I might have broken my no-beer rule, but I have no idea since I've been chugging vodka as if it was beer. Which has made me act even more of an asshole buffoon looney tune. So for the rest of my beer exile, no more booze either. Totally dry for two weeks. Ugh.
PS - As I'm typing this I see Rachel Ray's show today is dedicated to cocktails. "Raising the Bar." christ.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Bullies.
I've always hated when someone is shocked, CANT BELIEVE when someone else doesn't know exactly what they know. Like let's say you know how to change a tire, but Tommy doesn't. For whatever reason, he just doesn't. But when you put Tommy on the spot, you feel like a big man, don't you? You yell at Tommy, you make fun of Tommy in front of everybody, feels good doesn't it?
I'm not a wise man. Believe me, no one on the planet is less aware than me. But I've always come from the point of well, he doesn't know what I know, but he probably knows what I don't know, etc. Ain't a software engineer in the world can draw a truck engine like the kids I rode the bus with as a young buck; while drawing these amazing drafts of engines it was absurd how dead on it was; is this worth any more or less than someone who can memorize Keats?
No.
I've always thought everyone knows a finite number of things. I know how to bale hay, you know how to rotate tires, we're square. At my age I laugh at men who pounce on other dudes who don't know the exact thing as themselves. At a young age I might have wondered why I sucked so bad; as an adult I know and recognize it's your own insecurities flaring up, it's YOUR moment to shine, right? Pounce on the guy! You're a big man! Gee, Xmastime doesn't know how to tile a floor?? he's a loser! let me pile on here!! It's the equivalent of being a bully in the 3rd grade. If you pull this shit you're a bully, which at your age should be even more worthless. "Gee,lemme pounce on so and so's weaknesses cause I know that I have weaknesses of my own." Camon. grow up. We all know the same amount of stuff, we're all geniuses, get out of fucking 7th grade and join the rest of us. Pathetic. The only thing more pathetic than a bully at 12 is a bully at 32. Fucking sad.
I'm not a wise man. Believe me, no one on the planet is less aware than me. But I've always come from the point of well, he doesn't know what I know, but he probably knows what I don't know, etc. Ain't a software engineer in the world can draw a truck engine like the kids I rode the bus with as a young buck; while drawing these amazing drafts of engines it was absurd how dead on it was; is this worth any more or less than someone who can memorize Keats?
No.
I've always thought everyone knows a finite number of things. I know how to bale hay, you know how to rotate tires, we're square. At my age I laugh at men who pounce on other dudes who don't know the exact thing as themselves. At a young age I might have wondered why I sucked so bad; as an adult I know and recognize it's your own insecurities flaring up, it's YOUR moment to shine, right? Pounce on the guy! You're a big man! Gee, Xmastime doesn't know how to tile a floor?? he's a loser! let me pile on here!! It's the equivalent of being a bully in the 3rd grade. If you pull this shit you're a bully, which at your age should be even more worthless. "Gee,lemme pounce on so and so's weaknesses cause I know that I have weaknesses of my own." Camon. grow up. We all know the same amount of stuff, we're all geniuses, get out of fucking 7th grade and join the rest of us. Pathetic. The only thing more pathetic than a bully at 12 is a bully at 32. Fucking sad.
Sweet, Sweet Vindication
From none other than a real expert, John T. Edge.
Sorry, Watty! And apparently some Shake Shack backlash (Shakelash!) has started. Whatevs. Can't think of a better burger I've ever had, nor can I even conceive of one (though it's always fun trying.)
So, while we're talking condiments: Ketchup or mustard?
Mustard. Ketchup tastes saccharine sweet. It's for pantywaist burger-lovers. It's a pantywaist condiment. If you look at the best burgers today, ketchup is banished and mustard is relished.
Sorry, Watty! And apparently some Shake Shack backlash (Shakelash!) has started. Whatevs. Can't think of a better burger I've ever had, nor can I even conceive of one (though it's always fun trying.)
Maher, Thompson, Jesus (oh my)
You know, Bill Maher, in a comedy special from what looks like about 15 or so years ago, said that the reason we get so wrapped up in the sex lives of politicians and use such scandals to judge the candidates is because we just don’t really understand, or TRY to understand much else. That sounds about right to me. So and so’s plans on changing the tax laws? I don’t get that, nor am I gonna take time to read up on it; but hey, he cheated on his wife? Well, then he’s a scumbag who would be a terrible president, so I’m not voting for him. That’s that. Same thing with church. I have no idea what so and so is talking about re: foreign policy, but he goes to church every week and talks about Jesus a lot, so he’d probably make a great president. So that’s that. Cause...everyone in this country who goes to church would be fine behind the wheel. Hmm.
Also, aren’t there any Republicans out there at least secretly ashamed that after over a decade of screeding that anyone even remotely connected to Hollywood is the Devil himself they are pinning their hopes to...an actor. I love this. And they sound so fucking stupid. “Oh, Fred Thompson would be a great President, he looks so strong, so...presidential!” Hey, Will Smith was great in Independence Day, why not make him Secretary of Defense? All while the daily canonizations of Ronnie Ray-Gun pile up exponentially. They all desperately wanna be him, even though he came from...Hollywood. Which I thought was Hell multiplied by Hades multiplied by Rosie O’Donnell?
Which in and of itself is fine. But that means you have to shut the fuck up and not roll your eyes and out of hand dismiss anyone else from Hollywood (Alec Baldwin, mostly) anytime they say something you don’t agree with. I understand your pickings right now are slim, having to choose between Older than Medusa Crazy and I Married My Cousin Crazy, but at least keep your mouth shut and swallow your own bullshit for once.
Also, aren’t there any Republicans out there at least secretly ashamed that after over a decade of screeding that anyone even remotely connected to Hollywood is the Devil himself they are pinning their hopes to...an actor. I love this. And they sound so fucking stupid. “Oh, Fred Thompson would be a great President, he looks so strong, so...presidential!” Hey, Will Smith was great in Independence Day, why not make him Secretary of Defense? All while the daily canonizations of Ronnie Ray-Gun pile up exponentially. They all desperately wanna be him, even though he came from...Hollywood. Which I thought was Hell multiplied by Hades multiplied by Rosie O’Donnell?
Which in and of itself is fine. But that means you have to shut the fuck up and not roll your eyes and out of hand dismiss anyone else from Hollywood (Alec Baldwin, mostly) anytime they say something you don’t agree with. I understand your pickings right now are slim, having to choose between Older than Medusa Crazy and I Married My Cousin Crazy, but at least keep your mouth shut and swallow your own bullshit for once.
Feeling the Burn
Good lord. I just picked up a free weight for the first time since, oh, 1990. Ish. I feel like little pieces of glass are in my body with pick-axes, and then coyotes are chewing away at those pieces of glass. Jesus.
Of course by Friday I’ll be HUGE and will be laid out at McCarren asking the empanada lady to spread some cocoa-butter on my 2-pack.
Back in high school we’d lift weights at 6am every morning for football. I remember our sets were based on some sort of declension; ie you’d find out your max bench press, say 250lbs and your reps would be 5 reps at 50%, 4 at 60%, 3 at 75% and so on and on. One of the many, MANY laughingstocks on our team was Jimmy. Jimmy was about 190 pounds of ranch dressing & chicken skin, nary a muscle in sight. And he was a starting lineman. Both ways. Ugh. He was also one of those pussies that insisted on covering every single inch of his body in padding; if you threw him in a river he’d prolly float. I remember his max on the bench was such that his first set of reps were...the bar. No weights, just the bar. I can still see it, I can still hear everyone laughing when I jumped up “Need a spot there, Jimbo?” and started to help him lift. While he was sitting there, the lone bar hovering above him our Coach popped his head in the room and looked around. Seeing Jimmy, one of his starting lineman, poised to bench press about the equivalent of a small dog he shook his head, muttered “jesus fucking christ” and walked back out. It’s a miracle we went 1-9 that year.
Someone offline is heckling me re: being fraid of snakes. Anything that has no arms, no legs and can still kill me I'm staying away from. So fuck. yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwww.
Fears.
I think my single greatest fear in this life is being in love with a woman who is dating a douchebag. So I go up to the douchebag to kick his ass and win my girl, but it backfires when HE beats MY ass in front of her, and I look up and they're both laughing their heads off at what a pussy I am. "I'm horny now" she'd say to him "let's go fuck!" while I lay there hoping that's beer on the front of my pants. Unlike the movies, where she'd cradle my head and realize she's in love with me while he just waves her off in disgust to go drink longnecks with his rowdy buddies, destined to marry the local fat slut-about-town while she and I go to the big city and take over The New Yorker.
Well, and snakes. Terrified. WHICH MEANS it's only a matter of time before some shit-for-brains friend of mine reads this and pulls out a black snake to scare me, thinking it's funny because his tiny, unformed pea brain can only surmise "I'M not scared of snakes, how can HE be? hahahahaah!!!" Fucking hell.
Well, and snakes. Terrified. WHICH MEANS it's only a matter of time before some shit-for-brains friend of mine reads this and pulls out a black snake to scare me, thinking it's funny because his tiny, unformed pea brain can only surmise "I'M not scared of snakes, how can HE be? hahahahaah!!!" Fucking hell.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Words
It's hard to believe you could matter enough to somebody to hurt them, isn't it? Not just drunken buffoonery, but words that hurt someone. Just like it seems unfathomable to think that someone is thinking of you when you're not actually with them. I always assume the second I leave a room I'm deleted from everyone's brains. And that nothing I say could ever really matter to anyone else. Ah well. I believe Barry Gibb said it best:
Okay. Enough of that horseshit. Back to being a racist looking for some tail. Well. WHITE tail.
It's only words, and words are all I have
To take your heart away.
Okay. Enough of that horseshit. Back to being a racist looking for some tail. Well. WHITE tail.
I'm in Love!!!!!!
Becky Conner!! My girlfriend has a blog!!!! I'm so happy!! Now I can break down her personality profile, maybe piece together where she lives and "bump into here"!!!! Im in love!!
"Oh my god, yes...yes, yes, of COURSE I'll marry you Xmastime!!!!!!!!!!"
UPDATE: I now see she hasn't posted since August. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!
"Oh my god, yes...yes, yes, of COURSE I'll marry you Xmastime!!!!!!!!!!"
UPDATE: I now see she hasn't posted since August. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!
Barry, MLB
I woulda never thunk it, but what with MLB (Selig) being BEYOND hypocritical about the steroid era, acting like they weren't popping hammies jumping up to applaud Barry crank dingers as long as no one knew and the $$$ kept coming in like tap water, I'm on Bonds' side here. Fuck MLB, fuck the Hall. I hope when he crosses home plate after #756 he drops his pants, takes a big dump and tells Selig et al to go fuck themselves. Oh, and my win total prediction for my Yanks is now offically 44. Down from 110. Cough.
The Godfather
Both of my godsons are unbaptized. Most people say the job of the Godfather is to make sure they do get baptized; I say it's to make sure they don't play soccer when they get older. I'm thinking I should claim myself Godfather of All Unbaptized Young Bucks. Wayward lads in search of male guidance. Op and I have a riff where I take these kids and put together a barnstorming basketball team, the thing being that all week leading up to the game I'm a ridiculous douche, emailing our upcoming oppenents trash talk about how bad we're gonna beat them, how much they suck, I might have done their mothers etc. Then we show up and they crush us like 110-30, but while there I'm the picture of cordiality and sportsmanship. "Great game guys! Great kids, you guys got a great program here, good luck! Great kids!" Then the second I'm back home I start trashing them about how lucky they were to win, they fucking suck and I'm STILL doing their mothers etc. Anyways. Dreams, eh?
Monday, May 28, 2007
Breakfast
Another thing I remember about boot camp was that when I got my appetite back after a few days in I found out they had Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. I latched onto those motherfuckers and ate them every morning religiously. I guess they offered a hint of normalcy, of the outside world we had left behind...it was either M*A*S*H-style powdered eggs with bacon and hash browns served with a side of patriotism and courage or....Cocoa Puffs. Man. Tough to picture Patton ordering up some Count Chocula, I would think.
Dutch Oven
So...as I noted before here, the firefighters during 9/11, the very day upon which Rudy is trying to fool us into electing him Emperor, all hate Rudy and are pro-actively trying to not allow him to take over the reigns in '09. And now it turns out good ol' Dutch, the man (tho to hear these people nowadays does it even seem possible that he was really only a man and not Jesus Christ TIMES John Wayne? are we giving Reagan short shrift by claiming he was only a man?) whom each one the GOP candidates desperately wants to claim to be most like thought Rudy was, in a word, "crazy." I mean, does it get any better than this? Why do people pay $11 to go to the movies; crack open the news, this is shit you can't make up. As I said before, I hope Rudy hangs in as long as possible cause the comedy gold is priceless. Specially when he legally changes his name to "Guili-ronny." beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Memorial Day
I remember getting off the bus at Lackland and being attacked by the drill instructor, a little 5’6” chip-on-shoulder-pup whose sole job was to greet the new recruits and scare the fucking shit out of them for about 18 hours before turning them over to their regular DIs. In our faces, snarling, yanking us all around by the chains on our necks. I’m pretty sure none of us ate a bite for about three days, scared and shell-shocked. For some reason 5 of us out of a flight of 50 showed up about 8 hours early and were all alone to absorb his abuse – and remarkably out of the 5 of us I was the only one taller than the DI, which drove him BANANAS, meaning guess who took 90% of the abuse. Grrrrr.
Finally lil crazy pup screams at us that it’s lights out and to get out piece of shit faggot asses in bed. Upon hearing the door slam we each look down at out cots. Made up perfectly, as if the Color Guard had come in and made each one along with Martha Stewart. Then, in a moment that I promise you is repeated every single time a new flight gets ready to get into bed for the first time, one of us brainiacs decides hey, why don’t we sleep on TOP of the sheets so we don’t mess them up as much? Hmm. We’re geniuses! Millions and millions of men have come through boot camp, and we are the first ones to come up with this!!! Yes! Surely they'll never figure this one out. So we all gently lay down on top of our beds and hate that we’re there, desperate to get our hands on our recruiters back home and snap their necks in half.
Of course about an hour later (the 5 of us having slept a total of 0 winks) Lil Crazy Pup bursts back into the room, sees us on top of our cots and FLIPS OUT; over the top outraged, screaming his head off losing his mind. Of course we all lay still, eyes closed, acting as we’re asleep. So whose cot does he come for? Of course. Grabs the bottom of my cot and FLIPS IT OVER, sending me flying onto the floor with the little mattress landing on top of me. As time slowed down in my own head a little light bulb went off and I said hey, be cool, just keep pretending you’re asleep. Face on the floor, a whole bed on top of me, and I keep my eyes closed and, in another one of my “Seemed like a great idea at the time” moments, JUST to make sure Lil Crazy Pup knew how dead asleep I was, started to pretend snore. Lil Crazy Pups eyes fell out of his head and blood spewed from every poor in his body as he had the Super Bowl of all conniptions and exploded..
Needless to say I spent the next 8 hours running in place and doing pushups while he barked spittle into my mouth while the other 4 guys laid in their cots watching me. Day 1 of serving my country. Ugh.
Finally lil crazy pup screams at us that it’s lights out and to get out piece of shit faggot asses in bed. Upon hearing the door slam we each look down at out cots. Made up perfectly, as if the Color Guard had come in and made each one along with Martha Stewart. Then, in a moment that I promise you is repeated every single time a new flight gets ready to get into bed for the first time, one of us brainiacs decides hey, why don’t we sleep on TOP of the sheets so we don’t mess them up as much? Hmm. We’re geniuses! Millions and millions of men have come through boot camp, and we are the first ones to come up with this!!! Yes! Surely they'll never figure this one out. So we all gently lay down on top of our beds and hate that we’re there, desperate to get our hands on our recruiters back home and snap their necks in half.
