, but in an honest, ignorant way: they make the priest who messed up the annulment really nice. Then again, he did mess up the annulment. No one told the writers that priests can’t up and declare annulments; that’s a bishop’s job. So don’t get nitpicky with it; it’s a flight of fancy, and it’s fun. God wants you to watch.

3. This limerick. This limerick is by far the best I’ve ever seen. Perfectly perversely, doubly irreverent — to politeness, to the form of the limerick, to prudeness and to crudeness.

There was a young lady from Bude
When swimming one day, in a lake
A man in a punt
Stuck an oar in her ear
And said You cant swim here it's dangerous!

And there you have it. Three things that really made me giggle so much I was almost ashamed. Like Julianne Hough style.

Oh that reminds me, Kristy Lee Cook from American Idol. She’s in this category too. I guess I’ll have to get back to her some other time. But hear this now, and remember it: Kristy Lee Cook is going to win American Idol. Take it to the bank. If she doesn’t, it will be the greatest miscarriage of justice since Sale and Pelletier had to share their gold medal with the dirty Ruskis.

I’ll be glad to get this up, and push the drama down the page. It has it’s place, sure, but it’s kind of boring, and it’s better not to get bogged down in it. Have it out and be done, that’s what I say. Just like good bowel movements and pig orgasms. Have a good weekend, y’all.

Why can't we be friends? Why can't we be friends?

2008-02-27T09:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, a blogger from my sidebar requested to be my friend on Facebook. Yes, that means my real Facebook profile with my real name, which has the title of my real job and place of employment on it. Blogging identity and real identity, right? And never the twain shall meet?

Well, this blogger who requested my friendship was cheating! He was messing with the system. That was my second reaction. My first was “oh, how nice.” Third came “how did she do that?” Turns out he had found me using Facebook’s friend-finder, because I had left the same email address for both my Facebook and my blog.

Some of the loose ends were easy enough to tie up. I changed my Facebook email straightaway. Done and done. From now on, no one who reads my blog will find me through Facebook.

But the whole ordeal (or experience, or whatever) made me think about a few things, especially if I decide to accept the friendship, which I am inclined to do (but haven’t yet).

I know my Facebook friends, and they are really my friends. I get a lot of friend requests that I turn down from people I know, or people I’ve met. Sorry, you’re not my friend, so that’s it.

So what if one of my friends sees this blogger friend, or some post she writes on my wall, and asks “who is that?” Well, um… well. My friend? Is he?

Because when we get down to it, what is my relationship with the people who read my blog? With people whose blogs I read? Why do I write, for myself or for them? Why do I read, for them or for myself? Do I count any of them my friends?

Well, I read for entertainment. My “care factor” is pretty small.

Let me put it this way: let’s say Random Blogger A that I read is trying to get into architectural school, right? Sure, I want him to get in from basic philanthropic motives. But I also want the one with the best story. And if getting rejected is a better story, I won’t tear my hair out about it.

At the same time, of course, I don’t know which will make the better story beforehand, so it’s easy to root for “my guys.” Go y’all. Hope you get that promotion, hope your mom doesn’t die from cancer. I really do.

But you’re not my friends. You’re just different than that. My friends are people I’ve met, hung out with, conversed with face to face over and over again. You guys are just a bunch of people who are smart and usually cool and sometimes have a modicum of morality to you.

You know how I figured out my answer to this whole question? I thought about whether it would bother me how other bloggers answered it. And it wouldn’t.

Some of you might classify me as a friend. That’d be cool. Some of you might not. That wouldn’t really bother me.

For me, it’s just a matter of definition. My friends are a very specific thing. You all are something else. It’s a cool something else, but it is something else.

I’ve heard some people use the word “freaders.” Fine, I guess. Maybe that works. But for me, friends doesn’t.

So, what about for you? Does it matter to you what I think about this? What do you think? Can we still be friends? I mean, no wait…

Real Romance

2008-02-14T11:29:00.000-08:00

You know, Valentine's Day has become more and more commercialized in the last few years, and I think it's important to take a step back and try to remember what really makes this day special. On that note, I'd like to recounte a conversation I had yesterday, but first, here's a little something for you.

My mother slipped a little candy heart into my lunchbag before I left for work this morning. Isn't that sweet? I opened my sandwich bag, and it rolled out, a little pink one inscribed in red with "my pet." I smiled, popped it in my mouth, and then immediately stopped smiling and spit it out. Those things are disgusting. They taste like chalk laced with barf and battery acid. So I threw it away. But it was a nice gesture.

And I'd like to leave you with an example of real romance from Jake, a friend who's near and dear to me, and a really genuine guy. Also is smooth with the ladies. Yesterday he gave me a few tips as we chatted over facebook. And let me tell you, it's amazing to see him in action. The things he pulls off will boggle your mind.

Fort Knocks: A girl at work straight up told me I was getting fat when she saw me monday, and I think she might be right.

That, or my face was still puffy from my thunderous two-day San Francisco hangover.

Jake: I love girls who can be that blunt. The trick is finding one who can handle the same bluntness in return.

Go up to her and tell her "you should wear longer skirts, not because you look slutty, which by the way, you do, but because I don't want to stare at those monsterous calves all day."

If she says, "oh, shut up." or "shut the fuck up." she's no good.

But if she says "whatever, you know you like how my big fat tree stumps would complement your third and fourth chins" or "now don't you think my big butt would seem a tad out of place if i had had little twig legs?" and then either one followed with "but seriously, you have gained weight." then she might be worth making fun of more often, especially on a date setting.

Fort Knocks: You truly are the Confucius of the relationship.

Then when she says that, you raise your hand and make like you're going to hit her, but then at the last minute you stop, and just brush her hair lovingly. [yeah, I stole that one from Dan.]

Jake: Better yet you do hit her, but then tell her you didn't mean it and that she deserves so much more than you. Then you ask if you can take her out for dinner which is really just happy hour at Chili's.

Meanwhile you make sure your friends are there too, and then when you arrive, you act surprised and after brief introductions you ignore her completely.

The only time you talk to her is when you say "there you go" as you place another drink in front of her. Then after two hours you say "I'm gonna order some food, you want anything?"

Then you leave to the bathroom before she even responds.

She of course follows you to tell you that she has called her friend and is being picked up.

But before she can get that little tid-bit out, you grab her and give her a passionate make-out smooch by the bathroom door.

She steps back in confusion, and that's when you spring this little guy...

"I've been wanting to do that all night, you just look so cute sitting there putting up with my friends like that. I promise I'll make this up to you."

Then before she responds you tell her you'll be back in one sec and dart into the bathroom.

When you come out, you go back to your friends and pretend like that never happened.

Funny thing is, when you glance over at her, her eyes are locked on yours, and she keeps giving you little knowing smiles which you accept but do not reciprocate.

game over

Fort Knocks: You're right. It's a foolproof plan.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what romance is about. And the girls eat it up, eat it right up, like graceful cattle at the trough of a strong man's love. Happy Valentine's Day, to all of you.

Dirty Sexy Updates

2008-02-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry, but it's just not quite time yet to get to the talk about San Francisco. There are a couple other things I've got to run through.

Last night, I was drinking bourbon and flipping back and forth between The Biggest Loser and Big Brother (during the commercials of American Idol), and thought a couple things. The first thing I thought, I thought when the fatties on Biggest Loser started stripping for the weigh-in. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't really like looking at blubber, so I changed the channel... only to find a 23-year-old Douche-Captain saying about a 46-year-old housemate, "46, dude? She still looks GOOD. I'd hit that." Well, I had to think, why are all TV shows about gross people?

That was an easy one, of course. It's because we all like watching gross people and mentally wincing at how much grosser they are than we. Like the Real World. I love the Real World.

Then I flipped back to the Biggest Loser, started looking at blubber again, and had my second thought: "the phrase 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' should really be 'the fatter they are, the harder they fall,' because don't fat people always hurt themselves when they fall?" Then I thought, "but then again, they've got all that fat for padding, so..." In case you couldn't tell by now, I drinking plenty of bourbon.

