Monday, December 22, 2008

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I knew the bus ride would be eventful when I heard, as I tossed my quarters into the coin bucket, the turbaned black lady argue, to no one in particular, that "this ain't no thirty-fo'th street, y'hear? This ain't no thirty-fo'th!" Bear in mind, we were stopped just south of 79th street and any expectations of 34th would be a little on the premature side. Always game to watch lunatics, I grabbed a seat with a decent angle on the woman, who I now noticed was sporting a plastic bag tied to each ankle (either to ineffectively keep her socks from getting dirty slush on them or to stop aliens from biting her shins) and glistening, cherry-red lipstick. I can only assume the lipstick was meant to twinkle because the corners of her mouth were moist with that special kind of spittle that only real maniacs don't realize is there. Needless to say, she continued to squirm in her seat and talk to the air until she got off at 59th street (which I should point out to the reader is still nowhere near 34th Street. It doesn't even have a fucking 3 or 4 in it). As we pulled away, I realized I could still hear her voice because, sadly, she was walking along side of the bus and screaming at it as it rolled out of sight.

At the next stop, what appeared to be Rainbow Brite's grandmother got on, in that she was a seventy-something light skinned black lady wearing a giant blue hat (really. GIANT) and matching vest (with a bizarro-world red, black, and green American flag sewn into it, like, I don't know, she was a citizen of negative-space America) and a fire engine red shirt. She looked like the mayor of Nutsville as she bopped along to her iPod that I would bet good money wasn't even switched on.

Trying to not laugh out loud, I glanced over at this other woman who looked awfully familiar. While I was trying to figure out who she was, I read that the title of the book she had in her hands was "Booty Call" and figured that meant I probably didn't know her after all.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Guess the Nazi!

"Why, of course, the people don't want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship...but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."

-Hermann Goring


The Nazis sure were evil people. Imagine instilling fear and hatred in a people in order to control them! Hey...wait a second...

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Godspeed

If this idea of being buried with your Blackberry appeals to you, I would be happy to help expedite your journey to the hereafter. With a ball-peen hammer.

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Blogging Bank Shot

I saw a link to this blog on ol' Johnny Ness's virtual periodical defending journalist Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers. In it, Yglesias cites one of the leading points of detraction:

"I’ve seen a few people express the notion that Gladwell’s conclusion — that success is determined largely by luck rather than one’s powers of awesomeness — is somehow too banal to waste one’s time with."

This conclusion has apparently caused a flap. Now, I haven't read the book yet (haven't even opened the fucking front cover), but I'm certain I agree with Gladwell. And, of course, the notion that most "great" people simply happen upon their success is by no means banal. And I'm sure it's unsettling. To successful people. You see, successful individuals like to think that their hard work and personal worth somehow managed to get them where they are today. When, in reality, they are simply lucky. Lucky to have gone to certain schools, attended certain churches, met certain helpful others, and been present when certain cosmic machinations allowed them to step into whatever position of power they now hold. Don't talk to me about drive, ambition, intelligence, and elbow grease. None of that means shit when you don't have opportunity and opportunity comes down to luck. Sure, you can increase your luck by making yourself more available, but that's the end of the road for the human potential movement. For every Bill Gates, there are a thousand folks of equal intelligence, drive, and "worth" who currently work at Radio Shack wishing they were Bill Gates.

Just think about yourself for a moment. You. The reader. Can you do your boss's job? Chances are, you can. Just as well, if not better. The only thing that separates you is chance.

Friday, December 05, 2008

Fitting

I was going to write a self-pitying post about my sad financial demise and the injustices of the American employment rat race. But, the lurking, playful dread in this song is probably more attuned to my real feelings:

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

I like those odds!

An excerpt from Joe Bageant's excellent "Deer Hunting With Jesus: Dispatches from America's Class War":

A 2005 Harvard University study found that 50 percent of all bankruptcy filings were wholly or partly the result of medical expenses, a 2,200 percent increase since 1981. The average out-of-pocket medical debt of individuals who filed for bankruptcy was $12,000. In the United States someone files for bankruptcy every thirty seconds in the aftermath of a serious health problem.


All of that is tragic enough, but here's the real irony: Sixty-eight percent of those filing for bankruptcy have health insurance. Premiums, deductibles, and uncovered expenses are so high now that the insurance that working people get through their employers does not necessarily save them from financial ruin...


I'd hate to kick the ol' dead horse, but the health care system we have is simply not working. Bear in mind that this book was written in 2006, well before the massive economic meltdown, although it certainly predicts it with a quote from social critic James Howard Kunstler:

The mortgage industry, a mutant monster organism of lapsed lending standards and arrant grift on the grand scale, is going to implode like a death star under the weight of these nonperforming loans and drag every tradable instrument known to man into the quantum vacuum of finance that it creates.


And, of course, the housing crisis is delicately interwoven with health care. When heart failure or cancer rear there ugly heads and you either don't have adequate health care or, in a lot of cases, any health care at all, chances are you're losing your house. Now, I don't know if national health care is really the way to go, but would someone please describe to me a plan involving privatized health care where American citizens won't get cheated out of the medical attention they need? From where I stand, it seems that the chips are stacked against us when the medical industry is run by insurance companies whose job it is to do everything in their power to find ways to deny coverage in order to make a profit. When the word "profit" is anywhere NEAR the health care system, how can you really, truly believe that any doctor, hospital, or insurance company gives a shit about you? "Oh, my doctor cares about me." Does he, when he's cooking the numbers or only treating certain, non-risk patients in order to keep his insurance payments low? Get real. He's only good if you're not really sick.

But this is not the fault of doctors or even hospitals, really (although Bageant's book does point out that these regional "wellness centers" that keep popping up label themselves "non-profit" so that they can, ironically, make more money because they don't have to pay tax. Of course, they can't show that as profit, so they keep pumping it back into their own system without doing things like, I don't know, lowering medical costs for patients). This is, unfortunately, the climate that our system has produced and unless we change things (and I'm not talking about "reform," I'm talking about ripping this system out like a national cancer) there are going to be riots in the streets.

Monday, November 24, 2008

I've got a weak heart

Lots on my mind right now. No job. No money. There is always They Might Be Giants.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Yep. That's torn it.

I saw this link on Facebook. Now I don't feel well:

freegabe.com

Thursday, November 13, 2008

That's enough already

I'm sick of the fickle virtual zeitgeist surrounding social networking sites. It started with Friendster where everybody and their mother signed up to stalk ex-high school girlfriends in peace. Then, when the public decided not to swing with that hero anymore, they migrated to MySpace, which became a virus-ridden nightmare. And now we're at Facebook. But what's the point? As a veteran of these time-wasting atrocities, I find it a little tiresome to have to construct yet another profile for the latest craze that purports to connect "us" (I flirted with putting quotes around "connecting" there, but there's no doubt we're being "connected." It's the "us" part I'm a little wary about. I mean, who ARE these people?). None of these sites are permanent. The term "flash in the pan" refers to the glitzy yet ultimately unsatisfying explosion of gunpowder in an ol' timey musket. And it seems these networking sites are nothing more than a series of giddy, meaningless reports from some well-intentioned yet woefully naive pistol.

And the irony is that, eventually, these sites implement additional communication features. Like chat. Online chat (and now video chat, Gmail!). So, in order to REALLY interact with someone you have to go that extra mile and exchange words with them? Well what do you know? Could we maybe pick up a phone and talk to someone? Or better yet, if they're in the same fucking town, how about paying them a visit? I realize that this scenario doesn't give you much of an opportunity to use internet slang (unless you want to get stabbed in the thigh), but hey, who knows, you may actually communicate something.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

And one other thing

I've been reading (I know that's ill-advised) message board postings that are slamming Obama and declaring his election the end of the world. Oh, you backwards cocksuckers. My favorite was "socialism didn't exactly work for the USSR, did it?" First of all, stupid, that was Communism and no one is asking you stand in line for three hours for cheese and toilet paper. The same poster went so far as to say that "the blacks have taken over" and we're all doomed because hey, look at the state of Africa. Ohhhhhh, right. Africa. A continent that struggles everyday with rocky, makeshift governments and TRIBES. They have TRIBAL WARFARE, you ridiculous, racist shithead. When's the last time you saw a TRIBE running around America? Indian tribes? Yeah, there aren't a whole shitload of those roaming the plains anymore, right? Because we fucking killed them all. Stop making sociopolitical references you don't understand.

Obamanation

I'm rarely moved to any sort of hope or optimism, especially when it comes to this incredibly insincere country we live in, but the election of Mr. Obama as president carries with it the possibility, however slight, that America is actually ready to progress as a nation, a concept. In an economy and culture as selfish as ours, it's no surprise that most Americans are scared shitless of change. But I'd have to ask those same Americans that if one's quality of life is already abysmal, what could you possibly lose on taking a chance with a man who really, honestly seems hellbent on turning this country around?