Of course about an hour later (the 5 of us having slept a total of 0 winks) Lil Crazy Pup bursts back into the room, sees us on top of our cots and FLIPS OUT; over the top outraged, screaming his head off losing his mind. Of course we all lay still, eyes closed, acting as we’re asleep. So whose cot does he come for? Of course. Grabs the bottom of my cot and FLIPS IT OVER, sending me flying onto the floor with the little mattress landing on top of me. As time slowed down in my own head a little light bulb went off and I said hey, be cool, just keep pretending you’re asleep. Face on the floor, a whole bed on top of me, and I keep my eyes closed and, in another one of my “Seemed like a great idea at the time” moments, JUST to make sure Lil Crazy Pup knew how dead asleep I was, started to pretend snore. Lil Crazy Pups eyes fell out of his head and blood spewed from every poor in his body as he had the Super Bowl of all conniptions and exploded..
Needless to say I spent the next 8 hours running in place and doing pushups while he barked spittle into my mouth while the other 4 guys laid in their cots watching me. Day 1 of serving my country. Ugh.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Ohoh...Look Who Hates the Troops...
The troops!
Freedom-hating terrorist motherfuckers. I hope each one of these "troops" gets wounded so he can come back to Walter Reed and have a rat gnaw at his wounds. Ha! (off to vote on bill to reduce Veteran's Benefits for an 118th time. and bake a big-titties cake.)
Freedom-hating terrorist motherfuckers. I hope each one of these "troops" gets wounded so he can come back to Walter Reed and have a rat gnaw at his wounds. Ha! (off to vote on bill to reduce Veteran's Benefits for an 118th time. and bake a big-titties cake.)
Oh Goody, More Miracle Workers
Unreal! Just when I think I might be alright, I see people who can do something this amazing and I'm like fuuuuuuuuuuuuckk!!!!! Pretty cool. The Pepsi cans might be my favorite.
I also don't need to read about this motherfucker. Christ. Triple amputee, after being raised by a blind mother graduating medical school. Which I couldn't do with 6 arms. Camon. I remember trying to read Brokaw's "The Greatest Generation" but getting tired of chapter after chapter being "...after having both of his legs blown off and his head severed in half, Tom came back to Indiana, married his high school sweetheart and opened 823 lawnmower stores..." fucking christ.
My favorite triple amputee? Mama from "What's Happening!!" died a triple amputee. Hey hey...hey?
An interesting thought...if you had to be a triple amputeee, which limb would you keep? Hmm.
I also don't need to read about this motherfucker. Christ. Triple amputee, after being raised by a blind mother graduating medical school. Which I couldn't do with 6 arms. Camon. I remember trying to read Brokaw's "The Greatest Generation" but getting tired of chapter after chapter being "...after having both of his legs blown off and his head severed in half, Tom came back to Indiana, married his high school sweetheart and opened 823 lawnmower stores..." fucking christ.
My favorite triple amputee? Mama from "What's Happening!!" died a triple amputee. Hey hey...hey?
An interesting thought...if you had to be a triple amputeee, which limb would you keep? Hmm.
Sunblock #9
Another sign of my getting old/almost growing up is yesterday I actually put on sunblock. I always scoffed, thinking only pussies would put this stuff on, why don't I just put on some makeup too? Then every inch of skin on my body would burn to an absolute crisp. Was working on a roof yesterday and finally succumbed. Sigh. Another one of the greats, lost.
The old me:
I'm the one on the left. christ.
The old me:
I'm the one on the left. christ.
I'm a Loser
15 pounds in 13 days since I started my 30-Day Challenge. Not bad. Though I need to walk more; I'm getting about an hour in a day, but prolly should be doing two. Coupla years ago I lost about 75 pounds just from walking an hour a day. I still ate like an animal and lost it in about 6 months. So I figure my new eating habits along with the walking will get me to my goal fast enough. I need an iPod; if I had an iPod I'd be walking constantly. Cause then I can listen to music, which is what I'd wanna be doing anyway.
To be honest, it hasn't even been that hard. I'm not panicking for a beer (though I need to quit pounding liquor as if it was beer. ugh.) Soda I could give a shit about other than it's always around, always easily accessible. And fast food, you just have to take ten seconds and decide you know what, no thanks. And even though I'm not on a "diet" and can pretty much eat whatever I want, the success in achieving these other things have affected my decisions...the other day we were ordering from a restaurant and I ordered the chicken parm hero. Then I thought about and said you know what, fuck it, I'll have a salad.
Just like not watching tv for a week, it's been easier than I thought, and to be honest, without getting gay here, it really does make me feel like you know what, maybe I CAN do wahtever I want. Become successful. Get a woman. Be an adult. Whatever. Maybe I don't have to be the biggest loser in the room just cause fuck it, it's easier. I'm learning that with a MINIMAL bit of effort, just a little bit, I can actually do something worthwhile other than just thinking nah, it'll be too hard, I'll just stay being a big fat loser; it's probably impossible and I'll fail anyway. Maybe I'm a little stronger than I thought. Actually, I guess I'm just letting myself be as strong as I am, with just a little bit of effort.
So we'll see. Maybe in another two weeks I'll have gained 45 pounds. But hey. A good start.
To be honest, it hasn't even been that hard. I'm not panicking for a beer (though I need to quit pounding liquor as if it was beer. ugh.) Soda I could give a shit about other than it's always around, always easily accessible. And fast food, you just have to take ten seconds and decide you know what, no thanks. And even though I'm not on a "diet" and can pretty much eat whatever I want, the success in achieving these other things have affected my decisions...the other day we were ordering from a restaurant and I ordered the chicken parm hero. Then I thought about and said you know what, fuck it, I'll have a salad.
Just like not watching tv for a week, it's been easier than I thought, and to be honest, without getting gay here, it really does make me feel like you know what, maybe I CAN do wahtever I want. Become successful. Get a woman. Be an adult. Whatever. Maybe I don't have to be the biggest loser in the room just cause fuck it, it's easier. I'm learning that with a MINIMAL bit of effort, just a little bit, I can actually do something worthwhile other than just thinking nah, it'll be too hard, I'll just stay being a big fat loser; it's probably impossible and I'll fail anyway. Maybe I'm a little stronger than I thought. Actually, I guess I'm just letting myself be as strong as I am, with just a little bit of effort.
So we'll see. Maybe in another two weeks I'll have gained 45 pounds. But hey. A good start.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Fried Chicken Friday
No Fried Chicken Friday today. Sorry. Hung over. And apparently if you guzzle a bottle of vodka you become rediculously constipated. Awesome!! Finally, a similarity between me n Elvis. Whoever finds me dead on the bowl, do me a solid (cough) and toss out whatever porn I have in my cold, dead mitts. Ugh.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Kicked Nuts and the Wonder Pets: My Life
When people find out that I babysit a kid (8 months old) twice a week they always go “aawwwwww!!” and imagine 8 hours of petting puppies and “I Love My Manny” bibs. That’s a nice scenario but guess what? Doesn’t work that way. I decided to do a running account of today, let you in on how it goes.
8:30am – I get to the house, open the door and there he is. Wide-eyed and energized, letting me know that he just woke from sleeping for 14 hours straight after having taken 2 three-hour naps yesterday, when his father was watching him. This kid refuses to take a nap for me. I don’t know why. It’s as if he thinks he’s going to miss something exciting. Which is kinda flattering, but kid, camon...we’ve known each other for 8 months now, the most exciting thing you’ve seen me do is coin the phrase “Jew York City.” Go to sleep, you’re not missing anything for fuck’s sake. Maybe he thinks he’s responsible for me earning his parents’ money, maybe he thinks I steal. I don’t know. But his father’s always like “yeah, he only slept for 3 hours for me today” and I’m like 3 hours?!?!?!?! The only thing he’ll do for me today for three hours is desperately try to poke me in the eye; MAYBE he’ll try to teach me ballroom dancing again, but probably not even. Fucking a.
8:45am – after spending the last 15 minutes bubbling with baby-joy and smiling like a lunatic, the second the door shuts behind his father as he’s leaving for work the smile comes off his face and he slooooooooowly turns to me with a look that says “well, well, well....just us now. Get ready to bust your ass for the next 8 hours, fucking jerkoff.” I’m not sure, but I think his head spun 3 times like Linda Blair. The reason I’m not sure is my eyes have teared up after he’s once again “accidentally” kicked one of my nuts with his heel. It’s gonna be another banner day for The Manny.
8:50am – I change him. Like Judge Reinhold changing out the fries at the start of every shift in Fast Times, I change him whether her needs it or not. I like to start with a fresh baby. Nothing crazy, just a little piss. But luckily he has decided to spend the entire 2 minutes on the changing table screaming his tiny head off. Because he still hasn’t figured out “okay, this will be painless and over soon, and then I will be clean of any piss/shit that is clinging to my body;” maybe because we’ve only done this drill oh, 88,000 times. Just like when he starts screaming cause he’s hungry; within seconds he sees that I have a bottle, that I am filling the bottle with Enfamil. Yet he still screams at the top of his lungs. Even though 1) he has never, ever witnessed anyone else getting the bottle to eat, so surely it’s for him 2) at no point in the entirety of his life has he screamed from hunger without being fed within 60 seconds. Literally. But every time, everything’s a complete mystery. “OHMYGOD!!!!! IM STARVING!! Am I ever going to eat again!?!?!? Oh god oh god!!! What’s going to happen?!?!?! I don’t even have a job!!!” Even though, like the changing, we’ve done this drill about 10 times a day every single day he’s been alive. Kid MIGHT not be a genius.
9:00am – We watch a little tv. I stay away from tv for the kid, but Noggin has some cool stuff that’s supposed to be educational etc, so a few minutes here and there don’t hurt. I like to watch “Little Bear” with him; Little Bear teaches kids the importance of sharing, teamwork, using your imagination and being very nice in general.
9:03am – Fuck “Little Bear”, “Dawson’s Creek” is on. Oh goody, this is about the 4th episode in a row with Audrey’s “band” rocking out at the local bar. Gee. A crappy 80’s cover band and the place is PACKED WALL TO WALL with people screaming, losing their minds. Are you kidding me? “Wow, I came to the bar to drink and hang out with my friends; there’s a loud, shitty band that’s gonna play some Cyndi Lauper you say? Fucking a, I am IN!!!” (breaks tequila bottle over head, leads pack of stage divers into action.) Have people that write movies and tv shows ever been to rock shows? Or...bars? Same with “Eddie & the Cruisers II.” At the end there’s a Battle of the Bands Contest (in Vancouver!) and they filled an ARENA with tens of thousands of people losing their minds because they’re getting a chance to spend money on tickets/overpriced soda to stand up and cheer bands no one has ever heard of singing songs nobody has ever heard. What the fuck. Who does this? “School of Rock”, same beef. Battle of the Bands, THOUSANDS of people stuffed into a huge joint to watch “A Show with A Group of Bands Nobody Gives a Shit About.” And, if you remember correctly, this one was during the day. We’re supposed to believe thousands of people took a day off of work to watch...a Battle of the Bands. Fucking christ. I, like most humans, have never paid to see a Battle of the Bands. My guess is that while one band is playing, the audience consists of....the other bands. Is there nothing left in this world to believe in - did you ever think you’d live long enough for “Dawson’s Creek” to lose it’s street cred?
10:30am – time for a bottle. Which used to mean I’d cradle him in my arm, stick the bottle in his mouth and he’d happily suck away. Now it means he sits up on my lap and spins his head around constantly, looking around all of a sudden extremely interested in everything else in the room. Yet screaming his head off cause I can’t seem to keep the bottle in his mouth while he’s doing this. Spinning his head around and kicking, flailing, and having no idea why he’s not eating. Hmm. Of course, he finally settles into a still position whenever he has landed into the single most uncomfortable position for my arm to be in for 10 seconds, much less the 15 minutes he’s gonna take to take his time eating. I’ve got my arm OVER top of his head, hand somehow holding onto the bottle with two fingers while his head is turned away at an 80-degree angle while leaning over and forward as far as he possibly can. Great. Luckily, just like during my first visit to a “bathhouse,” after a few minutes in this position I will black out.
11:00am – now I’ve got him in his little plastic chair/tray setup on the island in front of me. I can check my email/watch tv while he presses the 8,000 buttons that make the sound of a fucking doorbell. DING! DING! DING! Every button, he’s got me thinking my gook food is at the door. This is when he also likes to “chat.” Which is a constant stream of “ahhhhh......ahhhhh......ahhhhhhh......ahhhhhh” over and over. Sounds like a broken record of a fucking Alzheimer’s patient trying to remember which channel "Matlock" is on. “ahhhhhahhhhhahhhhaahhaaaaaaaaah.” Jesus. I prefer the crying; at least then you know it’s just something that needs to be fixed and the crying will stop. And the loudness of his “talking” is in direct proportion to how badly you need to hear something else at that exact moment; be it your phone, the tv, whatever. “And so now we know, the killer of JFK was AHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHH....thank you, and this information will never be repeated by another soul on Earth. Good night.” Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!
11:30am – we’ve spent the last 20 minutes playing a game with his Curious George stuffed animal. A game whose rules are this: he will play with the thing for about 8 seconds before dropping it onto the floor, wherein I have to then pick it up, hand it back, take a few seconds to make sure he doesn’t drop it before looking away at the very second he lets it fall to the floor. We like to do this about 11,000 times in a row before calling it a game. This teaches him sharing and teamwork and I learn that it’s amazing the shit you’ll put up with before you reach out, grab a baby by the throat and slam his head against a refrigerator while screaming “ENOUGH WITH DROPPING THE FUCKING MONKEY!!!! PLEASE STOP IT!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!!!!” Always learning.
11:35am – I just sneezed, which sends the boy into a body re-coiling crying jag that kicks off with the “oh, this you’re not gonna like” silent yell – eyes clamped tight, arms flailing, whole body instantly beet red, mouth about a foot wide open looking like Lucy Van Pelt, thing hanging from the roof of his mouth shaking, no sound coming out for about 15 seconds until the waterworks really start cranking and his shrieks of fright peel the paint off the walls. I don’t get this. Kid ain’t scared of nothing, you could wrap a king cobra around him and dangle him in front of a jet turbine, doesn’t faze him. Yet I sneeze and he goes crazy. Maybe he hates sneezing and anything that indicates sickness; maybe he’ll be a doctor? Then again he spends a part of the day literally covered in shit so I guess he might also become the Roto-Rooter guy. Either way, I better get free check-ups from him.
11:36am – upon being picked up to be comforted after Sneezegate ’07, he promptly lands another one on my nuts. This kid’s smarter than I had thought.
11:55am – I just spent the last 5 minutes cleaning up broken glass from a glass he knocked off the island. But in true baby fashion, he did not touch the glass. When you’re with an infant, you hafta scan the area constantly to see what’s in the way of what. Cause he won’t reach out and knock the glass off the counter. He will grab the remote and swing it so that it JUUUUUST grazes a book, which will then slide over into a pile of mail that knocks into the ball he won’t play with and THEN into the glass, making it fall over. The geometry of this shit is amazing; mixing a matrix with billiards. You learn. Few weeks ago I scanned the area and said “that cookie sheet is gonna go if I don’t move it.” Sure enough a chain of events happened, sending it crashing to the floor. This is just like when you see a beautiful girl and your eyes meet, which leads to you talking and your hand JUUUUUUUUUST brushing her breast, making her smile, leading to you slightly brushing her hand so that it hits your hard-on, which you slyly taken out of your pants a second ago, causing you to jizz on her $400 leather skirt just as her 9-foot tall, maybe crazy boyfriend walks into the room, takes a pool cue and beats you senseless til you shit yourself. Small links in a chain adding up is what I’m saying.
12:15pm – I’ve been cracking him up with videos of “The Wonder Pets” online; kid is laughing hysterically. It’s really great. I also know by now not to bother later on when some one comes in “hey, look at this, he’s gonna crack up!” cause that’s when all of a sudden instead of laughing on cue he just looks at you like you’re an idiot. “I swear...he was laughing...” Just like that singing and dancing frog on Bugs Bunny. I believe this is what the phrase “oh, you little shit...” was invented for.