And all this drinking and thinking about falling got me to remember the last time I fell down when I was drinking. It was about a month ago, and after drinking at home, I had gone out to a bar until closing time, after which I had stopped by a party that my brother was at, after which I went back home with my cousin and played dance music and drank, after which we decided it would be good to head to his apartment for a nightcap. After which, fatefully, we decided we needed to go buy Tiger Woods for his X-Box 360. It was 6:30 am.

Immediately upon walking out his front door, I stepped on a patch of ice, skidded a little forward, caught my balance with a sharp pitch left, and then caught my toe on an uneven edge of sidewalk. I bit it, straight up bit it. Big tree fall hard.

I bounced slightly on my chin, took the brunt of the shot on my left eyebrow, bounced and skidded onto my right side and finished with scrapes covering my face, bleeding in a cascade over the left half of my face. So we kept going to the store.

When the cashier asked me, startled, "Are you ok?" I was quick with, "no, we just need to buy Tiger Woods."

I didn't say it was a good story.

Some people have been finding my blog with some interesting Google searches lately. The most recent:
(with my reactions)

1. why are you such a lush
I don't know. Is that a trick question?

2. defecating in bed –dog
True enough. Don't think I've ever defecated in bed WITH a dog.

3. dress up retarded men games
Or tell them it's the special olympics and make 'em run around?

4. am I retarded quiz
If you're Googling this, then yes, probably.

5. Julianne Hough scoring
I wish.

6. Pope undershirt
I think that's a sin to talk about, man.

7. Think like a retarded woman
Oh, if only we could.

8. feeling of car hair on tongue
?

9. but first, I would just like to get to know you
Great, because I usually don't put out on the 0th date.

10. Women are retarded
Well, that's not the best way to phrase it, but...

Also, in case you cared (I'm sure you didn't), I updoodled the layout over here. And the blogroll's updated too. If you don't thank me for adding you to that little pile of exclusivity and sexiness within two days, I'm going to kill you and never call you again.

Do we have to get more into it than that? Do I tell you every time I get a haircut? No, I don't. And that's why you think there's another woman. Well, maybe I just didn't remember, or I didn't think it was that important.

Or maybe there is another woman. And she's skinnier than you.

As Confucius said, "my philosophy in life is not to spend too much time fantasizing about old Jewish men."

Did you hear me say I like the Real World earlier? Because I don't.

Coming home from San Francisco

2008-02-11T13:05:00.001-08:00

I went to San Francisco this weekend and it was a lot of fun. Tons of fun, actually.

But we're going to save all that talk about the past for another time. Now it's time for me to share with you my feelings on returning to Chicago.

1. When we embarked for the return flight in San Francisco, the sun was just starting to burn off all that Pacific Ocean haze, and the temperature was on its way up to about 68-70 degrees. When we landed in O'Hare International, the pilot was discombobulated for a second during his "Welcome to Chicago" speech, letting us know that "the skies are clear and the temperature is one... degrees, one degree, um." He should have just told us "welcome to Chicago, it's currently cold as balls, but it's too late to go back. I'm sorry." At least then we could have had a good laugh or cut his head off.

2. I don't think you understand how cold that was. It was cold. It was colder than climbing in a freezer to have a naked snowball fight with the White Witch. Within five minutes of stepping outside, I couldn't feel my feet, my nose had dual snotcicles, and I was crying. Well, I was trying to cry, but my tear ducts were frozen solid (which was cozy), and I was moaning out long, dry cough-sobs and rubbing my chattering-chapped face with the back of my sleeve. This succeeded in friction-melting my snot and grinding into my cheeks, which was both comfortable and attractive.

3. The combination of mild jet-lag, profound hangover and run-of-the-mill misery almost overwhelmed me at Mass last night, when I had to sit back during Communion like a damned Philistine. Then I realized I was probably just dizzy because I had smelled myself.

4. I dragged my ass into work today and learned the hopeful news that the temperature was going up. All the way to 11 degrees. Which was just enough for it to start snowing. We should get about 6 inches.

5. Yes, by the way, the ice cold car seat which sucked the heat from my pants, underpants and backside this morning was exceedingly comfortable, thanks for asking. I almost wish I had hemmorhoids so I could ice them soothingly on the way to work. How do I go about getting hemmorhoids? Is "achieving hemmorhoids" appropriate phraseology? Because I think I might as well achieve hemmorhoids.

6. Luckily, my mom had promised to get the oil changed on my car, which was overdue for it (my bad). Thank God for mom, right? Except she forgot to do that, whoops.

7. I plopped down on the toilet this afternoon at work to rub my frost-bitten ankles, relax for five minutes and, you know, plop down on the toilet. I was thrilled and excited that the man who came and stood outside the door had severe sinus congestion so that he didn't have to speak to let me know he was there and he had to get in. I tried to close my eyes and tune him out, but after a few violent mucusy snarls started getting closer and closer to the door, I gave up and got out of there.

Is that what you do, sir, when someone is in the bathroom and you have to go? Start off my sniffing loudly, mix in a noseblow and 3-5 stifled coughs and then just start hacking and snorting and yelling and wheezing? Doing those long-ass pretend-I'm-clearing-my-throat-but-I'm-really-just-screaming-hoarsely RIGHT OUTSIDE THE FUCKING BATHROOM DOOR?

8. I just made the mistake of checking weather.com for San Francisco weather, and it's 66 and sunny. Here it's 9. Welcome home.

Maybe I'll tell you about some of the good times next time. Right now they would feel like a lie.

My Super-Duperficial Contribution: In which I declare my love for deaf women—and they don’t hear me

2008-02-05T13:37:00.000-08:00

So I was reading through what Carrie had to say, and enjoying her bit as part of the Deeply Superficial Blog-a-Thon over at South Dakota Dark.

And what can I say? I was inspired. I had to join in the fun. So let me get right down to it.

I’ve told you before how much I love the girl Laura from “The Good Shepherd,” but in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll sum it up for you now: I’m pretty sure that my feelings for Laura are the closest I’ve ever gotten to love.

I got more into it in the previous post, but it makes me nervous to talk about it—obviously, I mean, I’m in love with a person who isn’t real—so let’s just say that thinking about her makes my heart hurt, and leave it at that. What I didn’t mention is the fact that I’ve also got a thing for Marlee Matlin. You know, a big thing. Warm feelings of tenderness.

But I’ve got other crushes, too (Julianne Hough for one), which is why it took me a while to realize the obvious common factor that Laura and Marlee have in common: they’re both deaf. And I both dig it (or something).

So in the spirit of the hour, let’s delve into the superficial reasons why deaf girls get me hot and bothered.

Reason #1. They have that cute “accent.” Yeah, so maybe it’s more of a speech impediment, but let’s not split hairs. When Laura says “I luvf yoo, Edwuhd,” my sacrum gets all puddly. For some reason, deaf girls seem more sincere because they can’t really pronounce the letter R. Perhaps this smacks of innocence to me, of innocent charm and appeal. Because who can’t pronounce Rs? That’s right: sweet little children and sweet little deaf hotties.

Reason #2. They need you. Let’s face the fact: deaf people are disabled; disabled people need help; and everyone loves to be needed. So can I help it that I love the idea of a smoking hot broad who’s totally self-sufficient but still gives me the feeling that she needs me desperately? Can I? No, clearly, I cannot.

Reason #3. They can’t hear you talk shit about them. Anytime your hot deaf girlfriend turns her back, you can complain about how she burned the lasagna because she didn’t hear the oven buzzer, or say really loudly “learn to enunciate!” or even call her a dirty slut, and she won’t bat an eye. She’ll turn back to you with the same light of love in her eyes, and you, relieved of your grievances, will remember the depth of your passion for her. Then the two of you will probably get it on.

Reason #4. They always look at you tenderly. This is the flipside of Reason #3 (as they both spring from the fact that, you know, deaf people can’t hear). Since deaf people, even hot deaf girls, can’t hear you talk, they have to read your lips, which means every time you talk, they’re gazing into your face. Sure, looking at your eyes might be even nicer, but having a lover look at any facial feature is better than having her look at, say, your nipples. I speak from experience here.

