A Quick Thought On A Saturday Morning

Why the hell does Comedy Central, a network that, by its own admission, is devoted to making me laugh, at its commercial breaks show the longest, most depressing, soul-blackening “starving African child” money-beg adverts?

Think about it. I tuned in because my life is painful and depressing enough. Granted, I’m not an idiot, things could be so much worse, believe me, I know. I’m never ungrateful for what I have, and as I get older, in fact, have become even more aware of how much worse it could be. But on a Saturday morning, when I throw on your channel to watch some funny things, don’t – DON’T – break away from a funny show to tell me the story of “Alex”, whose parents were both killed, and who has to, at the age of twelve, take care of his FOUR younger brothers. DON’T tell me how he fears for the future of his family, and how he often doesn’t eat food for himself, but rather gives it to his younger siblings.

It’s my weekend. If I wanted to feel bad about myself, I’d think of all the time I’ve wasted drinking myself into a stupor and all the missed opportunities I passed up in favor of killing the brain cells the good lord gave me. Show me some damned comedy, COMEDY Central.

Unless you’re planning on changing your name to “Blindside Central”. In which case these choices of commercials will fit in perfectly well with your other planned programming. Which, I assume will include shows about people winning large sums of money only to be told that they will be hunted like animals in order to claim it, and many others.

The Super Bowl: America, Get The Hell Over It

I know, I know, EVERYONE loves the Super Bowl. I must be some kind of Communist Pinko Hippie bastard for saying otherwise. But seriously, it’s so boring. Football in and of itself, at its purest form, is kind of cool. No seriously, if you look at it, it’s a game of strategy more than strength, and deception and misdirection. It could be so awesome. But then you tart it all up with the eye-melting motion graphics, and unending analysis by former players who would otherwise be running used-car dealerships if not for the need to have them weigh in on everything from what type of underwear is better for what kind of weather to why the coin toss should be re-run a half dozen times, and the game becomes an abomination of its former self.

I want to like it. Not really, but kind of. I mean, it would make my life so much easier; my family would accept me more fully, my co-workers wouldn’t look at me like I just ate an infant in front of them when I tell them I don’t really care about it, and while at bars with people I don’t feel like talking to, it would mean I don’t have to “pretend” I’m watching whatever game is on, I could actually be engrossed in it.

But it’s just not going to happen. I have to accept it. I don’t enjoy the flow of the game, which is essentially about as smooth as a constipated bowel movement. Shit takes so long to happen, and there’s so many pauses and breaks in the action, I’ve seen church services that were more engaging. I could fake it, but that facade wouldn’t last for very long, and soon my bile would surface and I’d start yelling at people around me, instead of at the opposing team on the comically large big-screen TV. And then I’d end up alienating the few people who have chosen to look past my patriotic indiscretion.

So I’m not going to watch the game today. I didn’t even know who was playing until Friday, when I happened to see it on the news, which I wasn’t paying attention to anyway. Instead, I will drink heavily, and possibly snack, along with the rest of America, while I watch funny movies, and of course, the Puppy Bowl, at the behest of the F. Because she’s a straight-up puppy junkie. It’s really kind of sad. For her, mostly, because I told her we’re never getting a dog. Primarily just to fuck with her, but also because I’m allergic, and the idea of sharing my nice, clean, technological space with an animal who licks its own ass and then wants kisses does not appeal to me. And I can always bust it out later if I need it:

“Honey, why did you run over my mom with the car?”

“Um… hey! Here’s a puppy!”

“Yay! A puppy!”

Problem solved.

Howdy.

Just a quick thought: lately people have been starting to follow me on Twitter (yay) which is nice, because I feel like my inane ramblings won’t flutter out into the void of the Internet and just die and turn to silicon dust without at least a few people having seen them. However, some of these people that are adding me are not exactly the kind of people I assumed would do so. And if I’m wrong about them, then man, that is O-to-the-motherfuckin’-K, and I apologize.

But I feel like some of it’s Twitter spam (does such a thing exist? I assume so), and I don’t want to block them, because I might be alienating someone who actually wanted to hear what I have to say (read: someone actually more mentally ill than I am myself, and someone to whom I am grateful) but I also could give two shits about what someone else thinks if the only reason they added me was so that they could have 12,137 followers instead of 12,136. You get me?