12:45pm – now the kid is tired, he needs a nap but he refuses to go to sleep. He is now screaming and crying to keep himself awake. Again, this is strange. You are keeping yourself awake for chocolates and strippers? Nope. You get to spend the time hearing yourself crying and screaming. Oh, joy. We do a dance where I try and feed him, knock him out with milk, but every time he’s close to drifting off he reminds himself that it is his job to make my day as long and miserable as possible, and this pulls him through for another few minutes of crying. Finally I’m like fuck it and dump him in his Exi-saucer, a big plastic device that you can throw your kid on – he gets to push buttons that make animal sounds while you can take a break, maybe flip thru a magazine or rub one out to Lacey Chabert walking in on you and Jennifer Love Hewitt and demanding you “teach me how to be a woman too! In the ass!!” Whatever. So I go back to the computer, checking my mail etc when all of a sudden I’m like you know....it’s really quiet....and I go over and VOILA! There he is...head down on the Exi-saucer, drool rolling out of his gaping mouth, snoring like a mf. So it’s not that he didn’t wanna sleep, he didn’t want me to be the one to put him to sleep. His way of saying “you can’t fire me, I quit!!” Bastard.
12:46pm – I’m starving, so I gotta take advantage of his sleeping and eat as quick as possible. So I put together my salad. Get lettuce, rip it/put into bowl. Slice tomatoes, slice cucumbers. Some cheese, some tuna. Dash of ranch. After about 15 minutes, I have carefully constructed the perfect salad and am ready to eat.
1:01pm – BING!!!! Guess who’s eyes have just opened? Hooray!!! He half-smiles, looks at the salad I’m about to dig into and gives me that look that says “oh dear Manny, you could not possibly have thought I was going to let this happen, did you? Oh, no NO my friend!” and starts wailing. So I have to leave my salad sitting there and tend to him. He calms down and lets me put him down into his chair/tray thing at the exact moment my salad is officially warm, soggy and disgusting. If I had a cap I would doff it. But I don’t, since when I was holding him he grabbed it and decided to let it drop at the exact moment we were walking past the single biggest pile of dogshit in the world.
1:15pm – it’s a nice day, so let’s get in the stroller and take a spin. Luckily he happens to live on the single most dangerously unhealthy block in the world. Industrial paint shops just stand in the middle of the street randomly spraying paint everywhere while the “meat” place hoses entrails across the sidewalk and the shop that manufactures agent orange likes to keep its doors open. This kid is gonna have some freakish superpower due to this shit, or grow an extra hand. Oh, and the one-block stretch is also a shortcut for cars to barrel through at about 900 mph, thus shaving maybe 6 seconds off their drive had they stayed on Grand Ave. Congratulations fuckwad. I'll see you at the corner, when I literally stroll by.
1:20pm – within 5 minutes of strolling, he falls asleep. Comforted of course by the knowledge that even as he sleeps, I have to still work, pushing the goddam thing. Thanks.
2:30pm – back at the house. Of course he woke back up the second we got back, and is hungry. This time he is relatively still with the bottle, even laying back like when he was...well, young. I look down at him and you know what, it’s enough that I feed you every time you bitch and moan and that I literally wipe your ass; the least you could do while eating is not have your hands behind your head and eyes closed like you’re getting a fucking blowjob. Jesus christ.
3:00pm - play with an assortment of toys; all of which make clear that there are only three things that will ever, ever matter in later life: know your shapes, know your colors, and you damn for sure better know your barnyard animal sounds. I don't know why these are so important; not once at a job interview have I been asked if I knew my colors or shapes. Animal noises, yes. But that was a long time ago, back before Times Square cleaned up its act, if you know what I'm saying. And if you don't know what I'm saying, all I'm saying is next time you put on a wool sweater think of me in a sheep costume blowing dudes for a sawbuck. And if you still don't know what I'm saying, then that's actually better for me. Summer of '94. Can never take that away from me.
3:10pm – I say the one thing I say to him for the 14,000th time today: “whaddya say there, lil buddy?” Every day, all day. “whaddya say there, lil buddy?” Christ. Kid must be ready to hurl. Oh, goody. He just did. Again.
4:00pm - At 4:00 we like to watch "Wonder Pets"; the tales of Linny, Tuck and Ming Ming. No big whoop, just a coupla pets working together to save another baby animal who is in trouble and has called in on their soup-can phone.
Most of their dialogue is sung in a weird, operatic manner. Sing-songy, their sentences often end suddenly, jiltingly; you expect more words. Like when the train stops and you expect it to surge forward slightly, or when someone walks in on you about to jizz in the kitchen. And as "wonder"-ful as these guys are, they seem to get lucky a lot. A typical scene is the one we just saw: they're in their wonder-mobile, flying over Greece to find an injured inchworm and help him. To whit:
"Wow, Greece is huge! How are we EVER gonna find the worm??!!"
"There it is!"
"Great!"
Linny. Tuck. And Ming Ming too. We're Wonder Pets and we'll help you. Well we're not too big. and we're not too tough. But when we work together we got the right stuff. What's gonna work? TEAMwork! Sigh. My fucking life.
4:35pm - his mother is home from work and I hand him off to her. After a whole day of literally busting my balls and driving me to craziness, now while his mother is holding him he turns to me with that perfect, overjoyed baby face, smiling/beaming at me with a look "oh hi, how long have you been here?!??" and he turns back into perfect, precious baby. His mother is in awe at how awesome/happy he is and wonders why I'm talking to myself.
"Ha ha ha! I win again! And clean this shit up, asshole!!!!"
8:30am – I get to the house, open the door and there he is. Wide-eyed and energized, letting me know that he just woke from sleeping for 14 hours straight after having taken 2 three-hour naps yesterday, when his father was watching him. This kid refuses to take a nap for me. I don’t know why. It’s as if he thinks he’s going to miss something exciting. Which is kinda flattering, but kid, camon...we’ve known each other for 8 months now, the most exciting thing you’ve seen me do is coin the phrase “Jew York City.” Go to sleep, you’re not missing anything for fuck’s sake. Maybe he thinks he’s responsible for me earning his parents’ money, maybe he thinks I steal. I don’t know. But his father’s always like “yeah, he only slept for 3 hours for me today” and I’m like 3 hours?!?!?!?! The only thing he’ll do for me today for three hours is desperately try to poke me in the eye; MAYBE he’ll try to teach me ballroom dancing again, but probably not even. Fucking a.
8:45am – after spending the last 15 minutes bubbling with baby-joy and smiling like a lunatic, the second the door shuts behind his father as he’s leaving for work the smile comes off his face and he slooooooooowly turns to me with a look that says “well, well, well....just us now. Get ready to bust your ass for the next 8 hours, fucking jerkoff.” I’m not sure, but I think his head spun 3 times like Linda Blair. The reason I’m not sure is my eyes have teared up after he’s once again “accidentally” kicked one of my nuts with his heel. It’s gonna be another banner day for The Manny.
8:50am – I change him. Like Judge Reinhold changing out the fries at the start of every shift in Fast Times, I change him whether her needs it or not. I like to start with a fresh baby. Nothing crazy, just a little piss. But luckily he has decided to spend the entire 2 minutes on the changing table screaming his tiny head off. Because he still hasn’t figured out “okay, this will be painless and over soon, and then I will be clean of any piss/shit that is clinging to my body;” maybe because we’ve only done this drill oh, 88,000 times. Just like when he starts screaming cause he’s hungry; within seconds he sees that I have a bottle, that I am filling the bottle with Enfamil. Yet he still screams at the top of his lungs. Even though 1) he has never, ever witnessed anyone else getting the bottle to eat, so surely it’s for him 2) at no point in the entirety of his life has he screamed from hunger without being fed within 60 seconds. Literally. But every time, everything’s a complete mystery. “OHMYGOD!!!!! IM STARVING!! Am I ever going to eat again!?!?!? Oh god oh god!!! What’s going to happen?!?!?! I don’t even have a job!!!” Even though, like the changing, we’ve done this drill about 10 times a day every single day he’s been alive. Kid MIGHT not be a genius.
9:00am – We watch a little tv. I stay away from tv for the kid, but Noggin has some cool stuff that’s supposed to be educational etc, so a few minutes here and there don’t hurt. I like to watch “Little Bear” with him; Little Bear teaches kids the importance of sharing, teamwork, using your imagination and being very nice in general.
9:03am – Fuck “Little Bear”, “Dawson’s Creek” is on. Oh goody, this is about the 4th episode in a row with Audrey’s “band” rocking out at the local bar. Gee. A crappy 80’s cover band and the place is PACKED WALL TO WALL with people screaming, losing their minds. Are you kidding me? “Wow, I came to the bar to drink and hang out with my friends; there’s a loud, shitty band that’s gonna play some Cyndi Lauper you say? Fucking a, I am IN!!!” (breaks tequila bottle over head, leads pack of stage divers into action.) Have people that write movies and tv shows ever been to rock shows? Or...bars? Same with “Eddie & the Cruisers II.” At the end there’s a Battle of the Bands Contest (in Vancouver!) and they filled an ARENA with tens of thousands of people losing their minds because they’re getting a chance to spend money on tickets/overpriced soda to stand up and cheer bands no one has ever heard of singing songs nobody has ever heard. What the fuck. Who does this? “School of Rock”, same beef. Battle of the Bands, THOUSANDS of people stuffed into a huge joint to watch “A Show with A Group of Bands Nobody Gives a Shit About.” And, if you remember correctly, this one was during the day. We’re supposed to believe thousands of people took a day off of work to watch...a Battle of the Bands. Fucking christ. I, like most humans, have never paid to see a Battle of the Bands. My guess is that while one band is playing, the audience consists of....the other bands. Is there nothing left in this world to believe in - did you ever think you’d live long enough for “Dawson’s Creek” to lose it’s street cred?
10:30am – time for a bottle. Which used to mean I’d cradle him in my arm, stick the bottle in his mouth and he’d happily suck away. Now it means he sits up on my lap and spins his head around constantly, looking around all of a sudden extremely interested in everything else in the room. Yet screaming his head off cause I can’t seem to keep the bottle in his mouth while he’s doing this. Spinning his head around and kicking, flailing, and having no idea why he’s not eating. Hmm. Of course, he finally settles into a still position whenever he has landed into the single most uncomfortable position for my arm to be in for 10 seconds, much less the 15 minutes he’s gonna take to take his time eating. I’ve got my arm OVER top of his head, hand somehow holding onto the bottle with two fingers while his head is turned away at an 80-degree angle while leaning over and forward as far as he possibly can. Great. Luckily, just like during my first visit to a “bathhouse,” after a few minutes in this position I will black out.
11:00am – now I’ve got him in his little plastic chair/tray setup on the island in front of me. I can check my email/watch tv while he presses the 8,000 buttons that make the sound of a fucking doorbell. DING! DING! DING! Every button, he’s got me thinking my gook food is at the door. This is when he also likes to “chat.” Which is a constant stream of “ahhhhh......ahhhhh......ahhhhhhh......ahhhhhh” over and over. Sounds like a broken record of a fucking Alzheimer’s patient trying to remember which channel "Matlock" is on. “ahhhhhahhhhhahhhhaahhaaaaaaaaah.” Jesus. I prefer the crying; at least then you know it’s just something that needs to be fixed and the crying will stop. And the loudness of his “talking” is in direct proportion to how badly you need to hear something else at that exact moment; be it your phone, the tv, whatever. “And so now we know, the killer of JFK was AHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHH....thank you, and this information will never be repeated by another soul on Earth. Good night.” Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!
11:30am – we’ve spent the last 20 minutes playing a game with his Curious George stuffed animal. A game whose rules are this: he will play with the thing for about 8 seconds before dropping it onto the floor, wherein I have to then pick it up, hand it back, take a few seconds to make sure he doesn’t drop it before looking away at the very second he lets it fall to the floor. We like to do this about 11,000 times in a row before calling it a game. This teaches him sharing and teamwork and I learn that it’s amazing the shit you’ll put up with before you reach out, grab a baby by the throat and slam his head against a refrigerator while screaming “ENOUGH WITH DROPPING THE FUCKING MONKEY!!!! PLEASE STOP IT!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!!!!” Always learning.
11:35am – I just sneezed, which sends the boy into a body re-coiling crying jag that kicks off with the “oh, this you’re not gonna like” silent yell – eyes clamped tight, arms flailing, whole body instantly beet red, mouth about a foot wide open looking like Lucy Van Pelt, thing hanging from the roof of his mouth shaking, no sound coming out for about 15 seconds until the waterworks really start cranking and his shrieks of fright peel the paint off the walls. I don’t get this. Kid ain’t scared of nothing, you could wrap a king cobra around him and dangle him in front of a jet turbine, doesn’t faze him. Yet I sneeze and he goes crazy. Maybe he hates sneezing and anything that indicates sickness; maybe he’ll be a doctor? Then again he spends a part of the day literally covered in shit so I guess he might also become the Roto-Rooter guy. Either way, I better get free check-ups from him.
11:36am – upon being picked up to be comforted after Sneezegate ’07, he promptly lands another one on my nuts. This kid’s smarter than I had thought.
11:55am – I just spent the last 5 minutes cleaning up broken glass from a glass he knocked off the island. But in true baby fashion, he did not touch the glass. When you’re with an infant, you hafta scan the area constantly to see what’s in the way of what. Cause he won’t reach out and knock the glass off the counter. He will grab the remote and swing it so that it JUUUUUST grazes a book, which will then slide over into a pile of mail that knocks into the ball he won’t play with and THEN into the glass, making it fall over. The geometry of this shit is amazing; mixing a matrix with billiards. You learn. Few weeks ago I scanned the area and said “that cookie sheet is gonna go if I don’t move it.” Sure enough a chain of events happened, sending it crashing to the floor. This is just like when you see a beautiful girl and your eyes meet, which leads to you talking and your hand JUUUUUUUUUST brushing her breast, making her smile, leading to you slightly brushing her hand so that it hits your hard-on, which you slyly taken out of your pants a second ago, causing you to jizz on her $400 leather skirt just as her 9-foot tall, maybe crazy boyfriend walks into the room, takes a pool cue and beats you senseless til you shit yourself. Small links in a chain adding up is what I’m saying.
12:15pm – I’ve been cracking him up with videos of “The Wonder Pets” online; kid is laughing hysterically. It’s really great. I also know by now not to bother later on when some one comes in “hey, look at this, he’s gonna crack up!” cause that’s when all of a sudden instead of laughing on cue he just looks at you like you’re an idiot. “I swear...he was laughing...” Just like that singing and dancing frog on Bugs Bunny. I believe this is what the phrase “oh, you little shit...” was invented for.
12:45pm – now the kid is tired, he needs a nap but he refuses to go to sleep. He is now screaming and crying to keep himself awake. Again, this is strange. You are keeping yourself awake for chocolates and strippers? Nope. You get to spend the time hearing yourself crying and screaming. Oh, joy. We do a dance where I try and feed him, knock him out with milk, but every time he’s close to drifting off he reminds himself that it is his job to make my day as long and miserable as possible, and this pulls him through for another few minutes of crying. Finally I’m like fuck it and dump him in his Exi-saucer, a big plastic device that you can throw your kid on – he gets to push buttons that make animal sounds while you can take a break, maybe flip thru a magazine or rub one out to Lacey Chabert walking in on you and Jennifer Love Hewitt and demanding you “teach me how to be a woman too! In the ass!!” Whatever. So I go back to the computer, checking my mail etc when all of a sudden I’m like you know....it’s really quiet....and I go over and VOILA! There he is...head down on the Exi-saucer, drool rolling out of his gaping mouth, snoring like a mf. So it’s not that he didn’t wanna sleep, he didn’t want me to be the one to put him to sleep. His way of saying “you can’t fire me, I quit!!” Bastard.
12:46pm – I’m starving, so I gotta take advantage of his sleeping and eat as quick as possible. So I put together my salad. Get lettuce, rip it/put into bowl. Slice tomatoes, slice cucumbers. Some cheese, some tuna. Dash of ranch. After about 15 minutes, I have carefully constructed the perfect salad and am ready to eat.