George Carlin once labeled the citizens of this country as "selfish, ignorant Americans." And that is, unfortunately, an accurate description of our people. We can't afford to be that way anymore. What we've all failed to see is that by helping each other, we help ourselves and, in turn, our nation. Take, for instance, health care. The argument goes "Why should I throw money into a system that pays for the well-being of deadbeats and poor people?" Well, that may be true for some, but I work my ass off every day and I don't have adequate health care. In fact, a recent article in the New Yorker paints a pretty dismal picture of how lack of decent health insurance was a major catalyst in the upsurge of home foreclosures. People couldn't pay their medical bills and they lost their HOMES. And when people lose their homes, the market suffers. And when the market suffers, YOU suffer. Everything and everyone is wonderfully and fatally interconnected. We've forgotten that in this country. The simple act of looking out for one another IS looking out for ourselves.

I think Obama understands this.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Las Vegas



Somewhere in the long and irksome history of assholes, Las Vegas was deemed the ultimate city to visit if you're a real man, MAN! You can gamble, MAN! It's Sin City, MAN! Ironically, the same flashy allure that coaxes every frat boy in the country to flock to the middle of the desert to "have fun" also attracts the elderly. It's the same group of old people who have organized bus trips to Atlantic City in the interest of making it big just in time for their sudden deaths. So, it's actually pretty interesting to hang around an airport loaded with date rapists and mummies.

That being said, I've been thinking a lot about criticism. After watching Jamie Kennedy's surprisingly good documentary called Heckler, I'm realizing more and more that criticism, for the most part, is a necessary facet of the creative process, but it's also an easy haven for those of us who don't actually DO anything. As much as I bitch and moan about Dane Cook, who am I to judge? He's popular and successful. I am neither of those things. It's incredibly easy to rip someone apart if you haven't actually done the work they do. It really is time to stop complaining and start doing.

And THAT being said, I still hate Vegas. It's a fucking abomination. Slot machines in the airport? Get the fuck out of here with that nonsense. We get it, there's gambling in Las Vegas.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Format Test Now I'm trying

Format Test

Now I'm trying to work out the format. Let's see if this works.

This is a test of

This is a test of the new mobile blog from my li'l phone. It's like some sort of magic. Also, Gunner sucks.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Enough.



Look, I love jokes. I make jokes every second of every day because I'm incapable of dealing seriously with my life. But the Sarah Palin shit has to stop. Political satire is a tried and true American right and tradition, but making fun of Sarah Palin is counterproductive. She is a dangerously incompetent leader of a practically secessionist state. Making ironic dolls of her isn't helping. Because most of America don't get irony, folks. I'd love to go to every Williamsburg Halloween party and smack each Sarah Palin-costumed dummy in the face, partly because of how trite they're being but mostly because WE DON'T NEED THIS RIGHT NOW. Contributing to the campaign cuteness of a right-wing nutjob is only fueling a fire that is already ablaze with lies about Obama being a Muslim and a terrorist. Sarah Palin needs to be seen as less of a joke and more of a threat.

Also, McCain has the ol' Popeye chin. Don't make a doll of that. Please.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I'll bet you drove the little boys wild

Every now and again, this song pops into my head. At long last, I looked it up.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Occupational Hazards

Dear prospective employer,

I understand that it is the fashion nowadays to Google a potential employee's name and perform what amounts to a virtual background check. Fair enough. However, I also know that is the fashion nowadays for most people not to get jokes. In fact, most things done in humor have to be explained lest anyone be offended.

I therefore offer this explanation of this blog's content: it's a joke, stupid.

Now stop looking me up on Facebook and get to work.


Yours,

Gabe

Monday, October 13, 2008

I put the twit in Twitter

Silvasurfer @ BossOfYou I'm told I have to go about an hour ago from NYjail.gov

Silvasurfer @ BossOfYou Again, my sincerest apologies for any damage I may have caused in last night's incident. My only hope is about an hour ago from NYjail.gov

Silvasurfer I'M BCK MOFOS!!!! YOU cnt FRIE me I FIRE uuuuuuuu 5:26 AM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer @ BossOfYou oh you aksed fr it Phil 3:52 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer that day is done 2:47 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer give a shit 1:33 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer i c 1:33 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer happened?,. 1:32 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer what happened? I mean, what 1:32 AM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer LOLLLLL!!!! HAHHA!!! 9:45 PM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer LOL! WASSUP, INTERWEBZ?! 9:05 PM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer looking for answers at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. 7:43 PM from FreeWeb.net

Silvasurfer doesn't need this place. 5:33 PM from mobile device

Silvasurfer @ BossOfYou I apologize for any undue sense of familiarity and will have my desk cleared post haste. 5:15 PM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer @ BossOfYou Phil, what is UP with this, man? I thought we was Coo De La? 5:13 PM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer thinks he might've lost his job. WTF? 5:12 PM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer just got a rather curious email! :( 4:56 PM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer is PSYCHED for the weekend!!! 3:23 PM from PharmaCom.net

Silvasurfer is that cat's pajamas, LOL! 9:56 AM from PharmaCom.net

Friday, October 10, 2008

Shimmy shimmy coco pop

On Irving Place, awaiting an audition slot, I watched some black teenage boys ogling some black teenage girls playing Double Dutch. The girls gracefully jumped in between the spiraling ropes and skipped joyfully to the rhythm of clapping hands. Every now and again, a boy would infuse himself into the whirling twine and bring everything to a jarring stop. Laughter all around. I then turned around to the library display case behind me and saw this:



Fitting.

Friday, September 26, 2008

We be to rap what key be to lock

Happy Friday:


We like the breeze flow straight out of our lids
Them they got moved by these hard rock Brooklyn kids
Us flow a rush when the DJ's boomin classics
You dig the crew on the fattest hip hop records
He touch the kinks and sinks into the sounds
She frequents the fatter joints called undergrounds
Our funk zooms like you hit the Mary Jane
They flock to booms man boogie had to change
Who freaks the clips with mad amount percussion
Where kinky hair goes to unthought-of dimensions
Why's it so fly cause hip hop kept some drama
When Butterfly rocked his light blue-suede Pumas
What by the cut we push it off the corner
How was the buzz entire hip hop era?
Was fresh and fat since they started sayin audi
Cause funks made fat from right beneath my hoodie
The puba of the styles like miles and shit
Like sixties funky worms with waves and perms
Just sendin chunky rhythms right down ya block
We be to rap what key be to lock
But
I'm cool like dat [x7]
I'm cool...I'm cool...
[Ladybug]
We be the chocolates taps on my raps
innovates at the sweeta cat naps
He at the funk club with the vibrate
Them they be crazy down with the ?five plate?
It can kick a plan then a crowd burst
Me I be diggin it with s bump verse
Us we be freakin til dawn blinks an eye
He gives the strangest smile so I say hi (wassup)
Who understood yeah understood the plan
Him heard a beat and put it to his hands
What I just flip let borders get loose
How to consume or they'll be just like juice
If its the shit we'll lift it off the plastic
The babes'll go spastic
Hip hop gains a classic
Pimp playin shock it dont matter I'm fatter
Ax Butta how I zone (man Cleopatra Jones)
And
I'm chill like dat [x7]
I'm chill...I'm chill...
[All]
Blink..blink..blink..blink..blink..blink..blink....
Think..think..think..think..think..think..think...
[Doodlebug]
We get ya free cause the clips be fat boss
Them they're the jams and commence to goin off
She sweats the beat and ask me cause she puffed it
Me I got crew kids seven and a crescent
Us cause a buzz when the nickel bags are dealt
Him thats my man with the asteroid belt
They catch a fizz from the Mr. Doodle-big
He rocks a tee from the Crooklyn non-pigs
The rebirth of slick like my gangsta stroll
The lyrics just like loot come in stacks and rolls
You used to find a bug in a box with fade
Now he boogies up your stage plaits twist or braids
And
I'm peace like dat [x7]
I'm Peace
[Butterfly]
Check it out man I groove like dat
I'm smmoce like dat
I jive like dat
I roll like dat
[Ladybug]
Yeah I'm thick like dat
I stack like dat
I'm down like dat
I'm black like dat
[Doodlebug]
Well yo I funk like dat
I'm fat like dat
I'm in like dat
Cause I swing like dat
[Butterfly]
We jazz like dat
We freak like dat
We zoom like dat
We out...we out

Digable Planets / Rebirth of Slick

Thursday, September 25, 2008

He's the Dennis Miller of the streets

Walking from the gym to work, I saw a speeding line of police cars barrel down the street accompanied by an ambulance and what appeared to be a sawed-off limo. Because we've been in UN lock-down all week, I assumed it had something to do with carting some head-of-state to the East Side. After they'd all gone by, I continued walking and passed a fellow who I had seen excitedly whip out his cellphone after the motorcade passed. I overheard:

"Hey! Hey, guess who I just saw! (small pause) Dinner jacket!!!"

