The Blogging Affairs Desk

When It’s Good, It’s Good, When It’s BAD, It’s Better…

Last One Out, Hit The Lights!

I’m closing down The Desk.

It’s been a sweet ride.  By far, in my nearly ten years of blogging, The Blogging Affairs Desk has been my most successful attempt at shouting to the masses from my cyber-soap box.

It’s been swell.

But my domain name … whatever you wanna call it…. thing is expiring in about 30 days and WordPress makes it exceedingly difficult to re-register it.  Exceedingly.  I mean, dude, come on, I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU MONEY!

Which is kinda the trend on this blog anyway… over the last few years.  My struggles with trying to GIVE PEOPLE MONEY have been documented far and wide.

So yeah, I figured it’s kinda time to move on to something else.  I haven’t really had much motivation to keep writing, I’ve abandoned my post over at IRdC; it was hard enough to keep THIS blog up to date, let alone churn out an article once a week for an entirely separate blog.

And I’m waist deep in training for not one, but at least TWO triathlons coming up later this year.  Couple that with work picking up, I just don’t have the time, nor the energy to sit down and churn out the quality work all my readers have come to expect from The BAD.  It’d be a disservice to put out anything less.

So yeah, with that, I’m snapping the desk lamp shut, powering down the workstation, packing up my box of shit and leaving this site to decay like unattended grapes on the vine.  Sure, I could go out with flare, like The Good Doctor did, but I hate messes, and well, my wife would be sorta pissed.

Too soon?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my take on life as much as I enjoyed sharing it. You can still follow me on twitter, by the way, for my 140 character-at-a-time takes on life.

It’s like a condensed version of The BAD, right in your pocket.  If you’re not poor and own an iPhone.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have fifteen hours of “Parks and Recreations” saved on my DVR that need to be watched.

…Just kidding.

March 30, 2010 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Not Enough Time, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , , | 2 Comments

Why Being Late for a Wedding Can be a Good Thing

There was that air of tension for a brief second where I knew, before she even said it, that we were going to have to turn around.

My wife Ang and I were on our way to my Cousin Jaime’s wedding in Maine this past weekend.  I’d been at a training school for work all week and on Friday after school we took off to Maine.  Everything was fine.

But sometime during the night, when the temperatures in Southern Maine dropped down below zero, Ang’s Prius decided to do what any wild beast would do in those temperatures a have a fucking stroke.  The next morning, the (thankfully) less expensive of the two Prius’s batteries had shit the bed.  We found this out half-way to the wedding.

First off, a compliant:  Who the hell has a late-morning wedding?  When I woke up that morning, obviously not knowing what time the wedding was, I called Jaime’s father Uncle John (she probably refers to him as “dad” but…) to ask what time the wedding was.  I was shocked that at 9 in the morning he told me it was at “eleven, but you might want to get there at 1030ish”.  Damnit!

So we rushed, got showered and dressed at my mom’s house a few towns over and took off.  We were halfway there when I realized I didn’t have any dashboard read out.

If you’ve never piloted a Prius before, it’s all digital read outs on the dash.  No dials.  At first I thought I had the little dimmer switch turned down for some reason, but that wasn’t it.  Then I thought it might’ve been an optical illusion produced by my polarized sunglasses and the sun or something, and when I pulled my shades down, all I saw was black.

The car was still running though, and we pulled over to the side of Main Street to see if it was something we could fix if we just turned the car off and back on again.  I pushed the ignition button and got no response.  Queue panic from my wife.

God bless her, but if anything happens to her car she wigs out.  So now it’s all tense, we need to be at this wedding, very little time to spare and Ang says “turn back to your mother’s.”

Fuck!

We get back and, knowing nothing about cars, let alone Hybrids, I start googling “Prius + Problems + Cold Weather” and get a bunch of Toyota forums about people in high altitude/cold weather areas having significant ignition and battery problems with their Priuses(i?)