SO. If y’all would be so kind, do me a favor: if you find me on Twitter via this here blog, drop me a tiny note that says so, so I can welcome you properly and say thanks for the support! Much obliged. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to a little show I like to call “excessive drinking on weeknights as a means of coping with the universe shitting on one’s soul”.

Smell ya later!

Hmm…

Have you seen Frances Bean lately?

She looks exactly like an anime character.

See?

That’s Major Motoko Kusanagi from Ghost in the Shell. I should know. I’m an anime freak. It’s an awesome movie. You should totally watch it, even if you don’t like anime. The Matrix totally bit off of it like, so hard.

Of course, she has a kind of young Liz Phair thing happening too:

I don’t know. I love Liz Phair. She’s just adorable. I’m not so wild about every album she’s released since Exile In Guyville, but that’s for another post.

Anyway, I was thinking… If I were fifteen years old, I do believe I’d be in love with Frances, despite her terribly unfortunate pedigree. I mean, I miss Kurt as much as anyone, and Courtney is just a fucking embarrassment. What do you think it would be like to date FB? I think it might go something like this. Keep in mind, you’re fifteen, and totally awkward as fuck already.

You arrive at her house.

You: Hey…

Frances Bean: Hey.

Y: So, what do you feel like doing?

FB: I don’t know. Come in while I finish getting ready.

Y: Um, is your mom around?

FB: Ugh, yes. Just hang out. I’ll be ready in like 5.

Y: Uh, ok.

[Frances runs to her room to finish getting ready. Courtney stumbles in a nearby room, and you begin sweating. She staggers in, and finding you in the entry way, stops, eyes you up and down, and coughs.]

Courtney (drunk, possibly loaded on pills, half-dressed, cigarette dangling): Who the fuck was at the door? Why did you get it? We have people to do that. Mexican people.

Y: Uh, hi Ms. Love.

C: Who the fuck are you? Are you here to get Frances? I bet you want to see her naked. You do, don’t you? I mean, it’s totally normal. You can tell me. It’s cool.

Y: I… I… we’re gonna…

C: Whatever. I know you want to, you little filth bag. You better not get her pregnant, fucker, or I’ll put a shotgun in your mouth too! Ha ha ha [cough, sputter]! Oh, fuck, you know I’m only kidding. Where are you two lovebirds off to, anyway… where’s that bottle of Valium?

Y: I was thinking we would just go down to the mall. Some people are there.

C: Who? Who’s there? You know who’s there? The fucking pappa… papra… papraNAZI! That’s who! Those fucking bloodsuckers! Scum… they ruin everything! How many times have you had a tit fall out, completely by accident, and you weren’t totally trashed? Like a million, right? Me too! But EVERY time, it’s ‘Courtney’s off the wagon‘ or ‘Courtney’s breaking the terms of her probation‘ or ‘Courtney’s a complete trainwreck and is unfit to be the mother of anything short of a scorching case of syphilis‘…

Y: [...]

C: Don’t look at me like that, you little shit.

Y: I… just…

FB: Ok, let’s get out of here. Mom, come on. You always do this!

C: Do WHAT?

FB: You know what. Let’s go. I’ll be back… later, I guess.

C: You better be! And you [gesturing woozily to you] – you remember what I said..

Y: Ok… which part?

C: [slumped over on the table, passed out, snoring]

FB: Never mind. Let’s go.

Y: Is it always like that?

FB: Unfortunately…

I really hope she goes in the opposite direction. And I hope Courtney is sawed in half by a giant shard of metal that falls from a construction site as she walks underneath.

Been Busy

Oh, Lordy.

It’s been months since I was over here. It was so long that I kept thinking about it, and not wanting to come back. It’s not like I was on some extended awesome vacation of total fun radness. I had some shit to take care of, and that’s that. And I’m finally starting my summer vacay right.

The Turkey’s been flowin’, the waves have been peelin’, and the laptop’s been hummin’.