Everyone's in on the act.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Monday, September 22, 2008

When will he be loved?

The extremely creepy fifty-ish gay gentleman who frequents the gym I go to spends the precious time between workouts materializing out of thin air like a fucking vampire in front of men with whom he then awkwardly flirts. It's like watching a gay Nightcrawler. From the X-Men. Not a giant worm. But he creeps me out like a giant worm would. I bet he'd like to show me his giant worm. Anyway, this fellow had an odd exchange with one of the maintenance people today:

(The maintenance GUY is cleaning out a particularly filthy locker)

GAY DUDE: (appearing out of the shadows, TOTALLY NUDE by the way) You know, you should ask for a raise.

GUY: (shrugging slightly, chuckling) Yeah, THAT'D go over well.

GAY DUDE: (laughing in a manner disproportionate to the quality of that quip) HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAAAAAAA!!! That was FUNNY! "THAT'D go over well." HAHHAHAHHAAHAAAAA....

The gay dude then ate his face.

Unless I'm totally wrong, sarcastically saying "that'd go over well" is neither a new joke nor particularly funny. Oh, wait. He's a creepy old SAD AND LONELY gay dude. That explains everything.

And speaking of explaining everything, I was wondering why there was a police state outside my office building today. My boss informed me that Iranian president I'm-a-dinner-jacket is around. Creeping. In the shadows. With the gay dude.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Pedophile 2: The Wrath of Uncle Joe

I found a nifty online NES gaming site that has a decent collection of old classics. One of which is Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The strategy for the game is suspect:



"Touch kid to see prize?" Whoever translated that is a Grade A prizesucker.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

What a card

As my passing interest in football grows with each exposure to it, I find myself enamored with the idea of the penalty. Especially in this corporate dump, penalties should be accrued along with the various inhumanities inflicted on the working man every day.

REFEREE: "Denial of overtime! Offense! Two day penalty! It's now Friday!"

I could almost shoot myself with how pedestrian that joke is.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

In ol' Tucksin

The trip to Tucson, Arizona to see the fam was awesome. We packed a lot of stuff into six days. There was an eight mile hike through Sabino Canyon that nearly killed us...with NATURAL BEAUTY:



Also, if you try to make a bicycle out of spaghetti, a cartoon line will jettison you into a gulch:



But the strangest part of the trip was the University of Arizona football game we attended. Not only was there a one hour rain delay (which happens in Arizona about as often as the Yankees win these days), but the drunken, angry students decided to fire full water bottles and other items at the police officers on the field. Things got so unruly that David Hasselhoff had to step in. Yeah, that's right. The Hoff was in attendance.



It's a bad picture of Knight Rider, but he was indeed on hand to calm the embittered masses with small, autographed pictures of himself that he just happened to have. According to those in the know, the Hoff was there because his daughter is a frosh at U of A. Although I didn't see it, reports were that Hoff's daughter was visibly annoyed with the attention being showered on her father, who finished his night by standing atop one of the stairwells and yelling "WOOOOOO!" to the hundreds of screaming drunken fratboys.

It was pretty sweet.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

WTF?

I'm not certain that the folks over at "Official Meetings Facility Guide" thought their abbreviation out:

www.omfg.com

OMFG indeed.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Uh...right

Playboy Playmate Kendra Wilkinson laughs like this:


How is she not beaten to death with a tennis racket? Apparently, she is also a big fan of Olive Garden but Olive Garden is not a fan of hers. They are basically actively ignoring her endorsements. And BELIEVE me, I don't think it's because she gets nude. I think it has more to do with the fact that she laughs like she's had part of her brain removed through her nose.

"I love Olive Garden! HA HA HA HA HA!"

Friday, August 15, 2008

There goes Hollywood fucking things up again

3rd Rock From the Sun's Joseph Gordon-Levitt is playing Cobra Commander in the upcoming G.I. Joe movie. Yeah...yeah that makes sense.


Oh wait, no it doesn't. Because Cobra Commander wasn't sixteen as I recall. That's like having Webster play Darth Vader.

Muggins and I witnessed some old jerk dive across the bus this morning to grab some crippled woman's seat as she left. He then promptly whipped out a Blackberry and began scrolling. Five minutes later, another seat opened up and yet another odorous businessman swooped in, sat down, and, you guessed it, whipped out his Blackberry. It's now officially ridiculous, people. Put your fucking PDAs away. I know you just HAVE to see that email that you can actually do nothing about until you get to the office anyway.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

That figures

It turns out that my instinctual desire to get out of this dump where I work is a little more intuitive than I would've liked. There's a big secret in the office and I was the last to find out. Seems ol' bossman is retiring at the end of the year and has actually gone to great lengths to cover this fact up. In fact, I was shown a corporate email from the beginning of the year explaining how hush hush this whole operation needed to be so that everyone in the office didn't jump ship before they were able to get everything under their control. Really quite disturbing.

And I know this job doesn't mean anything. But I still feel betrayed. I would have gone on in miserable ignorance until the day they told everybody to pack up and leave. And BELIEVE me, there's no severance package involved. It'd be a mass expulsion from the company's HR asshole. BLOOSH. Gone. So long, sucker.

The problem is that despite my complaining, I'm a loyal person and I take offense that bossman would do this. I'm not shocked, that's just the way he does things. He always has. It just lacks respect.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Huh

Has anyone else noticed that CNN.com now has t-shirt icons next to selected headlines that allows you to order a t-shirt with that headline printed on it? Isn't that morally bad some how? Don't get me wrong! I still would've got a "Soul Legend Isaac Hayes Dies" t-shirt if it were available, the pussies.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Chaos is not pronounced "chows"

The panic is palpable these days, like an electric mist we all amble through. We are in desperate need to feel important. It seems that the "me" generation has evolved into the "I" generation because that shit is capitalized now, in a gaudy, bold font. The "me" generation was selfish, sure, but this new gathering of subhumans is oblivious to all other activity around them. Barely literate administrative assistants busy themselves with high end smartphones. To what end? Ostensibly to increase productivity, to become ever-present in the workplace. To become important.

You're not important.

Despite the speed with which information is bandied about, real decisions aren't made any faster. In fact, real decisions aren't really made anymore. Ever. The idea, I suppose, was to have this instantaneous exchange of information so that everyone could weigh in and a decision could be made. It doesn't really work that way, unfortunately. Along with the increase of connectivity, of hands in the pot, the idea of individual importance skyrocketed. And with increase self-importance comes increased liability. Everybody wants to be heard, but no one wants to be the one who pulls the trigger. The important people counteract their own importance. It's actually quite beautiful.

However illusory self-worth is these days, it's crucial that it remains intact. Can you imagine everyone realizing all at once that they don't mean a fucking thing? That is, of course, unless you're in an actual job producing goods and products. Those occupations actually mean something to the economy. We want potatoes, and you grow them. The shithead on his Blackberry scrolling through email about said potatoes is not needed. He thinks he's making an executive decision about the potatoes, but in order to do so, he has to run it by a best practices unit and then an audit committee. They, of course, support the idea of purchasing potatoes, but they have to hold off to see what the brainstorming session yields. This "process" spirals and fizzles out and no concrete decision is ever made. And the potatoes rot in the field.

This isn't funny. We don't make anything in this country anymore. And if we don't make anything here, what can these Blackberrying fuckfaces POSSIBLY be emailing each other about?

ADDENDUM
Isn't Twitter the ultimate in this sort of behavior? I suppose email and IMing weren't enough. Now there's a whole website devoted to keeping people posted on every second of your fucking life. And the amazing thing is that you really have to opt in to it. I don't know what's more baffling, the fact that you can get updates about the shapes of your friends' turds, or that there's part of you that really wants to know.

And why bother hanging out anymore?

"I went to Comic Con!"
"I know, I read it on Twitter."
"And I met the Pope!"
"I know."
"And I--"
"Could you keep it down? I'm trying to get your updates about the conversation we're having right now."
"Ok. How's this? Me @ You: You're a cunt."