1:01pm – BING!!!! Guess who’s eyes have just opened? Hooray!!! He half-smiles, looks at the salad I’m about to dig into and gives me that look that says “oh dear Manny, you could not possibly have thought I was going to let this happen, did you? Oh, no NO my friend!” and starts wailing. So I have to leave my salad sitting there and tend to him. He calms down and lets me put him down into his chair/tray thing at the exact moment my salad is officially warm, soggy and disgusting. If I had a cap I would doff it. But I don’t, since when I was holding him he grabbed it and decided to let it drop at the exact moment we were walking past the single biggest pile of dogshit in the world.
1:15pm – it’s a nice day, so let’s get in the stroller and take a spin. Luckily he happens to live on the single most dangerously unhealthy block in the world. Industrial paint shops just stand in the middle of the street randomly spraying paint everywhere while the “meat” place hoses entrails across the sidewalk and the shop that manufactures agent orange likes to keep its doors open. This kid is gonna have some freakish superpower due to this shit, or grow an extra hand. Oh, and the one-block stretch is also a shortcut for cars to barrel through at about 900 mph, thus shaving maybe 6 seconds off their drive had they stayed on Grand Ave. Congratulations fuckwad. I'll see you at the corner, when I literally stroll by.
1:20pm – within 5 minutes of strolling, he falls asleep. Comforted of course by the knowledge that even as he sleeps, I have to still work, pushing the goddam thing. Thanks.
2:30pm – back at the house. Of course he woke back up the second we got back, and is hungry. This time he is relatively still with the bottle, even laying back like when he was...well, young. I look down at him and you know what, it’s enough that I feed you every time you bitch and moan and that I literally wipe your ass; the least you could do while eating is not have your hands behind your head and eyes closed like you’re getting a fucking blowjob. Jesus christ.
3:00pm - play with an assortment of toys; all of which make clear that there are only three things that will ever, ever matter in later life: know your shapes, know your colors, and you damn for sure better know your barnyard animal sounds. I don't know why these are so important; not once at a job interview have I been asked if I knew my colors or shapes. Animal noises, yes. But that was a long time ago, back before Times Square cleaned up its act, if you know what I'm saying. And if you don't know what I'm saying, all I'm saying is next time you put on a wool sweater think of me in a sheep costume blowing dudes for a sawbuck. And if you still don't know what I'm saying, then that's actually better for me. Summer of '94. Can never take that away from me.
3:10pm – I say the one thing I say to him for the 14,000th time today: “whaddya say there, lil buddy?” Every day, all day. “whaddya say there, lil buddy?” Christ. Kid must be ready to hurl. Oh, goody. He just did. Again.
4:00pm - At 4:00 we like to watch "Wonder Pets"; the tales of Linny, Tuck and Ming Ming. No big whoop, just a coupla pets working together to save another baby animal who is in trouble and has called in on their soup-can phone.
Most of their dialogue is sung in a weird, operatic manner. Sing-songy, their sentences often end suddenly, jiltingly; you expect more words. Like when the train stops and you expect it to surge forward slightly, or when someone walks in on you about to jizz in the kitchen. And as "wonder"-ful as these guys are, they seem to get lucky a lot. A typical scene is the one we just saw: they're in their wonder-mobile, flying over Greece to find an injured inchworm and help him. To whit:
"Wow, Greece is huge! How are we EVER gonna find the worm??!!"
"There it is!"
"Great!"
Linny. Tuck. And Ming Ming too. We're Wonder Pets and we'll help you. Well we're not too big. and we're not too tough. But when we work together we got the right stuff. What's gonna work? TEAMwork! Sigh. My fucking life.
4:35pm - his mother is home from work and I hand him off to her. After a whole day of literally busting my balls and driving me to craziness, now while his mother is holding him he turns to me with that perfect, overjoyed baby face, smiling/beaming at me with a look "oh hi, how long have you been here?!??" and he turns back into perfect, precious baby. His mother is in awe at how awesome/happy he is and wonders why I'm talking to myself.
"Ha ha ha! I win again! And clean this shit up, asshole!!!!"
Fucking Seriously
Fucking seriously. We can put men into outer space, clone living things and give the Red Sox a World Series ring, but we just can’t solve the fucking riddle of trucks so fucking loud they blow your fucking head off your shoulders, can we? Do these things even have mufflers? Or did they stop developing the muffler years ago, and each of these 4-ton trucks have the muffler of a 1973 Datsun hatchback? “Well, I reckon that’s all we can do with a muffler Marv, we’ve taken it as far as it can go...wanna have a bite for lunch and then invent the internet? Great.” What the fuck...I’m walking down Metropolitan Avenue this morning and I swear to christ, every other vehicle was a humungous, rumbling truck so fucking loud I just wanted one of them to roll over my fucking skull. Seems fucking absurd; how is it we haven’t come up with a way to silence these things? The bored-out mufflers on motorcycles I understand – you have a tiny penis yet insist on everyone within 10 miles knowing you exist. “Hey, look at me! Little-dicked loud asshole, right here!! Look at me!!” But these trucks. Makes no sense. Can someone smarter than me work on this and figure something out? Maybe during her 23 days in the Big House Paris can come up with something. Like George Costanza giving up sex, maybe her having to devote her brain to something other than finding the world’s smallest dog or fucking dudes so dumb they have to ask which hotel chain she is an heiress of will turn her into a super-genius.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Beautiful Girls
For some reason, “Beautiful Girls” is on my “if it’s on, I’m watching” list. I don’t really know why – it’s a kinda good movie. Not a great movie. Does have an unbelievable cast. And Uma Thurman plus Mira Sorvino plus Lauren Holly plus a pre-pube Natalie Portman makes it an easy movie on the eyes (sorry Rosie and Martha Plimpton.) Some wincingly bad lines, in particular most of Portman’s “old-soul musings.” And gee, a piano sit-around featuring “Sweet Caroline” so everybody can jump in on the “bum-bum-bum!”s. Great.
There is a coziness to the flick; maybe it’s the snow. I don’t know. I’ve always agreed with the big climax, the speech about beautiful girls, even if it’s over the top.
I’ve always said, seeing a beautiful girl is a gift from god. Walking down the street and seeing a mind-blowing beautiful woman is about the best thing that can happen all day. Yes I’ve stared too long and gotten the dirty look, but I don’t mind. You'd think really hot women wouldn't even notice dudes staring at them, you'd think they'd be used/numb to it. Or maybe it's just me they don't want looking. I dunno. No, I’m not gonna run up and start hitting on her. I'm not going to follow her home. I just keep walking and smile a simple “thank you” to whoever invented beautiful women.
There is a coziness to the flick; maybe it’s the snow. I don’t know. I’ve always agreed with the big climax, the speech about beautiful girls, even if it’s over the top.
A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. Se can make you feel high with the single greatest commodity known to man--promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gaze of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, how she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay. The supermodels are bottled promise. A beautiful girl is all powerful, and that's as good as love.
I’ve always said, seeing a beautiful girl is a gift from god. Walking down the street and seeing a mind-blowing beautiful woman is about the best thing that can happen all day. Yes I’ve stared too long and gotten the dirty look, but I don’t mind. You'd think really hot women wouldn't even notice dudes staring at them, you'd think they'd be used/numb to it. Or maybe it's just me they don't want looking. I dunno. No, I’m not gonna run up and start hitting on her. I'm not going to follow her home. I just keep walking and smile a simple “thank you” to whoever invented beautiful women.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Finally Feels Like...
...softball Sunday. 80 degrees. Chicks sunbathing. Everyone out at Pete's, jb$ sermonizing. Completely shitfaced, heading home thinking it's 3am, then realize well, the sun's still out. Op silent & staring. Me, shamelessly telling about 4 girls they're beautiful and I'm in love with them. Might have seriously proposed at least once. Sigh. Here comes the summer.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Fried Chicken Friday
IF YOU COME INTO MY HOME AND PUT THE FOLLOWING THING ON MY HOMEMADE FRIED CHICKEN I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE NECK:
Ketchup – you people know my theory on ketchup in general. You’re not in the fucking Midwest, you’re not wrestling pigs back on the farm, this isn’t your first Happy Meal - put the fucking ketchup away and eat like an adult for fuck’s sake. Few years back I was in love with some chick, invited her over for dinner. Made her my signature “I love you, please spend the rest of your life with me” dinner: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, some combination of bread/Hormel chili. Coulda been Hormel Benedict, coulda been Foie Gras Hormel Drizzle. Whichever. So I spend every second of the day slaving over this chicken, throwing out batch after batch until finally, after going through about $19,000 worth of chicken I had landed upon my masterpiece, my magnum opus; what the Phoebe Cates-coming-outta-the-pool scene in Fast Times woulda been if it were fried chicken. Now I know that the second she bites into this heaven on a bone, she’ll fall in love with me and we’d make babies from then til…well, till I dropped dead at 37 of a massive coronary. Anyways. I put on my best gal-hosting sportcoat, some clean black socks and seat her at my table – of course offering up a glass of wine to “simmer down the heat” that was brewing in this dining room of lust…and by “dining room” I mean “table in the kitchen”…well….by “table in the kitchen” of course I mean “foot locker between my couch and tv.” So I’m not Cliff Huxtable, fucking sue me. Anyways, I serve her a plate of beauty, my best fried chicken, just above room temperature cuddling next to a small mountain of mashed potatoes (I believe the Hormel Chowder with sliced almonds appetizer woulda been done by this time.) As I’m sitting down to chow my precious angel looks up at me and says those three little words that should have let me know my life was to change forever: “Got any ketchup?”
“Ketchup?” I’m thinking, mind whirring furiously…ketchup..for what…the mashed potatoes? Really…ooooookay, I guess…hit the fridge, my roommate had a bottle, I bring it to the table, she flashes the big pearlies and I’m back in love. “Let it go” I tell myself “you’ll have a lifetime together to ween her off ketchup on mashed potatoes.” One look at her eyes beaming at me, her smile that crinkled the sides of her mouth, leading down a slide of smooth moist tanned skin along a swan-esque neck of beauty that you write books about, a neck that has started wars, leading down to the cove of cleavage that I knew she had dressed up for me, for my attention and want confirmed I was doing the right thing. So when she dumped some on the side of her plate my heartbeat was back down to 390 beats per second and I got back to yammering about whatever amazing piece of conversation I had been in the middle of; probably something about post-modern Dadoist cubism. Cause hey, I gotta be me. Then she takes her fork and tears into the chicken, taking out a hunk along with some perfectly fried crispy skin. Alright, I think in the middle of yet another Xmastime critique of how Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" demonstrates how cubism's multiple perspectives can be translated into literature, relax, she just is being polite, using utensils. But she was lowering her beautiful feminine fork hand towards the plate, dropping it slowly as she’s creaming in her pants re: my intellectual heroics, and I see it’s going towards the ketchup. “What the…” I’m thinking, not pausing as I run through some Czech Cubism Foundation stuff, “..what the..”
And then I see it, but I still don’t wanna believe it. Dipped the chicken, MY chicken, into the ketchup and…as my heart breaks, as my magic bag of spices sag and as my Crisco Oil stops popping with joy, she eats it. Fried chicken. With ketchup. Worlds colliding, worlds that should never see the light of day together. There is no joy in XFC tonite. Unreal.
We ended up not being together. Well. Obviously. I stayed here, still perfecting my chicken. She moved back to the Midwest, where I guess they approve of these things. If I saw my “Footloose” correctly, and I’m pretty sure I did, these people don’t allow dancing but they allow this shit to go on? Well. Not on my watch.
And one more thing…don’t fucking stand in front of me and add salt and pepper to my chicken. It’s already perfect. When you have a lady of the night come over to your place, do you say “one second please” and then start shaving her nether regions to your liking? No. She already did it, numbnuts. Leave it alone.
POSTSCRIPT – the whole time I was typing this I had an 8 month-old screaming in my ear, kept having to jump out and help RRTHUR (yes ladies, THAT Rrthur) work on building a deck and the lesbian who lives upstairs that I am in love with was down breathing in my ear. Sigh. So if there’s any mistakes fuck…..YEEEEEEEEEEEEW!
Ketchup – you people know my theory on ketchup in general. You’re not in the fucking Midwest, you’re not wrestling pigs back on the farm, this isn’t your first Happy Meal - put the fucking ketchup away and eat like an adult for fuck’s sake. Few years back I was in love with some chick, invited her over for dinner. Made her my signature “I love you, please spend the rest of your life with me” dinner: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, some combination of bread/Hormel chili. Coulda been Hormel Benedict, coulda been Foie Gras Hormel Drizzle. Whichever. So I spend every second of the day slaving over this chicken, throwing out batch after batch until finally, after going through about $19,000 worth of chicken I had landed upon my masterpiece, my magnum opus; what the Phoebe Cates-coming-outta-the-pool scene in Fast Times woulda been if it were fried chicken. Now I know that the second she bites into this heaven on a bone, she’ll fall in love with me and we’d make babies from then til…well, till I dropped dead at 37 of a massive coronary. Anyways. I put on my best gal-hosting sportcoat, some clean black socks and seat her at my table – of course offering up a glass of wine to “simmer down the heat” that was brewing in this dining room of lust…and by “dining room” I mean “table in the kitchen”…well….by “table in the kitchen” of course I mean “foot locker between my couch and tv.” So I’m not Cliff Huxtable, fucking sue me. Anyways, I serve her a plate of beauty, my best fried chicken, just above room temperature cuddling next to a small mountain of mashed potatoes (I believe the Hormel Chowder with sliced almonds appetizer woulda been done by this time.) As I’m sitting down to chow my precious angel looks up at me and says those three little words that should have let me know my life was to change forever: “Got any ketchup?”
“Ketchup?” I’m thinking, mind whirring furiously…ketchup..for what…the mashed potatoes? Really…ooooookay, I guess…hit the fridge, my roommate had a bottle, I bring it to the table, she flashes the big pearlies and I’m back in love. “Let it go” I tell myself “you’ll have a lifetime together to ween her off ketchup on mashed potatoes.” One look at her eyes beaming at me, her smile that crinkled the sides of her mouth, leading down a slide of smooth moist tanned skin along a swan-esque neck of beauty that you write books about, a neck that has started wars, leading down to the cove of cleavage that I knew she had dressed up for me, for my attention and want confirmed I was doing the right thing. So when she dumped some on the side of her plate my heartbeat was back down to 390 beats per second and I got back to yammering about whatever amazing piece of conversation I had been in the middle of; probably something about post-modern Dadoist cubism. Cause hey, I gotta be me. Then she takes her fork and tears into the chicken, taking out a hunk along with some perfectly fried crispy skin. Alright, I think in the middle of yet another Xmastime critique of how Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" demonstrates how cubism's multiple perspectives can be translated into literature, relax, she just is being polite, using utensils. But she was lowering her beautiful feminine fork hand towards the plate, dropping it slowly as she’s creaming in her pants re: my intellectual heroics, and I see it’s going towards the ketchup. “What the…” I’m thinking, not pausing as I run through some Czech Cubism Foundation stuff, “..what the..”
And then I see it, but I still don’t wanna believe it. Dipped the chicken, MY chicken, into the ketchup and…as my heart breaks, as my magic bag of spices sag and as my Crisco Oil stops popping with joy, she eats it. Fried chicken. With ketchup. Worlds colliding, worlds that should never see the light of day together. There is no joy in XFC tonite. Unreal.
We ended up not being together. Well. Obviously. I stayed here, still perfecting my chicken. She moved back to the Midwest, where I guess they approve of these things. If I saw my “Footloose” correctly, and I’m pretty sure I did, these people don’t allow dancing but they allow this shit to go on? Well. Not on my watch.
And one more thing…don’t fucking stand in front of me and add salt and pepper to my chicken. It’s already perfect. When you have a lady of the night come over to your place, do you say “one second please” and then start shaving her nether regions to your liking? No. She already did it, numbnuts. Leave it alone.
POSTSCRIPT – the whole time I was typing this I had an 8 month-old screaming in my ear, kept having to jump out and help RRTHUR (yes ladies, THAT Rrthur) work on building a deck and the lesbian who lives upstairs that I am in love with was down breathing in my ear. Sigh. So if there’s any mistakes fuck…..YEEEEEEEEEEEEW!