Ang takes the more direct approach and calls the dealership from where she bought the car directly.  After a few minutes of on-the-phone diagnostics, we discover that one of the two batteries the Prius runs on is likely dead or close to it.  We need to get to a dealership, stat, to replace said battery.

So about ten minutes going the opposite direction, we get to a dealership and all is taken care of.  By the time we’re back on the road, the ceremony is definitely over.  We can still make the reception, which I guess is at the same place as the wedding.

At this point, I should tell you about the funny feeling I get when I have to deal with my extended family.

Things have always been a little awkward with my dad’s side of the family, even from when I was a kid.  I don’t really understand why this is, and I simply accept it.  The family is large and I hardly know any of my relatives except the “cool ones” who have achieved this status either by showing some signs of kindness towards me or just by giving me butt-loads of cash during the holidays.  Whenever I come around, I feel like I have nothing to say, and things suddenly become very awkward.  Instantly, the tough-talking, ass-kicking, moderately successful man with the swagger of a guy who gets paid to knock people out is diminished to that clumsy, mush-mouthed 13 year old from fifteen years ago any time my Aunt Peggy comes around.  I can’t explain it.

We pull up to the reception hall and I’m instantly relieved that I listened to my wife’s advice and didn’t wear my three piece suit to this thing, and instead opted for a cashmere sweater and slacks: nearly everyone was in denim and sweatshirts, save a few adults who managed to put on some business-casual button-down shirts.  The only ties were being worn by members of the groom’s wedding party; they were dressed in rental black and red three pieces and looked more Ska band than Groomsmen.

Likewise, bridesmaids were dressed in some sort of Katy Perry-like tube dresses and black lace fingerless gloves with red lace accents.  My cousin did look gorgeous in her white wedding gown, complete with a pair of black and white Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

Oh yeah, and everyone was shitfaced.

As soon as we walked in, I was greeted by the bulk of my extended family.  Hugs were had all around, our gift was taken from us, and slowly, like a spreading pool of blood, the awkwardness set in.

First I had to apologize about a million times for being late.  Next I had to explain why I was wearing hiking boots and not decent shoes (I had forgot to pack them) when nearly everyone else was in loafers at best, gym shoes at worst.  To compound things, the inevitably and albeit obligatory questions about my mother and father started to surface:

“Is your mom going to make it?”

“How’s your father?”

“What’s going on with them?”

These weren’t the usual questions asked out of absenteeism.  No, they knew exactly what’s going on with my mother and father and the nasty separation/divorce.  The know all about my father’s self-exile to some remote campground out in NH and my mother’s slipping sanity.  They just wanted the gossip.

“Oh, I see your mother all the time at the Shaw’s” one of my aunt’s said.  “Awesome?”  I say in return.  I mean, what else can I say?   Then Jaime finally made her way over.

Blitzed, she punched me in the chest and with thick tongue said “you missed the wedding, ass.”  I felt about >< this tall.

To make matters worse, her younger brother Josh, whom I haven’t seen in YEARS swings by and gives me a hug.  I don’t recognize him and it’s not until later that Ang points him out to me.  Again, I feel about as tall as my boot laces.

We eventually sit with a pair of watered down beers at a table away from my family.  Joining us is a remote friend of Jaime’s whom she used to work with, and her husband Greg.  The woman (I can’t remember her name) came across like Sarah Palin (she disclosed that she went as Palin for Halloween this past year) only drunk.  Both couples had a lot in common and I could see Ang and I becoming this couple in roughly five years.  I kinda wish now I had gotten their contact info.  They were cool.

After nursing our one beer each (we had no cash for tipping at the open bar, and I felt like a shitheel for not tipping on the two watered down Natty-Ice’s) and eating some finger food, we left, promising we’d see everyone at the “after-party.”  Obviously, we didn’t intend to be at the after party.