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

At my signal...unleash hell

I give you the Russell Crowe of cats:

Monday, July 14, 2008

No one cares about your love life

In Thomas Hackett's wonderfully thoughtful and well-written Slap Happy - Pride, Prejudice, and Professional Wrestling, he presents professional wrestling as possibly the most absurd manifestation of the human male's need to posture and bang his chest in a world where he's essentially been castrated. Gone are the days of warriors battling (in earnest, anyway) in an arena to assert their masculinity. Now, we men have sports to thank for giving us license to express outdated male impulses to vanquish our foes. This same ridiculously archaic sentiment can be applied to most males' insistence on describing, in vivid detail, their sexual exploits. The whole disgusting monologue is designed to make other males jealous and, I guess, impressed with the teller's long-winded tale. Guess what? I, for one, don't give a shit. It doesn't matter to me. I would rather take a hot load in the eye than actually have to hear about someone taking a hot load in the eye.

And this obscene ritual is at its most absurd in an office environment. Especially the office in which I work. This dying institution for which I toil is perfectly constructed for male castration. Nothing we do here is worth anyone's time. It's an abattoir for penises. Yet, that doesn't stop some folks from boring everyone with their shitty sex stories. Everyone's in awe of your amazingly exciting life. Really.

"You're just jealous." Sure. I'm just jealous of some degenerate's history of women-hating ass-sex with a bunch of insecure skanks. That sounds right.

Ugh, I'm just sick of this cock-driven brinkmanship. It's enough already.

****************************************************

On an unrelated note. This movie popped into my head today:


This may be the worst idea in movie history. Albert Einstein helps a young couple fall in love. What the fuck? This sounds like a level one improv group's sketch at the UCB theater. Fuck this movie. And fuck improv. And fuck Albert Einstein, while we're at it.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Mmmmmmmyello?

While walking down Broadway, I overheard a young woman on her cell phone say:

"Ok, it's really annoying that you won't pick up your phone. Anyway, I'm ALIVE. Call me back."

There is probably nothing really to her saying that, but I really want there to be. Like she was kidnapped and held captive for two weeks by a militant liberation army and only released a few days ago. Either way, I'm sure she's a delight to talk to.

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

What's that even mean?

A young Japanese fellow approached me in the street a few moments ago and asked "excuse me, please. Do you know what this means?" He then presented me with a text message displayed on his iPhone which read "what are you all up to?" I explained to him that the message was asking what his plans for the day are (including, I suppose, his friends' plans too, noting the word "all" in the message). I hope that was clear enough. He seemed satisfied.

OBSERVATION OF THE WEEK

Radio personality Wendy Williams looks like Frank Miller drew her.

Williams:


Miller:

Friday, June 27, 2008

My fellow citizens...

As my companion pointed out at last night's concert at Terminal 5, Citizen Cope's lyrics are about peace and love. Yet, the venue was chocked full of thuggish frat boys and obnoxious GIRLS who were incessantly screaming at and, ironically, fighting with each other. I also wondered, while Cope's distinct voice crooned the word "salvation," what half of these degenerates needed salvation from. Their iPhone airtime bills? Perhaps, because this particular group of the oppressed masses were equipped with tons of iPhones, smartphones, still/video cameras, etc. It's as if, as my fellow concert goer pointed out, they don't seem to be listening to the lyrics. Too true. In the words of Andre 3000, "y'all don't hear me, you just wanna dance."

Still in all, the concert was amazing. I'm only familiar with Citizen Cope's first album and, unsurprisingly, found myself drawn to that material, specifically the acoustic stuff he did toward the end of the concert. After his guitar proved to be out of tune for the last song of the night, he and his band decided to launch into an impromptu reggae-flavored version of Radiohead's Karma Police, which was pretty awesome.

As much as I loved Cope, I was equally enamored with his opening act Alice Smith. Her music has that great balance of intimate sexiness and epic weirdness that I quite like. A sample:

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Oh, Bo. You scamp.

This is the kind of thing I would do if I were ten years younger and had a modicum of talent:

IPHONE MANIA 2008!!!!

I love love love love love love LOVE LOVE LOVE how disappointed most of the iPhone devotees were with the release of the latest iteration. These people want so desperately to throw their money away on a new toy that the unveiling of what amounts to a faster version (at a cheaper cost) of what they already have (along with much better authoring software) was a smack in the face. Honestly, whatever Apple paraded out wasn't going to be enough. If the fucking thing could be inserted into the user's asshole and had a cloaking device, people would still be bent out of shape about it. Boo hoo.

On the lighter side, my boss wrote me a note about an upcoming project for which I'd have to "adjust my schedule" to accommodate. Well, that's rich. How about I adjust your face with a Stillson wrench, you old lunatic. I would like to rip his legs off and then beat him with his own legs.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Ed? That motherfucker's still around, man.



When I was eleven years old, my mother game me three George Carlin recordings on tape in my stocking for Christmas. An Evening with Wally Lando Featuring Bill Slazo, On the Road, and the classic Class Clown. I don't think my mom knew much about him, and I would imagine that her purchasing them was inspired by my requesting "comedy tapes" for Christmas. Whatever spirit of serendipity guided her hand the day she bought those three tapes, a deep love was built that Christmas.

I suppose I already had an affinity for words, but Carlin taught me how to play with them, how to manipulate them, how to love them. He showed me how beautiful English can be, and how absurd. He dealt in honesty and pinpointed how language can be exploited by the dishonest.

I've tried to read a couple of obituaries for him today, but I just can't. Surely, other heroes have died in the past, but none of them meant as much to me as Carlin.

Of course, in his own words, thanks to the language in this country, Carlin didn't die. He passed away. Or expired like a magazine subscription.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

I'll bite your face!

I know there's a correlation between weight training and increase in testosterone, but I'd never experienced it until I actually started lifting weights in earnest. I tend to be on the angry side, but it has always seemed like passive anger. Now I feel more aggressive. It's the difference between wishing I could stab someone in the face and actually thinking I could do it.

I've been reading Final Truth: The Autobiography of a Serial Killer and although it doesn't mention that Donald "Pee Wee" Gaskins did any weight training, he was a pretty aggressive fellow. What I find most disturbing about the book is the blandness of it all. Gaskins' account of his murders is done in a plain, straightforward way. Also, his language is blunt and cartoonishly rednecky in support of completely irrational thought. You get this sort of "she was a bitch, so I killed her" vibe with little to no explanation other than that he suffers from what he calls a "bothersomeness" which eventually bubbles up into uncontrollable, murderous rage. I guess we're so inundated with psycho-babble in regards to this ilk of horror that the absence of analysis leaves a massive, eerie hole in the reader's vision of the story. It can't be that simple, can it? I got angry, so I butchered her? Apparently, for the truly insane, it is.

Monday, June 02, 2008

Starbucks rubs it in

Ubiquitousness can be an imposition after all:

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Keeping America Safe



This isn't the first time I've seen this ad on the subway, but for some reason it made me chuckle Friday afternoon so I took a hot pic. Although, for accuracy, the sign should probably read: "Last year, 44 brown people were needlessly harassed and 1900 people freaked out over abandoned Duane Reade bags."

Teach those terrorists to save big on sanitary napkins...

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Dan Patrick: Comedy Writer

I have to call bullshit on Dan Patrick. The former ESPN host now works for Sports Illustrated and has won the opportunity to regale us with his veteran wit. It seems, however, that he doesn't read his own column. In the May 19 issue of SI, Patrick criticizes Yankees relief pitcher Joba Chamberlain for his "spontaneous displays of enthusiasm" after striking people out (specifically, pumping his fist after fanning David Dellucci a few weeks ago). According to Dan "Catchphrase" Patrick (thanks for introducing "en fuego" to American pop culture, by the way. I had to hear that shit throughout high school. I prayed that your face was en fuego), these young ballplayers should save their celebrations for "meaningful occasions." Fair enough. But how does one explain Dan Patrick's handling of Manny Ramirez in this week's SI:

I'm sure you saw the clips of Manny Ramirez giving a fan a high five last week after making a catch - but before he threw the ball to first to complete a double play. The knee-jerk reaction for many is to shake their heads: Hey, he's not taking the game seriously. But I like it. Whenever I watch Manny, I'm entertained: He's having fun.


You see how he had to add that "before he threw the ball to first to complete a double play" in order to justify championing this bullshit? So fucking around while the ball is in play is adorable while celebrating a strike out is excessive. Manny Ramirez's high five was ancillary to the play: He did it to see if he could do it. Manny has always been beloved for his childlike personality (indicative, possibly, of an extra chromosome swimming around, know what I mean?). I don't feel it's entirely fair to condemn Joba for a game-related expression of emotion (which can only help a team and its fans get excited about a last place performance) while looking at Ramirez like a lovable scamp whose antics often cost his team.

Of course, Dan Patrick admits that Manny does sometimes blow it. He then compares him to Brett Favre and how he used to "goof around." But, WHATEVER! It's CUTE!!! What does Dan see in them?

Here's what I see in each: one of the best of his generation, playing like a kid.