Of course, I got info from the lifeguard at the beach today, as I was about to enter to water for a nice little surf that he went for a swim this morning and the water is completely polluted:

“Like, condoms, and needles (!) and a lot of garbage.” (His words)

DAMN IT! What the hell? Needles? Is it 1987 and no one told me? I haven’t heard of this much shit in the water, like, ever. Usually there’s something going on, but it’s like a minimal thing, and I’ll just blow it off and maybe have The ‘Rhea for a day, because I’m an idiot and can’t be told not to enjoy the splendor of the ocean. But the last thing I need is to come up from a wave and get a jimmy hat in the mouth. I think I would vom right there in the water.

I mean, I did get some waves in over the last few days, but it’s never enough for me, and this is no way to spend what turned out to be a decent day at the beach. I am thinking the only way to salvage it is to get really drunk and just pretend I’m somewhere else.

AND speaking of somewhere else, part of the reason I’ve been incommunicado lately, apart from having some hellacious family things to help out with is that I decided I was going to watch all four seasons of Lost in sequence on abc.com. Have you seen this show? I know people like it, because prior to my own exposure to it, all I knew was that fans of the show are like zealots in a cult.

And now I can count myself as one of them. Every episode is like a totally awesome freak-out on film that makes your brain melt and I can’t seem to get the damned thing out of my head. I watched all 83 episodes over the course of about a month and a half, I guess, and I am feverishly chomping at the bit for next year.

I hate the fact that I have to wait like everyone else now for the next installments. But I have found something that helps with the hurt: Lostpedia.

Needless to say, it may be a while before we talk again.

Just kidding. But seriously. It might be. That site is sick.

Where’s my whiskey…?

Long Weekend, Vol.1: Sunshine… On My Shoulder… Makes Me… Cranky?

So I decided to join my family on a trip to Florida recently, as I desperately needed a change of scenery, as well as some massive bourbon intake and possibly a few rounds of golf. Also, it’s nice to have some time to tinker with my Eee, as I’ve been busy lately. I’m actually writing this from my new BFF the Eee PC, which has absolutely changed the way I think about the world around me. It is seriously the most awesome thing I have ever owned, and that’s saying a lot, because I have a lot of cool crap, and anyone who knows me also knows that this borders on heresy, as I love my Treo more than life itself. But I digress.

In entering the airport, I remembered I haven’t flown in a long time, and my brother-in-law (who flies constantly for work) was running down “the rules” for me.

“Take out your laptop and have it ready.”

“Ok.”

“And your cell phone, and your DS.”

“Right.”

“And did you bring any lotions, or shampoos, or hair crap?”

“Well, some…”

“You have to have them ready, But don’t worry, they probably won’t check them anyway.”

I start to feel my face get hot, as the situation becomes more ridiculous…

[And this is why I don't fly often – it's security theater at its best. A bunch of trained apes, pretending to keep us safe. It's absolutely silly.]

I decided I would calm down, as opposed to getting hauled off by TSA goons, and in my flustered state, forgot to take a bunch of metal shit out of my pockets and off of me. So when I walked through the metal detector, I went off like the 4th of July. It was kind of awesome, actually. I made everyone wait longer. Ha.

So then we board the plane, and I notice that in the years since I have flown, things are different all over. Like for instance, those big old bland, boring jetways that you use to board your plane are now emblazoned with HSBC logos, because they want you to know that no matter what flight you’re on, they’re partly responsible for you being on it. Without them, you would have had to leap from the terminal gate to the plane, and you probably would have twisted an ankle at the very least. Thank God HSBC was there to provide a way for me to go on vacation. Without them, I’d be bloodied and broken on the runway in Newark, and in no way enjoying my time on vacation.

We decided to fly first class. Let me just say that if the difference between coach and first class is like a hundred bucks (which it was in this case), do not hesitate to do it. Within 5 minutes of boarding the plane, I had a whiskey in my hand as all the other shlubs glared at me enjoying my delicious JD and reading Electronic Gaming Monthly (nerd alert), as though I didn’t have a care in the world. I felt like a king, and the realization that every time I was getting to the bottom of my glass another drink came was only reinforcing this fact. The dinner was freaking amazing, and I streched out in my seat like I was at home.

The lone downfall was the kindly old German businessman who COULD NOT STOP FARTING NASTY TOXIC FUMES as I tried to relax. Other than that, it was totally rad. It seemed to take no time at all, and suddenly I was in Florida, totally ready to rock.

