If you ever want to find some true nerds--nerds who can help you fix your laptop or design you a web page for your new t-shirt design company--there's only one place to go. The Computer Programming section of a book store. Walking through the Barnes & Noble this weekend I stumbled into this serene setting. There were computer nerds scattered about, all consuming information about new code languages and other things involving computers.
If you need help with your computer and don't have access to an IT person at work, you can attempt to approach one of these nerds. You'll undoubtably look out of place and your presence is likely to alarm the timid nerd, so I suggest saying something in their language at first. It will help put them at ease. Feel free to use one of the following:
"I'm not sold on the benefits of working in Perl."
"I'm a JavaScript man myself."
"I've done some of my best work in C++."
Then, when they start talking to you, stare blankly into their eyes for the duration of their monologue. When they've finished talking, feel free to transition into a discussion about the type of help you need.
"I'm not really sure what you're talking about. It sounds complicated. Do you think you could fix my laptop? I have it here in my backpack."
Then take your laptop out and tell them about the error message that keeps popping up. Boom, your problem is solved.
12.18.2006
12.14.2006
GROWING PAINS.
Can you believe that a TV show in the 80s was able to name one of their characters "Boner"? Seems like someone would have realized that's slang for an erect penis and called for a change. But astoundingly, one television show got away with saying Boner on the air from 1985-1989. I tip my hat to the writers of Growing Pains. I imagine the writing session that produced Boner went something like this:
WRITER 1: So this kid needs a sidekick, some sort of nerdy kid.
WRITER 2: The kid should be a total boner.
WRITER 1: That's it, let's call him "Boner."
WRITER 2: The network will never let us call a character "boner." We might as well call him erection or hard-on.
WRITER 1: No, no. We'll just give him a last name that would make sense to be shortened to boner. Like "Stabone."
WRITER 2: Did you just say "like stabone"? Likes to bone. Nice.
WRITER 1: Seroiusly, let's just make his last name Stabone and see if we can sneak it through.
WRITER 2: And let's make his first name Richard.
WRITER 1: Ha! Dick "Boner" Stabone. They're going to fire us.
But they apparently did not get fired. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Richard "Boner" Stabone.
SCORE: writers 1, network execs 0
WRITER 1: So this kid needs a sidekick, some sort of nerdy kid.
WRITER 2: The kid should be a total boner.
WRITER 1: That's it, let's call him "Boner."
WRITER 2: The network will never let us call a character "boner." We might as well call him erection or hard-on.
WRITER 1: No, no. We'll just give him a last name that would make sense to be shortened to boner. Like "Stabone."
WRITER 2: Did you just say "like stabone"? Likes to bone. Nice.
WRITER 1: Seroiusly, let's just make his last name Stabone and see if we can sneak it through.
WRITER 2: And let's make his first name Richard.
WRITER 1: Ha! Dick "Boner" Stabone. They're going to fire us.
But they apparently did not get fired. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Richard "Boner" Stabone.
SCORE: writers 1, network execs 0
12.13.2006
DEAR CANON,
Dear Canon,
I'm writing to let you know that I really like my Powershot SD500 Digital Elph Camera. It takes good pictures and is just about the perfect size. But I was wondering, why would you not put any sort of battery-level monitor icon on it? Just a little picture where it shows you battery full, battery half-full or battery almost empty. Would that be so hard?
Instead, you designed your camera to surprise me with a little red flashing battery icon, seconds before my camera shuts itself off due to low power. How did your jackass design team not realize people need to know how much life their camera battery has left? That's pretty fucking stupid, if you ask me.
Be sure to correct that on your new models. Idiots.
Sincerely,
a guy who takes pictures
I'm writing to let you know that I really like my Powershot SD500 Digital Elph Camera. It takes good pictures and is just about the perfect size. But I was wondering, why would you not put any sort of battery-level monitor icon on it? Just a little picture where it shows you battery full, battery half-full or battery almost empty. Would that be so hard?
Instead, you designed your camera to surprise me with a little red flashing battery icon, seconds before my camera shuts itself off due to low power. How did your jackass design team not realize people need to know how much life their camera battery has left? That's pretty fucking stupid, if you ask me.
Be sure to correct that on your new models. Idiots.
Sincerely,
a guy who takes pictures
12.11.2006
SIMON SAYS.
One game that people don't really play anymore is Simon Says. I was at a basketball game awhile ago and during halftime they had grown people play a game of Simon Says. And the Simon leading the game was a professional sayer. Watching him work was pretty amazing. It made you realize that Simon Says is a hard game and it would probably be fun to play, especially when you're drunk. People could not stay in the game more than a few rounds.
Simon says put your hands up.
Simon says put your hands down.
Simon says put your hands up.
Simon says wave your hands around.
Put your hands down.
And boom, people would all put their hands down. It was both hilarious and embarrassing. I will definitely participate in a game of Simon Says if one happens to break out in the near future. I'm not saying I would be good at it, but I would play.
Simon says put your hands up.
Simon says put your hands down.
Simon says put your hands up.
Simon says wave your hands around.
Put your hands down.
And boom, people would all put their hands down. It was both hilarious and embarrassing. I will definitely participate in a game of Simon Says if one happens to break out in the near future. I'm not saying I would be good at it, but I would play.
12.08.2006
i'm surprised
that throwing up in your mouth doesn't cause you to start really throwing up. It tastes bad, like puke. I would think that'd make you puke even more.
DEFEAT? WHAT DEFEAT?
Because I consider myself to be of somewhat limited intelligence when it comes to what goes on in the world, I seldom venture to write anything insightful about politics. But on the train this morning I read an article (a very short article, because the source of all my news is Metro, in which all articles adhere to a 30-second readability time limit) that quoted John McCain as saying something to the effect that if we pull out of Iraq it will be a demoralizing defeat for the US military. This started the wheels turning.
Defeat? At the hands of whom? Didn't we already win? Wasn't the stated objective at the beginning of the war to remove Saddam Hussein from power and make sure there were no weapons of mass destruction that could possibly one day in the future be used against the US? Well, Saddam is no longer in power. And to my knowledge, Iraq has no atomic bombs or anything of the sort. So technically, haven't we already won the war?
I guess it depends on who you consider the "enemy" and what you consider the "objectives" of said war to be. As previously stated, it was originally presented that the enemy was Saddam and his army; and the objective was to protect the American people from WMD. Defeated and done. We should be chalking up a W and bringing our boys home. But for some reason we're still talking about experiencing defeat? Why?
Hypothesize with me for a minute. Let's say that the government, as far fetched as it sounds, misled us as to the actual purpose of the war. Let's say they were really fighting another enemy. An enemy known as "high oil prices." And the real objective in this war was to ensure that a US-friendly, stable government will take over in Iraq and provide us with a steady flow of oil. If that is the real enemy and objective, then yes, it's possible we could still be defeated. Which is why we're still meddling amidst all of this unrest in Iraq. What McCain meant to say was that if we withdraw before the US-installed government of Iraq promises to give us all the oil we want for "helping" them win the war against Saddam, we will experience defeat.
This is certainly not my own original line of thought. Nor do I think it’s such an outrageous left-wing theory as to warrant dismissal. Just think about it. And wait until I get going on Guantanamo Bay. Jesus. That is one fucked up situation.
Defeat? At the hands of whom? Didn't we already win? Wasn't the stated objective at the beginning of the war to remove Saddam Hussein from power and make sure there were no weapons of mass destruction that could possibly one day in the future be used against the US? Well, Saddam is no longer in power. And to my knowledge, Iraq has no atomic bombs or anything of the sort. So technically, haven't we already won the war?
I guess it depends on who you consider the "enemy" and what you consider the "objectives" of said war to be. As previously stated, it was originally presented that the enemy was Saddam and his army; and the objective was to protect the American people from WMD. Defeated and done. We should be chalking up a W and bringing our boys home. But for some reason we're still talking about experiencing defeat? Why?
Hypothesize with me for a minute. Let's say that the government, as far fetched as it sounds, misled us as to the actual purpose of the war. Let's say they were really fighting another enemy. An enemy known as "high oil prices." And the real objective in this war was to ensure that a US-friendly, stable government will take over in Iraq and provide us with a steady flow of oil. If that is the real enemy and objective, then yes, it's possible we could still be defeated. Which is why we're still meddling amidst all of this unrest in Iraq. What McCain meant to say was that if we withdraw before the US-installed government of Iraq promises to give us all the oil we want for "helping" them win the war against Saddam, we will experience defeat.
This is certainly not my own original line of thought. Nor do I think it’s such an outrageous left-wing theory as to warrant dismissal. Just think about it. And wait until I get going on Guantanamo Bay. Jesus. That is one fucked up situation.
12.07.2006
ATTENTION SAD PEOPLE.
I have recently discovered the cure for depression. It comes in the form of a tv commercial's jingle. Whenever you're sad, simply start singing the Toys'R'Us theme song.
I don't want to grow up,
I'm a Toys'R'Us kid.
There's a million toys at Toys'R'Us that I can play with.
From bikes to trains to video games,
it's the biggest toy store there is.
I don't wanna grow up,
cause baby if I did
I couldn't be a Toys'R'Us kid.
Now try singing that and thinking about all those toys and being sad. Impossible.
I don't want to grow up,
I'm a Toys'R'Us kid.
There's a million toys at Toys'R'Us that I can play with.
From bikes to trains to video games,
it's the biggest toy store there is.
I don't wanna grow up,
cause baby if I did
I couldn't be a Toys'R'Us kid.
Now try singing that and thinking about all those toys and being sad. Impossible.
12.04.2006
THE WORST ADVICE.
A little over a year ago, having been living in New York a few months, I received what I now have conclusively decided was bad advice. The subject at hand was my wardrobe. For approximately six years I had been dressing almost exactly the same. My wardrobe consisted of a good variety of shirts (t-shirts, button-downs, sweaters, etc), some shoes and khakis. No blue jeans. And my khaki's were always a slightly baggy. I liked the way I dressed. But the girls I worked with did not. They said the following:
"Jim, if you ever want to get laid in New York you need to stop dressing like a fifteen-year old skateboarder and get some blue jeans that fit you."
Translation: Buy blue jeans with a waist size that matches how many inches around your waist really is.
After a few months of not having sex, I figured it would be alright to try out some new pants. I bought some jeans and started to wear them. After awhile I started to really like the way they look. And I did eventually have some sex. The problem is, and was, that jeans with a waist measurement that accurately reflects my true waist size can be tight. Not skin tight, but very constricting around my private parts. It is very uncomfortable and requires a considerable amount of adjustment. It also sometimes leads to excessive sweating in the nether regions.
For a year I dealt with this problem. It occurs on two of the three pairs of jeans I own and I managed to let it slide. But yesterday was the boiling point. Riding the train, all smashed up down there and having to continually stand up and pull down on the jeans to give myself some room, I decided no more. I'm done with my "tight" jeans.
It also made me wonder, how do hipsters and gay guys do it? How in the world can any man wear jeans that are almost skin tight? It is the most uncomfortable thing that can occur from wearing a type of pants. It should be used as a torture in prison. Put people in tight pants and make them sit still for a day. No adjusting! It's torture and I, for one, am not tough enough to endure it for the sake of fashion.
I am wearing my khakis today. It feels awesome.
"Jim, if you ever want to get laid in New York you need to stop dressing like a fifteen-year old skateboarder and get some blue jeans that fit you."
Translation: Buy blue jeans with a waist size that matches how many inches around your waist really is.
After a few months of not having sex, I figured it would be alright to try out some new pants. I bought some jeans and started to wear them. After awhile I started to really like the way they look. And I did eventually have some sex. The problem is, and was, that jeans with a waist measurement that accurately reflects my true waist size can be tight. Not skin tight, but very constricting around my private parts. It is very uncomfortable and requires a considerable amount of adjustment. It also sometimes leads to excessive sweating in the nether regions.
For a year I dealt with this problem. It occurs on two of the three pairs of jeans I own and I managed to let it slide. But yesterday was the boiling point. Riding the train, all smashed up down there and having to continually stand up and pull down on the jeans to give myself some room, I decided no more. I'm done with my "tight" jeans.
It also made me wonder, how do hipsters and gay guys do it? How in the world can any man wear jeans that are almost skin tight? It is the most uncomfortable thing that can occur from wearing a type of pants. It should be used as a torture in prison. Put people in tight pants and make them sit still for a day. No adjusting! It's torture and I, for one, am not tough enough to endure it for the sake of fashion.
I am wearing my khakis today. It feels awesome.
11.17.2006
A NEW INVENTION
Why don't they make arm-rests for toilets? It seems like they should have that. Right now your only option is to lean forward and put your arms on your thighs or to let them hang at your side. Neither position is very comfortable if you're in it for the long haul. Although I think the leaning forward position is probably the most effective for a "clean release."
The arm rests could also have a cup holder or something.
toilet arm rests, patented 11-17-2006 by me.
See, I am an idea man.