Well, Dan, kids also pump their fists after strikeouts. Kids get excited. Kids also whine and cry and choke and fuck up. I'm just looking for a little consistency here, Dan. Like George Carlin says: Let's not have two standards here. One standard will do just fine.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

BLASINGAME!


One of the perks of being an XM subscriber is being subjected to the dulcet tones of Jim Blasingame. He does adverts for his radio show which, from what I can gather, has something to do with either helping small business owners succeed or annoying the shit out of XM subscribers. His voice seeps into my brain through my nose and just SITS there droning on like some prison camp survivor telling stories about how severely he was beaten. He has this Droopy Dog cadence to his voice that inspires nothing but violent anger in me. Even though he talks like a tired victim of a bus crash, to be fair, it isn't just his mouthnoise that eats at me like a sleepy vampire. It's also his unBELIEVEably shitty analogies that he hamfistedly applies to running a small business. They range from marginally unrelated to batshit insane. They sound like this:

When a young kitten tries to lap milk from the other side of the bowl, he gets milk all over his chest fur. When running a small business, sometimes we try to lap our net income from the other side of the ledger. Write this on a rock: the closest milk is the sweetest.


ARGGHHHHH!!!! WHAT?! Even though I can't remember an actual quote from his dumb ads, the above example captures something he would say. Somehow he manages to be obvious and convoluted at the same time. I guess from this simpering drivel, we're supposed to get the idea that he's some kind, sagacious old man whose wisdom is brilliant in its simplicity. In reality, it's babble that makes you want to stab him in the mustache.

Sometimes when a man bends down to pick up a penny from the sidewalk, he misses the bigger picture. Like the other man sidling up behind him to slip in ol' Yeller. Write this on a rock: don't get fucked in the ass by being cheap.


He's infuriating. Next up, Suzyn Waldman.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Oh yeah?

I was watching an episode of WWE's ECW brand and saw Matt Striker pull off the official Jordan Barker "Look of Disgust." It was so close to Jordan's that I had to vid cap it:



This was the same look Jordan gave me when I was convinced that Rich Hall was the guy with glasses and a mustache on Not Necessarily the News (answer: Rich Hall is the Sniglets guy. I was thinking of Danny Breen).

E-pissed-temology

This past weekend I had the opportunity to visit my girlfriend's sister's family in Long Island. Luckily, my girlfriend came along or it would've been CREEPY. The family includes a three year old girl who has a Herculean amount of energy and, as a result, is the source of nonstop entertainment. Rather than focus on her antics, however, I thought it would be super fun to talk about epistemology and identity for the purpose of boring everyone's fucking faces off.

I wondered aloud, much to the chagrin of the child's mother, when a young mind gains a sense of identity. According to this girl's mother, at about two to two and a half years old, the infant recognizes herself as a distinct personality. Things become "mine." In fact, the idea of "me" becomes overwhelmingly important, so much so that I marveled at how often the idea of "sharing" comes up in the age-targeted media she watches. What's amazing is that her self, her personality, her identity is, at this moment, at its most malleable stage. It's a tabula rasa. From here on out, her experiences inform her very being.

But how does that work now? In 2008? When I was three, I was inundated with the constant barrage of stimuli from various media sources. But however influential that was, it doesn't begin to touch what an infant mind has to contend with now. In an existential sense, the mind manufactures itself, identifies itself, with external "things." My name is Gabe. I have brown hair. I have brown eyes. These are facts that are identified with me, but at the same time aren't "me." The "me," in this sense, is a strange nothingness around which these identifiers adhere.

What makes this problematic is that the sense of identity in today's day and age seems in a constant flux. Don't like your hair? Change it. Don't like your eyes? Change them. Don't like any part of your body? Switch it out for something slimmer or stronger. And despite this bottomless well of choice, at the same time, we are encouraged NOT to consider ourselves different from one another. Categorizing by age, sex, race, or ability is ultimately, we are told, insensitive. It seems that all of these things that make us unique, that distinguish us, are at the same time liabilities.

Taking those identifiers out of the mix, it seems that what remains is harmless tripe. What television shows do I like? What music do I listen to? What sports team do I follow? But ultimately, who am I? Does it matter anymore? The cold, stale formula for the "self" becomes identical for every person, save variable "x" in his case stands for "Good Eats" while for her it stands for "America's Next Top Model."

However dismal my outlook is, I have hope. As I watched the three year old girl atop her playset, she paused for a moment and stared out into the row of trees that line her driveway. Her eyes flickered. She was daydreaming. And for a moment, I understood that consciousness was more than simple formulas.

Everyday Normal Guy

Andy Samberg doesn't come close to comedian Jon Lajoie:


Also in the rap department, a video that is hilarious but I'm not sure is meant to be, rapper Riskay's "Smell Yo Dick:"

Friday, May 09, 2008

New Podcast

My friend John and I discuss comic books! Well, John discusses comic books. I babble on like a retarded Andy Richter.

Podcast!

There will be an exclusive feed for this soon.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Scattershot

* Most Yankee fans despise John Sterling. He's been the radio voice for my favorite team since I was a little boy. I have to admit that I have a soft spot for him and his hokey bullshit, which includes his tendency to emphasize the wrong words in sentences ("IT is high, IT is far, it is...GONE"), his quaint, ol' timey phrases ("They went back to back...and a-belly to belly"), and his sometimes painful catchphrases. What fans seem to forget is that Sterling wasn't ALWAYS delivering awful catchphrases. Growing up, he had a smattering of them, but it wasn't nearly as manufactured as it is today. Someone sucking on a cigar somewhere in the Yankee head office must've encouraged this behavior, because listening to him now is embarrassing. Most of his ridiculous t-shirt oriented slogans revolve around homeruns:

- "Bernie goes boom!" (when Bernie Williams hit a homerun)
- "It is an A-bomb...from A-Rod!" (when Rodriguez does same)
- "The Giambino!" (this couldn't be more awkward if Jason Giambi's face was actually grafted onto Babe Ruth's asscheek)
- "It's Robbie Cano, don'tcha know!" (we're stretching here)
- "It's absolutely Damonic!" (this I heard for the first time today when Johnny Damon hit a homer. This should be punishable by vasectomy)

They just get worse and worse. I'm half expecting him to eventually get weird:

- "You never know a girl until J-eter!"
- "A thrilling hand Joba!" (Or "What a blow Joba" when he blows the game)
- "Don't just stare at it, Pettitte."
- "What a play by Giambi! Mekka lekka high, mekka hiney ho!" (PeeWee reference? Anybody? Get it? I also would say "mekka lekka high, mekka hiney homer")

* The Marvel Secret Invasion story line is pretty great. I'm 31 years old.

* GTA IV has earned $500 million dollars in its first week. I earned significantly less than that.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Grand Theft Fuckface

There are moments in one's adult life that define who he is. Penning a novel. Saving a crippled child from an oncoming train. For me, it was standing with a bunch of teenaged animals outside of a Gamestop on 86th street awaiting the official release of Grand Theft Auto IV. And by "animals," I mean a rowdy slew of just the worst kind of quasi-criminal dirtbags you could possibly imagine. Illiterate, ignorant shitheads whose highest aspirations are to one day "get paid, son" and, maybe, manage a Denny's. So there we were, thugs, myself, and one fifteen year old boy with his mother biding our time until a video game came out. And I couldn't help but wonder if the fiftyish mother was starting to second guess her decision to vouch for her son's purchase, seeing as everyone around us were obnoxious gangbangers.

I heard a young punk behind me mutter to his friend, "Yo, I can't wait to shoot someone in this shit."

Then I felt sick to my stomach. Not because I was offended or because I was disgusted by this bottom feeder's lack of sophistication. I felt sick because that's what it all boiled down to, really. That was the experience we were all hoping to get out of playing this game. The freedom to act out the violent fantasies of some devilish thug without any real consequences. Despite whatever morality tale lies at the heart of this game (and there always is), these kids surrounding me don't care. They don't care about the story or the elaborately constructed virtual New York. They just want to shoot someone in this shit.

As I walked away with my copy, I couldn't help but think that maybe we're now beyond desensitization to violence. We crave it.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Good gravy, am I sick of this woman

There is a middle-aged woman in my office who is the epitome of a washed-up actress and she drives everyone up a wall because she is an insufferable busybody. She openly eavesdrops on private conversations and hovers where she's not wanted. She's the same woman who a couple of weeks ago "overheard" my conversation with the office manager about Kath's show. The reason why she didn't hear it from me directly is because she is the last person on the planet I would invite to ANYTHING remotely drama related. Why? Because when she does turn up to these things, no matter how small or low budget, she insists on getting comped because she's "in the industry" and she offers unsolicited criticism after the show. Simple-minded, niggling snipes from a embittered nothing of a woman. I hate her with all of my might and want nothing more than ill fortune to rain down on her.

