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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.