The arm rests could also have a cup holder or something.
toilet arm rests, patented 11-17-2006 by me.
See, I am an idea man.
11.16.2006
10 YEAR REUNION.
Yes, this year is the ten year reunion of my high school graduation. That means I'm getting old. And since I'm planning to attend, that means I'm prepared to have the same conversation over and over again approximately 50 times. I'm attending more out of curiosity than to reconnect with friends from the past or to gloat about my achievements in life. I doubted we would even have a reunion, seeing as it's the class president's job to plan it; and I don't think ours had any interest in doing so.
But someone did plan it. Yes indeed. I tip my hat to the girl who took the initiative to do so. It's something she didn't have to do, and I appreciate it. She made a wise decision to plan it during Thanksgiving break, when many out-of-state alumni will be home. But taking the initiative and choosing a good date seem to be where her good decision-making ended.
Take a look at the following description of my impending reunion:
"Ticket can be purchased from celebrations to remember. The price is $59 before November 21st. Purchase by phone at 734.261.3264 Ticket Price Includes Hors D'Oeuvres, Alumni Directory For Each Paid Alumni Reservation, Photo Name Tags, DJ, Decor, Printing, Postage, Administration Expenses and Reunion Host. Cash Bar will be available. Reservations Made After November 21st will be $69.00 per person and $135.00 per couple. If you have a paid reservation with Reunion Makers please call CTR, Inc. at 734.261.3264. Lafayette Grand Banquets, 1 Lafayette, Pontiac, MI"
Waaaaiit a minute. Let's take a look at this.
Tickets $59. Alright. We're adults, we have jobs, we can afford to spring for our 10-year reunion. After all, it only comes once, right. Granted, I think I should be paid to sit around having the same shitty conversation with people I care so much about that I haven't seen them in ten years. And at least we'll have an open bar.
Nope. Look closer. Cash bar will be available. Available? If I'm not having my shitty conversations in an alcohol induced haze, it's likely my social anxiety and intolerance of idiots will kick in, making me one miserable sonovabitch. How on earth can you charge people $60 and not have an open bar? How is it even possible?
Here's how. Girls planned it. A recap of the 10 year reunion planning committee meeting:
GIRL 1: It's our ten year reunion, what should we do?
GIRL 2: I think we should rent a banquet hall. This has to be better than prom.
GIRL 3: Maybe we should just rent a bar. I think that would be a good atmosphere.
GIRL 1: A bar? Come on Susan, I bet people are going to want to dress up fancy.
GIRL 2: Yeah, we should probably get decorations, maybe have a theme of some sort.
GIRL 3: I don't think people will care about that.
GIRL 1: Won't care? Won't care? Listen, we're planning this. We're going to look dumb if we just have it at some bar with a bunch of beer and pizza. We need to go high class. People will judge us by how nice this is.
GIRL 2: It's our chance to show them we've made it. We seriously need to get some hors D'Oeuvres and stuff.
GIRL 1: And people are definitely going to want a DJ and a dance floor and centerpieces on the tables.
GIRL 2: And picture nametags and streamers and balloons.
GIRL 3: Can we at least have an open bar?
GIRL 1: We can't waste money on that.
GIRL 2: Seriously, how can we afford that and administration expenses and postage? No one cares about open bars.
GIRL 3: Fuck this. Fuck you. I'm not helping any more.
Aaarrrrrg. In my opinion, all you need for a good reunion is the following: a room, some beer, some pizza or chips, masking tape and a Sharpe (for nametags), and some chairs. That's it. I could organize a good reunion for $10 a head. And that would include pizza and all you can drink beer. But alas, I'm lazy and I don't live in Michigan, so I have to let it go.
I'm going to suck it up, pay for my ticket, wear normal clothes, bring a bottle of Makers and try not to complain about the reunion in front of the organizer.
But someone did plan it. Yes indeed. I tip my hat to the girl who took the initiative to do so. It's something she didn't have to do, and I appreciate it. She made a wise decision to plan it during Thanksgiving break, when many out-of-state alumni will be home. But taking the initiative and choosing a good date seem to be where her good decision-making ended.
Take a look at the following description of my impending reunion:
"Ticket can be purchased from celebrations to remember. The price is $59 before November 21st. Purchase by phone at 734.261.3264 Ticket Price Includes Hors D'Oeuvres, Alumni Directory For Each Paid Alumni Reservation, Photo Name Tags, DJ, Decor, Printing, Postage, Administration Expenses and Reunion Host. Cash Bar will be available. Reservations Made After November 21st will be $69.00 per person and $135.00 per couple. If you have a paid reservation with Reunion Makers please call CTR, Inc. at 734.261.3264. Lafayette Grand Banquets, 1 Lafayette, Pontiac, MI"
Waaaaiit a minute. Let's take a look at this.
Tickets $59. Alright. We're adults, we have jobs, we can afford to spring for our 10-year reunion. After all, it only comes once, right. Granted, I think I should be paid to sit around having the same shitty conversation with people I care so much about that I haven't seen them in ten years. And at least we'll have an open bar.
Nope. Look closer. Cash bar will be available. Available? If I'm not having my shitty conversations in an alcohol induced haze, it's likely my social anxiety and intolerance of idiots will kick in, making me one miserable sonovabitch. How on earth can you charge people $60 and not have an open bar? How is it even possible?
Here's how. Girls planned it. A recap of the 10 year reunion planning committee meeting:
GIRL 1: It's our ten year reunion, what should we do?
GIRL 2: I think we should rent a banquet hall. This has to be better than prom.
GIRL 3: Maybe we should just rent a bar. I think that would be a good atmosphere.
GIRL 1: A bar? Come on Susan, I bet people are going to want to dress up fancy.
GIRL 2: Yeah, we should probably get decorations, maybe have a theme of some sort.
GIRL 3: I don't think people will care about that.
GIRL 1: Won't care? Won't care? Listen, we're planning this. We're going to look dumb if we just have it at some bar with a bunch of beer and pizza. We need to go high class. People will judge us by how nice this is.
GIRL 2: It's our chance to show them we've made it. We seriously need to get some hors D'Oeuvres and stuff.
GIRL 1: And people are definitely going to want a DJ and a dance floor and centerpieces on the tables.
GIRL 2: And picture nametags and streamers and balloons.
GIRL 3: Can we at least have an open bar?
GIRL 1: We can't waste money on that.
GIRL 2: Seriously, how can we afford that and administration expenses and postage? No one cares about open bars.
GIRL 3: Fuck this. Fuck you. I'm not helping any more.
Aaarrrrrg. In my opinion, all you need for a good reunion is the following: a room, some beer, some pizza or chips, masking tape and a Sharpe (for nametags), and some chairs. That's it. I could organize a good reunion for $10 a head. And that would include pizza and all you can drink beer. But alas, I'm lazy and I don't live in Michigan, so I have to let it go.
I'm going to suck it up, pay for my ticket, wear normal clothes, bring a bottle of Makers and try not to complain about the reunion in front of the organizer.
11.15.2006
WINNING WITH NUMBER TWO.
One thing I'm not fond of is public bathrooms. Going number one in a public bathroom is no sweat; it's going number two that's very uncomfortable. Aside from the dirt-factor associated with a bathroom shared with strangers, the main problem for me is having to go while someone else is in the bathroom. In my current work situation, the building shares one male bathroom. This bathroom contains one stall for shitting. So every day when nature calls, I find myself with the opportunity to claim two victories.
The first challenge is timing your trip so that the toilet is unoccupied when you arrive. There's nothing worse than walking in and seeing someone's feet under the stall. You have to go back into the office without accomplishing your goal and you have to know that some other guy was just dumping where you dump. But after many hours of observing actions around the office, I've gotten pretty good at timing my runs. Win.
The second win is achieved by finishing your business before anyone comes in. I can't have a movement while someone else is in the bathroom, so any time there's another human in there I'm basically stalled. During the workday I'm an efficient crapper. No lounging around and reading the Wall Street Journal that's sometimes wedged in the stall crack. Just get in, unload, get out.
Today I won twice. It's a great feeling, getting in there and seeing an empty stall, doing your business, washing up and getting out without having to hear, see or talk to anyone.
That is how you win at number two.
The first challenge is timing your trip so that the toilet is unoccupied when you arrive. There's nothing worse than walking in and seeing someone's feet under the stall. You have to go back into the office without accomplishing your goal and you have to know that some other guy was just dumping where you dump. But after many hours of observing actions around the office, I've gotten pretty good at timing my runs. Win.
The second win is achieved by finishing your business before anyone comes in. I can't have a movement while someone else is in the bathroom, so any time there's another human in there I'm basically stalled. During the workday I'm an efficient crapper. No lounging around and reading the Wall Street Journal that's sometimes wedged in the stall crack. Just get in, unload, get out.
Today I won twice. It's a great feeling, getting in there and seeing an empty stall, doing your business, washing up and getting out without having to hear, see or talk to anyone.
That is how you win at number two.
11.10.2006
UNFORTUNATE FELLOWS.
Borat, the Khazakhstanian sensation, has run into some more trouble stemming from his new movie. Apparently the college kids who made absolute asses of themselves aren't pleased by their portrayal as huge asses in the movie. The three South Carolina frat guys acted in typical meathead fashion, making absurd statements about fucking bitches and having slaves. But now that they've realized they're not cool and that the whole nation is about to find out, they're pissed.
See the article here.
According to Yahoo, "The film 'made plaintiffs the object of ridicule, humiliation, mental anguish and emotional and physical distress, loss of reputation, goodwill and standing in the community,' the lawsuit said." The defendants, 20th Century Fox and a few other companies are claiming the lawsuit "has no merit." Which I normally would agree with. These guys are idiots, pure and simple.
However, on a legal basis I think these guys have a chance if they claim the following:
Because of the Borat movie, we will never get to have consentual sex with girls again in our lives.
As more and more people see the movie and discover what kind of jackasses these fellows are, the pool of women willing to have intercourse with them will dry up until they will actually have to travel to Khazakhstan to get sex. If I were a jury, I would award them the following damages:
We, the people of the jury, award each boy whatever costs are involved in a lifetime of using prostitutes.
Since that's what they'll have to do. Of course, there's always the chance that this 15 minutes of fame will propel them into a life formerly enjoyed only by ex-reality TV show stars; hosting events at bars, maintaining their ridiculous behavior and picking up drunk 18-year old girls who got in with fake id's and are about to pass out.
See the article here.
According to Yahoo, "The film 'made plaintiffs the object of ridicule, humiliation, mental anguish and emotional and physical distress, loss of reputation, goodwill and standing in the community,' the lawsuit said." The defendants, 20th Century Fox and a few other companies are claiming the lawsuit "has no merit." Which I normally would agree with. These guys are idiots, pure and simple.
However, on a legal basis I think these guys have a chance if they claim the following:
Because of the Borat movie, we will never get to have consentual sex with girls again in our lives.
As more and more people see the movie and discover what kind of jackasses these fellows are, the pool of women willing to have intercourse with them will dry up until they will actually have to travel to Khazakhstan to get sex. If I were a jury, I would award them the following damages:
We, the people of the jury, award each boy whatever costs are involved in a lifetime of using prostitutes.
Since that's what they'll have to do. Of course, there's always the chance that this 15 minutes of fame will propel them into a life formerly enjoyed only by ex-reality TV show stars; hosting events at bars, maintaining their ridiculous behavior and picking up drunk 18-year old girls who got in with fake id's and are about to pass out.
I AM POWERFUL.
One thing I love doing is rating songs on iTunes. All day long I sit at work with my iTunes on "party shuffle" and rate music. It's a great feeling to know you're in charge of letting a song know how good it is. I'm pretty generous with my three and four-star ratings, but when it comes to five stars you've got to be an outstanding song. Likewise, to get two stars you have to be a song I don't really want to listen to very often. And I don't even use one star. Instead, I change the name of the song to "delete" and then every so often I throw out all the songs with the title "delete". It's like trading in a life sentence for the death penalty. Why have a bunch of songs that have one star hanging around taking up memory? If you give a song one star, that pretty much means it sucks.
This process makes me feel powerful.
This process makes me feel powerful.
11.09.2006
MOM OR NANNY.
This afternoon while sitting on the balcony overlooking a parking lot in Westport, CT we developed a slight variation on the classic game of "Wife or Daughter." For those of you unfamiliar with Wife or Daughter, it's a game that involves trying to guess if the attractive young woman accompanying an older gentleman is his wife or his daughter. Of course you can never really know, but speculation is good, clean fun.
During the day in downtown Westport, however, the game is slightly altered. Because most of the dads are working and most of the daughters are in school, you can't really play Wife or Daughter. But luckily, the town provides an acceptable substitute. The cars parking in the lot behind our building are loaded with women, strollers and children. The new game: Mom or Nanny. This new game is valid and challenging for the following reasons:
1. Westport is a rich area, where Nannies are very common.
2. Many of the women unloading the children, from far away, look much too young and hot to be mothers of two.
3. Many of the moms do not work, which allows them to go to the gym every day and maintain a body that appears to be that of a young, 22-year old Nanny.