The only reason I brought this up is because she made a characteristically snide comment to me about a half hour ago. This older gentleman in the office was wearing the same colored shirt and pants that I had on and he drew attention to it, saying "Hey, we're like brothers! Could you tell the difference if I weren't as old as fuck?" Of course, this woman immediately said "the only difference I see is that your wife ironed your shirt."

Why you miserable bitch. Oh, my shirt's wrinkly is it? Well, so's your face. The trouble is, I can actually iron my shirt if I thought this job really mattered at all. You can't iron your face...though I suppose I could give it a shot for you. Rather clumsily and with great force.

Ugh. I hope she gets a paper cut. In her heart.

My first lolcat

funny pictures
moar funny pictures

Lots of time on my hands...

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

He could bear it no longer

I didn't see the latest "Will Ferrell is a hapless champion at some quirky sport" movie, but apparently the former SNL star wrestled a bear in one of the scenes. The bear, it turns out, was upset with its contract:

Yahoo News: Bear gave off no reasons for concern before trainer's death

Shockingly, a trained grizzly bear can be unpredictable. Unfortunately, a bear makes for a poor vampire as its attempt to draw blood from its trainer ended in the removal of the entire neck. If you ask me, the bear's fit of rage was exactly one scene with Will Ferrell too late.

ADDENDUM: Notice how in most cute, fun articles about animals they use the third person personal pronouns "he" or "she." "Tommy the bear! He's just like one of the family!" When the bear rips some dude's throat out, though, journalists go straight to the third person impersonal. "The bear murdered its trainer by taking his head in its paws and tearing out his lymph nodes." Not so cute anymore, I guess.

*********************

And now that I'm on the topic of annoying celebrities: Hey, Kanye West, WE GET IT! YOU LOVE LOUIS VUITTON! Does his name have to appear in every song now? Jesus Christ in a pickle jar, are you THAT strapped for words that rhyme with don? How about:

- I met a guy named Ron.
- My father is an ex-con.
- I love jerk chicken, mon (if you're Jamaican)

And to tell the truth, I'm not too impressed with rappers who rap about what they did in the club the night before anyway. Guess what?! Telling me what French fashion designer you were wearing while you sipped expensive cocktails isn't very interesting. In fact, it's pretty gay. Very gay, now that I think about it. (And I mean "gay" in both that eighth grade "going to the mall is so gay" way and, of course, "homosexual.")

Don't rappers kill each other anymore? That's what we want to hear.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Cottonelle? More like Cotton Swell!

I cannot begin to express my pleasure and gratitude that baby wipes are now accepted as suitable for adults and infants alike. You don't understand...regular toilet paper now seems BARBARIC. I mean, what were people doing before? I'll tell you what: pawing at their brown eyes with burlap sacks. Finally, dignity has arrived at the bathroom. It's like leaving the stall with a freshly polished nickel.

Speaking of disgusting, a fellow on the train into work this morning was digging deep into his nose as if looking for loose change. Apparently, he was unaware of the other fifty commuters around him and their good taste to not jam digits into their uncovered orifices. Of course, he went on to shove his pointer finger into his ear as well. I half expected him to go the whole nine yards and ram a thumb up his ass. I would have then recommended Cottonelle to him.

New York is a hell of a town.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Don't mention the war

I have realized that my ideal haircut is very similar if not identical to those favored by Germans around, oh, say, 1941. It's difficult to relay this image to the all-Jewish barbershop I go to on 44th Street. I would imagine that "I would like the SS officer, please" would swiftly mutate the normal clip-clip motion of the scissors to more of a stab-stab stroke somewhere around my temple.

They say clothes make the man, but does that idea extend to the haircut? I'll keep you posted if I happen upon any notions of a national socialist party.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Enfermería General

I normally hate doing my laundry in Washington Heights, in part because doing one's laundry is one of the more tedious activities in his life, but mostly because the Heights is full of degenerates and scumbags. In fact, I find it hilarious that there's a musical about the Heights out right now. Somehow, I'm not sure that putting sexual harassment, littering, and gang violence to music makes anything better. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not familiar with the rich culture all around me that, as a white man, I simply can't appreciate. Well, all I know is what I've seen. And I've seen lady friends move out of the Heights because of the constant barrage of aggressive men, glass bottles being thrown at passers-by, raw chicken being "delivered" to chimichurri trucks by having it thrown on the street, and a steady line of makeshift memorials to dead gangbangers. I've lived there about six years now, and I fail to see the charm.

Especially in the laundromat, which, in the Heights, doubles as a recreation center (read: place to dump one's obnoxious children). Even though last night's trip to the laundromat was relatively hassle free, I'm always amazed at the idiosyncrasies these people have simply doing the wash. Such as jury rigging EVERY machine in the place so only Fonzie could make them work properly. And, instead of putting a decent amount of clothes in a few dryers and drying them for a half hour, they like to put two or three items in each of fifteen dryers and dry them for five minutes. This practice leads to not only dryer monopoly, but it also makes one wonder why there's a single sock and a pair of shorts tumbling alone together, as if dancing a forbidden dance that only clothes understand. But the best laundromat quirk HAS to be the Spanish language soap operas they have BLASTING on the television in the corner. Last night's exciting tale involved women SCREAMING in some sort of dungeon while this borderline gay villain in a cape kept mildly threatening them. And despite the drama, the music would occasionally switch to a sort of bumbling, cartoon lilt and the prisoners would have exasperated fake fights with each other. And, my Spanish may be shaky, but from what I could make out, the theme song to this televisual gem involved the devil and love.

For all I know, that's what it was called. The Devil and Love. Anybody know if that's a show?

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Boyd, howdy!

When I was a mere boy and a beardless youth, I was an avid L.M. Boyd fan. His column out of Seattle was a collection of trivia, a simple list of odd facts. And I loved it. I found a website that has amassed a smattering of his trivial records. Here are some of my favorites:

* Mythmakers of ancient England spoke of a monster in the shape of an emaciated cow called "Chichevache" that ate nothing but faithful wives. The bit of lore eventually lost currency. Some English say it was too silly. Some Irish say the old cow starved to death.

* It's only a coincidence that "nasa" in Hebrew means "to go up."

* Makers of medieval calendars marked two days of each month as evil days. Called them the "Dies Mali." During which nothing good was supposed to happen. Their label came down as our word "dismal."

* Yes, as reported here, anthropologists know of no human society whose children do not play hide and seek. But I left something out. Other animals play the game, too. Otters do. So do young deer.

* "Preposterous" comes from Latin meaning "before and after." Originally it was supposed to convey how ridiculous it is to put something first that ought to be last. Such as a cart before a horse.

* The old Romans thought a person's health changed every seven years. They also thought a mirror reflected a person's health, good or bad. It was a twist on this combination that gave us the superstitious notion that a broken mirror foretold seven years bad luck.

* Before people gave up meat for Lent, they celebrated with a "carnival." That word stems from "carne vale" meaning "goodbye, meat."

And for my lawyer boss:
* The original "esquire" — the man, not the magazine — was a young noble apprenticed to a knight. "Esquire" was one rank below "gentleman."

Ain't that the truth.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Only four more shows!

The first four shows were amazing and now you only have four shows left to see:

My Dead Mother is Funnier Than You

ArcLight Theatre, 152 West 71st Street (b/w Broadway and Columbus)
April 3 - 6 and April 10 - 13
Thursday through Saturday 8pm, Sunday 3pm

Tickets available through TheaterMania.com

Seriously, people like it.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

My Dead Mother is Funnier Than You...

...is a play by Katherine Williams and it will be opening next week, you ol' so and so. Kath is the same playwright who brought you The Shih Tzu Doesn't Like Lesbians and she will be starring in the piece. I will be playing a dog.

Here's the info:

My Dead Mother is Funnier Than You

ArcLight Theatre, 152 West 71st Street (b/w Broadway and Columbus)
April 3 - 6 and April 10 - 13
Thursday through Saturday 8pm, Sunday 3pm

Tickets available through TheaterMania.com


Don't miss Kath's performance in this.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Gym-bo-ree

So, I joined a gym. To some, that's akin to my saying "I like the Mets now" or "I am totally confident about my impending success." And, to answer your question in advance, no, they don't serve beer at the gym. Nor do they sell popcorn or show BBC comedies on DVD. I have decided that in order to be taken seriously, I have to stop looking like I eat a half pound of cheese a night (which I do. I can still eat the cheese, I just have to stop looking like I eat the cheese. I kind of want that to be a new laudatory phrase like "takes the cake." "Boy, that Gabe. He really eats the cheese."). One too many periods in that last sentence, but you get my drift.