The Guide
Flipping through the cable guide this morning I land on the description for this morning's "Saved by the Bell." Get this one: "Zack and Slater are at odds over girl." Hmm. REALLY? Wow, I know that one! gee. How bout “Scooby and the gang discover the ghost in the haunted house is the owner who is scaring away people from buying it”? Or for Dawson’s Creek: “One of the girls in the show gets swept up into a college band, and within hours are playing to 1000 people packed into a bar enthusiastically losing their minds over a shitty band playing nothing but early 80’s covers.” Hmm.
The college years, of course....and I might have seen the single lamest scene of all time. EDDIE, who is setting up nicely as Joey’s cranky, “leave-me-alone, you ridiculously hot girl!” love interest is the star of stars in her Lit Class, dazzling everybody/answering every deep, deep question despite the fact that he....isn’t actually enrolled in college. Just shows up in class, “during lunch hour a the bar.” Upon being confronted by Joey, his answer to why he has read and comprehended every single book ever published on Earth by the age of 19? “It keeps me from walking out into the streets.”
Ugh.
I also love how here these kids are, college freshmen, and any grade they get below A++ they storm into the prof’s office, accosting him/her re: the absurdity of the low grade until the prof capitulates that yes, Jack got a B cause he’s gay, Jen cause she’s an ex-whore (the worst kind of the New England whores) and Pacey cause he was in “Mighty Ducks XIV.” Is this entirely realistic? When I was in school, much less a freshman, I could’ve gotten a paper back that said “F-, and I Fucked Your Mom” and I would’ve just tried to slide outta class unnoticed. Hell, I even hated it when the professor would approach you offering a chance for redemption...take the weekend, rewrite the paper, improve on the C. Really? Do I have to? Can’t I...take the C? And you’ve gotta act so grateful, so thrilled “oh yes! Oh, that’d be great yeah, now I can take this weekend and REALLY dig in to The Death of Ivan Illyich. Thank you!!! I was gonna waste the next 2 days drinking warm keg beer off of strange girls’ necks while being a young stud fuck-king with my whole life ahead of me and nothing but hope and opportunity; this is so much better! Thank you!!” grrrr.
Anyways. I gotta get back, this “Three’s Company” is the one where “Jack and the girls have a misunderstanding with Mr. Roper; Chrissy grows a testicle in her mouth.” AGAIN.
The college years, of course....and I might have seen the single lamest scene of all time. EDDIE, who is setting up nicely as Joey’s cranky, “leave-me-alone, you ridiculously hot girl!” love interest is the star of stars in her Lit Class, dazzling everybody/answering every deep, deep question despite the fact that he....isn’t actually enrolled in college. Just shows up in class, “during lunch hour a the bar.” Upon being confronted by Joey, his answer to why he has read and comprehended every single book ever published on Earth by the age of 19? “It keeps me from walking out into the streets.”
Ugh.
I also love how here these kids are, college freshmen, and any grade they get below A++ they storm into the prof’s office, accosting him/her re: the absurdity of the low grade until the prof capitulates that yes, Jack got a B cause he’s gay, Jen cause she’s an ex-whore (the worst kind of the New England whores) and Pacey cause he was in “Mighty Ducks XIV.” Is this entirely realistic? When I was in school, much less a freshman, I could’ve gotten a paper back that said “F-, and I Fucked Your Mom” and I would’ve just tried to slide outta class unnoticed. Hell, I even hated it when the professor would approach you offering a chance for redemption...take the weekend, rewrite the paper, improve on the C. Really? Do I have to? Can’t I...take the C? And you’ve gotta act so grateful, so thrilled “oh yes! Oh, that’d be great yeah, now I can take this weekend and REALLY dig in to The Death of Ivan Illyich. Thank you!!! I was gonna waste the next 2 days drinking warm keg beer off of strange girls’ necks while being a young stud fuck-king with my whole life ahead of me and nothing but hope and opportunity; this is so much better! Thank you!!” grrrr.
Anyways. I gotta get back, this “Three’s Company” is the one where “Jack and the girls have a misunderstanding with Mr. Roper; Chrissy grows a testicle in her mouth.” AGAIN.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Is Stephen King Retarded?
While back I crowed about Stephen King bragging on my buddies Marah here. Now, thanks to this best-of list, I gotta wonder if Mr. King is 1) an idiot 2) an idiot. I mean, what the fuck…first of all, including ''IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA,'' is bad enuff, but King is not content with this gastronomically awful pick until he tell us that, and I quote, “Only the long version counts. Which you can't get on iTunes, curse them.” Jesus. Hey, there’s a reason you can’t get it on iTunes; the internet is only so big for chrissakes. And “She Loves You” over “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”? MAYBE a tossup, but camon. He then picks the one AC/DC song nobody on Earth has ever heard of. And “Don’t Be Cruel;” excuse me? He goes right past Sun Records into Elvis’ worst, most pussy selling-records-to-Grandma period? And it’s not like he doesn’t know The King, he later chooses “Burning Love”…which I also love, but to choose it over it’s contemporaries “In the Ghetto” and “Suspicious Minds” tells me that all work and no play has made Stephen tone deaf. And you KNOW I went into a seizure upon seeing that his Bruce slice is “Ramrod.” Wow.
The capper of cappers? “On the Dark Side.” John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. Unreal. No words. I’ve spent the last 5 minutes thinking of a joke, but sometimes there’s nothing more to add - the joke is already there, like baby arms, or people with voice boxes. What more can you say.
The capper of cappers? “On the Dark Side.” John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. Unreal. No words. I’ve spent the last 5 minutes thinking of a joke, but sometimes there’s nothing more to add - the joke is already there, like baby arms, or people with voice boxes. What more can you say.
Day Four of Trying to Live Past 34
I have lost 7 pounds since Monday. Which is actually kinda depressing...I mean jesus, what the fuck was I doing before, what was I eating before that simply giving up deep-fried Jolly Rancher chicken skin-wrapped jelly doughnuts can make that much of a difference? good lord. ah well, reckon I'll take it.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
What's Gayer?
1) A 34 year-old man watching "Dawson's Creek", or
2) Said man while watching the credits excitedly says "oh wow, directed by Joanna Kerns" cause he knows who Joanna Kerns is.
Show me that. Fucking smile.....again. Sigh.
2) Said man while watching the credits excitedly says "oh wow, directed by Joanna Kerns" cause he knows who Joanna Kerns is.
Show me that. Fucking smile.....again. Sigh.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Life Lessons from Xmastime
All I’m gonna say about my job interview today is this: when approaching the building the interview is in, don’t openly stare at any of the cleavage hangin around. I mean, cut that shit within a one-block radius. Cause...TA-DA!...she may be the very woman interviewing you. Hmm. (cough)
Day 2 of Trying to Stay Alive
Another day, another salad....tried Thousand Island dressing today, figuring maybe I could fool myself that I was eating a Big Mac. Hmm. Course, I guess that’s like putting ketchup on a guy’s dick and convincing yourself you’re eating a hot dog.
Today's Nangulance Award
Nangulance: n. the minor turbulances of life that, while small and nebulous, can collect to make your head explode.
ME: So, he's gonna remember to do it, right?
OTHER PERSON: oh yeah yeah, no problem. He won't forget"
"He won't?"
"No way, he's the smartest guy I know. Scary smart. Super smart. He'll do it."
"Cool"
"Unless he just doesn't think of it."
"What?"
"He'll remember to do it, you know, if he thinks of it."
"You just said he won't forget!
"He won't. I'm just saying, he might not think of it."
"That's...what forgetting means!!! Not thinking of it, thereby forgetting to do it!!"
"No way he'll forget! He's great! If he thinks of it, he'll do it."
"If...he doesn't forget..."
"No way he'll forget"
"As long as...let me get this straight, just as long as he thinks of it"
"Right"
(MY HEAD EXPLODES)
ME: So, he's gonna remember to do it, right?
OTHER PERSON: oh yeah yeah, no problem. He won't forget"
"He won't?"
"No way, he's the smartest guy I know. Scary smart. Super smart. He'll do it."
"Cool"
"Unless he just doesn't think of it."
"What?"
"He'll remember to do it, you know, if he thinks of it."
"You just said he won't forget!
"He won't. I'm just saying, he might not think of it."
"That's...what forgetting means!!! Not thinking of it, thereby forgetting to do it!!"
"No way he'll forget! He's great! If he thinks of it, he'll do it."
"If...he doesn't forget..."
"No way he'll forget"
"As long as...let me get this straight, just as long as he thinks of it"
"Right"
(MY HEAD EXPLODES)
Iconic Poster + I May Have Invented a Word
In my youth, the single most iconic female shot, the Farrah Fawcett poster of my generation, was Heather Thomas.
I mean, are you kidding me? How is it even POSSIBLE for someone to be this hot? Or, I should say, be this completely ridiculous smoking hot and then never to be seen again after “The Fall Guy”? That I don’t get. You're this fucking hot, seems like we can find some time on the tube to parade you around in a bikini, no? Mostly, it introduced a lot of guys my age to the concept of “cameltoe.” I don’t know how they got Heather to sign off on this one...”okay, now pull the bottom until your lips start poking out....aaaaaalright....the bikini bottom is now sinking INTO your canyon of snacks....aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanndddd...CLICK!” God bless Heather Thomas.
Of course as a 10-11 year old, I certainly wasn’t allowed to hang this little slice of heaven in my room. On my wall? This:
Not as sexy. BARELY masturbateable. But still some pussy desperately clinging on for dear life, n’est pas? At least Katie Holmes has given me hope that you can end up with someone whose poster was on your wall (I mean theoretically Heather, not the cat...obviously my cock would destroy the little cat, even with reverse cowgirl); Heather if you're reading this email me....are you still at iinventedcameltoe@yahoo.com?
Monday, May 14, 2007
Day One. Still Alive.
So today I kicked off my “Let’s See What Happens if Xmas Eats Something that Isn’t Chicken Skin for 30 Days” by forgoing my usual deep-fried tripe between two Snickers bars and putting together a salad. I was actually looking forward to it, I must say. Pile of lettuce. Sliced some cucumbers, some tomato. Even some (blech) carrots. Then, since I’m a protein freak as you know, some tuna on top - hey, any group that are responsible for the dolphins dying is cool with me. Was not looking too bad. Put some ranch dressing on the fucker, dig in and....FUCK!!! I had accidentally used BLUE CHEESE dressing instead of Ranch. Christ. Fucking disgusting; what’s with these people eating a cheese named after the color it turns if you leave it out for a few months to rot? Wouldn’t this be like having a loin of Green Beef? Ugh. I was immediately furious and wanted to get two large sausage & pepperoni pizzas, scrape off the cheese and meat into a bowl and eat it, using 2 hot dogs as edible chopsticks. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!
But no no, I calmed down....health first....ate the goddam salad. Didn’t like it. But ate it.
Up until today I had always laughed at dudes who spent 20 minutes stretching before they exercised. Fucking pussies, I’d laugh. Oh, we had stretching shit we’d do before football practice, but even then it was lunge here, lunge there, playing patty-cake with whomever you were teamed up with; who needed to stretch when your were 16 years old and your body was built out of testosterone, raw sinew and pine tar? Pretend to stretch, play a 3-hour football game, eat a 3-lb chocolate cake on the way to the Chinn Dome and gun the rock all night. Things were different back then. Now, I go outside to “jog.” I look at the clock on my phone – 6:45pm. Perfect, I’m thinking, I’ll knock out a few miles, back here by 7:30, go rustle up some trim. Look around quickly, and there’s always some faggot stretching against the wall. What a loser! I laugh at him then take off sprinting.
Next thing I know I’m on the ground, desperately trying to roll over so that I’m in the way of the oncoming bus I hear so I can be out of my misery. My hamstring is screaming like a bitch in heat, both of my calves have actually left my body, saying “fuck this shit!” and my shins have completely locked up on me. My heart is freaking out by the excitable activity, wondering “is he watching that fucking German porn again??!??!” I’m laying there, feeling as if my lungs are on fire. I don’t mean they’re hurting, I mean I’m now wondering if the laws of science allow for an actual fire to take place within the human body. The final ignominy comes when I slowly swing my phone in front of my eyes to see how much time has elapsed and it’s ..... still 6:45. christ.
So I get my ass moving today, and I actually stretch a little bit and eat like a human. Yes, like a homo. But hey. Health first!!!!!!!
But no no, I calmed down....health first....ate the goddam salad. Didn’t like it. But ate it.
Up until today I had always laughed at dudes who spent 20 minutes stretching before they exercised. Fucking pussies, I’d laugh. Oh, we had stretching shit we’d do before football practice, but even then it was lunge here, lunge there, playing patty-cake with whomever you were teamed up with; who needed to stretch when your were 16 years old and your body was built out of testosterone, raw sinew and pine tar? Pretend to stretch, play a 3-hour football game, eat a 3-lb chocolate cake on the way to the Chinn Dome and gun the rock all night. Things were different back then. Now, I go outside to “jog.” I look at the clock on my phone – 6:45pm. Perfect, I’m thinking, I’ll knock out a few miles, back here by 7:30, go rustle up some trim. Look around quickly, and there’s always some faggot stretching against the wall. What a loser! I laugh at him then take off sprinting.
Next thing I know I’m on the ground, desperately trying to roll over so that I’m in the way of the oncoming bus I hear so I can be out of my misery. My hamstring is screaming like a bitch in heat, both of my calves have actually left my body, saying “fuck this shit!” and my shins have completely locked up on me. My heart is freaking out by the excitable activity, wondering “is he watching that fucking German porn again??!??!” I’m laying there, feeling as if my lungs are on fire. I don’t mean they’re hurting, I mean I’m now wondering if the laws of science allow for an actual fire to take place within the human body. The final ignominy comes when I slowly swing my phone in front of my eyes to see how much time has elapsed and it’s ..... still 6:45. christ.
So I get my ass moving today, and I actually stretch a little bit and eat like a human. Yes, like a homo. But hey. Health first!!!!!!!
Potted Meat Beatdown
Why does potted meat come in such small cans? what the fuck...you're all excited cause you're like fuck, it's only 49 cents, then it turns out the portion is fucking smaller than what I'll generally lose underneath my fingernails during a meal. Wtf. Why can't we get the shit in a tub, like butter? Or in a tube like cookie dough? What the fuck are the troops even fighting for if they gotta come home to this shit? and anyone who knows that kid in the picture...lemme know. It's either some pre-pube kid in Nebraska excited about his nut hair coming in or Chloe Sevigny. Either way. Sock Party, table for 1.
The Devil Went Down to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave
FINALLY. What I been screaming for years now (though I don’t quite get his sci-fi thing); enough of this voting for good-ol-boys cause they’re “just like me!” nonsense. Your being a dumbass illiterate Southern fuckwad doesn’t make you a better American than me, and it certainly doesn’t qualify you to be President. If all we’re looking for is the Ultimate Southern Super-American Dumbass, why not say fuck it and go straight to the top:
In case you've forgotten whose ass Charlie wants to kick, or to see if you yourself are on his shit list, hit here.
In case you've forgotten whose ass Charlie wants to kick, or to see if you yourself are on his shit list, hit here.
Mother's Day
When my brother and I were young bucks my father would gather us together on Mother’s Day and solemnly ask us to “please be nice to your mother today.” I find that funny now; what the fuck could we have been doing that would warrant such a request? I would guess having 2 hyper-rambunctious boys was exhausting and would drive anybody crazy, but I’m pretty sure we weren’t mean to her...I don’t ever remember thinking “you know, we should steal money from Mom and then tell everyone she’s a smack addict.” But every year, we’d get the “please be nice to your mother for once” chat on Mother’s Day. Then the day would fold out as any other day: my mother would talk nonstop while my father nodded his head while reading and my brother and I would desperately see how much closer we could come to accidentally killing ourselves than we had the day before. “Xmas, let’s get the top of this well off and take a look inside...” Everyday when we’d come in for dinner, I’m sure we had that “boy, THAT was a close one...” look on our faces.