Reason #5. They’re truly beneficial in social settings. I’ll just use two examples to illustrate my point here: Firstly, she would be bored as hell at most concerts, just like me! So I could use her as an excuse to never go. Secondly, deaf people, including hot deaf girls, can’t hear farts, even those loud trumpety ones. So when someone lets one go and everyone hears it and acts awkward, she just keeps tossing her hair and talking in sign language, or whatever it is hot deaf girls do. Then, two minutes later, she smells it and goes “AWWW!! Hoo jusht hrippt one?! Thatsh naastee!” and everyone has a good laugh.

Anyway, that's my take. Any hot deaf girls out there, you can tell I'm a keeper, right? Feel free to give me a call. Actually, an email would probably work better.

A Daily Dose of Discouragement

2008-02-05T12:04:00.000-08:00

Do you ever get the feeling that you're kind of boring? Are you ever confronted by your own subconscious sneaking suspicion that no one else thinks you're clever, that most of your friends find you mildly tedious, that you're the only person that really thinks your jokes are funny?

You ever feel like an emptyheaded waste of space? Because you are.

[rimshot please]

No, of course I don't know for a fact that you are a boring person, but statistically speaking, it's pretty likely. Maybe you really are witty, and superlatively engaging. Fine, it could be true.

But maybe you just think that. So don't be surprised if one of these days it comes to you like a thunderclap, while you're walking down the street, or reading a magazine, or tying your shoes, that you are a tremendous dullard.

Prepare yourself for the realization, because if it catches you unawares, it could shatter your delicate, stupid psyche. Much better to wean yourself from feelings of self-righteous intelligence, engaging in a daily effort to comprehend your own mental shortcomings. What's the saying? That we must know our weaknesses in order to improve ourselves? Well, if your weakness is a failure to recognize your own stupidity, you'd better get on that.

My recommendation? Spend a little time at the end of each day focusing on jokes you didn't understand, instructions you couldn't remember, or mistakes in the office or at home. Set aside five minutes or so each morning to repeat a boring phrase to yourself over and over, and culminate with the firm thought "I think I am dumber today than I thought I was yesterday."

You'll be healthily despondent before you know it.

I had a snow day. And other stories.

2008-02-04T10:28:00.000-08:00

I don't know where you live, but here in Chicago, we got an assload of snow dumped on us this weekend. It started on Thursday night, and there was so much snow, in fact, that I didn't even go in to work on Friday.

But that's not where this story starts. This story starts with the simple fact that on New Year's Day, I was so excited by the prospect of left-over hors d'ouevres, no work, and college football that I got drunk and lost my phone.

I knew it was in the house - I knew this very well because, during the entire course of the day, I never set foot outside. And so I didn't look for it urgently, or hurry to have the service canceled. No one had stolen it, no one was going to steal it.

But then I couldn't find it. I would look for it sporadically, every few days, each time thinking of a new spot or two that I hadn't checked. This weekend several factors aligned to get my ass in gear, so to speak. First, it had been a month, a nice round number, and I still hadn't found my phone. Second, I had just paid my cell phone bill, $65 for nothing. 0 minutes, 0 night and weekend minutes, 0 text messages - this was stupid. Third, I knew I was going to San Francisco this week, and I had to have a phone before then.

So Friday, home from work, I ventured out into the blizzard, down Lake Street to the AT&T store. Bianca greeted me from behind the desk. I have "been helped" by Bianca before, and let me tell you, she is a credit to the race of salesmen/cashiers/whatevers. She works for a company that has no problem seizing its customers by their haunches and humping them into submission, but she's polite about it. You know, she'll let you take a shower afterwards, if you take my meaning.

"I lost my phone," I told her, shaking my head and shrugging the way people do when they're saying they lost something - like there's an unspoken parenthetical, "no, really, I do not know where it is. I have lost it and do not know its location."

"Did you have insurance?" Bianca asked me. "Insurance will cover it."

"Yeah, I know. No. Warranty?" I countered.

"Sorry, the warranty only covers defective phones," Bianca said. Her pursed lips, downward tilted chin and raised eyebrows told me that she knew I knew this and that of course her company wasn't going to pay me for something that was my own damn fault.

"Well, then I need a phone," I said.

Bianca paused for a moment, then indicated the wall behind her, covered in displays of phones. "Feel free to go ahead and look arou-"

"What's the cheapest one?" I said.

She nodded knowingly, and without hesitation, seized a little Nokia off the wall. "This is the cheapest we offer," she said. "It's $199."

"Holy crap," I said.

"Mm," said Bianca.

She tried to hand it to me but I recoiled, held up my hands in protest, and slowly raised my eyes to meet hers. And in that moment, Bianca and I connected. She put the phone case back on it's hook, looked furtively from side to side and made ready to stab her masters in the back.

"You know what you could do?" she whispered. "Go across the street and buy a Go-phone from FYE, and I'll make you up a new sim card that you can stick in there. It'll be like, fifteen bucks."

I didn't know whether to trust her or not. Part of me was sure it was a vile trick. But a bigger part of me (it was my left thigh and buttock) wanted a phone for less than $200. I refined the deal. "Make me the sim card now," I growled, "and then I'll see about FYE."

Bianca hesitated. She looked from my face to the screen in front of her, down the hall, and back to me. "Ok," she said finally, and began typing furiously.

Two minutes later, I was out the door and on my way to FYE, sim card tucked in my back pocket, snug against the buttock that had insisted on its purchase.

I pulled open the front door, and did the standard "pretend-I-know-what-I-want-and-where-it-is-so-just-start-walking-toward-the-back-of-the-store" bit. Then I stared at some indie-adult-off-pop album with a woman holding a snake and a wheelbarrow handle for a while, looking out of the corner of my eye for go-phones and trying to look like I wasn't looking for anything.

After five minutes or so of fruitless undercover searching, I decided to go ask for help, and wouldn't you know it, the go-phones are housed up at the register with the gum and cheap magazines. There was one guy in front of me in line, standing with his two sons, about 6 and 8.

The guy stuttered when he got to talk to the cashier, despondent and devoid of all but the most desperate hope. "Do you have any Wiis?" he said.

"Actually, yes!" the clerk announced. "We just got three! They're probably going to be gone in half an hour."

The guy in front of me was psyched. He literally jumped into the air and shouted "yes!" and then grabbed his kids and started shaking them. "They've got it, guys, they've got it!" he yelled. The kids started whooping and jumping up and down. The older one grabbed an Indiana Jones Special Edition box set and swapped his brother across the head with it. They were excited.

While the dad looked at which extra controller to buy and the younger brother nailed the older one in the groin with a display sign, a second clerk stepped up to the next register and asked me to come over.

I put down my go-phone, waited for a second and a half while she picked it up and said, 25% seriously, "I should probably get a Wii, too."

She laughed, and I laughed. It was a pretty good joke. "Do you want one?" she said, 30% seriously.

"Hey, might as well, right?" I said, 34% seriously.

She picked one up from behind her 36% seriously and set it on the counter 37% seriously. "What do you think?" she said, 42% seriously.

I patted it 47% seriously, and thought for a minute. I don't even play video games. This was retarded. Wasn't it? Wasn't it? "I'll take it," I said, 51% seriously.

Unfortunately, this majority vote was all the clerk legally needed to beep it, swipe my credit card and stuff it in a bag. As my receipt printed, I looked over her shoulder at the last Wii perched on the shelf. "Maybe I should buy the last one, too," I said, 9% seriously.

"Do you want to?" she asked, 55% seriously.

The sudden jump was too much for me. "No, of course not," I said. "What would I do with two?" Well, really, what will I do with one? It's sitting on my floor, still in its box. If anyone wants it, I'll give it to you for $350 plus shipping. 95% seriously.

That night, there was a birthday party for my cousin, where I told everyone about my best impulse purchase ever. A few other interesting things happened, too, but we'll save those for another time.

Saturday, I watched twelve episodes of Lost. I'm planning on being caught up by the next new episode.

And then Sunday, the Giants beat the Patriots in the best Super Bowl I ever remember. Can you ask for a better weekend?

Notes in summary:

The go-phone thing really does work. If you ever lose a phone and don't need a fancy camera-music-touchscreen phone, get a go-phone and switch the sim - you get minutes, text and internet and reconnected with your regular plan.

I'll let you know how the Wii situation works out. I might see if I can get more than I paid on ebay. Any ideas? Anybody want to buy it?

