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.
Like having your best friend berate you.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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.
"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.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
He stunk then and he stinks now
I can't stand Larry the Cable Guy. I thought he was the worst thing out there. Until I saw this clip of Dan Whitney before he became "Larry the Cable Guy."
A toothsome treat
Tomorrow morning, I will have a tooth ripped out of my face. This molar is an incredible son of a bitch and must be stopped at all costs. In fact, I strongly suspect that it knows it's time is near, because it's been stabbing at my jaw all day with its infected roots. Well, it isn't infected at the moment, but it used to be due to a crack in its otherwise pristine shell. You see, pent up rage and frustration is sometimes manifest in intense jaw tension. On a particularly evil day, I could probably turn coal into diamonds with the rottweiler-like pressure my mouth produces. So, rather than an ulcer, I have a cracked molar. And I want the bastard pried from my gums (with a goddamned backhoe if need be).
I keep envisioning the dentist having to place a foot on the side of my face in order to get more leverage in pulling the little shithead out, Looney Tunes style. I also fantasize about a pen's width column of blood spewing out of my face and right into the dentist's eye. Or, ideally, the molar is yanked from my maw with enough force to startle the dentist and the ejected tooth goes careening into the air and out of the window, where it embarks on a journey of self-discovery with a false tooth character called Denny. My tooth and Denny learn life lessons including that one can overcome adversity (such as my tooth being cracked) and that there is no such thing as a "false tooth," just "false intentions." And an Elton John song will swell over the credits as we see the unlikely pair of friends walk into the sunset...or into the mouth of that chick who played the Borg 7 of 9.
Dare to dream.
I keep envisioning the dentist having to place a foot on the side of my face in order to get more leverage in pulling the little shithead out, Looney Tunes style. I also fantasize about a pen's width column of blood spewing out of my face and right into the dentist's eye. Or, ideally, the molar is yanked from my maw with enough force to startle the dentist and the ejected tooth goes careening into the air and out of the window, where it embarks on a journey of self-discovery with a false tooth character called Denny. My tooth and Denny learn life lessons including that one can overcome adversity (such as my tooth being cracked) and that there is no such thing as a "false tooth," just "false intentions." And an Elton John song will swell over the credits as we see the unlikely pair of friends walk into the sunset...or into the mouth of that chick who played the Borg 7 of 9.
Dare to dream.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A bunch of frags
Last night was my Playstation 3's maiden journey into online gaming. In retrospect, I should've chosen a game other than Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare to attempt online play, seeing as it's possibly the most realistic and frenetic war game I've ever seen. There's an eerie palpability to the environments and to the actual act of killing in the game that is largely unsettling.
What's more unsettling is that, playing online, one gets to meet the sort of people who are drawn to virtually blowing away complete strangers. If a gamer is uncertain of whether or not he is playing an actual human online, he is treated to a stream of insults and expletives from the horde of teenagers who are live-chatting via USB headsets plugged in to their respective PS3s. And what is particularly unnerving is that the voices you hear are unmistakably young and terribly Southern American. Somehow, the thought of teen Arkansans fantasizing about chasing down and murdering Arabs is disturbing. Then again, it is our modern equivalent of playing army and is ultimately harmless.
The opponents may be young, but they're deadly. I would respawn and be shot dead in seconds. To add insult to injury, the game shows you a replay of your death from your killer's perspective, just to summarize what we've all learned during gameplay. For instance, it's inadvisable to look around wildly at the rooftops while standing in the middle of the street. Trying to use a sniper rifle on an enemy who is five feet in front of you is at best awkward and at worst futile, unless you want to get a Hubble Telescope view of his nostril before he blows your fucking head off with a shotgun.
Still, as you play, you learn that violence doesn't pay. Also, you learn that you get upgrades the more you play, so as soon as I can get into that helicopter, TravisBickle343 is going down.
What's more unsettling is that, playing online, one gets to meet the sort of people who are drawn to virtually blowing away complete strangers. If a gamer is uncertain of whether or not he is playing an actual human online, he is treated to a stream of insults and expletives from the horde of teenagers who are live-chatting via USB headsets plugged in to their respective PS3s. And what is particularly unnerving is that the voices you hear are unmistakably young and terribly Southern American. Somehow, the thought of teen Arkansans fantasizing about chasing down and murdering Arabs is disturbing. Then again, it is our modern equivalent of playing army and is ultimately harmless.