But now, Mother’s Day, if I’m reading my internet ads and seeing my tv commercials correctly, seems to be about one thing: selling Teddy Bears. Have you seen these? At Vermont Teddy Bear. All the rage now, every Mother’s Day. But some seem, to me anyways, borderline inappropriate/creepy. Like this one:
“Ooooh, Mommy.....let’s play Nurse!” Yeesh. Hey, we’ve all read the Penthouse Forums where the double amputee gets a “spongebath” from the overly-buxom night nurse; is this really appropriate for your mom? “You be Nurse, I’ll be wounded flyboy...they shot me in the groin!”
Or this one:
Hmm. I’m sure Mom won’t be creeped out by you thinking of her in some hip-hugging, satin panties. Mmmmm, tasty. Maybe she’s been in a coma for 30 years and has no idea that Wonder Woman has been every boys’ jerk-off fantasy. Thank you, son. And what the fuck is that key for, her chastity belt?? Wtf??!!
Ooooh, here’s Mama and her “friend” about to hit the local biker bar in their leathers....hmm....yeah, she’s not coming home wasted to bang against your bedroom wall to the strains of ZZ Top with some scumbag you went to high school with...ugh.
And here’s one Mom will love....”You’re constantly getting pregnant with Dad’s gross dick, why don’t you stuff your face some more you fat barefoot slob?” Nice.
Who’s buying these things? I mean camon....some flowers, a nice hug, maybe thank her for teaching you to french kiss when you were 13, and move on. Enough with the creepy bears!
But now, Mother’s Day, if I’m reading my internet ads and seeing my tv commercials correctly, seems to be about one thing: selling Teddy Bears. Have you seen these? At Vermont Teddy Bear. All the rage now, every Mother’s Day. But some seem, to me anyways, borderline inappropriate/creepy. Like this one:
“Ooooh, Mommy.....let’s play Nurse!” Yeesh. Hey, we’ve all read the Penthouse Forums where the double amputee gets a “spongebath” from the overly-buxom night nurse; is this really appropriate for your mom? “You be Nurse, I’ll be wounded flyboy...they shot me in the groin!”
Or this one:
Hmm. I’m sure Mom won’t be creeped out by you thinking of her in some hip-hugging, satin panties. Mmmmm, tasty. Maybe she’s been in a coma for 30 years and has no idea that Wonder Woman has been every boys’ jerk-off fantasy. Thank you, son. And what the fuck is that key for, her chastity belt?? Wtf??!!
Ooooh, here’s Mama and her “friend” about to hit the local biker bar in their leathers....hmm....yeah, she’s not coming home wasted to bang against your bedroom wall to the strains of ZZ Top with some scumbag you went to high school with...ugh.
And here’s one Mom will love....”You’re constantly getting pregnant with Dad’s gross dick, why don’t you stuff your face some more you fat barefoot slob?” Nice.
Who’s buying these things? I mean camon....some flowers, a nice hug, maybe thank her for teaching you to french kiss when you were 13, and move on. Enough with the creepy bears!
Friday, May 11, 2007
Fried Chicken Friday
I’ll tell you whose fried chicken isn’t bad, and you’ll be surprised: Kroger. Yes, the grocery store. When I was living in Oxford, MS I got into a routine wherein every Sunday morning I’d head down to the Kroger. They had a whole separate dining joint inside, complete with the same 800-lb black women who served up the goods at my college dining hall. “One meat per trip baby, you gotta come back for some more.” I’d stroll in, grab a magazine from the magazine section, walk over and order the fried chicken with mashed potatoes. Scarf the shit down, then put the magazine back so I didn’t have to pay for it; the only time I’ve left magazine pages stuck together with a substance that could not potentially create life.
This would be ten years ago, and it was the first time I began noticing how huge the pieces of chicken were becoming. Have you seen these things? What have they been doing to these chickens? I buy a breast nowadays, it looks like a fucking boxing glove. Are they pumping them full of steroids? Does the chicken industry hope that we think well, the chickens have just evolved that way; perhaps they’ve been doing free-weights? Maybe someday chickens will be 8 feet tall and rule the Earth, or at least the NBA. Ohoh, I think I just wrote an episode of “ER.” (TV GUIDE: Abby’s mother makes her despondent; doctors suspect a father of abuse; a Boeing 747 flown by 8-foot tall chickens crashes, flooding the ER with victims; Mars crashes into Neptune and Carter needs to fly out there to save the universe from every disease ever known to mankind, except of course sickle cell.) Obviously the industry has engineered this. But why? Hey, I’m a guy who generally prefers anything to be upgraded from “medium” to “super-sized.” Well, other than a woman’s Golden Palace of the Himalayas. Two-gallon Coke? Sure. Waffles the size of a spare tire? Get me the syrup wheelbarrow. And we all know how I feel about huge, fake, engineered breasts – in a word, yes. yes. (when talking breasts, everything needs to be said in twos. twos.)
But it’s no fun frying these things, cause you bust your ass frying the outside to perfection, you look at it like ooooooooooooooh, mama!...the perfect golden-brown crust. But then you check the inside, and you might as well slice your forearm open, it’s the same thing – blood running, raw flesh, a chip put in by the state to warn when you’re within 500 feet of any Cub Scout meeting. So now, after having an emotional breakdown over getting your crust perfect, you’ve gotta put the thing in the goddam oven to let it cook inside. Which feels like cheating. Not impressive in front of any crowd you’re cooking for. To people who have never fried chicken, frying a chicken is a mystery, an impressive feat with only a flame and some animal fat. Like Kirstie Alley getting a Brazilian. But they see you taking the chicken and sticking it in the oven, then they’re like “well...I can do that, what’s the big deal?” Not good.
But Kroger’s was really good – and their mashed potatoes were real, with as much pepper-loaded gravy as you wanted, sluicing through the potatoes inside the styrofoam tray they gave you. The crust on the chicken was perfect every time, crispy and a lot of it. Seems like it was double-battered, now that I look back on it. One of those crusts that if you wanted you could peel off as one whole piece, then combine with other crusts to create a table centerpiece – maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, but a centerpiece made of chicken skins made to resemble LaGuardia Airport seems like it would be amazing, no? I was gonna be racist here and say you could take the fried chicken skins and construct a huge bottle of orange soda, but instead I took the high road, thank you very much. I can’t say there was anything very UNIQUE to the chicken, but every Sunday morning it was right on time. Big. Juicy. Tons of skin. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Dammit!
And the glory of it being the price. Especially considering hell, even I could barely finish, the portions were huge.
Chicken/potatoes: $2.35
Barrel of iced tea: $1.00
Magazine: $0.00
$3.35, incredibly satisfying meal. So next time you’re in a big grocery store, don’t turn your nose up at their fried chicken, it’s prolly pretty good, inexpensive, and still serviceable if not as hot as it once was. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Fuck!
This would be ten years ago, and it was the first time I began noticing how huge the pieces of chicken were becoming. Have you seen these things? What have they been doing to these chickens? I buy a breast nowadays, it looks like a fucking boxing glove. Are they pumping them full of steroids? Does the chicken industry hope that we think well, the chickens have just evolved that way; perhaps they’ve been doing free-weights? Maybe someday chickens will be 8 feet tall and rule the Earth, or at least the NBA. Ohoh, I think I just wrote an episode of “ER.” (TV GUIDE: Abby’s mother makes her despondent; doctors suspect a father of abuse; a Boeing 747 flown by 8-foot tall chickens crashes, flooding the ER with victims; Mars crashes into Neptune and Carter needs to fly out there to save the universe from every disease ever known to mankind, except of course sickle cell.) Obviously the industry has engineered this. But why? Hey, I’m a guy who generally prefers anything to be upgraded from “medium” to “super-sized.” Well, other than a woman’s Golden Palace of the Himalayas. Two-gallon Coke? Sure. Waffles the size of a spare tire? Get me the syrup wheelbarrow. And we all know how I feel about huge, fake, engineered breasts – in a word, yes. yes. (when talking breasts, everything needs to be said in twos. twos.)
But it’s no fun frying these things, cause you bust your ass frying the outside to perfection, you look at it like ooooooooooooooh, mama!...the perfect golden-brown crust. But then you check the inside, and you might as well slice your forearm open, it’s the same thing – blood running, raw flesh, a chip put in by the state to warn when you’re within 500 feet of any Cub Scout meeting. So now, after having an emotional breakdown over getting your crust perfect, you’ve gotta put the thing in the goddam oven to let it cook inside. Which feels like cheating. Not impressive in front of any crowd you’re cooking for. To people who have never fried chicken, frying a chicken is a mystery, an impressive feat with only a flame and some animal fat. Like Kirstie Alley getting a Brazilian. But they see you taking the chicken and sticking it in the oven, then they’re like “well...I can do that, what’s the big deal?” Not good.
But Kroger’s was really good – and their mashed potatoes were real, with as much pepper-loaded gravy as you wanted, sluicing through the potatoes inside the styrofoam tray they gave you. The crust on the chicken was perfect every time, crispy and a lot of it. Seems like it was double-battered, now that I look back on it. One of those crusts that if you wanted you could peel off as one whole piece, then combine with other crusts to create a table centerpiece – maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, but a centerpiece made of chicken skins made to resemble LaGuardia Airport seems like it would be amazing, no? I was gonna be racist here and say you could take the fried chicken skins and construct a huge bottle of orange soda, but instead I took the high road, thank you very much. I can’t say there was anything very UNIQUE to the chicken, but every Sunday morning it was right on time. Big. Juicy. Tons of skin. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Dammit!
And the glory of it being the price. Especially considering hell, even I could barely finish, the portions were huge.
Chicken/potatoes: $2.35
Barrel of iced tea: $1.00
Magazine: $0.00
$3.35, incredibly satisfying meal. So next time you’re in a big grocery store, don’t turn your nose up at their fried chicken, it’s prolly pretty good, inexpensive, and still serviceable if not as hot as it once was. Hold up...have I already made a Kirstie Alley joke in this post? Fuck!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Just My Luck
I'm homeless. Living in the street, in my own filth, starving for my next meal. Word comes down that dude about to be executed decreed us free pizzas. Get so excited. Something to live for. A brief light in the darkness. Hit the shelter, in line, can smell the cheese, get my plate, get served, look down and...
Vegetarian.
FUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Vegetarian? Oh, HELL no - kiss my big, brown, furry homeless ass, motherfucker!"
Vegetarian.
FUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Vegetarian? Oh, HELL no - kiss my big, brown, furry homeless ass, motherfucker!"
The Slow Clap
At this stage of our relationship, I feel like I can be completely honest with you people…I pretty much haven’t stopped thinking of the Slow-Clap since I posted the one below a few hours ago. Has the “Slow Clap that nobody joins in on” replaced the “Unrequited high-five” as the ultimate embarrassing moment in a man’s life? As a young buck, nothing was worse than after a great play on the field, in front of hundreds of fans, you’d be running by a teammate and raise up to give him five, and he just breezes right past you. Your brain would lock up in absolute horror, knowing that EVERY SINGLE PAIR OF EYES IN THE STANDS happened to be looking at you right at that moment, and you would be forever remembered as “what a fucking dork!!” The girl you have a massive crush on saw it and will never speak to you again, as did your dad who now thinks “great…my boy is a fucking dork.” Now you know that everybody knows you jerk off 4 times a day, wet the bed til you were 8 and have the smallest dick in the history of earth. The Unrequited High Five. But at least with that one you could, through a series of elaborate, incredibly thoughtfully choreographed steps, act like you were doing something else, like swatting a fly, or waving to somebody. My favorite was to act like I'm waving to someone, going so far as to smile, and then point into the crowd, act like I'm saying something, then laugh, shaking my head. But if you’re in a meeting and after Suzy Creamcheese finishes her presentation and you start the Slow Clap and nobody joins in, it’s tough to cover up. Everyone’s just staring at you. Fucking brutal.
On my “Things to Do Before I Die” list, which right now consists entirely of two items:
1) Flip table over in middle of important meeting, yelling “oh, FUCK this!”
2) Get an explanation from Peter Engel at NBC re: not explaining how Kelly and Jesse disappeared, were replaced by Tori and then reappeared again
I would like to add
3) Start off the longest, slowest building Slow Clap. I mean, look at the one below – from first slow clap to full-on frantic clapping is what, 10 seconds? I’m talking about kicking one off and then sloooooooowly building up, taking about 45 minutes before hitting full-on clapping. Everyone slowly folding in, maybe one a minute. Would be amazing. All I ask in this world.
On my “Things to Do Before I Die” list, which right now consists entirely of two items:
1) Flip table over in middle of important meeting, yelling “oh, FUCK this!”
2) Get an explanation from Peter Engel at NBC re: not explaining how Kelly and Jesse disappeared, were replaced by Tori and then reappeared again
I would like to add
3) Start off the longest, slowest building Slow Clap. I mean, look at the one below – from first slow clap to full-on frantic clapping is what, 10 seconds? I’m talking about kicking one off and then sloooooooowly building up, taking about 45 minutes before hitting full-on clapping. Everyone slowly folding in, maybe one a minute. Would be amazing. All I ask in this world.
Resume. Christ.
I just got off the phone with some woman about a job interview on Tuesday, and, just like they always do, the last thing she said was "be sure to bring your resume." Which annoys the fucking shit out of me. Why do I have to bring it - don't you already have it? Isn't that how/why you contacted me? Or I'm sorry, did you just randomly pick my phone number and call me? Fucking christ. The thing about the resume being what it is is just that: it's a single sheet of paper. But you can't show up at the interview carrying a rolled-up sheet of paper, or folded in your pocket. So now you think well, I'll have it in a crisp, fresh manilla folder. But once you take the resume out and hand it to the interviewer, you're sitting there with an empty manilla folder, which makes you look like a fucking idiot. So you gotta throw other stuff in there too, make it seem like "oh, this resume is just one of the many, MANY important things I have going on in my crisp, fresh manilla folder today!" Then you decide you can't walk around with a folder looking like white trash, so you upgrade to your attache. Then you think "I can't be a guy that uses something called an 'attache'", the implication being that you blow dudes in the Staples parking lot, so now you gotta get a briefcase so you look like Mr. Super Business Guy. And again, now you gotta fill the briefcase up with fake shit. "Important documents", a US News & World Report, and about 16 pounds of hard candy. All this for one fucking sheet of paper. Why dont I put the paper in a folder, the folder in a briefcase, the briefcase in a lockbox, the lockbox in a deep freezer, the deep freezer into an armored truck which I can now drive off the Brooklyn Bridge and fucking kill myself. All because you insist that I bring along a single sheet of paper...that you already have. Arrrrrrrrrgh!!!!!
The Single Whitest Slow-Clap...
....of all time. Period. Will not be topped. And that smug look on Merle's face as he starts it, completely belying any of the aw-shucks humbleness each of the characters was drenched with throughout the movie is beyond priceless.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I'm Not Gonna Be Lovin' It
People have been asking me how my "I'm gonna be down below 200 lbs by midnight on New Year's Eve or kill myself, sticking my head in an oven with some cinammon rolls cooking, thrown in there for humiliation's sake" plan is going. And I gotta admit, it's not going at all, really. I pretty much forgot all about it the moment I rolled up my double deep-fried country fried steak beef ravioli burrito and used it to press the "publish" button on the computer that day. So now that summer's here, I got my hair cut and I'm determined to get a woman, I'm employing a disaster plan. Hey, fat times call for drastic measures no?
STARTING MONDAY (and not a second before), I will spend the following 30 days completely without the fallowing:
BEER: "But Xmastime," you say in your Ironhead Heyward (RIP) voice from those soap commercials, "how else will you become a massive, brooding dickhead in bars, picking stupid fights and then giving some young lass the pleasure of your wilted, sleeping whiskey-dick?" Fear not, wee ones...I said beer. Not alcohol. Don't worry, I'll still wake up at 4am in Coney Island, last train on the L, wander outside, piss in an alley and get back on the right train...then wake up 3 hours later in Coney Island, last train on the L....30 days without beer? Last time I did that?...prolly in boot camp. 1992. And yes, I kindly accept your "thanks" for helping to provide the very blanket of freedom you will sleep under tonite.