Lost is the most aggravating show to watch, by far. I'll get more into this later.

The Giants really deserved it. Beating the Cowboys and Packers on the road, then beating the undefeated Pats? Good enough in my book.

Beware of the escalating-percentage-seriousness phenomenon. I thought I had shaken it after it led me to snort Vitamin C and almost get engaged, but now I have a Wii. And not the Wii-est idea what to do with it.

The next stereotype to take on, and by "take on," I mean enjoy

2008-01-31T09:25:00.000-08:00

But first, here is something that happened to me this week that I think you should know about:

On Tuesday, I walked into the office, sat down at my desk, and had two hours of work marbled liberally with procrastination (work ethic is like a good steak, which is why Chewy was lazy—ok, the analogy doesn’t work). At 10, when I got up for my usual trip to the commode (which makes bathroom sound much cooler than it really is—like maybe it’s got fog lights, lasers and one of those ball-pits from McDonalds playlands), I looked in the mirror and saw that my undershirt was not only inside-out, but also backwards, which left the tag front and center between the collar of my button-down, fluttering like the awkward tie on one of those newfangled prom tuxedos.

I think that’s worse than having your fly unzipped, and here’s why: throughout the course of a day, everyone zips and unzips his fly—you forget one time and whoops, your fly is down. But do people strip out of their undershirts and turn them inside out every day? Every time you go to the bathroom? Yeah, me neither. Except on Tuesday, when I had to because it was already inside-out and so turning it inside-out from there would be turning it rightside-in. This story sucks. I’ll stop telling it now.

I saw this cool meme at a couple places on the blogonet, and it seems to work well for everyone. Try it out, even if you don’t post it.

The Band Meme

1. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

So, my results?

Band name: Pribilof Canyon
Album name: Details of Outer Life
Picture:

And that’s pretty neat. What’d you get?

But on to more serious matters. Exploring some sexual stereotypes was fun for a couple of posts, but then the women start whining (and I can’t blame them, I mean, they are women) and the men get angry and go build something in the garage, and the women start cooking dinner with a lot of extra banging around of pots and pans and the occasional shrieked curse.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other stereotypes we can enjoy. Stereotypes are fun for the whole family, and something we should all appreciate. After all, our great nation’s history is marked with many wonderful stereotypes: slaves until 1865, women couldn’t vote until 1920, and people hate Michael Jackson because he is white.

For today however, let’s focus on a more pleasant stereotype that’s not only profound but also aesthetically pleasing. Ladies and gentlemen: ghetto booty.

I don’t know what it is in the black genome, but some black women have an unparalleled ability to swell out in the backseat like they’re wearing a headless snowman sideways in their pants.

My family is mostly Irish, and therefore most of us are pasty white. Some few of us, however, are darkly-complected, and the family rumor is (no, not a hot Jamaican milkman) that we’re partly black Irish (those are the Moors from Spain who were blown off-course with the Armada in 1588 and ended up in Ireland, where they got busy with the red-headed lasses).

And now, to equal measures chagrin and delight, my sister has been told that she “rocks ghetto booty.” And I? I couldn’t be prouder. We are now a truly egalitarian family, a real slice of American life (dare I say homeslice? No, I guess I dursen’t).

It is a stretch, of course, to call my sister’s a ghetto booty. There are several women in my office who would put her to shame, real genuine thunder-thighs. These women, all attractive from the waist up, make you forget about attractive or unattractive when you see them from the rear. The only reaction is one of awe, awe before the might of two globes so ponderous that when they work out, they don’t even need an exercise ball to sit on because they’ve already got two.

But I wish my sister luck, hopeful that one day she’ll be able to join this group, the widest, wildest women in America:

[picture removed at the instruction of my sister]

Thanks for stopping by on stereotype Thursday.

Men are from Mars; Women are Retarded, Part Two

2008-01-29T14:46:00.000-08:00

In the last post, I gave you the rundown on everything a girl needs to know about dating protocol, every pansexual ounce of wisdom I had gleaned from blogs and comments innumerable. Today, I am pleased to bring you the other half of the story.

You know what women are thinking. Now I will tell you what the men are thinking.

Unfortunately, I’m afraid many of you will be disappointed with the answer here: Jerry Seinfeld was right. You want to know what men are thinking? … nothing.

If a guy doesn’t call a girl after a date, and then calls six days later and says, “sorry, I forgot to call…” he’s probably not playing mind games. He probably forgot.

Men cannot understand women because women are complicated and emotional and irrational.

Women cannot understand men because men are honest.

Example:

Woman: Which earrings look better with this dress?
Man (doesn’t know): I don’t know.
Woman (thinking): Oh my gosh, what is he getting at? Which ones did I have on first? Which ones are more like the ones I wore on our first date? Why is he being so complicated?
Man (thinking while scratching his butt): Princess Leia was kind of freaky-nasty for making out with her brother, remember, in Empire Strikes Back?
Woman (thinking): His silent treatment is stressing me so badly—ugh, I’m about to break out.
Man (thinking): I hope she didn’t hear me just fart.

In a way, the differences between men and women boil down to their very different understanding of a few words and phrases. These are they:

Spontaneous (for men): unexpected; without effort or premeditation; unplanned. Spontaneous activities for men include surprising a girl with flowers, adlibbing profanity at a karaoke bar, and taking a dump after heading to the bathroom just to pee.

Spontaneous (for women): really pleasant things that guys do for them, usually with some prompting or set-up by the woman. For example, if a woman receives a compliment on, say, a necklace, she will wear it again at a later date, knowing that the man will spontaneously compliment her. If he says nothing immediately, she will draw attention to the necklace so that he can give her a spontaneous compliment.

This word can cause special confusion in the case of pregnancy.

“Meet my friends” (for men): meet my friends, talk to them, hang out with them. They are cool people that I get along with, and I’d expect you to get along with them too.

“Meet my friends” (for women): I am taking this relationship seriously, and I think you might be “the one” for me. I am stressed to the extreme about how you will all get along, but if it goes well, you could meet my parents as soon as next week.

Which brings us to “The One” (for women): a guy who has twinkly eyes, rubs the small of your back, picks up his own dirty socks and pays for your cab. Oh yeah, and also you get along really well.

“The One” (for men): an underrated Jet Li movie with some intense ass-kicking scenes. Some cheesy animation shots take away from a pretty solid kung-fu shoot-’em-up.

“The game” (for women): the dating scene. The whole complicated process that takes so long to get “back in” after you find out that your boyfriend sometimes uses dirty silverware and have to break up with him.

“The game” (for men): is on tonight at 7 and I’m going to drink beer and watch it. Or did you mean that really trippy Michael Douglas movie?

“Fine” (for men): fine.

“Fine” (for women): I can’t believe you are such a dick. I’m not talking about this any more.

“This whole post is ridiculous” (for men): who cares? Yes, everyone knows they’re irrational; there’s no need to obsess about it.

“This whole post is ridiculous” (for women): How did you attain such immense and piercing insight into the female psyche? How?! Can I be with you? Are you “the one” that I’ve been wading through “the game” for? Will you please meet my friends, spontaneously?

For real, like, for real

2008-01-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

This week, there have been multiple posts here and there that I've come across, wherein people (girls) have batshit ideas, I mean, bat ideas back and forth on the subject of dating or pre-dating intersexual communication. Well.

As far as I can tell, the following are the important strategies to take away from these girl-on-girl brainstorming sessions. Just so we're clear, these are not multiple choice questions, these are all positively the right thing to do.

On whether to text him:
1. Do not, ever, even if he texts you first. Wait for him to text you first.
2. Text him.
A. If he responds, ignore him; he is desperate.
B. If he doesn't respond, ignore him; he is a dick.
3. If he texts you first, text him, but only after waiting three days or at least ten minutes.
4. Text him tonight, but only if you're not drinking.
5. Only text him if you're drunk.

On giving out your number:
1. Do not give him your number unless you would go on a date with him.
Exception: if you have a boyfriend but don't want to hurt this guy's feelings, you can give him your number.
2. Give him your number if you would regret not giving it later, even if he doesn't ask.
3. Don't give him your number unless he asks, unless you are dating someone else and he looks lonely so you give him your number never planning to answer any of his calls.
4. Give him your number if he is wearing a yellow jacket.