The more distance I put us between my family the better I felt.  I knew the night before this wedding wasn’t something I wanted to really be a part of, but out of love for my cousin, who I treat more like a distant sister, I manned up.  For forty minutes.

In the end, being late for the wedding should’ve come across as some sort of omen; being late should’ve told us to phone it in, send out the gift via certified first class mail and send a heart-felt apology letter.  It would’ve been easier on my psyche.

January 31, 2010 Posted by | Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion, Those Crazy Politicians | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

350 Million People CAN be wrong….

So I restarted my Facebook account over the weekend, but only out of necessity.  You see, when we moved into our new digs, we neglected to check our cell phones to see what kind of reception we would be getting with the place until after we signed all the paper work and checks, etc.

Turns out, we’re lucky to get one bar, by the windows.  Usually it’s no bars or the dreaded ‘no signal’.  However, both those options are better than “searching….” being displayed, because while ‘searching’ for a signal, your phone traditionally uses more battery power, as it tries to boost it’s internal antenna to grab a signal it thinks is just out of its reach.

We’ve been getting by just on internet alone.  Thankfully having wifi enabled phones allows us to connect to our internet connection at home, so our iPhones aren’t just expensive paper weights that I drop 175 bucks on a month.

The problem becomes when one of us is home and the other is out and about running errands or working.  There’s no way to make a phone call or send a text to the person who’s away because there’s no cell reception.  We found this out relatively quickly on one of our first nights at the new apt when I ran out to the store to get milk, and Ang wanted me to pick up Nilla Wafers and paper towels as well.

Without ‘Push’ notification, email on the iPhone only updates every 15 minutes, meaning I could’ve gone to the store and came back in the amount of time it would’ve taken me to get the message if I wasn’t constantly refreshing my gmail (Apple offers MobileMe, which for a subscription price of 100 bucks a year, you get Push and Cloud features)

There’s the option of getting a traditional landline, an option I’m still giving deep consideration to.  My job somewhat dictates that I be accessible at all hours, and if I don’t have a working phone, it’s an issue.  My company actually provides free (1980s era) cell phones to employees who don’t have or can’t afford a cell phone, they’re that serious.

The problem with a landline is that it’s going to cost an arm and a leg down the line.  Comcast (our cable and internet monopoly provider) offers a deal where if you get cable, internet and a phone line you only pay like 100 bucks a month, oppose to just having cable and internet (like we do) and paying 110-120 bucks a month (like we do).

The rub is that after 6 months, Comcast jacks the price of the service up to 140 clams, leaving you either with the option to get rid of something, or pay out the ass.

I spoke with the installation tech who hooked up our cable and internet at the new apartment about the offer and this is what he said:

Call and speak to a customer service rep,” he suggested while speaking in an Irish brogue.  “They can sometimes set up deals with customers, like extended contacts for a certain price per month, that sort of thing,”

“But, what if I don’t want to pay the corporation, … maybe I’d rather just deal with the man on the street?”  I hinted.  He grinned a gnarled grin that only someone with a knowledge of the British Isles could love and brushed off the obvious attempted bribe.

Sorry, it’s not the same as it used to be, where we could just program the box to give you free HBO or Pay-Per-View, it’s all monitored and regulated by dispatchers now, sorry.  But seriously, give them a call, and see if they’ll work with you.  They’re more inclined to make a deal, because it’s money in their pocket in the long run,” and he has a point.

Though, he did fuck up the install, requiring me to call Comcast later that night from the end of the driveway.  While some phone jockey gave me instructions on rebooting our modem and changing out the signal to our wifi, I had to place my phone in the dirt and run back and forth from our apartment to take the necessary steps in ensuring our computers had proper internet connection.  So what does he know, really?

The next option we briefly explored was using Skype, the Voice Over Internet Protocol service that let’s people video chat for free around the world.