CHINESE FOOD: I mean, enuff is enuff. I plan on getting a frantic call by Wednesday "Whaa ahhh yuuuuuu???!! you okaaay??!! we migh haffa shut dowan!!!" Chinese food can't be good for you. Well, the shit I order, anyways. And let's be honest, I'm getting more and more leery of using my hard-earned American ducats for the Chinese Revolution that I can hear every one screaming about into their cell phones every time I take the Chicken bus. Not on my dime, Wang Jin....not....on....my....dime.
FAST FOOD: this will be tough. I admit this. But then, when I'm talking fast food I mainly mean french fries, which I'm sick of anyways. I think my next fry will be my one millionth, which means I'm in the FF Hall of Fame...do I even taste these things any more? No. I don't taste them, I don't enjoy them, yet they leave me shitting ribbons and slogging bloated throughout the next hours, a brick of grease in my gut. All for about $2...greeeeeeat. Why don't I just down a few shots of Ex-Lax and then give myself a bear tranquilizer in a steam room after swimming the 4 x 100 in warm milk? ugh. No more.
SODA: same as the fries..why do I even bother any more? Great, for $1.50 I can suck on some plastic, add traffic on the Coke website to see that no, as usual I didn't win shit under the bottlecap, then stay up for 19 hours watching lights go on and off from the corners of my eyes. Blech. On a side note, seriously, when are we gonna invent fake titties that dudes can carry around, just to have with them? Anybody on that yet? I mean if they're fake, seems like I could put 'em ona peg board, feel them when I want to, no?
Anyways, we'll see. 30 days. I already tested myself - went to a McDonald's for lunch. That's right - I walked right into the belly of the beast. Wallowed in the wafting of the beef tallow, saw the McNuggets hanging out in the back singing doo-wop and desperately trying to impress me so I'll choose them. Barrels of Coke, wheeled by me as Double Quarter Pounders assumed "oh, the usual!" and started out the door, heading to my place. No no, I said. Not today. Ranch chicken salad. Walked out, walked home, ate it.
A big first step, even if basically this meant I was eating a bowl of ranch dressing, fried chicken and bacon bits, but still. A step!!! So starting Monday. We'll see.
STARTING MONDAY (and not a second before), I will spend the following 30 days completely without the fallowing:
BEER: "But Xmastime," you say in your Ironhead Heyward (RIP) voice from those soap commercials, "how else will you become a massive, brooding dickhead in bars, picking stupid fights and then giving some young lass the pleasure of your wilted, sleeping whiskey-dick?" Fear not, wee ones...I said beer. Not alcohol. Don't worry, I'll still wake up at 4am in Coney Island, last train on the L, wander outside, piss in an alley and get back on the right train...then wake up 3 hours later in Coney Island, last train on the L....30 days without beer? Last time I did that?...prolly in boot camp. 1992. And yes, I kindly accept your "thanks" for helping to provide the very blanket of freedom you will sleep under tonite.
CHINESE FOOD: I mean, enuff is enuff. I plan on getting a frantic call by Wednesday "Whaa ahhh yuuuuuu???!! you okaaay??!! we migh haffa shut dowan!!!" Chinese food can't be good for you. Well, the shit I order, anyways. And let's be honest, I'm getting more and more leery of using my hard-earned American ducats for the Chinese Revolution that I can hear every one screaming about into their cell phones every time I take the Chicken bus. Not on my dime, Wang Jin....not....on....my....dime.
FAST FOOD: this will be tough. I admit this. But then, when I'm talking fast food I mainly mean french fries, which I'm sick of anyways. I think my next fry will be my one millionth, which means I'm in the FF Hall of Fame...do I even taste these things any more? No. I don't taste them, I don't enjoy them, yet they leave me shitting ribbons and slogging bloated throughout the next hours, a brick of grease in my gut. All for about $2...greeeeeeat. Why don't I just down a few shots of Ex-Lax and then give myself a bear tranquilizer in a steam room after swimming the 4 x 100 in warm milk? ugh. No more.
SODA: same as the fries..why do I even bother any more? Great, for $1.50 I can suck on some plastic, add traffic on the Coke website to see that no, as usual I didn't win shit under the bottlecap, then stay up for 19 hours watching lights go on and off from the corners of my eyes. Blech. On a side note, seriously, when are we gonna invent fake titties that dudes can carry around, just to have with them? Anybody on that yet? I mean if they're fake, seems like I could put 'em ona peg board, feel them when I want to, no?
Anyways, we'll see. 30 days. I already tested myself - went to a McDonald's for lunch. That's right - I walked right into the belly of the beast. Wallowed in the wafting of the beef tallow, saw the McNuggets hanging out in the back singing doo-wop and desperately trying to impress me so I'll choose them. Barrels of Coke, wheeled by me as Double Quarter Pounders assumed "oh, the usual!" and started out the door, heading to my place. No no, I said. Not today. Ranch chicken salad. Walked out, walked home, ate it.
A big first step, even if basically this meant I was eating a bowl of ranch dressing, fried chicken and bacon bits, but still. A step!!! So starting Monday. We'll see.
Been a Long Time
Walked in to finally get my mop chopped this morning. My old-school Barber, at the same place since 1961, looked at me. "Thought you were dead. Sit down, let's get to work on that thing." buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-snip!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Just In Case You Were Thinking I Wasn't a Complete Idiot....
You may recall my shenanigans about a month ago with this girl, posted here. The great love of my life, spurned me, left me blubbering with irrationale and broken heart, blah blah blah. This drunken email to her friend being the straw that broke our friendship, turning me into even more of a pathetic loser in her eyes. Made it clear to never ever contact her again, she would have no memories of me other than “what a pathetic, small loser.”
Then this past Saturday night, I find myself at the Nest, crying in my foam container about a more recent love lost, a different woman, whining re: opportunity at love/happiness gone by. “I blew it” I blubbered into the 4-inch head on my beer. I thought about the girl from the post above. From the past. Who, as close as we were to each other years ago, would not cross the street to even spit in my face now. Then I thought of this new girl, and how I was a complete idiot and will never have her. And then I thought you know what, just to make sure I completely drive myself into the ground and I get run over by a steamroller/zamboni/marching band like the guy at the end of “Naked Gun”, JUUUUUUUST to make sure I hold my status as the biggest loser in the history of the Milky Way galaxy, what can I possibly do to ratchet my Pathetic-ometer up from a humming, idling 8 to a thundering, slow-clap inducing, head-shaking blaring 10? SURELY I can easily flick away any remaining shred of dignity as if it were foam on top of my beer, no? And the genius answer comes to me: of course – combine the two!!! In another drunken “you know, this seems like the exact right thing to do” moment for our hero, I text the first girl about my recent love woes and have the drunken, inane, gee-I-wonder-why-Xmastime-is-still-alone nerve to, get this, ask for advice. Wow. Blathered bout this girl for a few sentences and then actually wrote “advice?” I mean, all I can really do at this point is stand back and applaud myself. Seriously, people should stand up when I enter a room, doffing their caps out of respect; fathers should proudly point me out to their sons. I don't know what the record for number of people that politely ask someone to please don't ever contact them again, but I gotta be close to it. When you cross this far over into “What the fuck am I doing?”-ville, you really gotta strap on the Mayor McCheese costume and declare yourself the leader.
Then this past Saturday night, I find myself at the Nest, crying in my foam container about a more recent love lost, a different woman, whining re: opportunity at love/happiness gone by. “I blew it” I blubbered into the 4-inch head on my beer. I thought about the girl from the post above. From the past. Who, as close as we were to each other years ago, would not cross the street to even spit in my face now. Then I thought of this new girl, and how I was a complete idiot and will never have her. And then I thought you know what, just to make sure I completely drive myself into the ground and I get run over by a steamroller/zamboni/marching band like the guy at the end of “Naked Gun”, JUUUUUUUST to make sure I hold my status as the biggest loser in the history of the Milky Way galaxy, what can I possibly do to ratchet my Pathetic-ometer up from a humming, idling 8 to a thundering, slow-clap inducing, head-shaking blaring 10? SURELY I can easily flick away any remaining shred of dignity as if it were foam on top of my beer, no? And the genius answer comes to me: of course – combine the two!!! In another drunken “you know, this seems like the exact right thing to do” moment for our hero, I text the first girl about my recent love woes and have the drunken, inane, gee-I-wonder-why-Xmastime-is-still-alone nerve to, get this, ask for advice. Wow. Blathered bout this girl for a few sentences and then actually wrote “advice?” I mean, all I can really do at this point is stand back and applaud myself. Seriously, people should stand up when I enter a room, doffing their caps out of respect; fathers should proudly point me out to their sons. I don't know what the record for number of people that politely ask someone to please don't ever contact them again, but I gotta be close to it. When you cross this far over into “What the fuck am I doing?”-ville, you really gotta strap on the Mayor McCheese costume and declare yourself the leader.
If You are Over 12 Years Old and Still Play Video Games, You are a Fucking Idiot and I Will Try to Fuck Your Girlfriend (Part 2: The Quickening)
No man on this earth is more immature and irresponsible than me. You know this. There is nothing “adult” I’d choose over simply laying in a field, looking at clouds and shitting myself. Corporate takeover? Change a tire? Go to important meetings? No thanks. Not when I can lay in the rolling fields and wonder if the first season of “The Cosby Show” is the best sitcom season ever.
But.
Dudes my age who play video games. Camon. How are you not ashamed of yourself? The other night I was out and met a chick and started yapping. Of course, turns out she has a boyfriend. “Where is he?” I asked her. “Oh,” she said, “he’s back home playing video games.” What? I was slightly stunned. I asked her if she was dating a 7-year old. Unreal. Seriously, is there anything more childish than sitting there playing fucking video games….as an adult? I realize I haven’t had a girlfriend since 1995, but aren’t the rules still:
WOMEN: don’t get fat
MEN: quit fucking playing video games
I seriously don’t know how women put up with this. Nothing says “I couldn’t care less about you” quite like “baby, I’m going to completely shut my brain off for a few hours, stare at this tv and play a child’s games that has pretend guns, fantasy wizards and dragons; why don’t you go out to the bar and get drunk for awhile?” Why not just bring in another dude, slip her a roofie and then snap her neck in half once they’re done fucking? What’s the difference? Wouldn’t she be thinking “My man would rather play video games that get up in my skin muffin (fork split)…..maybe I’m dating a fucking retard”?
As much time as I waste staring at worthless reality tv, thinking about cheeseburgers and creating a parabola wherein real time meets the nexus of quantum inertia therein creating a perfect logarithm of actual existence vs. virtual string theory, I can hold my head up cause at least I’m not pretending to be some 2-foot tall Italian plumber running around hitting blocks of stone with my head and jumping on huge, tool shed-sized mushrooms…with, apparently, eyes. Hmm. Fucktards.
But.
Dudes my age who play video games. Camon. How are you not ashamed of yourself? The other night I was out and met a chick and started yapping. Of course, turns out she has a boyfriend. “Where is he?” I asked her. “Oh,” she said, “he’s back home playing video games.” What? I was slightly stunned. I asked her if she was dating a 7-year old. Unreal. Seriously, is there anything more childish than sitting there playing fucking video games….as an adult? I realize I haven’t had a girlfriend since 1995, but aren’t the rules still:
WOMEN: don’t get fat
MEN: quit fucking playing video games
I seriously don’t know how women put up with this. Nothing says “I couldn’t care less about you” quite like “baby, I’m going to completely shut my brain off for a few hours, stare at this tv and play a child’s games that has pretend guns, fantasy wizards and dragons; why don’t you go out to the bar and get drunk for awhile?” Why not just bring in another dude, slip her a roofie and then snap her neck in half once they’re done fucking? What’s the difference? Wouldn’t she be thinking “My man would rather play video games that get up in my skin muffin (fork split)…..maybe I’m dating a fucking retard”?
As much time as I waste staring at worthless reality tv, thinking about cheeseburgers and creating a parabola wherein real time meets the nexus of quantum inertia therein creating a perfect logarithm of actual existence vs. virtual string theory, I can hold my head up cause at least I’m not pretending to be some 2-foot tall Italian plumber running around hitting blocks of stone with my head and jumping on huge, tool shed-sized mushrooms…with, apparently, eyes. Hmm. Fucktards.
Monday, May 07, 2007
So What
I few years back I wrote a song called “So What.” You can listen to it here if you want. At the time, I felt like an outsider in my own home, someone who had not only taken a wrong turn but had completely missed the day of school they tell you what the turns are. I felt like a complete failure - disconnected, underrated, hungry, forgotten and completely alone. My absolute nadir, I thought. And I wrote the song.
They say art imitates life. But sometimes life imitates art, and then it gets even worse. Everything I felt back then has gotten even worse. I look back at the song now and think hell, I wish it was only that bad. It’s like writing a song about gee, my girlfriend doesn’t cook for me anymore like she used to. Then the next week you find out she slept with some dude in the office. Then after that you find out she’s been in porn the whole time you’ve been together, then you find out she’s thrown out your Black Tail collection, then it turns out she’s Puck from the “Real World.” Fuck, you’re thinking, as much as it sucked when all she does is not cook, I’d rather be back there. Christ. It’s gotten worse.
Am I angry now? I feel like a grizzled Sam Elliot laying against a cactus in the desert at noon, sand gritty in every pore, body completely dried out and someone poking at me with a stick. Sometimes a man’s anger is all he has; his only companion, his only inertia. Ready to break, ready to snap, I dunno. Don’t worry, you’re not witnessing a dude having a breakdown or meltdown; I’m not gonna glue pages of the bible to my walls before killing Cub Scouts. But you are looking at a guy more and more willing to err on the side of desperation, a little more ready to say “fuck it” to anything as the minutes creep by. Yes, I am a loser; but right now I feel more like that quote by Paul Westerberg: I’m a loser - not in the sense that I’ve lost anything, but that I’ve got nothing to lose.
I couldn’t go to my reunion, and let ‘em know what I’ve been doing
They wouldn’t let me in the door, they didn’t want me anymore
And my liquor was thrown up, my jeans were all torn up
And all my friends just looked at me and said
“Why don’t you grow up?”
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
I hated everyone inside, well that’s not true but I sure tried
I used to be their favorite, now all I am is wasted
And I guess I’ll just give up, cause I never will live up
And I’ll just laugh, laugh and laugh, and I’ll pretend it don’t cut
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
Looked through the window at them inside, please tell my mother that I didn’t cry
I used to be her favorite, and all I’ve done is waste it
So say goodbye to my friends, good times always end
And I’m gonna run, run and run and I ain’t never coming back again
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
They say art imitates life. But sometimes life imitates art, and then it gets even worse. Everything I felt back then has gotten even worse. I look back at the song now and think hell, I wish it was only that bad. It’s like writing a song about gee, my girlfriend doesn’t cook for me anymore like she used to. Then the next week you find out she slept with some dude in the office. Then after that you find out she’s been in porn the whole time you’ve been together, then you find out she’s thrown out your Black Tail collection, then it turns out she’s Puck from the “Real World.” Fuck, you’re thinking, as much as it sucked when all she does is not cook, I’d rather be back there. Christ. It’s gotten worse.
Am I angry now? I feel like a grizzled Sam Elliot laying against a cactus in the desert at noon, sand gritty in every pore, body completely dried out and someone poking at me with a stick. Sometimes a man’s anger is all he has; his only companion, his only inertia. Ready to break, ready to snap, I dunno. Don’t worry, you’re not witnessing a dude having a breakdown or meltdown; I’m not gonna glue pages of the bible to my walls before killing Cub Scouts. But you are looking at a guy more and more willing to err on the side of desperation, a little more ready to say “fuck it” to anything as the minutes creep by. Yes, I am a loser; but right now I feel more like that quote by Paul Westerberg: I’m a loser - not in the sense that I’ve lost anything, but that I’ve got nothing to lose.
I couldn’t go to my reunion, and let ‘em know what I’ve been doing
They wouldn’t let me in the door, they didn’t want me anymore
And my liquor was thrown up, my jeans were all torn up
And all my friends just looked at me and said
“Why don’t you grow up?”