The male contestant considers numerous factors in order to reach his conclusion. Some of the following criteria are commonly used:
-How hot is she? If she's very hot and very young, Nanny is assumed until proven otherwise.
-What color is she? There's no black or Hispanic people in Westport; at least none that are shopping on a Thursday afternoon. So if you're looking at a hot woman of color, you're safe to assume Nanny.
-How old are the kids? The older the kids and the younger the woman, the more likely it is to be a Nanny. If there's two or three kids and she still has a tight body, you have to lean toward Nanny.
-Does her left hand glisten? If the sun causes her left hand to sparkle, it's likely she's wearing a wedding ring and is a Mom.
-Do the kids call her Mom? If you're close enough to hear, this is a dead giveaway and sort of ruins the game.
-If she actually makes purchases at the stores downtown, she's likely a Mom. If she window shops and takes the kids to the park, she could be a Nanny.
-What do you want her to be? If you think she's super hot, you want her to be a Nanny. This means you have a chance and will often cause you to overlook obvious Mom evidence.
-If her car is crappy, it's probably a Nanny and that's probably her car.
-How careful is she with the kids? The more careful she is, the more likely it is she's a Nanny. You don't want to be losing some rich folks' children. But if they're your own, hey, you can just make more.
There are no winners or losers in Mom or Nanny. Although I guess if somehow you approached the subject of debate and ended up having sex with her, you would be winning. No matter which one she was.
During the day in downtown Westport, however, the game is slightly altered. Because most of the dads are working and most of the daughters are in school, you can't really play Wife or Daughter. But luckily, the town provides an acceptable substitute. The cars parking in the lot behind our building are loaded with women, strollers and children. The new game: Mom or Nanny. This new game is valid and challenging for the following reasons:
1. Westport is a rich area, where Nannies are very common.
2. Many of the women unloading the children, from far away, look much too young and hot to be mothers of two.
3. Many of the moms do not work, which allows them to go to the gym every day and maintain a body that appears to be that of a young, 22-year old Nanny.
The male contestant considers numerous factors in order to reach his conclusion. Some of the following criteria are commonly used:
-How hot is she? If she's very hot and very young, Nanny is assumed until proven otherwise.
-What color is she? There's no black or Hispanic people in Westport; at least none that are shopping on a Thursday afternoon. So if you're looking at a hot woman of color, you're safe to assume Nanny.
-How old are the kids? The older the kids and the younger the woman, the more likely it is to be a Nanny. If there's two or three kids and she still has a tight body, you have to lean toward Nanny.
-Does her left hand glisten? If the sun causes her left hand to sparkle, it's likely she's wearing a wedding ring and is a Mom.
-Do the kids call her Mom? If you're close enough to hear, this is a dead giveaway and sort of ruins the game.
-If she actually makes purchases at the stores downtown, she's likely a Mom. If she window shops and takes the kids to the park, she could be a Nanny.
-What do you want her to be? If you think she's super hot, you want her to be a Nanny. This means you have a chance and will often cause you to overlook obvious Mom evidence.
-If her car is crappy, it's probably a Nanny and that's probably her car.
-How careful is she with the kids? The more careful she is, the more likely it is she's a Nanny. You don't want to be losing some rich folks' children. But if they're your own, hey, you can just make more.
There are no winners or losers in Mom or Nanny. Although I guess if somehow you approached the subject of debate and ended up having sex with her, you would be winning. No matter which one she was.
11.08.2006
skittles
Has anyone considered that since the rainbow has been claimed by gay people, maybe Skittles should change their tagline. Taste the rainbow. Sounds like blow a gay guy.
Also, how about a blue skittle? Or isn't blue part of the rainbow anymore?
Also, how about a blue skittle? Or isn't blue part of the rainbow anymore?
PHONAPHOBIA.
The more I pay attention to the way I live my life, the more I realize I have a few strange and irrational disorders. After doing some research (looking up the definition of a word)I think some of them can be classes as phobias. By definition, a phobia is "an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something." My crippling, tooth-rotting fear of the dentist? Definitely a fear phobia. My inability to eat during first dates? Probably an aversion phobia of some sort.
Last night I diagnosed myself with an aversion phobia to talking on the phone. I've known for a long time that I don't particularly enjoy talking on the phone. This played a large part in the deterioration of my six-year relationship with a girl I thought I would marry. I had no desire to speak to her on the phone and listen to her yammer on about a bunch of shit that happened to her that day. I tell people I'm not good at it and that it's just not me; that if I have something really important to say I'll just see them in person. But it doesn't really make sense. I like friends, I like talking, I like gossip. I have friends and family all over the country. When I see them in person, I can hang out and talk for hours about nothing at all.
Why can't I use the damned phone? Almost every night I hold my cell phone and think about calling my brother or sister or mom or friend or girl I'm trying to date…and I just can't do it. The less I do it--which at this point is very seldom--the harder it gets to press that "send" button.
When I do talk on the phone, I lose control of my body. While conversing, without consciously making an effort to do so, I pace around my apartment; I open cupboards and drawers and the refrigerator; I rearrange books and dvds; I play with a soccer ball or football or throw a baseball into a mitt. I can’t sit still. Perhaps my brain isn't satisfied using only one of my senses. Talking on the phone requires only that my ears are working. In normal conversation, my eyes are contributing to the conversation, as are my hands and face, etc. Non-verbal communication. I think if I had to talk on the phone while blindfolded and bound to a chair, I would lose my mind.
Another problem with my phone skills is that as soon as I start talking, I begin wondering what I’m going to talk about and looking for a convenient point to end the conversation. Which badly inhibits my ability to pay attention to the conversation and makes the whole thing awkward and somewhat forced.
This can't be normal, so I'm going to class it as an aversion phobia. I'm not afraid of using the phone, I just irrationally avoid using it. Maybe I should get some treatment; go to a phone-talk counseling center of some sort. Or hire a phone talking coach or perhaps just sit down every night and force myself to make one phone call with a list of things to talk about.
While I’m sure this problem, along with some others, can be classed as some sort of social anxiety disorder, I think that sounds a little too serious and bad. A phobia, on the other hand, is something you can laugh about, like Arachnophobia. Grown-ups who are terrified of spiders? That's pure comedy.
Along with publicly diagnosing myself with the problem, I would also like to issue an apology to those of you who wonder why I never call. It’s not that I don’t like you. I love you all. It’s just that I am mentally unable to take part in telephone conversations. If you’re a friend and you’re wondering if I think about you, I do. If you’re a family member and you’re wondering if I care about what’s going on in your life, I certainly do. If you’re a girl and you think I like you and you wonder why I don't call, the answer is that we should make out--even if I don’t call.
Feel free to leave me a message or send me a text.
In unrelated news, last night I had a very vivid dream invovling dinosaurs, Velocoraptors in particular, hunting me and a bunch of people around an office building and sometimes in a forest. I don't think anyone was hurt, but it was very exciting and I was very daring and heroic.
Last night I diagnosed myself with an aversion phobia to talking on the phone. I've known for a long time that I don't particularly enjoy talking on the phone. This played a large part in the deterioration of my six-year relationship with a girl I thought I would marry. I had no desire to speak to her on the phone and listen to her yammer on about a bunch of shit that happened to her that day. I tell people I'm not good at it and that it's just not me; that if I have something really important to say I'll just see them in person. But it doesn't really make sense. I like friends, I like talking, I like gossip. I have friends and family all over the country. When I see them in person, I can hang out and talk for hours about nothing at all.
Why can't I use the damned phone? Almost every night I hold my cell phone and think about calling my brother or sister or mom or friend or girl I'm trying to date…and I just can't do it. The less I do it--which at this point is very seldom--the harder it gets to press that "send" button.
When I do talk on the phone, I lose control of my body. While conversing, without consciously making an effort to do so, I pace around my apartment; I open cupboards and drawers and the refrigerator; I rearrange books and dvds; I play with a soccer ball or football or throw a baseball into a mitt. I can’t sit still. Perhaps my brain isn't satisfied using only one of my senses. Talking on the phone requires only that my ears are working. In normal conversation, my eyes are contributing to the conversation, as are my hands and face, etc. Non-verbal communication. I think if I had to talk on the phone while blindfolded and bound to a chair, I would lose my mind.
Another problem with my phone skills is that as soon as I start talking, I begin wondering what I’m going to talk about and looking for a convenient point to end the conversation. Which badly inhibits my ability to pay attention to the conversation and makes the whole thing awkward and somewhat forced.
This can't be normal, so I'm going to class it as an aversion phobia. I'm not afraid of using the phone, I just irrationally avoid using it. Maybe I should get some treatment; go to a phone-talk counseling center of some sort. Or hire a phone talking coach or perhaps just sit down every night and force myself to make one phone call with a list of things to talk about.
While I’m sure this problem, along with some others, can be classed as some sort of social anxiety disorder, I think that sounds a little too serious and bad. A phobia, on the other hand, is something you can laugh about, like Arachnophobia. Grown-ups who are terrified of spiders? That's pure comedy.
Along with publicly diagnosing myself with the problem, I would also like to issue an apology to those of you who wonder why I never call. It’s not that I don’t like you. I love you all. It’s just that I am mentally unable to take part in telephone conversations. If you’re a friend and you’re wondering if I think about you, I do. If you’re a family member and you’re wondering if I care about what’s going on in your life, I certainly do. If you’re a girl and you think I like you and you wonder why I don't call, the answer is that we should make out--even if I don’t call.
Feel free to leave me a message or send me a text.
In unrelated news, last night I had a very vivid dream invovling dinosaurs, Velocoraptors in particular, hunting me and a bunch of people around an office building and sometimes in a forest. I don't think anyone was hurt, but it was very exciting and I was very daring and heroic.
11.06.2006
POLITICS: BAD FOR AMERICA.
As elections draw near, the country has yet again been suffocating under a blanket of political advertising. From folks handing you pamphlets on the street to those awful television ads, which have become the staple of the politician's propaganda arsenal, you can't escape it. In addition to the fact that political ads all blend together, are typically horrible and seldom tell you anything that would actually help you vote, the sheer amount spent on political advertising is sickening.
"Political-advertising spending has zoomed past projections and is headed toward a stratospheric $2 billion-plus this year, some 17.6% more than 2004...(and) Those numbers don't include spot cable, which has attracted serious spending."
Over two-billion dollars? Do you know how many people you can feed for two BILLION dollars? Neither do I. But I bet it's a lot. I don't know that a political ad has ever helped one single citizen, except for the person in the ad. Instead of letting self-important, power-hungry puppets run this country, howsabout we outlaw political advertising and spend that money on some positive programs. Let’s spend $2 billion more on education. Or building affordable housing for those in poverty. Or sending aid to third world nations.
You can’t honestly expect me to believe that this is the best way to use money people are donating to political parties. Over $2,000,000,000? That’s a lot of zeros, my friends. More and more, you have to wonder where this money comes from. Though many politicians are of the bored rich variety, that’s still an awful lot for people to spend out of their own pockets.
So then what? Are politicians asking us to believe they raise the money for these campaigns themselves? Have you ever given money to a campaign? Or know anyone who has? No. And do you know why? Because you’re not rich enough to be in the top 5% of the people in this country. The 5% that controls 95% of the wealth. Which is why political spending is bad for America. The wealthy fund campaigns to get officials elected. And then guess whose interests those officials represent? That’s right. This is how the rich get richer. It’s how big business controls government.
It should be noted that I know nothing about politics and very little about the world in general. Mostly, I make shit up as I go along and read books that support my worldview. So generally anything I have to say about politics is based on wild speculation and limited knowledge. Also, I am not voting because I didn’t register because I am an idiot.
Thank you. Goodnight.
"Political-advertising spending has zoomed past projections and is headed toward a stratospheric $2 billion-plus this year, some 17.6% more than 2004...(and) Those numbers don't include spot cable, which has attracted serious spending."
Over two-billion dollars? Do you know how many people you can feed for two BILLION dollars? Neither do I. But I bet it's a lot. I don't know that a political ad has ever helped one single citizen, except for the person in the ad. Instead of letting self-important, power-hungry puppets run this country, howsabout we outlaw political advertising and spend that money on some positive programs. Let’s spend $2 billion more on education. Or building affordable housing for those in poverty. Or sending aid to third world nations.
You can’t honestly expect me to believe that this is the best way to use money people are donating to political parties. Over $2,000,000,000? That’s a lot of zeros, my friends. More and more, you have to wonder where this money comes from. Though many politicians are of the bored rich variety, that’s still an awful lot for people to spend out of their own pockets.
So then what? Are politicians asking us to believe they raise the money for these campaigns themselves? Have you ever given money to a campaign? Or know anyone who has? No. And do you know why? Because you’re not rich enough to be in the top 5% of the people in this country. The 5% that controls 95% of the wealth. Which is why political spending is bad for America. The wealthy fund campaigns to get officials elected. And then guess whose interests those officials represent? That’s right. This is how the rich get richer. It’s how big business controls government.