Skype would’ve been a great fix-it option if it weren’t for the fact you need wifi to make it work.  Due to AT&T’s business practices, apps and services like Skype can’t make calls on the infamously bogged down 3G Network.  Calling out from home would be no problem, since there’s wifi there; it would be making calls to home where we’d need to find a hotspot someplace.

I found this out while at work all weekend, where I desperately ran around my office’s property in the dead of night with my phone out in front of me, trying to locate the strongest unlocked wifi signal from the surrounding houses so I could steal some bandwidth and call my wife.

Hint:  If your wireless network is named ‘linksys’, I’m pretty sure it’s being abused by some dude parked out front of your house right now with a laptop full of porn.

So, tired of emailing back and forth, which in this day-n-age without Push Notification is similar to communicating by message in a bottle, Ang suggested I open the dusty crypt that held my old Facebook account, reactivate it, and use the chat on there.

The Facebook iPhone App isn’t bad, and I don’t have a real beef with it.  Its minimalist, like how Facebook used to be, easy to navigate and its chat feature is similar to the iPhone’s SMS/MMS screen.

It was a gut wrenching decision, honestly, because I wanted to leave Facebook behind me.  I’m 28 years old, and in my humble opinion, I’m in the waning years of online social networking.  I use Twitter extensively, because there’s no real bells or whistles to it; I post something that’s on my mind, or post a link to this blog, and let it ride from there.

With Facebook, there’s too much required involvement.  I have to ‘poke’ back everyone that pokes me, even if I don’t want to.  Someone’s bound to send me some virtual gift that I sure as hell don’t want, but will have to comment on, lest I look like a fucking Scrooge.

There are too many people for me to keep in touch with as ‘friends’ only because they’re associated with people I interact with.  I don’t want to get status updates (and subsequently the notifications regarding a status I commented on from people I don’t even know) from the wife of a guy I work with, because she decided to ‘friend’  me after raiding her husband’s friend’s list and wanted to pad her own numbers.

I can’t reject her request, because then I’ll hear about it from the guy:

“Dude, be friends with my wife,” I don’t even know her name!  I just have the unsolicited knowledge that you two like to ‘do it’ doggystyle!

And speaking of  the people I work with,  I’d like to keep most of them at an arm’s reach distance.  I can’t unfriend them, because again, I’ll fucking hear about it in real life.

And that’s really the point: when I got rid of Facebook, the biggest reason of all was to reduce the amount of ridiculous , unnecessary drama that was bleeding into my life.  With anyone with a set of ovaries who posted on my wall, I’d be grilled by my wife and her Spetznas-like interrogation tactics.

Have you ever been waterboarded while trying to make pancakes for breakfast?  It sucks.

But wanting to be able to at least text with my wife meant more to me than dealing with Facebook and the bullshit associated with it.  Fuck it, I thought, who cares?

Within 24 hours I was back to checking my News Feed every twenty minutes.

Fuck you Facebook.  Fuck you.

December 8, 2009 Posted by | Around The Office, Blogging Couple, Corporate America Hates You, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate, People I Love, The Great Indoors | , , , , | 2 Comments

TidBits: Your Online Newspaper Sucks.

In this issue of TidBits I focus the topics on various online newspapers, oppose to being all over the road, like I usually am.  Enjoy:

 

Huffington Post: I was first introduced to HuffPo back during the 2008 elections, because they seemed to have a more indepth (and far more liberally slanted) reporting on the campaigns than the New York Times did.  This is because unlike The Times, HuffPo is a fucking tabloid.  A tabloid, not in the sense of layout, but a tabloid in the sense that everything they publish is utter garbage and a glorification of shock-media.

Go to their site and likely on the front page “above the fold” you’ll find some colorful headline, with shocking allegations/implications/ramifications.  I’m sure today, 20NOV09, it’ll be something like “OPRAH QUITS!” or “GOLDMAN SACHS QUITS!” You get the idea.  The only people that should be quitting Huffington Post though are us.  Really, stop reading this trash.