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
I hated everyone inside, well that’s not true but I sure tried
I used to be their favorite, now all I am is wasted
And I guess I’ll just give up, cause I never will live up
And I’ll just laugh, laugh and laugh, and I’ll pretend it don’t cut
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
Looked through the window at them inside, please tell my mother that I didn’t cry
I used to be her favorite, and all I’ve done is waste it
So say goodbye to my friends, good times always end
And I’m gonna run, run and run and I ain’t never coming back again
So what so what so what so what
So what so what so what so what
What's Worse?
a) Realizing you might like someone (yes, "like like") after not realizing it for a long time, and only coming upon this realization once it's too late,
or
b) Being depressed after said realization and thinking you can pick up your spirits by having what you have found to be the greatest croissant you have ever had, only to go to the store to get this pain for your pain (le rim shot) and TA-DA!....they're all out
or
c) stuffing the last of your sunflower seeds into your mouth and then sneezing.
Sigh.
or
b) Being depressed after said realization and thinking you can pick up your spirits by having what you have found to be the greatest croissant you have ever had, only to go to the store to get this pain for your pain (le rim shot) and TA-DA!....they're all out
or
c) stuffing the last of your sunflower seeds into your mouth and then sneezing.
Sigh.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Greatest Song Ever in the World. Well. Today.
Nick Cave. "There She Goes My Beautiful World." Unreal. and I'm not a "Nick Cave Guy."
Fried Chicken Friday
LOWERY'S RESTAURANT
Tappahannock, VA
The first bucket of chicken I ever saw came from Lowery’s Seafood Restaurant, the flagship joint in my hometown that I think was founded on the goddam Mayflower and has been run by the same family for generations. Up until a few years back when the Wal-Mart came and with it every conceivable fast-food restaurant, it had been the only game in town; located right on Rt 17, anyone driving through that part of the state would inevitably find themselves driving by it after going, oh, maybe 15,000 miles since the last restaurant and decide to pop in. For decades if you told somebody you were from Tappahannock they’d go “oh yeah, Lowery’s right?” Of course now if you mention Tappahannock they might say “oh yeah, that place where a certain SOMEbody could’ve gotten a homer in his last-ever Little League at-bat but got held up at third by Drew Allen’s fucking retarded, blind father, ruining what would’ve been the perfect cap on an otherwise amazing Little League career, thus teaching a young buck it’s okay to settle for third base, don’t bother dreaming cause you’ll be stopped short every time and you’re better off just becoming an 800-lb jobless bed-wetting alcoholic pussy loser than trying for greatness, right?” (cough) Where was I...ah yes... the Lowery’s have gotten richer with each generation and, if the group of guys from the family that I grew up with is any indication, dumber. I can still remember a 15-minute report given by one of them in the 7th grade (SEVENTH!!) that summer and winter occur because half of the year the Earth rotates around the sun and the other half it rotates around the moon. Yikes. Hey, maybe his brain was solar-powered and this was during the winter. Freakin’ dumb moon!!!
If you actually live in town though there’s only three reasons to go to Lowery’s: you’re about 5 years old and you wanna go “fishing” after eating, you’re at a Lion’s Club meeting or you’re a 108 year old woman who wants to meet up with the 4 other oldest women on Earth, eat a meal for $2.19 and then spend 30 minutes afterwards using a calculator to calculate that the 21-cent tip is more than generous for a “nice colored girl.” I have no idea what goes on at Lion’s Club meetings, though were I to guess I’d have to maybe think it involves dudes making out while naming each other’s back fat. But that’s just conjecture based on what I’ve heard. Well, and from watching my “Lions Club Gone Wild!” dvds. But I do remember fishing – if you were a kid, as soon as you were done eating they’d bring you a little plastic fishing pole and you’d go in the back where there was a wishing-well kinda thing, and on the bottom were wooden fish with hooks. So you’d dangle the line down and bat it around, hoping to nab a fish while hyperventilating. Much like real fishing it was filled with hope and anticipation, until 11 seconds had elapsed and your father was on top of you “Jesus Christ, come on!! Let’s go, lets go camoncamoncamon! Hurry the hell up and get the damn fish! Jesus, it’s right there, let’s go!!!” Which would lead to the inevitable being distracted into looking at the parrot they had back there in a cage so your dad could reach into the well which, looking back now, was maybe 2 feet deep; your dad would slip a fish onto the hook “wow son, look!! You did it!!! Get in the car!!!!” And it never occurred to you that while you were focusing every ounce of your mind and body into getting the fish as if you were a doctor in your 8th hour of neurosurgery you couldn’t hook one, but the second you started goofing with the parrot, listening to his “colorful” sayings like “Chevy sucks!” or “Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeoisies epoch from all earlier ones” all of a sudden a fish would appear on your line. So now you sprint to the front of the joint and get your prize. Which was either a Lowerys keychain – FINALLY a tool to keep all a 5-year old’s keys to be in one place, particularly if your name was “Schnieder” – or, even better, a rolled up paper placemat from...Lowerys. Wow.
Now, as I said before, Lowerys was pretty much the only game in town; for takeout it was either go there and get a bucket of chicken, or go get pizza from Roma’s. In my house growing up about once every, oh, 9 years my parents would decide you know what, let’s go into town for takeout instead of cooking dinner. Which would send my brother and my little bodies into a frenzy; we’d start shaking like soda, frothing at the mouth and just to make sure our folks would get our point we’d jump on chairs at the kitchen table and start our “mother and father, perchance you’d like to go into town and purchase some pizza we’d be much grateful, not only for the substance but for the love and support you’ve given us, providing a blanket of warmth in family in such a cold, cruel world” song, the lyrics of which were “P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!!!” Little fists pumping in the air like Rosie at a fat rally. One time we were doing this and from across the table I saw my brother slip off his chair, and in slow motion I saw his fall momentarily stopped by his temple meeting the edge of the table before his 8 year-old body fell to the floor. From my chair, I couldn’t see him on the floor, and it was all I could do to barely, quietly keep our chant going – hey, any momentum lost and we were right back to regular home-cooked dinner. Finally, after an amazingly long pause, I see a little, white paw fly up into he air and land SMACK! on the table...he’s up!! Dramatically dragging himself up to his chair, egg slowly rising on his temple and with a single-mindedness rivaled only MAYBE by the guy in Princess Bride looking for the 6-fingered man who killed his father, he found his feet, got himself together and our joyous chant resumed.
Was there any 60 minute stretch longer than when my mother would go into town to pick up the pizza? Good lord. My mother would barely be out of the driveway and my brother and I would start our watch, noses pressed up against the living room window. You could see down the road about a quarter mile, each time we saw a glint of metal in the distance our frenzy would roil. At least if it was still light out you could quickly ascertain if it was her or not. God forbid it was nighttime; every pair of headlights creeeeeping down the road “is that her? Is that her? I think that’s her!!! It’s here-“ ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM car speeding by us. No mother, no pizza. Whoa. Has there ever been a sadder sentence written than that? Wow.
Or, as I said we’d elect to get Fried Chicken from Lowery’s. I had started this post thinking I’d review their fried chicken, but now that I’m thinking about it I don’t remember much about the chicken itself. I can still taste the loads of pepper on it. But it’s been about 15 years since I’ve had any. I recall it being very adequate. I do remember the accoutrements for some reason though. First of all, the rolls. What the fuck....here’s a restaurant that prided itself on all things homemade; the down-hominess of making everything from scratch. Except, of all things, the rolls....which pretty much was served with every meal ever there. Why would they take so much trouble to personally walk to the river and dredge the muddy floor with their bare hands for the clams, yet for the bread they’d say aw fuck it and run over to the Safeway to grab some fucking Sunbeam knockoffs? Wtf? And the french fries that came with the bird. They were actually thrown in the bucket with the chicken; by the time you opened up the lid the fries were absolutely limp from the steaming they took. This would quickly be overshadowed by the fact that when you would extract the chicken, the fries would therein get shredded. So by the end you had a pile of wet, soggy shredded fries sitting at the bottom of the bucket, much like a man’s hopes and dreams once he finds out there’s no career based on having every episode of "Wings" memorized. Or tater tots before the glucose is added. Did so many potatoes really have to die for this? Put em in a separate box, fuckwads!! The other thing I remember is that with the bucket, the “rolls” and the fries came, for some reason, a prodigious amount of honey. Honey? What the hell is this for? Who puts honey on either of these things? You know my rule: the only thing that is to be spread on any bread product is butter. Period. Jam, jelly, honey, no no no. If I’m looking at some bread and my hands are sticky and it’s not from butter, there better be a group of dudes in a circle with their pants at their ankles. All I’m saying.
Anyways, since as I said I ain’t had it in about 15 years, next time I’m back home I think I’ll actually hit Lowery’s for a bucket. As for next Friday’s fried chicken, any requests are welcome...except Popeye’s. Too much honey. Sorry Op!
Tappahannock, VA
The first bucket of chicken I ever saw came from Lowery’s Seafood Restaurant, the flagship joint in my hometown that I think was founded on the goddam Mayflower and has been run by the same family for generations. Up until a few years back when the Wal-Mart came and with it every conceivable fast-food restaurant, it had been the only game in town; located right on Rt 17, anyone driving through that part of the state would inevitably find themselves driving by it after going, oh, maybe 15,000 miles since the last restaurant and decide to pop in. For decades if you told somebody you were from Tappahannock they’d go “oh yeah, Lowery’s right?” Of course now if you mention Tappahannock they might say “oh yeah, that place where a certain SOMEbody could’ve gotten a homer in his last-ever Little League at-bat but got held up at third by Drew Allen’s fucking retarded, blind father, ruining what would’ve been the perfect cap on an otherwise amazing Little League career, thus teaching a young buck it’s okay to settle for third base, don’t bother dreaming cause you’ll be stopped short every time and you’re better off just becoming an 800-lb jobless bed-wetting alcoholic pussy loser than trying for greatness, right?” (cough) Where was I...ah yes... the Lowery’s have gotten richer with each generation and, if the group of guys from the family that I grew up with is any indication, dumber. I can still remember a 15-minute report given by one of them in the 7th grade (SEVENTH!!) that summer and winter occur because half of the year the Earth rotates around the sun and the other half it rotates around the moon. Yikes. Hey, maybe his brain was solar-powered and this was during the winter. Freakin’ dumb moon!!!
If you actually live in town though there’s only three reasons to go to Lowery’s: you’re about 5 years old and you wanna go “fishing” after eating, you’re at a Lion’s Club meeting or you’re a 108 year old woman who wants to meet up with the 4 other oldest women on Earth, eat a meal for $2.19 and then spend 30 minutes afterwards using a calculator to calculate that the 21-cent tip is more than generous for a “nice colored girl.” I have no idea what goes on at Lion’s Club meetings, though were I to guess I’d have to maybe think it involves dudes making out while naming each other’s back fat. But that’s just conjecture based on what I’ve heard. Well, and from watching my “Lions Club Gone Wild!” dvds. But I do remember fishing – if you were a kid, as soon as you were done eating they’d bring you a little plastic fishing pole and you’d go in the back where there was a wishing-well kinda thing, and on the bottom were wooden fish with hooks. So you’d dangle the line down and bat it around, hoping to nab a fish while hyperventilating. Much like real fishing it was filled with hope and anticipation, until 11 seconds had elapsed and your father was on top of you “Jesus Christ, come on!! Let’s go, lets go camoncamoncamon! Hurry the hell up and get the damn fish! Jesus, it’s right there, let’s go!!!” Which would lead to the inevitable being distracted into looking at the parrot they had back there in a cage so your dad could reach into the well which, looking back now, was maybe 2 feet deep; your dad would slip a fish onto the hook “wow son, look!! You did it!!! Get in the car!!!!” And it never occurred to you that while you were focusing every ounce of your mind and body into getting the fish as if you were a doctor in your 8th hour of neurosurgery you couldn’t hook one, but the second you started goofing with the parrot, listening to his “colorful” sayings like “Chevy sucks!” or “Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeoisies epoch from all earlier ones” all of a sudden a fish would appear on your line. So now you sprint to the front of the joint and get your prize. Which was either a Lowerys keychain – FINALLY a tool to keep all a 5-year old’s keys to be in one place, particularly if your name was “Schnieder” – or, even better, a rolled up paper placemat from...Lowerys. Wow.
Now, as I said before, Lowerys was pretty much the only game in town; for takeout it was either go there and get a bucket of chicken, or go get pizza from Roma’s. In my house growing up about once every, oh, 9 years my parents would decide you know what, let’s go into town for takeout instead of cooking dinner. Which would send my brother and my little bodies into a frenzy; we’d start shaking like soda, frothing at the mouth and just to make sure our folks would get our point we’d jump on chairs at the kitchen table and start our “mother and father, perchance you’d like to go into town and purchase some pizza we’d be much grateful, not only for the substance but for the love and support you’ve given us, providing a blanket of warmth in family in such a cold, cruel world” song, the lyrics of which were “P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!!!” Little fists pumping in the air like Rosie at a fat rally. One time we were doing this and from across the table I saw my brother slip off his chair, and in slow motion I saw his fall momentarily stopped by his temple meeting the edge of the table before his 8 year-old body fell to the floor. From my chair, I couldn’t see him on the floor, and it was all I could do to barely, quietly keep our chant going – hey, any momentum lost and we were right back to regular home-cooked dinner. Finally, after an amazingly long pause, I see a little, white paw fly up into he air and land SMACK! on the table...he’s up!! Dramatically dragging himself up to his chair, egg slowly rising on his temple and with a single-mindedness rivaled only MAYBE by the guy in Princess Bride looking for the 6-fingered man who killed his father, he found his feet, got himself together and our joyous chant resumed.
Was there any 60 minute stretch longer than when my mother would go into town to pick up the pizza? Good lord. My mother would barely be out of the driveway and my brother and I would start our watch, noses pressed up against the living room window. You could see down the road about a quarter mile, each time we saw a glint of metal in the distance our frenzy would roil. At least if it was still light out you could quickly ascertain if it was her or not. God forbid it was nighttime; every pair of headlights creeeeeping down the road “is that her? Is that her? I think that’s her!!! It’s here-“ ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM car speeding by us. No mother, no pizza. Whoa. Has there ever been a sadder sentence written than that? Wow.
Or, as I said we’d elect to get Fried Chicken from Lowery’s. I had started this post thinking I’d review their fried chicken, but now that I’m thinking about it I don’t remember much about the chicken itself. I can still taste the loads of pepper on it. But it’s been about 15 years since I’ve had any. I recall it being very adequate. I do remember the accoutrements for some reason though. First of all, the rolls. What the fuck....here’s a restaurant that prided itself on all things homemade; the down-hominess of making everything from scratch. Except, of all things, the rolls....which pretty much was served with every meal ever there. Why would they take so much trouble to personally walk to the river and dredge the muddy floor with their bare hands for the clams, yet for the bread they’d say aw fuck it and run over to the Safeway to grab some fucking Sunbeam knockoffs? Wtf? And the french fries that came with the bird. They were actually thrown in the bucket with the chicken; by the time you opened up the lid the fries were absolutely limp from the steaming they took. This would quickly be overshadowed by the fact that when you would extract the chicken, the fries would therein get shredded. So by the end you had a pile of wet, soggy shredded fries sitting at the bottom of the bucket, much like a man’s hopes and dreams once he finds out there’s no career based on having every episode of "Wings" memorized. Or tater tots before the glucose is added. Did so many potatoes really have to die for this? Put em in a separate box, fuckwads!! The other thing I remember is that with the bucket, the “rolls” and the fries came, for some reason, a prodigious amount of honey. Honey? What the hell is this for? Who puts honey on either of these things? You know my rule: the only thing that is to be spread on any bread product is butter. Period. Jam, jelly, honey, no no no. If I’m looking at some bread and my hands are sticky and it’s not from butter, there better be a group of dudes in a circle with their pants at their ankles. All I’m saying.
Anyways, since as I said I ain’t had it in about 15 years, next time I’m back home I think I’ll actually hit Lowery’s for a bucket. As for next Friday’s fried chicken, any requests are welcome...except Popeye’s. Too much honey. Sorry Op!
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