My gym of choice? Crunch, which sports such amenities as a rock climbing wall and a boxing ring, neither of which I'll ever use. According to some (read: Kath), it's a gay gym as well, which amuses me because I've always wanted to work out next to Fred Schneider. But, I have to say, the gym is a delight, though I have little to no knowledge about how most of the equipment works. Half way through a weight training regimen, I realized I had my balls in the cash register (perfectly split between the ones and fives, I might add). Any actual exercise I get is just icing on the cake, I figure.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Central Pork

The Dutch sure are fun, huh?

Dutch to legalize gay sex in park

I've never been to Amsterdam, but between the pot smoking and the above article, it sounds like a nonstop party. I know it isn't, but come on. Of course, New York used to be New Amsterdam, but I suppose that in this case the word "New" is Dutch for "Not."

Friday, March 07, 2008

Wait a second...

I saw this ad walking back from some stupid audition this morning:


Isn't that sort of mentality what gets kids abducted in the first place?

Thursday, March 06, 2008

A Lady of a Certain Age

A really pretty song about an absolute train wreck of a person. Neil Hannon's "A Lady of a Certain Age:"



Back in the day you had been part of the smart set
You'd holidayed with kings, dined out with starlets
From London to New York, Cap Ferrat to Capri
In perfume by Chanel and clothes by Givenchy
You sipped camparis with David and Peter
At Noel's parties by Lake Geneva
Scaling the dizzy heights of high society
Armed only with a cheque-book and a family tree

You chased the sun around the Cote d'Azur
Until the light of youth became obscured
And left you on your own and in the shade
An English lady of a certain age
And if a nice young man would buy you a drink
You'd say with a conspiratorial wink
"You wouldn't think that I was seventy"
And he'd say,"no, you couldn't be!"

You had to marry someone very very rich
So that you might be kept in the style to which
You had all of your life been accustomed to
But that the socialists had taxed away from you
You gave him children, a girl and a boy
To keep your sanity a nanny was employed
And when the time came they were sent away
Well that was simply what you did in those days

You chased the sun around the Cote d'Azur
Until the light of youth became obscured
And left you on your own and in the shade
An English lady of a certain age
And if a nice young man would buy you a drink
You'd say with a conspiratorial wink
"You wouldn't think that I was sixty three"
And he'd say,"no, you couldn't be!

Your son's in stocks and bonds and lives back in Surrey
Flies down once in a while and leaves in a hurry
Your daughter never finished her finishing school
Married a strange young man of whom you don't approve
Your husband's hollow heart gave out one Christmas Day
He left the villa to his mistress in Marseilles
And so you come here to escape your little flat
Hoping someone will fill your glass and let you chat about how

You chased the sun around the Cote d'Azur
Until the light of youth became obscured
And left you all alone and in the shade
An English lady of a certain age
And if a nice young man would buy you a drink
You'd say with a conspiratorial wink
"You wouldn't think that I was fifty three"
And he'd say,"no, you couldn't be!

Friday, February 29, 2008

Aren't you clever

While I awaited what turned out to be the wrong sandwich at my favorite sandwichery, the guy ahead of me decided to order more food on top of what he had already ordered, because God forbid he should go a few hours without shoveling shit down his gullet.

JERK: Give me five spanakopitas, please.

COUNTER GIRL: Huh?

JERK: (pretentiously annoyed) Spanakopitas! You know, spinach pies?

Now, keep in mind that the sign clearly reads "Spinach Pies" on the dish. So, it is clear that the guy was simply trying to impress everyone on the planet with his deep knowledge of Greek cuisine. And this ridiculous asshole wasn't Greek or even marginally Mediterranean at all. He was just some insufferable dildo who couldn't help but educate us all on what the spinach pies were ACTUALLY called, like it's a fucking conspiracy or something. Well, guess what? Knowledge is only useful when it helps you get what you want. When the person behind the counter doesn't know what the fuck you're talking about because she knows an item as "spinach pie" when you're calling it "spanakopita" (which sounds vaguely like Spinal Bifida), what's the point of drawing her attention to it? Not only won't she remember its proper name, she'll actively bury it in her head as the snobbish comment from some pedantic prick it is.

On a lighter note, John Ness reminded me of this scene from They Live:

Friday, February 22, 2008

I hope they like those jokes on the Moon, Alice. 'Cause that's where you're going!

The beautiful Mugwatch and I were delighted to discover that the downtown M31 train was free of charge this wintry morning. Well, I was delighted until I realized that the bus was free because the guy driving it was batshit insane. It seemed like someone had watched one too many Honeymooners episodes and decided that he was, beyond question, Ralph Kramden.

A woman asked the best way to get to Times Square from where we were and the bus driver gave his two cents until some old busybody passenger threw his hat into the ring and offered his advice and then the entire front of the bus was arguing about the best route. The old man got off, firing some parting "I can't help myself when I'm right" apologies to the bus driver. As soon as the bus door closed, the bus driver said, in his working man sarcasm, "Oh, there's always one pain in the ass on every ride. EVERYBODY knows EVERYTHING except me." It was after this incident that I noticed a certain palpable tension in the air.

After letting a few people on near the East Side Tram, the bus began to pull away when a tardy passenger ran up to the closed bus door and pummeled it with his gloved hand. The bus driver opened the door and exclaimed, "Why don't you band a little harder, you might shatter the glass." He further explained that had the man fallen in the stairwell and injured himself, the bus driver would be "up Shit's Creek."

By now, we all knew we were dealing with a loose cannon. The bus driver was being really funny, but there was a slight tinge of Kramden-esque fury to everything he said. At one point, some poor dope had left her gloves behind and was late leaving the rear exit of the bus. Her shrill Eastern European accent kept honking "back door? back door? back door?" almost as if she were wondering where it was rather than asking for it to be open. The bus driver didn't hear her and began to pull away. Now, like a gaggle of tittering Mynah birds, a small collection of voices were popping up from the back of the bus imploring "BACK DOOR! BACK DOOR!" until one particularly douchey looking gentleman yelled "hey, there's a lady tryin' to get off back here!"

The bus driver stopped the bus and scolded, "well, why don't you wake up a little earlier next time!" The European woman said, "I'm sorry, I thought I forgot my gloves." To which the driver, now in love with no single idea in the universe, muttered "yeah, right, gloves..." and a bunch of other hushed insults that made the front of the bus chuckle with delight.

Realizing I was in the window seat, and even though my stop was an entire avenue block away, I turned to Mugwatch and said "I think I'll get up now." I just didn't want to be sent to the Moon, bang zoom.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Hail to the chief

In honor of President's Day, my body decided to celebrate our nation's current president by systematically rejecting and jettisoning food from every orifice. A three day weekend wasted waiting out food poisoning allows a fellow to assess his life and his fiber intake. Neither looked good. Still, I watched an awkward guy try to sell an Acer laptop for an hour and a half, saying things with creepy enthusiasm like "Let's say you're in the kitchen! How many of you have gone out and looked at flatscreen TVs for your kitchen and wondered if it's really worth it? Well what if I said that this laptop is ALSO a DVD player? And you stow it anywhere in here! You could put it in a drawer!" In a drawer? Who's putting their laptop in a kitchen drawer? It just seemed silly.

Also, Fidel Castro has stepped down and has said he won't seek "another term." That's hardly shocking seeing as the first one lasted fifty years.

Friday, February 15, 2008

FTD = Fucking Total Disaster

Hey, here's a tip: if you want fresh flowers delivered to the destination of your choice, AVOID USING FTD AT ALL costs. It would be more satisfying (and quicker) to go pick wild flowers in Tuscany and then shove them up your own ass. Ugh, these people DISGUST me. I understand that yesterday was a big holiday for them and they get swamped. Well, so does every other company that delivers flowers on Valentine's Day. DO WHAT FLOWERS.COM DOES AND SIMPLY REJECT ORDERS YOU CAN'T FILL, FTD. FTD has "same day delivery available" all over the fucking place and you pay a king's ransom to have it done. And if you want to check your order status? Simply call 1-800-SEND-FTD and be told that "due to the holiday rush" they're unable to connect you to a customer service representative. Why not try online? Mmmmmmmmok. Simply type in your order number and get ABSOLUTELY NO RESPONSE regardless of how many times you send it. Then, when you've decided that you'd rather see a bouquet of dead children than see a flower again, use the handy "Cancel Order" option on the Customer Service page. Now, you will get a reply INSTANTLY and you will be told that your order CAN'T be canceled because it's on the way to be delivered, even though you are in constant contact with the recipient who assures you that there isn't a fucking flower within a four mile radius of their location.