Below that, you’ll likely find a headline involving a mass shooting, police dash board video of a 1oo mph car crash, or kittens.

The only real redeeming aspect of Huffington Post is it’s ‘Entertainment’ section, where on occasion they’ll post NSFW photos of quasi-famous people from European magazines.  If not for this section, I’d never known that Lady GaGa has pancake titties.

That being said, the Entertainment Section is rife with even more shit I don’t care about, to wit: Amy Winehouse BACK in rehab.  Lindsay Lohan looks strung out and too-skinny.  Some European model is doing coke on a yacht in the Mediterranean.  Levi Johnston’s cock is out for everyone to see, etc etc.

The worst crime perpetrated by Huffington Post, by far, is it’s line up of guest bloggers.  It seems that anyone under the sun, myself likely included, can submit their blogs and they’ll run on HuffPo.  A lot of these blogs are maybe 400 words in length, baseless, whiny, complainy, and ultra liberal.  And when you sprinkle into the mix CELEBRITIES, well, hold me down Jethro, let me beat feet over and see what the likes of Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin, and fucking-a-christ Fitty Cent have to say about topics including and not limited to: The Environment, television, and polar bears.

We all know that if you give a celebrity of any size caliber a mouth piece they will talk non-stop on subjects they know little about.  They will regurgitate talking points garnered at parties and shit they heard on Keith Olberman two nights ago.  They then turn around and fill up space on Huffington Post with the same shit, so that simple-minded office drones (like myself) stuck in front of a computer all day, will read that shit and puke it back up during a conversation with our spouses, co-workers and mistresses.

JUST BECAUSE GEORGE CLOONEY SAID SOMETHING, DOESN’T MEAN IT’S RIGHT!  He’s a handsome man, no doubt, but that doesn’t make him Jesus.

Slate: Slate strikes me as the type of online magazine that only people who want to pretend they care about important shit read.  If you scan over it’s front page there’s a splash of multiple graphic-headlines along with a side bar that represents the latest stories to appear on Slate, called “The Slatest” which is fucking cute.

Scrolling over the tops of the subject columns, you get drop down menus from the latest articles being written in each subject matter.  What really catches my eye are the “explainer” articles, where someone asks a question regarding current events (my favorite so far has been “What makes a gun a ‘cop-killer’ gun?” to which I would’ve simply answered: “It’s ability to function, now go back to pulling the curlers out of your hair, Maud.”).  I like these because it allows me to peer into the psyche of my fellow readers, and see exactly how shallow it can be.

Who gives a rat’s ass about “Which Way is Best for a ‘Twilight’ Vampire to Drink Blood’ or “What Makes a Prison State-of-the-Art?”  I have answers to both:  Through a straw and Rape Whistles, that’s what.

I think my biggest hangup with Slate is it’s over all redundancy.  On their front page alone, I can access the same article five different ways, six if it’s still listed on the “Slatest” side bar.  This only reeks of lack of content, which is why I normally only pump my brakes here once a day.

If it wasn’t for Farhad Manjoo, I would likely take Slate off my bookmarks.

Cape Cod Times: I don’t want to make this personal, I really don’t.  That would hurt my objectivity as well as credibility, but seriously you fucks, that sunrise submission I sent in was TIGHT.  And when you compare it to the other crap that was submitted, it makes me feel like someone down in whatever basement at the CCT has been busy jacking off all over everyone’s mail.

Here’s the back story:  The CCT asked for reader submissions of photos of sunrises and sunsets.  I submitted the following photo:

A few weeks later I checked back and saw that they posted the top 15.  Surely I was going to get SOME mention in the top 15.  That pic I took, with my iphone no less, was sick.

But no.  Out of the 15 they picked, maybe 4 or 5 were better, and after that, maybe 6 total were worth the effort.  The rest, including one taken from someone’s couch out of their picture window, blew King Kong Kock.