It should be noted that I know nothing about politics and very little about the world in general. Mostly, I make shit up as I go along and read books that support my worldview. So generally anything I have to say about politics is based on wild speculation and limited knowledge. Also, I am not voting because I didn’t register because I am an idiot.
Thank you. Goodnight.
11.05.2006
MY LAST WISHES.
Over several years I've decided on a very specific course of action to be taken with my body when I die.
First, I want to be cremated. I find the idea of rotting in a little box buried in the earth to be very creepy and disturbing. I want to be good and sure I'm dead. And I think being reduced to a pile of ash will pretty much wrap that up.
Second, I would like to have my ash mailed to my friends all over the world. As many places as possible.
Third, my ashes would be accompanied by instructions as to how said friends should dispose of my ashes.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Dear friend,
How's it going? Obviously better for you than me. Enclosed you will find a portion of my ashes. When you get a chance, please take them to a restaurant near you. Sit at a table and when no one is watching, open the pepper shaker and top off the pepper with my ashes. Please do this at as many restaurants as you can.
Thank you. Sorry I died.
Sincerely, Jim
After this is done, people all over the world will be eating bits of my charred body. Jim on eggs. Jim in soup. Perhaps some Jim on your mashed potatoes? I figure that since I don't know if there's an afterlife and whatnot, this will allow me the best possible chance of coming back to life. By having my ashes absorbed into the bodies of random diners, I can become part of them and perhaps take over their brains. Also, I like pepper. And it's a funny joke.
First, I want to be cremated. I find the idea of rotting in a little box buried in the earth to be very creepy and disturbing. I want to be good and sure I'm dead. And I think being reduced to a pile of ash will pretty much wrap that up.
Second, I would like to have my ash mailed to my friends all over the world. As many places as possible.
Third, my ashes would be accompanied by instructions as to how said friends should dispose of my ashes.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Dear friend,
How's it going? Obviously better for you than me. Enclosed you will find a portion of my ashes. When you get a chance, please take them to a restaurant near you. Sit at a table and when no one is watching, open the pepper shaker and top off the pepper with my ashes. Please do this at as many restaurants as you can.
Thank you. Sorry I died.
Sincerely, Jim
After this is done, people all over the world will be eating bits of my charred body. Jim on eggs. Jim in soup. Perhaps some Jim on your mashed potatoes? I figure that since I don't know if there's an afterlife and whatnot, this will allow me the best possible chance of coming back to life. By having my ashes absorbed into the bodies of random diners, I can become part of them and perhaps take over their brains. Also, I like pepper. And it's a funny joke.
11.03.2006
LEECHES ARE BACK.
Ask your friends. Ask your doctor. Once thought to be effective, then thought to be ridiculous, the use of leeches to treat medical patients is now seen as legitimate. To be honest, the article I'm referencing is over a year old. But I'm not a doctor and when someone said that leeches are being used as medicine again, I didn't believe it. But I'm here to tell you, leeches are back!
Not only are they back, but the FDA has declared them (along with maggots) as the first live medical devices. That is outstanding. To read the old-ass article I'm referencing, click here:
leeches are back
There is a picture at the bottom of the article of maggots "treating a wound" that very well could make you throw up. Good luck.
Not only are they back, but the FDA has declared them (along with maggots) as the first live medical devices. That is outstanding. To read the old-ass article I'm referencing, click here:
leeches are back
There is a picture at the bottom of the article of maggots "treating a wound" that very well could make you throw up. Good luck.
TRIALS OF LIFE.
I love nature. Animals, insects, fish, birds, plants. Everything is so strange and good. Which is why the other day, when I saw a real life struggle for survival taking place in my office, I ran though the hall to get my camera shouting, "Trials of life! Trials of life is happening!" Of course no one else came to watch the small clash taking place in the corner of our building. Which is why I took a video of it and put it online. I know someone else out there loves bugs as much as I do.
It takes a minute to load, so be patient. And enjoy.
It takes a minute to load, so be patient. And enjoy.
11.01.2006
WEIRD AND BAD.
Yesterday during lunch I got a bloody nose. That is weird and bad. It's weird, because there is no reason for me to have gotten said bloody nose. I was sitting there, eating some shrimp and chili fries and all of a sudden blood started coming out of my nose.
It is bad for several reasons. One, I was at lunch with my boss and two co-workers. Right away they think I'm a cokehead. That's what I would think if I saw some kid's nose just randomly begin dripping blood. Two, it is bad because it ruined my lunch and theirs. No one wants to eat shrimp with a napkin jammed up their nose. And no one wants to watch me bleed all over. Three, I think seagulls could smell the blood. They were all around us.
I actually think that shitting myself would have been better. Then I could have said, "I thought it was going to be a fart." But in this case, I couldn't even think of an excuse, because I don't know what causes bloody noses aside from cocaine and punching. As if I didn't have enough social anxiety about eating with people, now I have to worry about blood suddenly pouring out of my face? Come on. That's just not fair.
It is bad for several reasons. One, I was at lunch with my boss and two co-workers. Right away they think I'm a cokehead. That's what I would think if I saw some kid's nose just randomly begin dripping blood. Two, it is bad because it ruined my lunch and theirs. No one wants to eat shrimp with a napkin jammed up their nose. And no one wants to watch me bleed all over. Three, I think seagulls could smell the blood. They were all around us.
I actually think that shitting myself would have been better. Then I could have said, "I thought it was going to be a fart." But in this case, I couldn't even think of an excuse, because I don't know what causes bloody noses aside from cocaine and punching. As if I didn't have enough social anxiety about eating with people, now I have to worry about blood suddenly pouring out of my face? Come on. That's just not fair.
10.30.2006
DAYLIGHT SAVINGS MIRACLE.
This morning I experienced a daylight savings miracle. I was pretty sure I had changed the clocks in my apartment, but when I woke up at 7:15am this morning and shut off my alarm, I also for some reason checked my phone as well. And guess what? It was only 6:15! One more hour of sleep! Better than Christmas! Well, almost.
Unfortunately, the steam heating device in my room was making very weird noises and vibrating so furiously that I thought it might rip out of the ground and bumble across the floor and out the window. I don't know what made it so angry. I hope it wasn't something I said.
Unfortunately, the steam heating device in my room was making very weird noises and vibrating so furiously that I thought it might rip out of the ground and bumble across the floor and out the window. I don't know what made it so angry. I hope it wasn't something I said.
FOLLOW UP TO THE INTERNET DATE.
After getting great feedback about my absolute train-wreck of an internet date, I thought I should do a small follow up. First, by letting you know that drunk date e-mailed me to go out again. And what did she ask in her first sentence?
"Hey, did you get home alright last night?"
Did I get home all right? ME? Maybe she doesn't remember what happened, because it clearly should have been me asking that question. And I actually felt a little bit bad that I hadn't asked her to call when she got home safe. I guess at that point my sense of shock had overridden my chivalry.
Here are the best responses I got to that story:
"that's great. I like it a lot. I don't blame her for showing up drunk. I'd probably do the same thing. I can't believe you didn't..."
"that's your future wife, two un-employed winos. you should have fucked her in the station wagon. pussy."
"I think you might beat my internet dating story where I ended up in the Chelsea Hotel with a masturbator."
And although that night can be filed in the "good for story, bad for sex" box, it seems to have jump-started my lady life. The next night I met a girl on the train (which I've always wanted to do! finally), then hooked up with another girl I've been trying to date and also lined up some "casual action" with a girl I used to see.
Boom.
"Hey, did you get home alright last night?"
Did I get home all right? ME? Maybe she doesn't remember what happened, because it clearly should have been me asking that question. And I actually felt a little bit bad that I hadn't asked her to call when she got home safe. I guess at that point my sense of shock had overridden my chivalry.
Here are the best responses I got to that story:
"that's great. I like it a lot. I don't blame her for showing up drunk. I'd probably do the same thing. I can't believe you didn't..."
"that's your future wife, two un-employed winos. you should have fucked her in the station wagon. pussy."
"I think you might beat my internet dating story where I ended up in the Chelsea Hotel with a masturbator."
And although that night can be filed in the "good for story, bad for sex" box, it seems to have jump-started my lady life. The next night I met a girl on the train (which I've always wanted to do! finally), then hooked up with another girl I've been trying to date and also lined up some "casual action" with a girl I used to see.
Boom.
LISTEN UP.
FOOD DELIVERY GUYS
Hey, food delivery guys, why can't you learn to bring change? How many bags of food do you have to deliver before you realize that you can't break a $20 with other $20's? And every time this happens you look up at me, with this shocked look on your face, like you hadn't anticipated this would be a possibility. From now on if you show up without change, I'm paying you in nickels and dimes.
CHEVY
Hey Chevy, do you know what makes people hate you? Playing the same commercial 5000 times in a weekend. Playing your stupid-ass John Cougar Meloncamp song during every commercial break of every sporting event is not good marketing. It's just playing the same shit over and over again and America doesn't appreciate it. Which you should know, since you wave the fucking flag in an almost sickening manner to make us think Chevy = America.
A guy I played poker with tonight may have said it best:
"I hate Chevy now. And after this, I think I'm starting to hate America."
TIGER'S PITCHERS
Hey Detroit Tiger baseball pitchers, what the hell were you doing? Before I get on your case, I'll say that we're still very proud of you. We're not even mad about losing the World Series, where we never expected to be. But we are curious. How can all of you fuck up so bad when attempting to throw the ball to first base? All you do all day is play baseball. And not only that, but your JOB is to throw the ball. It's all you do! So how could you possibly all commit errors on seemingly simple plays? Let's fix that problem in the off-season and come back next year ready to play.
Hey, food delivery guys, why can't you learn to bring change? How many bags of food do you have to deliver before you realize that you can't break a $20 with other $20's? And every time this happens you look up at me, with this shocked look on your face, like you hadn't anticipated this would be a possibility. From now on if you show up without change, I'm paying you in nickels and dimes.
CHEVY
Hey Chevy, do you know what makes people hate you? Playing the same commercial 5000 times in a weekend. Playing your stupid-ass John Cougar Meloncamp song during every commercial break of every sporting event is not good marketing. It's just playing the same shit over and over again and America doesn't appreciate it. Which you should know, since you wave the fucking flag in an almost sickening manner to make us think Chevy = America.
A guy I played poker with tonight may have said it best:
"I hate Chevy now. And after this, I think I'm starting to hate America."
TIGER'S PITCHERS
Hey Detroit Tiger baseball pitchers, what the hell were you doing? Before I get on your case, I'll say that we're still very proud of you. We're not even mad about losing the World Series, where we never expected to be. But we are curious. How can all of you fuck up so bad when attempting to throw the ball to first base? All you do all day is play baseball. And not only that, but your JOB is to throw the ball. It's all you do! So how could you possibly all commit errors on seemingly simple plays? Let's fix that problem in the off-season and come back next year ready to play.
10.26.2006
THE INTERNET DATE.
Because I have to give background on this situation and feel that the story should be told in detail, this will be a very long blog. My apologies, in advance.
To begin, I’m not exactly a ladies man. I do alright for myself and I think probably the only thing that keeps me rational and happy is that I take a little bit of pride in being patient and selective; in not jumping at every piece of ass that comes my way. Yes, that leads to more “taking care of my own business” than I care to admit, but it also means that sometime it will pay off with a fun, hot wife who is not a whore.
However, recently I decided that maybe I’m not patient. Maybe I’m just not at all proactive. I just wait for girls to fall into my lap. I don’t aggressively pursue girls at the bar. I don’t really go on dates or ask girls out. I just assume that I’ll somehow meet a nice girl and through casual conversation she’ll realize I’m a prize and want to fuck constantly and be my wife. This has not happened. And probably won’t.
To break out of my rut and get back in the game, I did something desperate. I placed a MAN SEEKING WOMAN ad on Craigslist. I figured, hell, I’m already not having sex, what’s the worst that can happen? I wrote out a pretty good personal ad (I am a writer after all. I sell shit for a living and I’m pretty familiar with me, as a product.) And I got some pretty good responses. A few reasonably cute girls who seemed interesting. One of whom had a love of whiskey and was a freelance proof reader. I like whiskey. I’m a freelance writer. After a few e-mails it was apparent that we would get along fine.
The first internet date was set for yesterday evening. I hadn’t really spoken to this girl on the phone and we had only exchanged a few e-mails. But I was working in Connecticut and she lived near a train stop on my way home. So we decided to meet up for a few quick drinks and some conversation.
If you think this is going to be a story about falling in love, let me clear that up for you right now. It’s not. From the beginning, I had a few things working against me. First, I get extremely nervous before dates. We’re talking borderline standing a bitch up and feel like I’m going to throw up nervous. I don’t know why. I’m good at talking and I’m good at drinking, so I should be a wiz on the dating scene. But for some reason before dates I’m a mess. Second, after I got on the train I realized I had to make a #2. Not the best feeling inside when you’re going to meet a new girl.