If he calls you:
1. Don't answer, but call him back if he leaves a message.
2. Don't answer the first time, but if he calls back, answer.
3. Don't answer the first two times, and if he calls a third time, answer and say, "stop calling me, creep!"
4. Answer and pretend to be a sushi delivery service. If he suddenly becomes more interested, tell him it is shark sushi. If he still doesn't hang up, tell him they are live sharks.
5. Answer and make a date for at least two days later. Call your girlfriend to make plans for the same night.
6. Invite him over right then for a movie and possibly foreplay.

About that date:
1. Do not cancel unless it is raining or a day with a "U" in it. This is a sign from God that you should make a "U-turn" on this "relatiunship".
2. Keep it simple, like meeting for a drink or movie.
3. Don't do a movie for a first date, there is no time for conversation. Do dinner.
4. Don't do dinner; it's too long and expensive if the date turns out to be a dud.
5. Do dinner at a nice place with a good wine list. See if he's stingy.
6. Do dinner at a local joint. Go dutch.
7. Never go dutch on a first date.
8. Agree to a second date if he has pretty eyes or is a professional athlete or if he didn't try to sell you drugs during the date.
Exception: If you think he was joking about the drugs, or if you actually bought some drugs, you can accept a second date.
Exception to the exception: If they were low quality drugs, no second date.

If he calls after the first date within 48 hours:
1. Tell him you had a great time, but you just got out of a serious relationship, and you don't date circus performers anyway.
2. Propose, then back off it, then start crying.
3. Insist on paying for the second date.
4. Insist that just because he is paying for the second date does not mean you will put out. Say, "the only thing I will put out is your libido, you pervert." After you're engaged, tell him you were joking.
5. Ask him why he's been so distant, and if he is seeing other women.

If he calls you after the first date after 48 hours have passed:
1. Ask him which side of his family he got the asshole gene from.
2. Tell him you're glad to hear from him, and that a family member just died.
3. Threaten to kill yourself if he doesn't give you more attention.
4. Say "well, well, well," after everything he says until he gets exasperated and hangs up. Mix in "well, well, well, you dick!" every so often.
5. Offer him a few excuses like "I'm sure you've been busy," and ask him if he's ever had a threesome. Immediately hang up and change your number.

If he doesn't call:
1. What do you mean? You should have called him the next morning.
2. Send him a text after a week.
3. Never text him.
4. Wait to see him in a social setting and try to spit in his drink or kick him in the crotch if possible. Doing both is a bonus.
5. Pretend he is calling, and you are ignoring it.
6. He didn't deserve you, and you're glad he didn't call.
7. Unless he's really cute. Then, hopefully, he'll call one of these days.

Meme the second

2008-01-25T08:49:00.000-08:00

The perfect outfit: tuxedo, baseball uniform or naked, I'm good either way
The perfect meal: Chicago-style deep dish stuffed pizza from Gepetto's with sausage, pepperoni, spinach and onions
The perfect hangover cure: a shot and a beer
The perfect road trip: Route 66, baby, for sure. Chicago to LA, convertible top down, music up.
The perfect facial feature: two nostrils. when people just have one big one, it freaks me out.
The perfect drink: Gin and tonic in a low-slung on the beach
The perfect song: Romeo & Juliet by Dire Straits
The perfect sign of affection: the smile that no one else sees
The perfect afternoon: on a wide deck with a fresh keg on ice, music and kickass people
The perfect vacation: a month through Europe
The perfect invention: When I've figured that out, I'll let you know. and make a bunch of money.
The perfect type of wedding: my family
The perfect album: U2 - All that you can't leave behind
The perfect accent: cherries on chocolate cheesecake (am I right, or what?)
The perfect date: August 3rd - I'm not finished - Cubs game, Wrigley Field, thankyouveryuch
The perfect party: Republican? No, again, a family wedding.
The perfect sport: baseball, hands down, no doubt.
The perfect thing to say: "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kellie Pickler but with a bigger nose?"
The perfect day of the week: today.

Oh jeez, I just read my "best drink" one. Yeah, that was supposed to be "low-slung chair," so... sorry about that.

Meme the first

2008-01-25T08:09:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I've got a couple memes to bust out before I get to an actual post that I wanted to put up, so I'm going to whip through these real quick, doubtless leaving you unsatisfied and disappointed with me as a person.

Then again, I'm disappointed with you, too. I mean, I know that last post was long, but it was a profound experience for me, and one which actually happened (unlike some other stories here), and only four of you liked it? Well, thanks to the four, anyway. You guys are cool. I like you too.

4 Things Meme

4 Jobs I've had in my life:
1. Copy Editor/Office bitch for a small publishing house in Chicago
2. Call center for an insurance agency
3. Writer/Reporter/Blogger for selfsame agency
4. Once I weeded my grandma's driveway and she gave me $20

4 movies I've watched more than once:
1. Jurassic Park
2. Finding Forrester
3. That Thing You Do
3. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

4 places where I have lived:
1. Chicago
2. Dallas
3. Rome
4. Nope, that's all.

4 TV Shows that I watch:
1. Arrested Development
2. The Office
3. Scrubs
4. Deal or No Deal sucks, really really sucks, but it's always on at my house

4 places I have been
1. the Grand Canyon
2. the top of the Eiffel Tower
3. swimming inside the blue grotto in Capri, which is the most beautiful place in the world by far
4. never been to New York, LA, Boston, Miami or Philly

4 things you might not know about me
1. I have killed two deer, after which I gutted, skinned and butchered them
2. Except for alchol episodes, I haven't thrown up since I was a baby
3. I like sausage pizza better than pepperoni pizza
4. This question is really hard for me - took longer than all the other ones put together

4 places I would rather be right now
1. Michigan
2. Hawaii
3. Paris
4. anywhere warm in the Caribbean

4 things I am looking forward to this year
1. going to San Francisco in two weeks
2. baseball tryouts
3. moving out
4. Christmas

Memories of Ireland

2008-01-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

I was fortunate enough to spend a semester abroad my sophomore year of college, studying at our campus in Rome. I was more fortunate still to be able to hop the pond before the semester started and spend a week “doing” Ireland. Dublin, Galway, Cork, Blarney, Killarney, Waterford, Dublin, in a neat little circle around the ass-end of the Emerald Isle.

I stood dangerously close to the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, I kissed the Blarney Stone, I got hammered in Temple Bar. But let me tell you, the most memorable time of my trip, without a doubt, was our time in Killarney.

The bus from Limerick was a little bit late—we got into Killarney around 1 pm (that’s myself plus my friends Jake and James), and spent an hour or so walking from one hostel to another, hoping to make reservations.

The town is breathtaking—think even cobbled streets, ALL one- or two-story buildings, all painted bright white with trim in various bright colors: red, green, blue, orange. I swear every building in the entire town looked like it had been painted that week. Behind the rows of even buildings the mountains of Killarney National Forest rose wide and green against the sharp August blue sky. The sun was bright, there were flowers in front of every building, and kids (including some who had to be at least sixteen-seventeen) were playing, shouting and dancing in the square. I swear, no exaggeration, there were people just dancing and singing in the streets on a random (as far as I know) afternoon.

We didn’t find any hostel with room, but we didn’t get too down. How could we? And then Jake had the idea.

“Let’s go camp in the forest! We can rent horses, ride up into the mountains, pitch a tent, and sit around a fire watching the stars,” he said. James and I immediately latched onto the idea like newborns to a nipple. It was the best plan ever; nothing else mattered. This would be something we could always remember, something we could tell our grandchildren.

As we talked it over, and moved from shop to shop, the plan expanded to include renting fishing gear for the wide blue lakes, and downgraded from horses to bikes (horses are damn expensive to rent, and we were poor as hell). We picked up fishing rods and bikes at one store, a small two-man tent (60 euros) at another, and made a last stop at a grocery store before heading out of town to pick up bread, cheese and a few sausages to go with the fresh fish we’d be nabbing. And each of us grabbed a bottle of wine.