Now to the rest of your site – it’s terrible.  I understand you’re the only daily on Cape, but c’mon dude, you guys are fucking terrible.  It’s not like you have any real competition, except for the little dinky local papers, like the Ptown Banner, Barnstable Patriot, etc.  But c’mon, make the effort.

Your stories are half researched at best, and usually filled with speculation from your editorial staff.  You run incomplete articles that virtually amount to nothing, except a huge waste of time.

For instance, for the last month or six weeks, you’ve been running the same story about how some fire lieutenant is in trouble with the town offices in Bourne.  You can’t report why she’s in trouble, or under what circumstances she’s being investigated for, yet you run the story.

It’s fucking gossip dude.

Your Police and Fire Notes are often stuff you guys grab off the scanner.  Shooting here, stabbing there, car accident on 6… big deal, it’s so fucking repetitive that I want to go down to your printing shop and instruct all of you on the phenomenal waste of paper you’re generating.

But hey, my ferrets need ass wipe too, so… keep up the good work.

November 24, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion, Why Am I Reading This? | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dude, Take a Hint…

“A male hawk will defend his nest from any attacker,” -From a show on Animal Planet.

The above statement is true, that male hawks, eagles, most other birds of prey, will defend their nest from attackers, those brave enough to scale 300 ft up a shear cliff face to even attempt to fuck with a falconry in the first place.

I’d like to think that (most) married men are no different than these birds.

I want to start this article and state clearly that I’m by no means critical of my wife’s decision making skills. We all make errors in judgment from time to time, and what defines us is how we “unfuck” ourselves, an old boss of mine once told me.

That being said, my wife seems to attract weirdos as if the circus just pulled into town.

In a previously unpublished article from a few months back I had to get up close and personal with one of these guys; and they’re always guys, because my wife hates other women and never hangs out with them.  But this one guy was harassing the shit out of Ang for a long while, a week or better, about some radar detector he pretty much forced her to hold on to while he took off for a vacation.  The harassment was so thick that in one day he sent her five messages on Facebook, which prompted this discussion:

“I think I’ll go talk to him,” I said as I sat at my desk, upon hearing the report that this guy wasn’t getting the fucking clue from my wife to stop contacting her all day.  We were in the middle of a move (somewhat like we are now, again) and she didn’t have the time to dig through all the packed boxes to find the stupid radar detector, yet it was this other guy’s number one priority.

These guys that my wife inexplicably makes friends with are all older, like 40-something, and super-clingy.  My guess, if I were to venture one, would be that since they’re unmarried, lonely souls who spend their days hanging around coffee shops, they tend to create very strong personal bonds with the people they meet.  And the friendlier that person is, the tighter they seem to cling.

What compounds the situation is that my wife can be very friendly and sociable.  She loves to text and Facebook, Tweets, etc.  By being so open, she allows these Stage 5 Clingers to latch on even stronger, to the point where they start to cross some serious boundaries.

Regarding the guy and the radar detector, I ended up having to go down to the coffee shop, radar detector in hand (we dug it out) and tell him straight up to leave my wife alone.  She’s a married woman, there’s no reason for her to take any harassment from any other man but me, and even then that’s on rare occasions.  The guy got the picture and we haven’t seen him since.

But here we go again:  Boundaries people, respect them.

I won’t go into names, because I have no idea who reads my articles anymore, but know there’s this guy and he’s crossing more protected boarders than a Mexican National who knows how to hang drywall.  He’s constantly texting Ang, always wanting to hang out, and is very clingy to my wife, something that I’ve never been comfortable with ever since I met this guy.

How these two met, I have no idea, probably at the same coffee shop that all this drama seems to take place at.  Again, he’s older and lonely.  What sets him apart though, is the little bits of affection he sprinkles on my wife.  He calls her ‘babe’ (something that not even I’m allowed to do, as Ang hates that particular term of endearment), apparently tells her he loves her (but only in the brother-sister-kinda-way, whatever), etc.