Anyways, I get off the train at her stop, where she was supposed to meet me on the platform. No sign of her. So I call. No answer. I hang around for a few minutes, thinking, awesome, she’s going to cancel on me and I can go home. I start looking for a bathroom to unload in, but she calls and says she’s running late and gives me directions to “The Ginger Man,” a bar in Greenich. Holding my #2, I start hoofing it to the bar, thinking that if I beat her there I can take care of my business and she’d be none the wiser.
But halfway up the street she calls and I can see her pulling her Volvo station wagon into a parking spot as she talks to me on the phone. I walk over to the car to meet her for the first time and she seems to have some trouble getting out of the seat, which immediately makes me think “oh no, she’s going to be a big fat girl.” However, she emerges and is not large at all, but surprisingly cute. A sweet eastern Europeanish face, a nice little body and soft, warm breasts.
I think we were both relieved to find the other was not a horrid-looking monster and we began walking up the street to the bar. It was during this two-block walk that I noticed she had a strange gait. Her legs seemed to cross one another, causing her to wobble back and forth a bit. At first I dismissed it as uneven pavement or possibly some sort of hobble-leg defect. But as we talked, it began to dawn on me that she may be drunk. As we crossed the street, she stumbled again and I held her arm to help her balance and actually said outloud, “Are you drunk?”
Her response? “No, I’m just clumsy. It’s these boots.”
While I didn’t believe this was the case, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and we went to the bar/restaurant. The place she had chosen had a warm, cozy, expensive atmosphere. She insisted we get a table, which I knew was going to be a problem since we were only having drinks. We ordered beers and started talking and I was beginning to relax. But I was also beginning to notice how supremely drunk this girl was. During conversation she would sometimes forget to talk, instead choosing to put her feet on mine under the table and gaze at me with her best “fuck-me” eyes. Mind you, I’m stone-cold sober at this point, so it’s not sexy, it’s awkward.
Things slowly get worse, as the waitress asks for our order and I have to tell her we’re just having drinks. Normally, at a pub, this wouldn’t be a problem. But when I said this bar had an “expensive feel,” what I mean was that it was a fancy dinner restaurant with a bar inside it. The waitress was dumb-founded, as if she’d never heard of people just having drinks. And even though my shit-canned date assured her that we would “order more than one drink,” the waitress returned and said the owner said we had to order food or go sit at the bar.
Well, I had no intention of ordering food at this point. My new goal was to tactfully remove myself from the situation. Luckily, Drunk Date had to have dinner with her mom and I was scheduled to be on an 8:30 train. I was looking at an 8:15 finish-line and it was around 7:15, so I only had to make it one more hour and I’d be out.
I procured a couch for us in the bar area and we sat and talked for a bit more. There was some more awkward staring and I was struggling to keep the date from turning into me sitting in uncomfortable silence as Drunk Date looked at me, slowly drunk-blinking from time to time. ( a drunk-blink is like a normal blink, but much slower and causes the drunkard’s head to bob down slightly)
During all this time, my #2 problem was still lurking. So I said I’d get us drinks and then use the bathroom. I took my time ordering the drinks at the bar, milking the clock. I went back to the table, gave her the drink and was going to take care of #2 when a man approached me. This conversation then took place:
“Are you with that girl?”
“Yes.”
“I’m the owner of the bar. She can’t have that drink.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. She fell off the couch while you were getting those drinks.”
“Oh god.”
“And I can’t let her drive home.”
“Shit. I figured she was drunk, but I didn’t know she was that drunk.”
“Yeah man, she’s fucking smashed. You need to take that drink away from her and get her a cab.”
This conversation actually came as quite a relief to me. Now I was no longer entirely responsible for taking care of my hammered date. I had a partner. The owner of the bar. And this situation would likely bring an abrupt end to the evening. So I returned to my smashed date and proceeded to have this conversation:
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Okay.”
“The bad news is that was the owner of the bar and you can’t have that drink. The other bad news is you can’t drive home.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I guess there’s not really good news. That was all bad.”
“But I’m not drunk.”
“No? He said you fell off the couch while I was getting these drinks.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Really? Because you could barely walk on the way here.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m just clumsy.”
“Well, I can’t possibly believe you’re that clumsy. I bet normally you’re pretty good at walking and sitting.”
So I took her drink back to the bar, went back and excused myself to go use the restroom. Worried that she would bolt while I was gone (I really was concerned at this point about her driving, because she clearly intended to get in her car and go), I was doing a rush job on my #2. But I somehow situated myself strangely when I sat down, because as I started to go I could feel splashing. Splashing, due to pissing hard against and out of the toilet, all over my leg and pants. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I cleaned up, feeling that the back of my pants, in the high ass area, was very wet. But the bar was dark and I was in the red zone. Only a few more minutes and I could go sit, sober, in my own urine on a train back to the city.
When I got back downstairs, we resumed talking, now about the situation at hand. She was supposed to go to her parents for dinner and she felt strongly that it would look bad if she showed up in a cab. Her new plan was to sit there until she was sober enough to drive. While I explained to her that it could be quite some time before that would be true, she seemed to be planning a dash for the door. She put on her scarf and gathered her purse and got up to leave, but her cell phone, which apparently is made of soap, slipped out of her hand. I picked it up and told her she couldn’t leave unless I called her a cab. She then claimed she was just going to the bathroom, which of course she needed her scarf for.
While she’s gone I conference with the owner and we actually have a good laugh about the whole situation and he agrees to pull her aside when she comes back from the bathroom. He does this and she returns to me, eyes welling with tears. There’s some more talking and then I tell her I’m leaving for my train. And she claims she’s coming with me, to take a train home. Which is obviously a lie, because when I ask what her stop is she says “same as yours.” Nope. I live in Manhattan. You live in Connecticut. But as the bar owner said, we can’t tie her down, so she leaves with me and thankfully calls a friend to pick her up from the train station.
As she’s talking to her friend on the soap phone, which slips from her hand twice during the walk, I notice she’s walking funny. Why, you ask? Because her stockings have fallen down and are now wrapped around her knees. At this point I can’t take it anymore. I start laughing and can’t stop. The situation had reached maximum absurdity. Through my tears, I explain to her that she needs to resolve the panty-hose problem or she’s going to fall. We stop and I hold her up, as she removes her boots to take off the stockings.
She stumbles with me back to the train station. I’ve missed my train, due to not walking fast, due to my drunk date’s balance problems. For the next fifteen minutes I sit with her, waiting for her friend, trying to make conversation. During this time she becomes confrontational, thinking that I’m talking down to her because I “think” she’s drunk. After a few minutes of sitting as she slurs some words, I tell her I’m going to wait for the train and we say goodbye. The only thing left is a cold wait for the train, a long ride home and a lot of shaking my head in disbelief.
I know you’re thinking, will we go out again? Maybe. I believe in second chances. Plus, she was pretty cute and said several times to me “you’re much cuter in person.” That makes me feel good, even coming from a hammered girl. Plus, we already have a funny story to tell. Well, funny to me.
To begin, I’m not exactly a ladies man. I do alright for myself and I think probably the only thing that keeps me rational and happy is that I take a little bit of pride in being patient and selective; in not jumping at every piece of ass that comes my way. Yes, that leads to more “taking care of my own business” than I care to admit, but it also means that sometime it will pay off with a fun, hot wife who is not a whore.
However, recently I decided that maybe I’m not patient. Maybe I’m just not at all proactive. I just wait for girls to fall into my lap. I don’t aggressively pursue girls at the bar. I don’t really go on dates or ask girls out. I just assume that I’ll somehow meet a nice girl and through casual conversation she’ll realize I’m a prize and want to fuck constantly and be my wife. This has not happened. And probably won’t.
To break out of my rut and get back in the game, I did something desperate. I placed a MAN SEEKING WOMAN ad on Craigslist. I figured, hell, I’m already not having sex, what’s the worst that can happen? I wrote out a pretty good personal ad (I am a writer after all. I sell shit for a living and I’m pretty familiar with me, as a product.) And I got some pretty good responses. A few reasonably cute girls who seemed interesting. One of whom had a love of whiskey and was a freelance proof reader. I like whiskey. I’m a freelance writer. After a few e-mails it was apparent that we would get along fine.
The first internet date was set for yesterday evening. I hadn’t really spoken to this girl on the phone and we had only exchanged a few e-mails. But I was working in Connecticut and she lived near a train stop on my way home. So we decided to meet up for a few quick drinks and some conversation.
If you think this is going to be a story about falling in love, let me clear that up for you right now. It’s not. From the beginning, I had a few things working against me. First, I get extremely nervous before dates. We’re talking borderline standing a bitch up and feel like I’m going to throw up nervous. I don’t know why. I’m good at talking and I’m good at drinking, so I should be a wiz on the dating scene. But for some reason before dates I’m a mess. Second, after I got on the train I realized I had to make a #2. Not the best feeling inside when you’re going to meet a new girl.
Anyways, I get off the train at her stop, where she was supposed to meet me on the platform. No sign of her. So I call. No answer. I hang around for a few minutes, thinking, awesome, she’s going to cancel on me and I can go home. I start looking for a bathroom to unload in, but she calls and says she’s running late and gives me directions to “The Ginger Man,” a bar in Greenich. Holding my #2, I start hoofing it to the bar, thinking that if I beat her there I can take care of my business and she’d be none the wiser.
But halfway up the street she calls and I can see her pulling her Volvo station wagon into a parking spot as she talks to me on the phone. I walk over to the car to meet her for the first time and she seems to have some trouble getting out of the seat, which immediately makes me think “oh no, she’s going to be a big fat girl.” However, she emerges and is not large at all, but surprisingly cute. A sweet eastern Europeanish face, a nice little body and soft, warm breasts.
I think we were both relieved to find the other was not a horrid-looking monster and we began walking up the street to the bar. It was during this two-block walk that I noticed she had a strange gait. Her legs seemed to cross one another, causing her to wobble back and forth a bit. At first I dismissed it as uneven pavement or possibly some sort of hobble-leg defect. But as we talked, it began to dawn on me that she may be drunk. As we crossed the street, she stumbled again and I held her arm to help her balance and actually said outloud, “Are you drunk?”
Her response? “No, I’m just clumsy. It’s these boots.”
While I didn’t believe this was the case, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and we went to the bar/restaurant. The place she had chosen had a warm, cozy, expensive atmosphere. She insisted we get a table, which I knew was going to be a problem since we were only having drinks. We ordered beers and started talking and I was beginning to relax. But I was also beginning to notice how supremely drunk this girl was. During conversation she would sometimes forget to talk, instead choosing to put her feet on mine under the table and gaze at me with her best “fuck-me” eyes. Mind you, I’m stone-cold sober at this point, so it’s not sexy, it’s awkward.
Things slowly get worse, as the waitress asks for our order and I have to tell her we’re just having drinks. Normally, at a pub, this wouldn’t be a problem. But when I said this bar had an “expensive feel,” what I mean was that it was a fancy dinner restaurant with a bar inside it. The waitress was dumb-founded, as if she’d never heard of people just having drinks. And even though my shit-canned date assured her that we would “order more than one drink,” the waitress returned and said the owner said we had to order food or go sit at the bar.
Well, I had no intention of ordering food at this point. My new goal was to tactfully remove myself from the situation. Luckily, Drunk Date had to have dinner with her mom and I was scheduled to be on an 8:30 train. I was looking at an 8:15 finish-line and it was around 7:15, so I only had to make it one more hour and I’d be out.
I procured a couch for us in the bar area and we sat and talked for a bit more. There was some more awkward staring and I was struggling to keep the date from turning into me sitting in uncomfortable silence as Drunk Date looked at me, slowly drunk-blinking from time to time. ( a drunk-blink is like a normal blink, but much slower and causes the drunkard’s head to bob down slightly)
During all this time, my #2 problem was still lurking. So I said I’d get us drinks and then use the bathroom. I took my time ordering the drinks at the bar, milking the clock. I went back to the table, gave her the drink and was going to take care of #2 when a man approached me. This conversation then took place:
“Are you with that girl?”
“Yes.”
“I’m the owner of the bar. She can’t have that drink.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. She fell off the couch while you were getting those drinks.”
“Oh god.”
“And I can’t let her drive home.”
“Shit. I figured she was drunk, but I didn’t know she was that drunk.”
“Yeah man, she’s fucking smashed. You need to take that drink away from her and get her a cab.”
This conversation actually came as quite a relief to me. Now I was no longer entirely responsible for taking care of my hammered date. I had a partner. The owner of the bar. And this situation would likely bring an abrupt end to the evening. So I returned to my smashed date and proceeded to have this conversation:
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Okay.”
“The bad news is that was the owner of the bar and you can’t have that drink. The other bad news is you can’t drive home.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I guess there’s not really good news. That was all bad.”
“But I’m not drunk.”
“No? He said you fell off the couch while I was getting these drinks.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Really? Because you could barely walk on the way here.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m just clumsy.”