Only problem was, we landed in Tampa, and our house is in Venice, an hour away.

[Hmm.]

Good thing I had like, a million whiskeys on the flight. I’m in a fantastic mood. We go to rent our car and on my way to the bathroom, Feist’s 1-2-3-4 comes on, and I have two thoughts simultaneously:

1. She’s completely penetrated the market in a way she probably didn’t expect when she’s being played in a car rental facility (as opposed to like Michael Bolton or Sheryl Crow or something)

2. I still freaking love this song, despite its complete and unmitigated market penetration. So I start stepping in time with it, on my way to get rid of all the whiskey I sloshed during the plane ride. And I see a completely messed-up physically disabled guy calmly and casually rocking out as I passed, obviously enjoying Feist as much as I was, and I had a third thought:

3. Rock on, dude.

We get to Venice, and I have one further thought: where am I going to buy more whiskey at this hour? Luckily for me, there is an Albertson’s open, and I pick up a handle of JD. The old guy behind the counter at the liquor store mutters something about not having much time to browse, to which I reply we wouldn’t need hardly any. Because I am on a mission at the liquor store – surgical strike. No questions asked. In and out.

I love how I can make borderline alcoholism seem like it’s so cool. Kind of loserly, kind of awesome.

We drink, listen to some tunes, I sloppily shower, fall asleep on a pullout bed that’s roughly as comfortable as a slab of concrete with rebar exposed. Oh, also, it’s freezing in the room I’m sleeping in. Yeah, exactly. Freezing? Florida? DOES NOT COMPUTE. Totally. And what’s the only thing I find to stay warm?

Pillow shams.

Unbelievable.

Such A Busy Little Bee

Between my two jobs, and my affiliation with SisterKisser, I don’t have a whole lot of down time anymore. Add in all the time I spend scouring the Int4Rw3Bs for cool things and freeware for my Treo, and I have even less. Then there’s the drinking. I mean, it happens while those things are going on sometimes, but to be a professional, you have to really commit to it and make the time to train.

So to all four of you who actually read my crap, I apologize for not being as diligent as I could be. Work is a bitch right now, and I haven’t hit my autumn stride yet. Give it time. So since it’s the end of the week, I figured one big post to coverall my bases should suffice. Here we go. Things that that I found out this week:

Someone is making an ice cream machine that dispenses ice cream based on how depressed you sound. Well, let me tell you something. I can sound pretty goddamned sad when I want some ice cream and no one’s giving it to me, so I’d probably put that thing through its paces far too quickly.

Weeds is a really awesome show. I never watched it before, and friends of mine tried to get me into it earlier this year to no avail (I don’t have Showtime). But I found some episodes online and if you haven’t seen it, check it out. It’s pretty addictive, and that’s not a pun because it’s a show about drugs. I’m beyond that.

Whiskey is still delicious, and allows me to remain a person who does not feel the need to go on killing sprees because the world around him makes no sense and drives him to madness. Let’s all say a silent prayer for that one.

And the bestest thing EVAR! Some absolute genius and my future BFF has created a home theater setup in a strikingly remarkable likeness of the control deck of the DEATH STAR. This is easily the coolest thing I have ever seen, and completely reaffirms my faith in humanity, also allowing me to avoid the aforementioned killing sprees.

I MUST know more about this. I’m thinking about sending fan mail, that’s how much I love it.

Well, I’m off to the beach to hit the water tomorrow. Let’s just hope Poseidon cooperates. But then again, it’s supposed to be 80 degrees, and there’s always the Turkey to keep me company…

Summer ’07, We Hardly Knew Ye.

I am soooooo absolutely bummed that my super-rad summer filled with awesomeness is over. Labor Day always sounds the death knell for the carefree days of alcohol abuse at the beach and wearing short pants with nary a care in the world, and nothing will ever change that, until I start living on one of the islands I started looking at on The Private Islands Blog. On my private island, I will be shirtless and full of whiskey each and every day, as I capture my dinner from the sea and get so tan and deranged from the sun that I am unrecognizable to friends and visitors.