Then? We were off. First along the long paved road to the park’s entrance, and then in, with a rush, swooping below the long branches along surprisingly-well manicured trails, up and up and in. Five miles passed, then ten. The air was so clean you felt like you were a better person just for breathing it. At twelve miles we passed the most British-Irish man I have ever seen, riding the opposite direction with his son. Both were wearing long gray pants, a tie and a tweed jacket with elbow pads. Both had the perfect Irish caps, brim forward. And both rode with backs perfectly straight. As the man approached, I noticed a heavy five o’clock shadow, but I was distracted by the sound of his little squeeze-horn, which he solemnly tooted twice as he passed. I was pretty sure at this point that I had left reality and entered the dream-world.

Some way up the mountain, we reached a zenith of the path, the very furthest curve around a two-mile wide lake. We slung the bikes aside, baited the hooks with some of our cheese, crawled out on little bouldered peninsulas, and cast. Afternoon stretched, yawned.

Half an hour in, Jake had a bite. Immediately, he stood up on his island-rock and leaned back against the pull. “It’s a big one!” he cried, reeling furiously. He reeled and pulled, pulled and reeled. It wasn’t moving at all. “It’s not moving at all,” I whispered from where I sat on a big fallen tree that stretched into the water.

“It’s not moving at all,” Jake yelled, and gave it a mighty heave. Pop! came the line from the water. Jake stumbled, didn’t fall, pulled in the end, and found no hook. Did it get away? No. “The hook was caught on a rock,” Jake said. We were disappointed. Over the next hour, we caught several more rocks, but didn’t lose any more hooks, thankfully.

And then, at five minute intervals, the “we should get going” impulse coursed through our group, each time a little more strongly than the time before. The “we haven’t caught anything yet, come on” feeling put up a fight, though. Too good a fight. By the time we had resigned ourselves to failure at fishing and decided to go, the sun was sitting on the very brink of the horizon. We had to hurry.

Back to the bikes, pack up the rods, ride a couple hundred yards up the trail with the lake on our right and a ridge to our left. We lifted the bikes and made off through the woods, up the ridge… which spilled down in front of us on the other side to another lake, and no more than thirty yards out, an island, steep and forested, eighty yards by twenty. We scrambled down the hill toward what we were sure would be the perfect campsite. And wonder of wonders! a canoe lay tethered to the shore in front of us.

The “can we borrow it?” attacks of conscience yielded to “we’ll bring it right back” as soon as the first fat raindrops smacked against our necks. Our fingers flew at the knots, and we almost had her in the water when the clouds opened and it started really, really raining. We left the boat half in the water, following the new inexorable impulse that James voiced with his voice cracking: “get the fuck out of here!”

Back up the ridge we scrambled, slipping. It was full-fledged twilight now, and full-fledged downpour. By the time we found a place flat enough for the tent and out of sight of the trail (we had to be out of sight, because, oh, didn’t I tell you? it’s illegal to camp in the national park), it was dark. It was nighttime, it was getting colder. The rain hadn’t lessened.

I’m sure you know how complicated it is to put together a tent, all the pegs and rods and sheets and pieces in the right order. It’s even harder when you know ahead of time that you have thirty seconds to look at the instructions in the dark before they disintegrate in the rain. Still, we were desperate, and we worked like it. Within ten minutes, the tent was up. It was black outside now. We couldn’t see where we had left the bikes, but that could be left for tomorrow.

Jake, always the Nazi (fortunately in this case), insisted that we take our boots off before we come inside, so we each stepped in one foot at a time—take off a boot, put that foot in, balance on that foot to take the other boot off—kind of a perverse hokey-pokey. Soon enough, the three of us? In. The idea of a fire? Out. And we were cold and all of our clothes were wet.

Jackets came off first, they were damp and restricting, but pants followed soon after. We broke into the food, arranging little sausage and cheese sandwiches that really weren’t bad. James sighed. “Too bad we couldn’t catch any-”

“Shut up,” Jake and I chorused. “I need a drink,” Jake said, and pulled a bottle of wine from his backpack.

“Mmm,” I said.

“Good idea,” said James.

“Do you guys have a corkscrew?” said Jake.

“Fuckin shit,” we all said together.

We ate some more, but no one finished his share. We were suddenly concerned with saving our resources, conserving what we had, keeping some for more desperate times. I looked around at the other guys and wondered if Donner party hallucinations were dancing in their heads, too. This was getting bad. “Guys, we need to figure out how to open that wine,” I said.

“I heard you can bang it against a tree, and if it’s the right angle, it’ll just snap off clean,” said Jake. James said he didn’t feel like drinking slivers of glass that night, though, so the idea was out. Each of us sat with our bottle, staring at it, turning it back and forth like so many dumb animals. Then Jake started pushing his cork in with his thumb.

“Oh yeah!” I said, “that’ll totally work.” The three of us heaved to, pushing and turning and bracing and pushing. The corks moved in an eighth of an inch, and then a quarter inch. That was all. Thumbs are wider than wine bottle necks, did you know that? I will never forget that. We needed a stick.

We drew straws (actually, we drew pieces of cheese that Jake held). I got the biggest, which I was happy about, because I was still hungry. (I knew the first one to starve to death would be the first one devoured by his tent-mates.) But drawing the biggest also meant I was the one who had to get a stick. Of course I was only wearing underpants, socks, a t-shirt and a vest, so my plan was just to reach out into the rain and look for a stick right outside the door.

“Good thing the rain let up,” I said, and it had. But it wasn’t a good thing. The zipper purred open and I stuck my arm out into the drizzle. There! I could see a stick. And ow! OW!

I grabbed the stick, yanked it back into the tent, and slapped, waved, slapped hard at my arm. The little bugs fell left and right. From my elbow down, I had about forty little red bites. In five seconds. And they hurt like hell. But we had the stick. Sure, it was a little rotten, sure it was muddy. But within a minute, three bottles were open, and that was good news.

After a spill or two, we discovered that you can only get a smooth pour by flipping the bottle totally upside down so the cork floats to the top—otherwise the cork will block the wine. So there we sat for the next hour, watching each other chug huge swallows of wine, giggling, and shivering.

More clothes had to come off, and I was past embarrassment at that point. I stripped off my wet socks, my wet shirt, and was left with only my tighty-whities. It was better. Not good, but better. Jake and James followed suit soon after, and we bundled all of our clothes at one end of the tent. It was getting colder.

The wine was gone all too soon, and we lay down on our backs, shoulder to shoulder, each wishing we had broken the budget and bought a second bottle. I was on the left, with Jake in the middle to my right and James on the other side. It was getting colder.

When Jake turned onto his side to face James, I knew what I had to do. I was nervous, but I knew I had to do it. I slowly turned to face him, tucked my knees a little bit, and started inching closer to him. Soon my knees hit the back of his thighs. Then my left hand found his top shoulder.

I felt him tense. “Dude,” he said. I paused, waited. We shivered in unison. Or maybe it was a shudder. “All right,” he said. I felt like a lecherous duke in a Victorian novel, but shame has no place in survival situations. Soon my chest was against his back, my shins on his calves, my pelvis grating slowly towards his on the wet floor.

When my hip bones touched his butt-cheeks, I swear he groaned a little bit, equal parts comfort and horror. This woke up James, who looked over, sat up a little bit, and gave me a look to say “I’m glad I wasn’t the one who had to suggest it.” I pretended my eyes were closed and I couldn’t see him. He turned away, but only so he could back it on up into Jake’s front. We lay there, gradually relaxing our bodies, which had been completely tensed, and realized that we could feel each other breathe.

There were awkward seconds while we wordlessly tried out synchronizing our breathing, but soon enough these were abandoned. We could sleep.

I wish that were all. I wish the sun had come out just then, that it could have been morning. But there are a lot of things I wish about that night.

It got colder. We got colder. One by one we woke up, less than halfway through the night. Awkwardness was gone. We were grinding into each other trying to get warm.

I sat up, pushed Jake and James close together, lifted Jake’s arm from around James’s chest, and lay on top of the two of them, draping Jake’s arm up over my back. There were no complaints.