“Well, I can’t possibly believe you’re that clumsy. I bet normally you’re pretty good at walking and sitting.”
So I took her drink back to the bar, went back and excused myself to go use the restroom. Worried that she would bolt while I was gone (I really was concerned at this point about her driving, because she clearly intended to get in her car and go), I was doing a rush job on my #2. But I somehow situated myself strangely when I sat down, because as I started to go I could feel splashing. Splashing, due to pissing hard against and out of the toilet, all over my leg and pants. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I cleaned up, feeling that the back of my pants, in the high ass area, was very wet. But the bar was dark and I was in the red zone. Only a few more minutes and I could go sit, sober, in my own urine on a train back to the city.
When I got back downstairs, we resumed talking, now about the situation at hand. She was supposed to go to her parents for dinner and she felt strongly that it would look bad if she showed up in a cab. Her new plan was to sit there until she was sober enough to drive. While I explained to her that it could be quite some time before that would be true, she seemed to be planning a dash for the door. She put on her scarf and gathered her purse and got up to leave, but her cell phone, which apparently is made of soap, slipped out of her hand. I picked it up and told her she couldn’t leave unless I called her a cab. She then claimed she was just going to the bathroom, which of course she needed her scarf for.
While she’s gone I conference with the owner and we actually have a good laugh about the whole situation and he agrees to pull her aside when she comes back from the bathroom. He does this and she returns to me, eyes welling with tears. There’s some more talking and then I tell her I’m leaving for my train. And she claims she’s coming with me, to take a train home. Which is obviously a lie, because when I ask what her stop is she says “same as yours.” Nope. I live in Manhattan. You live in Connecticut. But as the bar owner said, we can’t tie her down, so she leaves with me and thankfully calls a friend to pick her up from the train station.
As she’s talking to her friend on the soap phone, which slips from her hand twice during the walk, I notice she’s walking funny. Why, you ask? Because her stockings have fallen down and are now wrapped around her knees. At this point I can’t take it anymore. I start laughing and can’t stop. The situation had reached maximum absurdity. Through my tears, I explain to her that she needs to resolve the panty-hose problem or she’s going to fall. We stop and I hold her up, as she removes her boots to take off the stockings.
She stumbles with me back to the train station. I’ve missed my train, due to not walking fast, due to my drunk date’s balance problems. For the next fifteen minutes I sit with her, waiting for her friend, trying to make conversation. During this time she becomes confrontational, thinking that I’m talking down to her because I “think” she’s drunk. After a few minutes of sitting as she slurs some words, I tell her I’m going to wait for the train and we say goodbye. The only thing left is a cold wait for the train, a long ride home and a lot of shaking my head in disbelief.
I know you’re thinking, will we go out again? Maybe. I believe in second chances. Plus, she was pretty cute and said several times to me “you’re much cuter in person.” That makes me feel good, even coming from a hammered girl. Plus, we already have a funny story to tell. Well, funny to me.
10.25.2006
PROFESSIONAL COPYWRITER.
It's amazing how having a Sharpie and a sketch book can make you feel like a real advertising professional. You don't even have to be good. Just take a Sharpie and draw some stick figures in a box. That's an ad.
I love Sharpies.
I love Sharpies.
10.23.2006
A SOMMELIER I'M NOT.
I am not a sommelier. But I do like to drink wine from time to time. Which means that any time I step into a wine store, vendors are dealing with an almost completely uninformed consumer. So as a service to wine-makers everywhere, I'm giving advice on how to capitalize on the "uninformed wine consumer" market.
Tip #1. Make it cheap.
We don't know anything about wine. Which means that anything under $15 is going to be of interest to us. And anything right around $10? Sold.
Tip #2. Get a cool name.
If you have some generic, fancy wine name, it seems like everything else. A wine with a good name will get my attention and if it's in my target price range, a good title is enough to lock up the purchase. Example: 47 Pound Rooster. Does it sound like good wine? Nope. But that's a big fucking rooster. And a great name. Sold.
Tip #3. Label design matters.
Most of the time I walk around the wine store until a label catches my eye. Anything that stands out from other labels is likely to get my attention. That's 50% of the battle. The other 50% is pricing and name. Example: I keep buying this wine that has a cool-looking frog on the label. And that's about all I can tell you about it, aside from the fact that it costs under $10. I love frogs. Sold.
Tip #4. Write a good description.
I don't know anything about wine. So tell me something about it, so it feels like I'm learning. Tell me about the flavor. Tell me about how it's made. Tell me about where it's from. Tell me anything. Example: Tonight I bought Chono, a wine from Chile because of this description: "Chono is the name of one of the bravest native tribes that lived in the fjords of Southern Chile. The Southern tribes all shared a passion for sea and agriculture. Brave and unique, they exemplified the strong character of their land." Does that have anything to do with wine? Probably not. But it makes me feel like a brave Chilean warrior. And it was $10. Sold.
Tip #5. Alcohol by volume.
The more the better. If I'm holding two bottles, one 11.5% and one 13%, the choice is easy. 13%, Sold.
So while wine bottlers should still strive to produce a high-quality, exemplary wine for "connoisseurs," they should also keep in mind that there are a ton of "wine idiots" out there, like me, who choose their wine by completely irrelevant criteria.
Tip #1. Make it cheap.
We don't know anything about wine. Which means that anything under $15 is going to be of interest to us. And anything right around $10? Sold.
Tip #2. Get a cool name.
If you have some generic, fancy wine name, it seems like everything else. A wine with a good name will get my attention and if it's in my target price range, a good title is enough to lock up the purchase. Example: 47 Pound Rooster. Does it sound like good wine? Nope. But that's a big fucking rooster. And a great name. Sold.
Tip #3. Label design matters.
Most of the time I walk around the wine store until a label catches my eye. Anything that stands out from other labels is likely to get my attention. That's 50% of the battle. The other 50% is pricing and name. Example: I keep buying this wine that has a cool-looking frog on the label. And that's about all I can tell you about it, aside from the fact that it costs under $10. I love frogs. Sold.
Tip #4. Write a good description.
I don't know anything about wine. So tell me something about it, so it feels like I'm learning. Tell me about the flavor. Tell me about how it's made. Tell me about where it's from. Tell me anything. Example: Tonight I bought Chono, a wine from Chile because of this description: "Chono is the name of one of the bravest native tribes that lived in the fjords of Southern Chile. The Southern tribes all shared a passion for sea and agriculture. Brave and unique, they exemplified the strong character of their land." Does that have anything to do with wine? Probably not. But it makes me feel like a brave Chilean warrior. And it was $10. Sold.
Tip #5. Alcohol by volume.
The more the better. If I'm holding two bottles, one 11.5% and one 13%, the choice is easy. 13%, Sold.
So while wine bottlers should still strive to produce a high-quality, exemplary wine for "connoisseurs," they should also keep in mind that there are a ton of "wine idiots" out there, like me, who choose their wine by completely irrelevant criteria.
10.22.2006
BITCH, NO. ABORTION, YES.
It took me almost a year of using text messaging before I discovered the miraculous T9 function. For those of you still in the dark ages, without going into too much detail, T9 is a function which allows you to type in the word without cycling through each individual letter. So if you want to write "cat" you type 228. The phone will then try and guess what you want to say, using all possible combinations of ABC-ABC-TUV. It allows you to cycle through the options until you find what you want. Great for typing long messages which use words other that "cat."
In using the T9 function, I've come across several words it doesn't recognize, usually slang or cuss words. But on Friday I was writing a message and found that my T9 did not know the word "bitch" but did recognize "abortion." Huh? The programmers thought users of my wireless device would have more use for the word "abortion" than "bitch"? Seems to me that that would be reversed. Or if not reversed, at lease of equal weight. Because you probably use those two in the same text a lot--such as: "that bitch better get an abortion." To me, bitch seems far less offensive than abortion.
So in the interest of science, I've undertaken a study entitled "does T9 know it?"
The results are as follows:
Bitch, no.
Abortion, yes.
Cunt, no.
Tit, yes.
Titty, no.
Boob, no.
Dick, no.
Pussy, no.
Puppy, yes.
Blowjob, no.
Felatio, no.
Asshole, no.
Fuck, no.
Shit, yes.
Penis, no.
Vagina, yes. (No penis, but vagina? Sounds like a college sorority slumber party.)
Pubic, yes.
Heroin, yes.
Marajuana, no.
Bomb, yes.
Cock, yes.
Anal, yes.
And amazingly, cock and anal use the same number code. 2625.
I'm sure there's some more useful words I didn't try. Like "jizz." Wait...nope, it doesn't know jizz. Anyways, I think there should be a number you can text words to in order to have them added to your T9 library. Or at least some sort of function that remembers words you actually take the time to spell out. If I write "bitch" ten times, my T9 should recognize that as a word I'm fond of using and store it in its little memory bank.
Anyways, that's a minor complaint. T9 is still awesome, even if I do have to put my own "penis" in when I want to.
Go Tigers.
In using the T9 function, I've come across several words it doesn't recognize, usually slang or cuss words. But on Friday I was writing a message and found that my T9 did not know the word "bitch" but did recognize "abortion." Huh? The programmers thought users of my wireless device would have more use for the word "abortion" than "bitch"? Seems to me that that would be reversed. Or if not reversed, at lease of equal weight. Because you probably use those two in the same text a lot--such as: "that bitch better get an abortion." To me, bitch seems far less offensive than abortion.
So in the interest of science, I've undertaken a study entitled "does T9 know it?"
The results are as follows:
Bitch, no.
Abortion, yes.
Cunt, no.
Tit, yes.
Titty, no.
Boob, no.
Dick, no.
Pussy, no.
Puppy, yes.
Blowjob, no.
Felatio, no.
Asshole, no.
Fuck, no.
Shit, yes.
Penis, no.
Vagina, yes. (No penis, but vagina? Sounds like a college sorority slumber party.)
Pubic, yes.
Heroin, yes.
Marajuana, no.
Bomb, yes.
Cock, yes.
Anal, yes.
And amazingly, cock and anal use the same number code. 2625.
I'm sure there's some more useful words I didn't try. Like "jizz." Wait...nope, it doesn't know jizz. Anyways, I think there should be a number you can text words to in order to have them added to your T9 library. Or at least some sort of function that remembers words you actually take the time to spell out. If I write "bitch" ten times, my T9 should recognize that as a word I'm fond of using and store it in its little memory bank.
Anyways, that's a minor complaint. T9 is still awesome, even if I do have to put my own "penis" in when I want to.
Go Tigers.
10.20.2006
MY TELEMARKETING GIG.
After four weeks of genuinely not working at all, I began to grow concerned that I was forgetting how to work and that I would soon wind up broke, living in my parents' basement in Michigan and wondering how the direction of my life had taken such a dramatic dip into the shitter.
And so I did what any self-respecting man would do. Got a job in telemarketing. Mind you, I hate talking on the phone. I hate selling things. I hate offices and sales and almost everything having to do with telemarketing. But what the hell, I thought. I'm already not doing anything. And so for three days I did this "telemarketing" I had heard so much about. Turns out, it's not as bad as I thought it would be.
First, it was selling group tickets to Dr. Suess' How The Grinch Stole Christmas! The Musical. So right away I'm feeling good about making these calls. After all, who doesn't like The Grinch? Second, I was calling people who had a track record of purchasing group tickets, so it wasn't exactly cold-calling; more like warm-calling. Third, most of these people were somehow in charge of organizing trips for people. So really, I'm doing them a favor by calling and offering them discounted tickets.
But still, it was hard to get started. Figuring out how to incorporate the "script" into my calls was difficult. You don't want to sound like you're some robot reading direct from a script. So I ditched that fucker and made most of my calls improv style. I also ran into some objections that the script didn't prepare me for.
A few highlights from my days:
SFX: ring ring ring
OTHER JIM: Hello?
ME: Hey is this Jim?
OTHER JIM: Yes.
ME: That's my name too.
OTHER JIM: Alright.
ME: So we're already sort of friends.
***
SFX: ring ring ring
PAUL: Hello?
ME: Hey Paul.
PAUL: Hey.
ME: What's going on?
PAUL: Not much.
ME: You having a good day?
Do I know you?
ME: I don't think so.
***
(after standard intro and pitch)
SCHOOL WOMAN: Um, we can't go see that. It has to be non-denominational.
ME: So you can't go because it's Christmas?
SCHOOL WOMAN: Yes.
ME: But kids like the Grinch.
SCHOOL WOMAN: We're going to see Tarzan.
ME: Tarzan during the holidays?
SCHOOL WOMAN: Yes.
ME: You know, I don't believe the Grinch is actually based on the bible.
SCHOOL WOMAN: I know.
***
ME: Hello, is Henry there?
WOMAN: No, I'm sorry.
ME: Oh, can I ask when he'll be back?
WOMAN: I'm sorry Henry passed on.
ME: Oh. Oh no. I'm sorry.
WIDOW: Thank you.
ME: So I'm guessing he won't be wanting Grinch tickets for the Knights of Columbus?
