IF JOHN MCCAIN IS ELECTED...

Can they fix his little arms? Please?

I bet they want to punch one another's faces. Debates make me feel sick to my stomach for some reason.

DAVID BLAINE: WORST PERSON

"Illusionist" David Blaine has pulled another weak stunt. Apparently, he used to do magic. He could take the head off of a chicken and put it back on. He had some sweet card tricks. And now, he has a publicist, financial backing, and terrible decision making skills.

First, his attempt to hang upside-down for sixty hours straight is mildly intriguing at best. The fact that he was "required" to get down every so often for "medical checks" entirely defeats the purpose of even trying. The whole attraction of these stunts is that he might die. So monitoring him to ensure that won't happen, while also getting him out of his position, completely ruins what was already a pretty lame stunt. How about this for a stunt: David Blaine will never be seen again, ever. That's a stunt I can get behind.

Then, after the weakest "magic" the world has ever seen, he was set to attempt his "dive of death." This sounded more interesting. There was a real chance he could hit the pavement, which people want to see. There was also a real chance for him to use some sort of masterful trickery to regain some of his illusionist mystique. And what happened? He jumped off some scaffolding wearing a harness connected to a wire. Dive of death, indeed. It wasn't even a well-concealed wire. The crowd booed, as they should have. Then the wire lifted Blaine off into the sky, hopefully to begin his next stunt: Never being seen again.

HEAD PETTING.

This morning I stopped at a barbershop in my new neighborhood. I was in need of a haircut, and since I don't require anything fancy, I like your classic-type barbershop. Sel's seemed to fit the bill--old fashioned chairs, faux wood walls decorated with odd pictures, worn linoleum floors, and an old Italian man who speaks broken English and has that perma-coffee-and-cigarette odor.

So everything seemed to be in order. Then the haircut began. First, Sel cuts hair dry. He doesn't wet you down at all. So your hair doesn't so much fall to the floor as it does blow everywhere and get in your ears. But that was of little concern.

The strange thing was that as part of the haircut, Sel pets your head. He mats down the hair every few snips to see how it's turning out. Which is weird, but not the weirdest. The weirdest part takes place when he pets down the hair in the front and doesn't stop where the hair stops. He pets right down onto your face.

The first few pets made me feel uncomfortable. But at that point, I was in the middle of a haircut and Sel was armed with scissors. I wasn't about to ask him to stop or bring up the strangeness of the face petting. So I let him finish. Then about six or seven pets in, I sort of started to like it. It was soothing.

Now I'm confused.

I don't think I can go back to Sel, but now I sit at work, petting my face all day long. Plus, the haircut kind of sucks.

IPHONE PICTURE PAGE.

Look at all of those ducks!



Seriously, we get it. You're a nurse. Go home and change out of those pajamas, bitch.



The NFL Sunday Ticket + two televisions = perfect Sunday. Except for the whole HD situation, which I can't really talk about right now.



I took a picture of this, not because I love Dr. Pepper, but rather because I was going to write a blog about it on irateads.com. What a stupid idea. If anyone in the world actually collects this "limited edition" can, they are perhaps the saddest person. I might still write that blog.





These are various pictures of New York sights. On a street at sunset, from a roof at night, and one of a horse and buggy going by in the strange neighborhood where I work.



This was going to be a blog entry about how much I love being an adult and how hard it is for me to pick any cereal I want. I can have anything! On this particular day I bought Trix, even though I'm aware they're for kids. Today I actually bought Froot Loops. Trix are better.



I believe this is a jar of chicken fat you can pour on your food, found at Sammy's Romanian Steakhouse.



This was an instructional illustration I found outside a bathroom at Gowanas Yacht Club. For those of you not familiar with this place, it's an outdoor bar that is about three blocks from a dirty canal. It has nothing to do with yachts. However, they do appear to have strict regulations for their bathroom. Pee, yes. Poop, sure. Fuck from behind while pulling hair, no.

FIRE ALARMS, WORTHLESS.

If you work in a building, you've probably had experience with the worthlessness of fire alarms. Of all the times I've had a fire alarm go off in my building, I don't think there's ever been an actual fire. And I've worked in some terrible, really flammable buildings. Buildings that probably should be burned.

Once you've been through enough false alarms, you start to dismiss them altogether. They're crying wolf. But what happens if there really is a wolf? A wolf who breathes fire and sets your building on fire? What then?

The answer is a smoke alarm. Not an alarm that senses smoke, but an alarm that pumps out smoke. In the case of a real fire, the smoke alarms would start pumping thick, black smoke onto all the floors. If you hear the fire alarm and see smoke in your building, you'd probably get the hell out. Because everyone knows, where there's smoke, there's fire. And wa-la, I just saved you from a terrible burning death.

Smoking Smoke Alarm. Patented 09.04.08.