Every half-hour or so, we changed positions, top-man dropping to inner spoon, inner spoon to outer spoon, and outer spoon to top-man. We squeezed ourselves together as closely as three people possibly can. Was the red wine breath we all shared pleasant? No. Did it annoy me that James seemed slippery sometimes when I was on top (what the fuck, is he sweating?!)? Yes. Was there a hole in the ass of my underpants that made my playing the inner spoon even more suggestive? Yes. Were there awkward arousal moments? If so, I have completely blocked them from my memory. No, really completely. Did our feet smell? Did we smell? Yes, yes.

But would I have traded my two little hot-water-bottles for anything in the world? Maybe a space heater, but other than that? No.

So we cycled and turned, trying equally to absorb the others’ body heat and bestow our own. At one point, I think I suggested removing our underpants to use them for blankets, but skimpy underpants would have been too insubstantial.

When the first gray light of dawn tickled the tent-top, we rolled apart. I felt for a split second like I ought to give them a good morning kiss. Jake tried a joke or two, but we were too bitter, too tired and too frightened to laugh. We dressed in silence, like we were all doing the walk of shame, but from each other.

James told us the story of a nightmare he had had, about a murderer who had left a body in the boat. Jake then noticed his knife was missing. We were mostly delirious as we opened the tent, half-expecting a crazy-eyed murderer. That would have been better than what we got. The bugs from the night before were still there, and with a vengeance.

We slapped and cursed, screaming at each other to “fucking pack that faster!” When we had found the bikes, packed the tent and all our things, and made it halfway around the lake on the way back down, Jake stopped to take a picture of the sunset. I wished I could cry, but the trauma was still too close to me. All I could manage was a broken cough.

The bites from the bugs were the worst that any of us had gotten—they took more than a week to stop hurting—and each of us had hundreds. The rashes and chafing from riding fifteen miles in soaking pants were none too pleasant either. But they were physical wounds, and physical wounds? They would heal.

I knew it was going to be an experience I could remember forever.

I thought it was going to be a story I could tell my grandchildren. Maybe when they’re grown up.

Maybe.

Anything you can do, I can do better... wait, should this be a meme?

2008-01-18T14:07:00.000-08:00

I believe I am better than you—you should know that by now, but if you don’t, well, there it is. I’ve got the whole Catholic self-righteous thing going, I think I’m clever and funny and good-looking. I’m the complete package.

But just to be sure you know, I want to present a list, for your pleasure and awe, of things that I can do better than you.

1. Play the vocabulary game at freerice.com. (I got a 46.)
2. Throw a baseball. (I can throw a baseball 90-92 mph.)
3. Hold my breath (3 minutes, 10 seconds).
4. Eat a lot of Chinese food (2 pounds).
5. Eat a lot of pizza (just over 2 pounds).
6. Be tall.
7. Drink many beers in one hour (9).
8. Whistle really loudly without using my fingers.
9. Dunk a basketball (I do need to use my fingers for that).
10. Wear one article of clothing for a long time (I’ve had a pink bracelet on for more than two years).

Ok, now for the real reason. I didn’t just have an overwhelming need to tell you that just because. I’m not that pathologically self-absorbed (almost, though—I’m working on it).

The real reason is that I want to know what you’re better at than me. What are the unusual talents that you have? Are they useless or practical? Exotic or mundane? Are you boastful of them, secretly proud, or ambivalent?

I remember when I was in grade school being very proud of the fact that I knew ALL the swear words, and that I could use them all in one sentence, which I whispered gleefully to any of my friends who would listen: “If you don’t stop acting like a GD bloody son of a bitch, I’m gonna kick your f---ing ass to hell, you piece of shit.” Later I found out that the lexicon of obscenity was a little bit larger than I had realized, but at the time, you know what? I was smug about my knowledge. I figured most grown-ups didn’t even know that many swearwords and I knew no kids knew that many.

So come on, you’ve got that feeling about something. Don’t lie. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe you think it’s cool but you’re afraid other people will think it’s stupid, whatever. What is it?

My hair. No, I'm not gay. Well, not that gay.

2008-01-15T13:21:00.000-08:00

I never look in the mirror in the morning. I mean, I might catch a glimpse as I'm brushing my teeth or something, but I don't usually shave in the mornings, I've never plucked, trimmed or otherwise adjudicated my eyebrows, and I don't brush or comb my hair.

Usually, I am in my car on my way to work within fifteen minutes of waking up. Some people are surprised at this, but I don't really see why it would take any longer. I wake up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, put clothes on, sometimes grab a piece of toast or something for breakfast (usually not), and then leave... Why does it take people longer? I mean, hell, how much makeup do girls really need to put on?

Anyway, I was washing my hands in the bathroom at work today and noticed a giant plume of hair sticking straight out from the back corner of my head. So I guess that's why people look in the mirror in the morning. Hm.

Ehh, I still don't think it's worth it, honestly. Unless my hair is longer and a bad hair day would be not only embarrassing (don't really care), but also a significant distraction for coworkers, or anyone else who sees me that day.

Speaking of which, I am thinking about not cutting my hair for a while. I always cut my own hair, and usually I just buzz it all off, then forget about it until it starts getting long and curly and tangly and puffy and then cut it all off again. Since I graduated from college, I've kept it pretty short, but I'm thinking I might let it go again. So what do y'all think, short or long? I could put up pictures (of the options), but is that safe? Is it? Is it?

Also, everybody, apparently this week is delurking week. So leave a comment. What better opportunity to tell me whether you think I look better as a fop or a skinhead, am I right? Yes I am.

Grow up, people

2008-01-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

I was reading the comments on KLC's post - she's wondering where to get married, what kind of church, etc. - and a few of the comments reminded me of something that my mom said yesterday at our regular whole-family Sunday dinner: a lot of people like to say that they're Catholic, but not actually live according to the guidelines of the Church.

Catholics have a lot of rules - more than Protestants - and there's no sense in pretending otherwise. It is a precept of the Church that Catholics attend Mass on Sunday, EVERY SUNDAY. If a Catholic knowingly misses Mass on Sunday without good reason (tiredness and good football do not qualify), it's a mortal sin. The life of God in the person's soul is smothered and he/she is removed from the state of grace.

If a Catholic uses contraception, it is a mortal sin. Abortion is a mortal sin. If the person dies outside the state of grace (with grave sin and no confession), he/she goes to hell forever. That's Catholic doctrine.

And here's one to try on for size: there are certain requirements for a Catholic marriage. The marriage must be open to new life (no contraception), the parents must intend to raise their children in the Faith, and both husband and wife must recognize that the marriage bond is permanent, no matter how they feel about it ten years down the road. If these conditions are not met, the marriage is not valid. Anyone who recommends breezing through marriage classes secretly reserving the right to "change your mind" is recommending invalidating a Catholic marriage.

KLC, I'm not addressing this to you in the least. If you're not Catholic, obviously the particular rules of the Church don't apply to you.

Also, this is not my opinion. These aren't necessarily the rules that I think are best. These are the rules that the Catholic Church has established.

I can understand that some people might disagree with some of them. But if that's the case, don't bother to call yourself a Catholic. Why bother? If you believe something else, go believe it, but don't mislead about your beliefs.

When you say you're Catholic, it means something. It means something very specific. It means you accept the authority of the Pope in Rome and the authority of the bishops in your country.

For better or worse, the Catholic Church has never been relativistic, and the moral code doesn't change from country to country or parish to parish. Some rules are just rules, even if you can find a loose enough priest to say he can bend them (God knows not all priests are perfect, or even close).

So a clarification here of things that some people who profess to be Catholic also inexplicably condone.

Pre-Marital Sex = mortal sin.
Contraception = mortal sin.
Missing Mass on a Sunday or Holy Day of Obligation = mortal sin.
Abortion = mortal sin and automatic excommunication from the Church.
Supporting abortion as a politician = mortal sin.
Voting for a pro-choice political candidate because he/she is pro-choice = mortal sin.
Receiving the Eucharist while in the state of mortal sin = mortal sin.
Hell = real.

Ok, that's it. Thanks guys.

The post is short, like my attention span-- span, span, haha, spic and span means clean, haha I just said 'spic'-- sorry.

2008-01-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

Oh, dudes (and dudettes), I'm totally sorry. I meant to delight you with postings today, but guess what? I had to blog for my company. Hm. Bet you didn't know that.

