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:

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.

Finally! Some good news...

Ecstasy finally has the refreshing flavor of Meth.

Ah, school days...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Aw, the cheaters didn't win?

What a goddamned shame.

Still, with plays like this:


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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

DAAAAAY-VAD, LEEEEEEE

I went to my first professional basketball game with the hoop-savvy Mugwatch on Wednesday night and I'm still wondering why the New York Knicks employ the Monopoly guy as their court-side announcer.

(in monocle and top hat): "A THREEEEE POINT-AH! NAAAAAAAATE ROBINSON!!!!"

followed, of course, by:

"AND REMEM-BAH TO BUY WAR BONDS AND BEAT BACK THE NAZZIES!!!"

Also, I'd like to point out that of all the major sports, I know the least about basketball. Despite my lack of knowledge, I could still make out that the Knicks stink on ice. To be honest, I was wondering when the JV squad was going to hit the showers and the varsity Knicks were going to stop fucking around and come out to entertain us.

Needless to say, the plight of the Knickerbockers (which is a great name for an animated film...or a porn) has put the fans into an incredibly bad mood. They boo EVERYTHING at a Knicks game. Even if, let's say, you were part of the Make a Wish Foundation and your DYING WISH was to take a shot from the foul line at Madison Square Garden, you had better PRAY that you make that shot.

(insert here the sickening woosh of an airball)
"WHY DON'T YOU DIE TOMORROW, KID!!!"

And speaking of fans taking shots, during the halftime show a small collection of thugs urban youths were allowed to take a half-court shot and guarantee their spot as a 15 minute pariah when they invariably missed. However provocative this would seem, the Knicks announcer did the crowd one better by introducing one of the contestants as a self-proclaimed Celtic fan.

CROWD: BOOOOOOO!!!

ANNOUNCER: And, he's wearing a Red Sox jersey! (which he was)

CROWD: BOOOOOOOO!!!!

The only additional factoid that the announcer could have POSSIBLY mentioned to get the crowd four seconds from a massive, sweeping lynching is include that the young man also LOVES 9/11. Regardless of this glaring omission, the largest cheer of the night occurred when the Red Sox-loving Celtic fan missed his shot. The crowd occupied themselves throughout the rest of the game with chants of "Fire Isaiah" and "THROW THE T-SHIRT."

One last thought: all of the food vendors at MSG look like Rick James.

Plane of woe

Achy and chocked full of Mexican food, I took my seat on the Jetblue flight out of Tucson and nervously awaited takeoff. As is custom in my travels, I will invariably be seated next to the saddest, most desperate person on the planet. A woman in her forties sat in my row, turned to me, and asked:

"Are you from New York?"

Ugh. Go fuck yourself. I guess we're talking now and I don't really want to get into the technical stuff like the fact I'm from Pennsylvania nor do I want to get trapped into answering obscure New York trivia for a tourist just before a four hour flight, which would no doubt open up the floodgates for more questions until I find myself telling this woman where to go for the best Brazilian pedicure.

"Yes," I answered.

"Well, my father just died and my mother is suicidal. How long do you think it would take to get up to Connecticut if I drove from JFK?"

Wait...wait, what? There are definitely TWO separate thoughts here. It had a strange blend of personal tragedy and an SAT question:

Jake is on a train traveling north at 4 meters per second. Paul is leaving from the same location, traveling south, at 3 meters per second. If Paul runs out of steam three minutes in, how could you do this to me?

"Uh, well, considering we'll be arriving at 7:30 AM, you'll probably hit a fair amount of traffic. I'd add an hour to whatever you were expecting."

And then I stared at my personal TV screen embedded in the headrest in front of me. Were we done? She didn't want to TALK about this did she? I'm ill equipped to deal my own tragedies, much less the woeful despair of others. I pretended to be enthralled with Animal Planet until I saw her vanish from my periphery. For a long time. So long that it appeared that, maybe, she went into the bathroom to open her veins 30,000 feet above the United States. (It turns out she found a row all to herself in the back of the plane in order to, one would hope, work on her tact in broaching sensitive subjects to complete strangers. Most likely, however, she used the time to figure out how to get into the cockpit and let the pilot know about her father's death, in case he wanted to make an announcement or something).

I suppose some things are so incomprehensible, so devastating, that you can't help but spill your guts to everyone you meet. Or, people can smell my awful fear of awkward situations.

The Tucson Marathon kicked my ass

I am sunburned and in pain and it took six hours to complete the Tucson Marathon. However, Arizona is beautiful to look at. I might not try running here again, though.

A full video blog to follow when I return Thursday or Friday.