The opponents may be young, but they're deadly. I would respawn and be shot dead in seconds. To add insult to injury, the game shows you a replay of your death from your killer's perspective, just to summarize what we've all learned during gameplay. For instance, it's inadvisable to look around wildly at the rooftops while standing in the middle of the street. Trying to use a sniper rifle on an enemy who is five feet in front of you is at best awkward and at worst futile, unless you want to get a Hubble Telescope view of his nostril before he blows your fucking head off with a shotgun.
Still, as you play, you learn that violence doesn't pay. Also, you learn that you get upgrades the more you play, so as soon as I can get into that helicopter, TravisBickle343 is going down.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Sensible shoes
What could be the last in the long line of Air Jordan sneakers will be released this month at the starting rate of $230. Here's the story.
I'm pretty sure that if you're the sort of child who wants these sneakers, you're also the sort of child that in no way deserves them. My finger is completely off the pulse of America, seeing as I don't understand why people would want someone's carpet strapped to their feet.
I'm pretty sure that if you're the sort of child who wants these sneakers, you're also the sort of child that in no way deserves them. My finger is completely off the pulse of America, seeing as I don't understand why people would want someone's carpet strapped to their feet.
Friday, January 04, 2008
31...Best. Age. Ever.
Today is my 31st birthday. Along with my regular spineless moaning, I offer a few observations:
* One's 31st birthday is the first lackluster age he experiences in his life. Seriously. 31? Who gives a shit? People get more excited about celebrating Tuesday.
* It's all downhill from here. At least at 30, one's 20s seem recent. Upon hitting 31, an individual has to realize that he must promptly abandon all hope and whatever ebbing potential he once feebly brandished is now as spent as a crackhead's ten dollar bill.
* Now that he is officially well into his 30s, one must get over the notion that his body isn't rapidly deteriorating like Britney Spears sanity. Jesus Christ, do you see her making it to 31? We'll find her in 31 pieces before we'll see her 31st year. Nevertheless, 31 years requires more intense physical maintenance. Get to the gym, you 31 year old fatbody.
In closing, here's a video of wrestler Giant Silva:
Yeah! Giant Silva is training hard!
* One's 31st birthday is the first lackluster age he experiences in his life. Seriously. 31? Who gives a shit? People get more excited about celebrating Tuesday.
* It's all downhill from here. At least at 30, one's 20s seem recent. Upon hitting 31, an individual has to realize that he must promptly abandon all hope and whatever ebbing potential he once feebly brandished is now as spent as a crackhead's ten dollar bill.
* Now that he is officially well into his 30s, one must get over the notion that his body isn't rapidly deteriorating like Britney Spears sanity. Jesus Christ, do you see her making it to 31? We'll find her in 31 pieces before we'll see her 31st year. Nevertheless, 31 years requires more intense physical maintenance. Get to the gym, you 31 year old fatbody.
In closing, here's a video of wrestler Giant Silva:
Yeah! Giant Silva is training hard!
Thursday, January 03, 2008
She's no angel, he's no saint
This tune popped up on my iPod today. One of my favorites:
Bad lovers face to face in the morning
Shy apologies and polite regrets
Slow dances that left no warning of
Outraged glances and indiscreet yawning
Good manners and bad breath get you nowhere
Even presidents have newspaper lovers
Ministers go crawling under covers
She's no angel
He's no saint
They're all covered up with whitewash and grease paint
And you say...
Chorus:
The teacher never told you anything but white lies
But you never see the lies
And you believe
Oh you know you have been captured
You feel so civilized
And you look so pretty in your new lace sleeves
The salty lips of the socialite sisters
With their continental fingers that have
Never seen working blisters
Oh I know they've got their problems
I wish I was one of them
They say daddy's coming home soon
With his sergeant stripes and his Empire mug and spoon
No more fast buck
When are they gonna learn their lesson
When are they gonna stop all of these victory processions
And you say...
NEW LACE SLEEVES/ELVIS COSTELLO
Bad lovers face to face in the morning
Shy apologies and polite regrets
Slow dances that left no warning of
Outraged glances and indiscreet yawning
Good manners and bad breath get you nowhere
Even presidents have newspaper lovers
Ministers go crawling under covers
She's no angel
He's no saint
They're all covered up with whitewash and grease paint
And you say...
Chorus:
The teacher never told you anything but white lies
But you never see the lies
And you believe
Oh you know you have been captured
You feel so civilized
And you look so pretty in your new lace sleeves
The salty lips of the socialite sisters
With their continental fingers that have
Never seen working blisters
Oh I know they've got their problems
I wish I was one of them
They say daddy's coming home soon
With his sergeant stripes and his Empire mug and spoon
No more fast buck
When are they gonna learn their lesson
When are they gonna stop all of these victory processions
And you say...
NEW LACE SLEEVES/ELVIS COSTELLO
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