Now, I love the fall – I mean, really like maniacally love it – the crispness in the air, pumpkin picking, carefree days of alcohol abuse in the woods, wearing sweaters with nary a care in the world… but nothing lights me up like the arrival of summer.

And I will be surfing all through September and into October, and the waves usually get really good, thanks to the Atlantic hurricane season. So I really can’t lament it too much. But I will. Because I am a baby. Of the highest order.

I can feel good, though, about setting out to top the Summer of ’03, which, prior to this summer was the front-runner for BSE (Best Summer Ever), and doing so, in spades. Now this is discounting the fact that certain other summers, say, in college, could have been considered BSEs based on different criteria, such as not working myself half to death, and having fewer responsibilities. But also, I was a poor slob then, and couldn’t do/buy many things, so it all balances out somehow.

All in all, as Lioux will tell you, we’re both big fans of the fall, and I’m sure it’ll kick much ass. But for today, I shed a tear for my good friend summer.

Work Sucks. But These Don’t.

I have been inundated with work lately, so my blogging muscles haven’t been flexed in a few days. I apologize to all three of you who may occasionally read my rantings. In any event, if you really cared, you wouldn’t give me crap about it. No one is, actually, I’m just saying that in preparation of a time when someone might.

Enough about that. Wired news just made my day/week/month/life/eternity with this little bugger.

Ladies and gentlemen, science finally does something right. I give you… Pocket Shots. Liquor in a small squeezable container, perfect for hiding at work, putting in one’s pants to attend a screening of whatever movie you feel like overpaying for, church, uncomfortable dinners with the gf’s parents (or friends if they’re lame too)… the list goes on and on.

God bless America. It’s not often I say that kind of shit, so you know this means something.

And did you notice which one is front and center? You got it! Aged Kentucky Straight BOURBON!!! *tear*

40 Miles Of Bad Road (and Other Children’s Stories)

I have been spending most of my time at the beach, and since I can surf and drink whiskey at the beach, and ride a happy little bicycle around to do things, I have not been feeling very bloggy lately. But I had a meeting in North Jersey, so I had to come back up. While here, I dropped in on a very old friend of mine who was performing at a bar in Bayonne for some special b-day surprisery (his, not mine). It was great seeing him again and catching up.

Not so great? Having to watch the derailment of civilization that took human form at the bar. There was a woman there, and I say woman in the LOOSEST possible terms, only because there was what I assume was a skirt involved. It looked more like a denim prison for her disgusting fat body. And I thank God for the Chinese children who stitched it together with such care that it did not burst forth with the horror contained therein. I seriously think to see this person naked would cause instantaneous and uncontrollable vomiting fits, ended only when you put a gun barrel in your own mouth, looking forward to the searing hot taste of gunpowder to make it all go away.

Anywho, my friend, who is a lights-out guitarist, is trying to please the rabble in the pit by playing some covers, having told me this is a pretty good gig for some extra scratch. He’s in the middle of his second set, when The Darkness (this is how I’ll be referring to her from now on) starts whooping and slapping her knees, covered in layers of cellulite and evil, screaming:

“Playy shum BEEEETLES!”

He’s already played some Beatles, you filthy drunk pig. He played “I’m Looking Through You” like a million years ago. Go back to your dirty pig whore planet.

Being a professional, he says, ok, I’m gonna do one or two more and then we’ll do some Beatles too. Every time she looks around the bar, I grab my phone and start pressing buttons wildly in the hope that I look so busy she won’t even consider coming anywhere near me.

So he goes into “Blackbird” which is a lovely song, and she’s outside the door, sucking on a lung rocket (natch), when she comes staggering in, yelling.

“I know vfthis one! You were waiting… dark… arise!!!”

Yes. Those are the lyrics, fatty disgusto sauce. Thanks for sharing your gift with us. I think John probably shot himself again immediately after this. Just to be sure.

Now, I ask you. Is it really wrong of me to pray for alien overlords to seize control of our planet enslaving all but the most reverent to their whims? Really? I’d love to see this walking piece of human excrement fall at the hands of a vicious alien. Then he would turn to me and we’d laugh and drink much space whiskey while we talk about torturing all the people who watched American Idol and made it into the juggernaut of a talent vacuum that it is.