FTD is a bullshit company chock filled with cowards. Their answer to the holiday rush is completely shutting down customer service? Really? Just ignore the angry callers and bully them into paying for a product that shows up two days late? When I initially tried Flowers.com for my order, they wouldn't let me order anything for the 14th because they knew they couldn't fill the order. BUT, even during the Christmas holiday, when I used Flowers.com they phoned me IMMEDIATELY when there was a problem and we worked it out between us. FTD decides that they can't handle that and that they must throw everybody off the phone and send bullshit automated replies.

I can't remember the name of the movie I just saw that where a character says "if the customer is happy, they'll tell three people. If the customer is unhappy, they'll tell ten." Well, consider this my telling ten people. Don't use these lying cunts for any of your holiday shopping. It'd be easier to buy the flowers and take them to your loved one yourself.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

More subtle racism

Just the other day I called Pennsylvania, my home state, the land of subtle racism. And the gods have answered with this gem coming from one of the local papers back home:

More Good Workers Wanted

This article DESPERATELY wants to say "Puerto Ricans" but can't. My favorite lines are:

"They don't want to follow rules, and in a workplace there are certain rules,'' Bunner said. ''It's almost like it's a cultural thing."

Cultural thing? Whose culture? Do tell.

"We've had such poor luck with them, and we've had better success with people over 40,'' he said. ''It takes that long for them to get the wildness out of their system."

The "them" in that last sentence is supposedly referring to people under 30. Knowing the Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton area well, my guess is that there's more to it than that. And hey, I'm sure it's a huge problem, but I just wish this article would be honest and get to the point. Dare I say they're pussyfooting around the real thrust or their article? Dare I?

The real theme of that article is that these employers are trying to fill shitty jobs and to no one's surprise, the young Puerto Ricans don't want to do the shitty jobs anymore. Maybe my dad's or uncle's generation was the last to suck it up and take crap jobs, but I have a feeling that's no longer the case. Young Latino boys and girls are exposed to a constant barrage of media telling them that there's better stuff out there. They're also exposed to cultural role models who glorify the "fuck you" attitude. It just doesn't surprise me that you can't pawn off a job on them that pays $13 an hour.

And believe me, I'm not justifying their behavior. It's just genuinely shocking when you see someone take pride in what they're doing anymore. I understand it may not be what you want to do with your life, but why not take pride in what you do while you're doing it? It would certainly help your self-esteem.

That being said, the salad guy at Pfizer's cafeteria is the most exemplary employee of all time. Seriously, if anybody wants to meet him, I would gladly bring whole tour groups down to watch him.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Kiss my ass, Greenpeace

As I was walking back to the office with my lunch, an insufferable Greenpeace shithead jumped in my path and asked me if I saw the polar bear last night. I didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, so I gave him a look that suggested to him that I might have mistakenly heard him call my mother a whore, and he backed up hastily (presumably to avoid getting stabbed in the eyeball with my meatball wrap).

Also, I've been hearing a lot about McDonald's new coffee and how good it is. I tried it this morning and I have to stamp it with an official "meh." Dunkin Donuts is still chamPEEN in my opinion and McDonald's gourmet bullshit can go pound sand. It's NOT FIT TO TOUCH MY LIPS!!!

A couple of comments on the entry below cited the Tom Cruise Scientology video and yes, I have seen it. I'm happy that this video reminds Anonymous of my podcasts, because there's nothing more flattering than likening one's sense of humor to the babbling of a fucking lunatic. Seriously, I think that's funny.

Which leads me to something I've been thinking about a lot lately. Can actors please stop? Can that be it with actors pretending they're important? Robert De Niro came out in support of Obama. You know what? Who gives a shit? Sean Penn sailed around in a boat handing out supplies to Katrina victims (with a film crew by the way). That's great. No one asked you to, stupid. Doesn't everybody realize that actors are basically in the same category as clowns and mimes? Listening to what an actor has to say about anything is like listening to the opinion of a clown. I don't go to mimes for political commentary, so I don't want to hear from Tom Hanks on the subject either. In fact, I don't even like my own stupid opinion. I should shut my fat trap.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

It's a shame, you know?

How unbelievably nuts I am?

I'm paranoid and constantly defending myself against emotional attack where no defense is needed.

I'm such a fucking baby, it's obnoxious.

And the odd part is that all my life I've dealt with my insecurities with humor and I'm only now discovering that that technique isn't always appropriate.

I really need to grow up.

Anyway, on a lighter note, my next door neighbor informed me that there was a fight in the apartment directly above us last night. The apartment in question is incessantly noisy, so I wasn't too surprised, but I was unaware that actual violence broke out. I asked her if the police had come.

"No, I no call the police. Because, you know, they have a student..."

And she kept reiterating that the apartment "had a student" and she didn't want to endanger said student. I'm assuming she meant there was a child involved, but I can't be certain. Still, child or no child, calling the police wouldn't have been the worst idea on the planet.

Oh, and another thing. Today at my audition, I overheard this actor talking to one of the casting people about his tattoo.

TATTOO DUDE: I told the guy, I said, "Look, I'm a tenacious guy..."

You certainly are.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Aw, the cheaters didn't win?

What a goddamned shame.

Still, with plays like this:


...it's easy to start believing in divine intervention.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Nonsensical bloggery

I was listening to Kanye West's album "Graduation" this morning, his third album following "The College Dropout" and "Late Registration." I'm awaiting his next similarly themed albums entitled "Transfer My Credits" and "Office of the Bursar."

A woman in the line for salads (which can be sung to the tune of "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds") a few days ago ordered a small Chicken Caesar. The salad tosser (ho ho) asked her "do you want everything with that?" She replied, "yes...but no onions and no beets." Then you didn't really want everything, did you? Why did you insist, initially, that you did? I would like to give this woman everything...except compassion or pity as I stuff fistfulls of chicken down her eye sockets.

I find that I prefer my head shaved. It's easily maintained. It does, however, clog drains and I've noticed that the shower, sink, and, somehow, the toilet work slowly for a few days afterwards. It could be my imagination. Or, one of my roommates is shaving his ass over the toilet.

Another benefit of a shaved head is that people in my neighborhood assume I'm a racist. I could either chase each passerby down and convince him I'm not a racist, which I'm not, or I could let all of Washington Heights believe I will actually stab them to death with a Bic pen. It's safer, is what I'm saying.

A black woman was standing in the lobby of the building in which I work (a building which houses the CW11) and she was staring at a poster for One Tree Hill. She kept saying to no one in particular "mmmmm...it's my show...it's my show, y'all." It was kind of odd, really.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

She's just Jenny from the block

Tooth extractions are always easier when you get to sit in a waiting room chock full of quasi-literate shitheads who happen to be in pain. As I awaited my molar's day of reckoning, I was treated to the incessant moaning of a particularly agonized gentleman who sounded like he was being gently stabbed every two seconds.

"Ohhhhhh...ohhhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhhh"

You could set your watch to it. It was such a half-assed and childish expression of pain, that the women sitting next to me couldn't help but give in to uncontrollable giggling. After a short wait with Johnny Moansalot, my name was called.

Now, the first sign of a good dental experience is blood caked on the dentist's overhead light. I had grown accustomed to NYU's general dentistry wing, which sports bright, shiny equipment and a certain openness. The oral surgery wing, however, is where American tourists are systematically hunted down and slaughtered, their remains left dangling from the exhaust vents to taunt the newest victims. After I sat down and explained my condition to my attending student-doctor (whose name tag, I shit you not, read "J. Lo"), a second person was brought in the discuss the matter of ripping my goddamned tooth out. This latter individual will be dubbed Dirk Studsly, because this poor dope was convinced that he was a lot better looking than he actually is. Also, power and achievement are most awkwardly displayed in a dental school. Dr. Studsly was clearly the top banana, and he let you know it. Unfortunately, because he is a dentist, no one gives a shit. Anyway, Styles McDashing and J. Lo had a little powwow behind me and I heard the following conversation:

GUY LANTERNJAW: You want to do it?

JLO: Uh...

GUY: You can do it. I'll help. Get him to sign the consent form first.

Ah...I'm no detective, but it seems an awful lot like this might be JLO's first time. Luckily, Chisel Axelrod will be so kind as to lead the way. I glanced up at the blood on the light and considered my options:

1. Go batshit insane and escape the oral surgery wing holding moaning guy hostage

2. Start believing in a god

3. Take it like a man

So, I took it like a man. And, I must say, JLO did a fine job. No pain. No fuss. No muss. I will certainly consider her for all of my future tooth extracting needs.

And just to be clear that I wasn't exaggerating about the state of the office, the guy who was sucking the blood from my mouth (with a suction device, not his mouth) exclaimed at the end of the extraction "wow, this is one ghetto cubicle."

And then we all laughed.