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.

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

moar funny pictures

Lots of time on my hands...

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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!

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.