WIDOW: No. No, I'm not sure who's organizing that now.
ME: Alright. Thank you.
Yes, that's right. They failed to check this list and I had to try and sell tickets to a dead man's wife. That was the worst. Most people were pretty receptive and some people were actually excited to hear from me. At the end of the three days I had sold 50 tickets (1 sale) and made a decent commission on the deal. But hearing that I had a freelance job lined up, which meant no more telemarketing, was one of the happiest moments of my adult life.
Telemarketing sucks. And from now on, when I get a call from a telemarketer, I'm going to talk to them like a real person. Because I've been there, man. I know what you're going through. I'm not going to buy anything, but I won't hang up on you either.
***
In unrelated news, yesterday on my way to work I saw a tugboat working in the river, pushing something around. Tugboats are pretty awesome.
And so I did what any self-respecting man would do. Got a job in telemarketing. Mind you, I hate talking on the phone. I hate selling things. I hate offices and sales and almost everything having to do with telemarketing. But what the hell, I thought. I'm already not doing anything. And so for three days I did this "telemarketing" I had heard so much about. Turns out, it's not as bad as I thought it would be.
First, it was selling group tickets to Dr. Suess' How The Grinch Stole Christmas! The Musical. So right away I'm feeling good about making these calls. After all, who doesn't like The Grinch? Second, I was calling people who had a track record of purchasing group tickets, so it wasn't exactly cold-calling; more like warm-calling. Third, most of these people were somehow in charge of organizing trips for people. So really, I'm doing them a favor by calling and offering them discounted tickets.
But still, it was hard to get started. Figuring out how to incorporate the "script" into my calls was difficult. You don't want to sound like you're some robot reading direct from a script. So I ditched that fucker and made most of my calls improv style. I also ran into some objections that the script didn't prepare me for.
A few highlights from my days:
SFX: ring ring ring
OTHER JIM: Hello?
ME: Hey is this Jim?
OTHER JIM: Yes.
ME: That's my name too.
OTHER JIM: Alright.
ME: So we're already sort of friends.
***
SFX: ring ring ring
PAUL: Hello?
ME: Hey Paul.
PAUL: Hey.
ME: What's going on?
PAUL: Not much.
ME: You having a good day?
Do I know you?
ME: I don't think so.
***
(after standard intro and pitch)
SCHOOL WOMAN: Um, we can't go see that. It has to be non-denominational.
ME: So you can't go because it's Christmas?
SCHOOL WOMAN: Yes.
ME: But kids like the Grinch.
SCHOOL WOMAN: We're going to see Tarzan.
ME: Tarzan during the holidays?
SCHOOL WOMAN: Yes.
ME: You know, I don't believe the Grinch is actually based on the bible.
SCHOOL WOMAN: I know.
***
ME: Hello, is Henry there?
WOMAN: No, I'm sorry.
ME: Oh, can I ask when he'll be back?
WOMAN: I'm sorry Henry passed on.
ME: Oh. Oh no. I'm sorry.
WIDOW: Thank you.
ME: So I'm guessing he won't be wanting Grinch tickets for the Knights of Columbus?
WIDOW: No. No, I'm not sure who's organizing that now.
ME: Alright. Thank you.
Yes, that's right. They failed to check this list and I had to try and sell tickets to a dead man's wife. That was the worst. Most people were pretty receptive and some people were actually excited to hear from me. At the end of the three days I had sold 50 tickets (1 sale) and made a decent commission on the deal. But hearing that I had a freelance job lined up, which meant no more telemarketing, was one of the happiest moments of my adult life.
Telemarketing sucks. And from now on, when I get a call from a telemarketer, I'm going to talk to them like a real person. Because I've been there, man. I know what you're going through. I'm not going to buy anything, but I won't hang up on you either.
***
In unrelated news, yesterday on my way to work I saw a tugboat working in the river, pushing something around. Tugboats are pretty awesome.
10.19.2006
GIVE A MAN A TITLE.
It seems to me that a man's title can do wonders for his self-esteem. For instance, on the Metro North line the guys who punch your ticket are allowed to wear conductor hats. I'm pretty sure those fellows are not driving the trains, but the line still allows them wear hats that proclaim they are "conductors," which sounds about 100 times better than "ticket taker."
Following this example, maybe we should give all people with crappy jobs new titles and special hats. Take garbage men for example. Instead of calling them garbage men, let's call them "Garbage Generals" and give them some cool green helmets with silver stars on them. And store clerks? Why not call them "Masters of the Register" and give them some sort of bad-ass beret.
Toll booth workers? Give them a football helmet and call them "Road Warriors," see if they don't get a little boost of self-worth. Give janitors crowns and call them "kings of the mop." And so on and so forth.
All I'm saying is that a new title and some headgear can make a man feel good about himself.
Following this example, maybe we should give all people with crappy jobs new titles and special hats. Take garbage men for example. Instead of calling them garbage men, let's call them "Garbage Generals" and give them some cool green helmets with silver stars on them. And store clerks? Why not call them "Masters of the Register" and give them some sort of bad-ass beret.
Toll booth workers? Give them a football helmet and call them "Road Warriors," see if they don't get a little boost of self-worth. Give janitors crowns and call them "kings of the mop." And so on and so forth.
All I'm saying is that a new title and some headgear can make a man feel good about himself.
MORE MARK CUBAN.
If you know me, you know that I love Mark Cuban. I love him a little because he is rich. I love him a lot because he is crazy and obsessive. As owner of the Dallas Mavericks he's become an NBA basketball fanatic. Which means he now spends an enormous amount of time and money on basketball related things. In the past he's hired staticians to travel around and track NBA referee activity, worked at a Diary Queen to prove a point, beamed a Mavericks logo into the sky like the Batman light and made countless absurd and fantastic statements, all provoking the ire of NBA commissioner David Stern.
And now he's at it again. NBA commissioner Stern has decided to introduce a new ball to the game. Many players have complained about the new ball and new Cuban has joined in. But the best thing about Cuban is that he doesn't just complain; he takes action. He's hired a team of scientists to study the new ball. The results:
1. The new ball doesn't absorb water well, making it slippery.
2. The new ball bounces differently off the backboard.
3. When dropped from five feet, the new ball bounces back 4" lower than the old ball.
All of these factors could significantly affect the performance of players, which I believe gives them the right to complain about the change. Thank you Mark Cuban for being so rich, so passionate about basketball and so magnificently crazy.
And now he's at it again. NBA commissioner Stern has decided to introduce a new ball to the game. Many players have complained about the new ball and new Cuban has joined in. But the best thing about Cuban is that he doesn't just complain; he takes action. He's hired a team of scientists to study the new ball. The results:
1. The new ball doesn't absorb water well, making it slippery.
2. The new ball bounces differently off the backboard.
3. When dropped from five feet, the new ball bounces back 4" lower than the old ball.
All of these factors could significantly affect the performance of players, which I believe gives them the right to complain about the change. Thank you Mark Cuban for being so rich, so passionate about basketball and so magnificently crazy.
10.18.2006
MY LAST WISHES.
Over several years I've decided on a very specific course of action to be taken with my body when I die.
First, I want to be cremated. I find the idea of rotting in a little box buried in the earth to be very creepy and disturbing. I want to be good and sure I'm dead. And I think being reduced to a pile of ash will pretty much wrap that up.
Second, I would like to have my ash mailed to my friends all over the world. As many places as possible.
Third, my ashes would be accompanied by instructions as to how said friends should dispose of my ashes.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Dear friend,
How's it going? Obviously better for you than me. Enclosed you will find a portion of my ashes. When you get a chance, please take them to a restaurant near you. Sit at a table and when no one is watching, open the pepper shaker and top off the pepper with my ashes. Please do this at as many restaurants as you can.
Thank you. Sorry I died.
Sincerely, Jim
After this is done, people all over the world will be eating my charred body. Jim on eggs. Jim in soup. Perhaps some Jim on your mashed potatoes? I figure that since I don't know if there's an afterlife and whatnot, this will allow me the best possible chance of coming back to life. By having my ashes absorbed into the bodies of random diners, I can become part of them and perhaps take over their brains. Also, I like pepper. And it's a funny joke.
First, I want to be cremated. I find the idea of rotting in a little box buried in the earth to be very creepy and disturbing. I want to be good and sure I'm dead. And I think being reduced to a pile of ash will pretty much wrap that up.
Second, I would like to have my ash mailed to my friends all over the world. As many places as possible.
Third, my ashes would be accompanied by instructions as to how said friends should dispose of my ashes.
INSTRUCTIONS:
Dear friend,
How's it going? Obviously better for you than me. Enclosed you will find a portion of my ashes. When you get a chance, please take them to a restaurant near you. Sit at a table and when no one is watching, open the pepper shaker and top off the pepper with my ashes. Please do this at as many restaurants as you can.
Thank you. Sorry I died.
Sincerely, Jim
After this is done, people all over the world will be eating my charred body. Jim on eggs. Jim in soup. Perhaps some Jim on your mashed potatoes? I figure that since I don't know if there's an afterlife and whatnot, this will allow me the best possible chance of coming back to life. By having my ashes absorbed into the bodies of random diners, I can become part of them and perhaps take over their brains. Also, I like pepper. And it's a funny joke.
COMMUTING LESSONS.
I now have a freelance job which requires me to make approximately a one hour commute in both directions. Luckily, I live in the land of public transportation, so most of this commute can be passed with the reading of a book or staring out the window of a train at trees and houses and birds and cars. Being only the second day I've had to make this trip, I actually kind of enjoy it. It's a chance to relax and gradually start your day and a good way to wind down at the end. We'll see how I feel after a week of getting up at 7am.
Anyways, it's during this commute that I've learned a few lessons.
The first involves coffee and cabs. Never get your coffee BEFORE your cab ride. And if you do, for god's sake, don't open that little sip square. Between potholes and braking and sudden sharp turns, you're bound to end up wearing your drink. Just wait.
The next lesson is an important one. Do not talk on your phone next to old ladies on the train. I had just boarded and was finishing a conversation when a woman spits at me "can you keep your voice down?" I couldn't hear what she said, since the train was a bit loud so I begged her pardon, to which she replied "you need to stop talking so loud." Loud? I was speaking at a normal level. And this woman was not even asking nicely. So quite loudly I said into my phone, "I have to go, I just got yelled at for talking loud."
Later, the conductor came on the intercom and announced that he expected a lot of passengers to board at the next stop, so people should move their bags and put their feet down to make room. Well, did little old lady move her purse and suitcase from the seat next to her? Of course not. It took all of my willpower to not lean over and say, "it's common courtesy to move your bags and make room, you nasty old bitch." But I did not.
I have also learned lessons about exact change, bad breath, businessmen conducting a business meeting and going the wrong direction. I'm looking forward to learning all there is to learn about commuting.
Anyways, it's during this commute that I've learned a few lessons.
The first involves coffee and cabs. Never get your coffee BEFORE your cab ride. And if you do, for god's sake, don't open that little sip square. Between potholes and braking and sudden sharp turns, you're bound to end up wearing your drink. Just wait.
The next lesson is an important one. Do not talk on your phone next to old ladies on the train. I had just boarded and was finishing a conversation when a woman spits at me "can you keep your voice down?" I couldn't hear what she said, since the train was a bit loud so I begged her pardon, to which she replied "you need to stop talking so loud." Loud? I was speaking at a normal level. And this woman was not even asking nicely. So quite loudly I said into my phone, "I have to go, I just got yelled at for talking loud."
Later, the conductor came on the intercom and announced that he expected a lot of passengers to board at the next stop, so people should move their bags and put their feet down to make room. Well, did little old lady move her purse and suitcase from the seat next to her? Of course not. It took all of my willpower to not lean over and say, "it's common courtesy to move your bags and make room, you nasty old bitch." But I did not.
I have also learned lessons about exact change, bad breath, businessmen conducting a business meeting and going the wrong direction. I'm looking forward to learning all there is to learn about commuting.
10.17.2006
MELEE IN MIAMI.
"It's war, they're out there to kill you, so I'm out there to kill them. We don't care about anybody but this U. They're going after my legs. I'm going to come right back at them. I'm a fucking soldier."
-Kellen Winslow, former University of Miami Tight End
Well, if you were watching college sports at all this weekend, you probably know that Miami players apparently thought they were in an actual war. The game, between University of Miami-FL and Florida International, wasn't even much of a contest. But for whatever reason, the players got heated and suddenly after an extra point all hell broke loose. Players were punching, tackling, body slamming and then things got really wild. Numerous players were seen stomping on opponents who had been pushed to the ground. Stomping! That's madness!
But the winner of craziest-ass thing was the Miami player who removed his helmet and swung it like a battle axe, cracking another player on the head (luckily the recipient of the blow was still wearing a helmet). First, that's crazy. Second, by taking off your helmet you're leaving your stupid-ass head unprotected against kicks and punches from other players. The safest thing about a football fight is the protection that helmets provides! Leave yours on!