Yeah, I just got the position of managing content for our blog, so I'm soaking a different corner of the internet with my creative juices. Plus, I can't tell any of you folks where it is, because my NAME is on it, and for all I know, you are all homicidal psycho killer mutant snow-goons. And/or everyone could discover my true identity, which I probably wouldn't really care about, but maybe I'm just not ready to take our relationship to that level. Am I so wrong?

[we're in the middle of a romantic time-piece movie now-- and not 'timepiece' as in a watch, but as in 'period piece.' And not 'period piece' as in something about punctuation or menstruation. None of either is allowed here! I am a man! No periods! Period!]

ok, I guess I got too distracted by the introduction; we're no longer in a period piece (ew, now I keep thinking of some creepy advertisement for "boy-cut briefs: the period piece"-- great. this is not what I had in mind when I wanted to keep it brief).

So much for any semblance of order or decency. Like any good rodeo or bathroom, this post has turned into a chaos of activity with clowns, loud music, and just enough manure to keep your imagination fertile. Ok, I have to go, I feel like I'm on crack.

A summary of the campaigns, for you politically ignorant

2008-01-08T10:48:00.001-08:00

First of all, the primaries in New Hampshire are today. The Granite State leaps to the forefront! Wait a minute, I'm sorry, could you please pick a more boring state nickname? Jeez, even Missouri's, which I don't understand (Show-me State? What? Show me what?) is better than the Granite State. It's like, duh, blah! Maybe call it the Clay State, or the Dull State, or the State of Apathy.

But anyway, since I'm sure none of you know who any of the candidates are, I will list them and explain their platforms:

Democrats

1. Barack Obama. Obama, who believes himself to be the most charming of the candidates (except for Edwards, who is gay and doesn't count), is the candidate of change. This is why he thinks he can be the first black man to win the presidency. Paradoxically, Obama refuses to changes his name, which is almost identical to America's ultimate-enemy-terrorist-megalord.

2. Hillary Clinton. Clinton has a frightening face, which, when combined with the gruesome contortions of her feminine weeping-on-stage, will certainly frighten terrorists and children far more than the George-W-I'm-happy-go-lucky-and-also-sorta-dumb look. Hillary is very well-educated and intelligent, which is why she married Bill Clinton, a marquee husband.

3. John Edwards. Edwards is the socialist candidate, who believes in ruling with an iron fist and softly coiffed hair. His inspirations are the Lion King, Vladimir Lenin, and Jesus. Is also gay.

4. Other democrats. There's that one crazy guy who thought he saw a UFO, and maybe some other ones, but no one really cares.

Republicans

1. John McCain. John McCain served honorably in Vietnam, but wasn't a good enough soldier to escape capture. Since his return in 1982, he has lost every presidential election, and had a large cancerous mole removed from his head. He is the only Republican that doesn't hate Mexicans.

2. Mitt Romney. Romney's positions are difficult to determine, as he has waffled on pro-choice vs. pro-life, Mormons=polygamists vs. Mormons=monogamous, and waffles vs. pancakes. He is extremely rich, and in his campaign he has repeatedly vowed to use his wealth for his campaign. He is appealing in that creepy-uncle kind of way.

3. Mike Huckabee. Mike Huckabee used to be a fat preacher, but he fell away from the faith and carbs. He spurred himself to a stunning victory in Iowa by appealing to voters' traditional religious beliefs and by winning a heavyweight pumpkin-pie-eating contest at the state fair. It looks like Huckabee is back on the wagon.

4. Rudy Giuliani. Giuliani was the mayor of New York at the time of the 2001 terror attacks, and he went to a lot of Yankees games at that time wearing FDNY hats. No one knows what he has been doing since then, but people across the nation are inspired by his leadership, his lack of an upper lip, and his fearless delusion that somehow an ex-mayor who has never held federal office can be elected president. Also hates Mexicans.

5. Fred Thompson. Fred Thompson was an actor on Law & Order who convinced himself he had learned enough about law on the show to run for president. He is very old and speaks slowly, leading people to wonder whether he is senile, retarded, or just very Southern. Hates fellow Southerner John Edwards.

6. Ron Paul. Paul is pretty much crazy. No one knows why he is running, since he is basically an anarchist, but college kids have jumped on the bandwagon and raised him an inexplicable amount of money. He does not believe in taxes, God, or Mexicans.

Letter to myself at 18

2008-01-07T11:20:00.000-08:00

So these were getting passed around, and since I didn't have anything else to write about, I decided to give it a heave, even though it's sure to be boring as hell.

Dear 18-year-old me,

Hey, how's it going? College sure is fun, huh? even though you're younger than pretty much everyone at the school. Don't drink too much though, even though you think you're so good at it. Cool kids don't do that.

Baseball's fun, huh? That's pretty good that you were able to put seven mph on your fastball within six weeks of college ball. And don't worry, there's at least five more coming... and who knows, maybe more?

Work hard at baseball, you've really got a talent there, and it'd be a shame to miss the last month of your senior season because of academic ineligibility. Oh yeah, and don't play intramural basketball during the season, dumbass, because some out of control A-hole is going to jump on your back and land the combined weight of both of you on the outside of your right foot, and you'll hear your ankle crunch and miss six weeks right in the middle of junior season. Still, even if that happens, don't be afraid to try some semi-pro ball back in Chicago after college, and don't be surprised if you get named to the college All-stars for the CSBL. And who knows where you could go from there?

Rome is pretty fun, isn't it? I'd recommend that you not break into the castle above Assissi in the middle of the night to climb to the top even though it's hella fun. Have a little respect for your hosts. Ditto for breaking into St. Stephen's Green in Dublin in the middle of the night. Ditto for camping illegally in Killarney National Forest. Ditto for stealing that handle of Jack Daniels from the bar in Rome. Maybe even ditto for breaking curfew to hit up clubs in Greece until all hours of the night. Actually, sounds like you just need to settle down in Rome, tiger.

Relationships? Eh, you're not big into them now, and you won't be anytime soon. There's always the one obvious sort-of one that basically defines how you see love, but you already know there's more to it than that. Don't stress about it now. I'm sure you won't.

So, to summarize, maybe worry a tiny bit more, and don't dick around so much. I know you pride yourself on not worrying about anything ever, but know what? Some things are worth worrying about a little bit. But obviously, I think you've got it mostly right; most of the things that most people worry about most of the time are really insignificant, so it's fine that you don't give a crap.

Don't do drugs, don't drink to much, don't be impure. You can do it. Oh yeah, and work hard. That's going to be the toughest one. Don't sit back on your laurels just because you don't need to work to get by. Peace be with you.

Love,

You

New Year's Resolutions

2008-01-04T09:29:00.000-08:00

So, New Year’s Resolutions, huh? People seem to be big into them these days (and by these days I mean “these January 1sts”). I, for one, have never had a New Year’s Resolution.

Well, maybe that’s not true; I may have had one a long time ago—or maybe even a couple. But I don’t remember a single one, and that’s the truth. Why? Because I’m perfect? Well, obviously I can’t say that because you probably wouldn’t believe me.

Because I’m lazy? Well obviously I can’t say that because it’s not true. Fine, it’s true, but it’s a boring answer.

The real reason (at least this year) is that I didn’t have time because I had to do a load of laundry. Speaking of doing laundry (and not taking showers), I would like to inform you that yesterday I suffered from the most profound swampass of my life. I hadn’t taken a shower or changed my underpants since December (dang, could’ve gone with ‘no showers’ for a resolution), and there was literally a marsh in my trousers. You know when you get that layer or two of dead skin that’s still just sludging onto your grundle because you haven’t washed it for a few days, and it gets coated with one part sweat and two parts grease? It was like that times Avogadro’s number. I could have planted a crop in my crotch. Should I stop now? Is anyone even still reading? Damn it. I’m sorry.

So aside from the rice paddie in my pants, I was also unofficially appointed to serve as the face of the company in a series of videos as we launch the company online video channel. So that’ll be interesting, to say the least.

Oh also, since almost all of y’all thought Roy was depressing or scary or maybe just plain boring, I moved him to a different blog: http:royandemi.blogspot.com. Happy Friday, bitches. I’m sorry if I made you throw up by talking about my rotten taint.