Even more amusing to me was the reaction of analysts to the fight during other games. They called it "deplorable" and "a blemish on the face of college football." Which is, of course, what they should say. The problem is that America loves fights. And you know that when the cameras weren't rolling, those same analysts were standing on their chairs and shouting with excitement as the fight broke out, just like the rest of us.
Bottom line, University of Miami players have virtually no discipline and fights are great to watch.
Fight! Fight! Fight!
-Kellen Winslow, former University of Miami Tight End
Well, if you were watching college sports at all this weekend, you probably know that Miami players apparently thought they were in an actual war. The game, between University of Miami-FL and Florida International, wasn't even much of a contest. But for whatever reason, the players got heated and suddenly after an extra point all hell broke loose. Players were punching, tackling, body slamming and then things got really wild. Numerous players were seen stomping on opponents who had been pushed to the ground. Stomping! That's madness!
But the winner of craziest-ass thing was the Miami player who removed his helmet and swung it like a battle axe, cracking another player on the head (luckily the recipient of the blow was still wearing a helmet). First, that's crazy. Second, by taking off your helmet you're leaving your stupid-ass head unprotected against kicks and punches from other players. The safest thing about a football fight is the protection that helmets provides! Leave yours on!
Even more amusing to me was the reaction of analysts to the fight during other games. They called it "deplorable" and "a blemish on the face of college football." Which is, of course, what they should say. The problem is that America loves fights. And you know that when the cameras weren't rolling, those same analysts were standing on their chairs and shouting with excitement as the fight broke out, just like the rest of us.
Bottom line, University of Miami players have virtually no discipline and fights are great to watch.
Fight! Fight! Fight!
10.11.2006
BIDET.
Recently I was presented with a pretty persuasive argument in favor of using bidets. For anyone who doesn’t know, a bidet is a device used to clean your ass after you make a number two. According to Wikipedia, “A bidet is a low-mounted plumbing fixture or type of sink intended for washing the external genitalia and the anus.” (check one out at http://sanicare.com/biffy.html)
Commonly used abroad, the bidet, for whatever reason, has not caught on in the USA. Not only has it not caught on, but we tend to make jokes about it and look down upon those who make use of this special device.
But let’s take a closer look at our method versus the bidet method. Our way of cleaning up after doing our business is to take some tissue and wipe our ass “until the paper comes up clean.” At least that seems to be the standard. So in essence, we’re just smearing the shit around our ass until you can no longer see it. Doesn't seem to leave you with a very clean behind.
A bidet, on the other hand, sprays refreshing blasts of water into your ass. Maybe even some soap? Which seems to be a far more effective way to wash. If you got some shit on your hand or arm, would you just wipe it off with some paper? No way. You’d scrub that shit off.
So next time you’re talking to some French dude and he’s yammering on about his bidet, think before you make fun of him for being a sissy. Think about how your ass-crack is covered in a thin layer of shit, while his is clean and fresh.
Actually, don’t think about that.
Commonly used abroad, the bidet, for whatever reason, has not caught on in the USA. Not only has it not caught on, but we tend to make jokes about it and look down upon those who make use of this special device.
But let’s take a closer look at our method versus the bidet method. Our way of cleaning up after doing our business is to take some tissue and wipe our ass “until the paper comes up clean.” At least that seems to be the standard. So in essence, we’re just smearing the shit around our ass until you can no longer see it. Doesn't seem to leave you with a very clean behind.
A bidet, on the other hand, sprays refreshing blasts of water into your ass. Maybe even some soap? Which seems to be a far more effective way to wash. If you got some shit on your hand or arm, would you just wipe it off with some paper? No way. You’d scrub that shit off.
So next time you’re talking to some French dude and he’s yammering on about his bidet, think before you make fun of him for being a sissy. Think about how your ass-crack is covered in a thin layer of shit, while his is clean and fresh.
Actually, don’t think about that.
10.10.2006
SHUT YOUR CAR ALARM MOUTH.
All day long, I've been sitting or laying in my room, trying to relax in the cool fall breeze and read a book. But every fifteen minutes, for some unknown reason, a car alarm is going off. It starts with a series of three fast beeps, waits a few seconds, repeats the beeps, waits again, and then launches into full on alarm mode.
BEEP BEEP BEEP, WOOP WOOP WOOP, AROOGA AROOOGA, BEEP BEEP BEEP, EEEEEEE AAWWWWW EEEEEEE AAWWWWW, WOOOOO WOOOOO, BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Shut up! Shut the fuck up! No one hit you. No one is breaking into you. I'm sitting here watching the street and nothing is causing this alarm to go off. But something will. Pretty soon, I am going to go to the hardware store, purchase a cinderblock, carry it back and throw it through the windshield of the offending Ford Explorer. Then it will have something to cry about.
BEEP BEEP BEEP, WOOP WOOP WOOP, AROOGA AROOOGA, BEEP BEEP BEEP, EEEEEEE AAWWWWW EEEEEEE AAWWWWW, WOOOOO WOOOOO, BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Shut up! Shut the fuck up! No one hit you. No one is breaking into you. I'm sitting here watching the street and nothing is causing this alarm to go off. But something will. Pretty soon, I am going to go to the hardware store, purchase a cinderblock, carry it back and throw it through the windshield of the offending Ford Explorer. Then it will have something to cry about.
10.02.2006
DANGER: Cars and Buses vs. Humans
I've had some interesting interactions with motor vehicles over the last few weeks. The first came last weekend, while walking home from a night out and talking on the phone. I've always been amazed at my having managed to avoid being hit by a car while so frequently walking in an absent-minded daydream state through the streets of New York.
Until two Saturdays ago, I had managed brilliantly to dodge maniac cabs, giant buses and even zigzagging bicycle deliverymen.
Then, at around midnight I was crossing the road at a major intersection and my luck sort of ended. I had the little white walk signal and was doing everything right, walking within the lines across the road. As I neared the other side of the street I watched an SUV turning the corner, coming directly at me. Surely, I thought, it won't run me over. It wasn't going to fast and though not wearing reflective gear, I was a fairly visible human. But as it advanced on me, I realized almost too late that no, it was not stopping. So in a very agile manner I took a half step toward the curb and leapt onto the hood of the offending vehicle, rolling toward the passenger side and off, landing catlike on my feet. Quite an impressive jump-roll, if I do say so myself. Deserving of an instant replay.
Upon landing I launched a tirade of verbal insults: What the fuck is wrong with you? Motherfucker! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Jesus Christ, man.
And then I realized the car's passengers were four linebacker-sized men. My usual nature is to remain passive in order to survive, so once I saw that they were very sorry, very large and apologizing profusely, I calmed down and simply suggested that in the future they try NOT running people over.
Things could have ended much worse.
For instance, last Friday, a rainy, awful day, I was riding the bus home. I'm not sure what kind of driver's ed teaches bus drivers to nimbly maneuver a double-length bus at breakneck speeds through chaotic, rain slicked streets, but our driver this day apparently thought he had attended that school. Then, as we were approaching a bus stop, something happened that caused him to slam on his brakes. A red light maybe? A cab cutting him off? A kitten in the road? Who knows.
But it was his unfortunate luck that at that very instant a frail-looking man who looked to be in his 50's had stood up with his suitcase, preparing to get off the bus.
Well, I never took physics, but I understand that objects in motion tend to stay in motion. And this old man, who hadn't taken hold of anything once standing, continued his forward motion at 30 mph while the bus had come to a complete stop. He took a marvelous tumble, end over end, rolling and smashing into benches, ending up 20 feet from where he first stood. It was a stroke of bad luck that the bus wasn't crowded, because normally you'd fall into someone who's holding onto something and boom, you're safe.
But this guy got it bad. America's Funniest Videos bad. Jackass bad. You laughed and then cringed as it happened. He moaned loudly and his "man partner" raced forward shouting at the bus driver, "you fucking asshole! you fucking asshole!" as if the bus driver had purposely slammed on his brakes for no good reason. Seems to me that the old feller should have known to hold on to something when you're standing on the bus. But he was apparently hurt bad, because he wouldn't stand up. Instead, he moaned and writhed on the wet floor, holding his back while his partner called 911.
This meant that the poor bus driver was most certainly going to receive some sort of reprimand and possible demotion (can you demote bus drivers? to what, bus washers?). It also means that with every moan you could also hear the cha-chinging of cash registers going off as the two man-lovers mentally spent all of the dough they'd be raping the city for. I'm thinking a six-figure settlement. $500,000 because you can't hold on. Silly.
This also meant the bus was now out of service. And the rest of us would have to go out into the rain and wait for the next bus. We would receive no settlement. Only wetness and the satisfaction of having watched a man thrown violently down the aisle of a New York City bus. The best part of evacuating the bus was the bus driver's refusal to open the rear doors. So everyone on the bus, wet feet and all, had to step over this suffering old man to get out.
Danger is great.
Until two Saturdays ago, I had managed brilliantly to dodge maniac cabs, giant buses and even zigzagging bicycle deliverymen.
Then, at around midnight I was crossing the road at a major intersection and my luck sort of ended. I had the little white walk signal and was doing everything right, walking within the lines across the road. As I neared the other side of the street I watched an SUV turning the corner, coming directly at me. Surely, I thought, it won't run me over. It wasn't going to fast and though not wearing reflective gear, I was a fairly visible human. But as it advanced on me, I realized almost too late that no, it was not stopping. So in a very agile manner I took a half step toward the curb and leapt onto the hood of the offending vehicle, rolling toward the passenger side and off, landing catlike on my feet. Quite an impressive jump-roll, if I do say so myself. Deserving of an instant replay.
Upon landing I launched a tirade of verbal insults: What the fuck is wrong with you? Motherfucker! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Jesus Christ, man.
And then I realized the car's passengers were four linebacker-sized men. My usual nature is to remain passive in order to survive, so once I saw that they were very sorry, very large and apologizing profusely, I calmed down and simply suggested that in the future they try NOT running people over.
Things could have ended much worse.
For instance, last Friday, a rainy, awful day, I was riding the bus home. I'm not sure what kind of driver's ed teaches bus drivers to nimbly maneuver a double-length bus at breakneck speeds through chaotic, rain slicked streets, but our driver this day apparently thought he had attended that school. Then, as we were approaching a bus stop, something happened that caused him to slam on his brakes. A red light maybe? A cab cutting him off? A kitten in the road? Who knows.
But it was his unfortunate luck that at that very instant a frail-looking man who looked to be in his 50's had stood up with his suitcase, preparing to get off the bus.
Well, I never took physics, but I understand that objects in motion tend to stay in motion. And this old man, who hadn't taken hold of anything once standing, continued his forward motion at 30 mph while the bus had come to a complete stop. He took a marvelous tumble, end over end, rolling and smashing into benches, ending up 20 feet from where he first stood. It was a stroke of bad luck that the bus wasn't crowded, because normally you'd fall into someone who's holding onto something and boom, you're safe.
But this guy got it bad. America's Funniest Videos bad. Jackass bad. You laughed and then cringed as it happened. He moaned loudly and his "man partner" raced forward shouting at the bus driver, "you fucking asshole! you fucking asshole!" as if the bus driver had purposely slammed on his brakes for no good reason. Seems to me that the old feller should have known to hold on to something when you're standing on the bus. But he was apparently hurt bad, because he wouldn't stand up. Instead, he moaned and writhed on the wet floor, holding his back while his partner called 911.
This meant that the poor bus driver was most certainly going to receive some sort of reprimand and possible demotion (can you demote bus drivers? to what, bus washers?). It also means that with every moan you could also hear the cha-chinging of cash registers going off as the two man-lovers mentally spent all of the dough they'd be raping the city for. I'm thinking a six-figure settlement. $500,000 because you can't hold on. Silly.
This also meant the bus was now out of service. And the rest of us would have to go out into the rain and wait for the next bus. We would receive no settlement. Only wetness and the satisfaction of having watched a man thrown violently down the aisle of a New York City bus. The best part of evacuating the bus was the bus driver's refusal to open the rear doors. So everyone on the bus, wet feet and all, had to step over this suffering old man to get out.
Danger is great.
Testing Testing 123
While I am an idea man, I'm not a computer nerd, so I'm not sure how this is going to work. In fact, it wasn't even my idea to start a blog here. Thanks to Brandy, a solutions woman, for suggesting it. http://blogofbrandy.blogspot.com/
You should also know the following blog names are not available:
dashboard duck
the champion
baby jesus
corn on the cob
blueberry jam
papas fritas
jim.com.org.edu.net
horsecock
These are:
Masons Science Project
Oh crap, a bug just flew in my room.
jimdotcomdotorgdotedudotnet
I guess we'll see how this looks. Publish.
You should also know the following blog names are not available:
dashboard duck
the champion
baby jesus
corn on the cob
blueberry jam
papas fritas
jim.com.org.edu.net
horsecock
These are:
Masons Science Project
Oh crap, a bug just flew in my room.
jimdotcomdotorgdotedudotnet
I guess we'll see how this looks. Publish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