A clear indicator that he’s shown this behavior before is that he’s a Gift Giver.  Gift Givers are people who want to create strong bonds with people, especially people they want to win the approval of (ie a husband), through the act of giving gifts.  When I first met this guy, I off-handedly mentioned that I was looking for a cheap bicycle to start getting into road riding.  Within 48 hours, he was dropping off a vintage road bike at my front door.  Weird.

I was uncomfortable accepting the gift, but since he was dropping it off somewhat unexpectedly (at the time I had JUST gotten home and was making a sandwich when he texted me that he was ‘down the street’) I didn’t want to be rude.  The bike has been sitting in our breezeway since, and I get a little sketched out every time I walk past it.

***

I’ve had a problem with this guy since day one, because as any man who knows the collective Mind of Men, we know that man and woman can never be “just friends.”

Women strictly believe the opposite for some reason, but let me assure you ladies, you can’t.  There’s no fucking way.  Why?  Because men are only “friends” with women “because they haven’t fucked them yet (Chris Rock)”.

For a moment ladies, think about the guys you know as “friends.”  Are they affectionate towards you in some way?  Does there always seem to be some sort of strange sexual tension when you two are alone?  Do you feel his eyes on you when you have your back to him?  And let’s say you’ve slept with one of your guy “friends” does he still hang out with you after the fact?

My guess: probably not.

No, men hang around with women in order to fuck them, simple as that.  It’s hardwired in a man’s DNA to go run around and get as many things pregnant as possible.  This was due to the fact that millions of years ago, Man was no more than a tool-making monkey who in order to survive, needed numbers.  And what better recruitment campaign can there be but fucking your way to a stronger army?

Some of this rationale can also explain the behavior of NBA players.

Regardless, ladies, men are not really your friends.  I’m sorry, but we’re not.  Not until we actually marry one of you that is, which is the biggest sign of friendship there can possibly be: we can tolerate you enough to spend the rest of our lives with you.

***

For the last few weeks I have been trying to get this message across to Ang without sounding like an overprotective dick, which is a fine line to walk.  I’m gone half the week due to my job, so Ang has a lot of alone time (see also: Why We Have So Many Damn Pets), and she often complains that she doesn’t have any real human interaction while I’m gone.  Given this, I’m not about to tell her who she can and can’t pal around with, and what she can and can’t go and do.  She has it hard enough as it is.

She’s also a grown-ass woman.  I would expect her to make decisions befitting as such.  Unfortunately these decisions take a while to be made or require some over-the-line occurrence as a catalyst.

Such an occurrence happened the other day, when this guy and Ang made plans to go to an iron pour, where they take hot molten iron and… pour it on shit to watch it melt.  Ang was stoked to go, and called up another guy friend of hers from her childhood to see if he wanted to come along as well – he lives in the neighborhood where this is going down and like any self respecting man, he readily accepted an invitation to go watch molten iron melt shit.  When that first guy caught wind of this however, he was less than pleased.

Ang asked him straight up if he had a problem with the childhood friend coming along, citing that she believed it was a “group thing.”  Straight up, the guy told her it was a problem, and to paraphrase, said something to the effect of:

“Yeah, I think it’s fucked up that I invite you out someplace, to spend time with you, and you invite some other guy?”

Yo, what the fuck?  To me that sounds like clingy jealously, insecurity, and panic all rolled up into one snippy statement.  So you’re telling me that by my wife inviting a friend she in effect ruined ya’lls date?

Are you trying to fucking date my wife?  Really?

Ang texts me saying that “____ is acting creepy,” to which I think to myself, but don’t respond with, “no shit”.  She tells me about the exchange to which I start to seethe.  I had let this guy toe the boarder of being “slightly eccentric/possibly gay male friend” and “full-on stalker” for too long.  But what do I tell my wife?  I can’t just be like “I don’t want you talking to this guy” because women tend to do the opposite of what they’re told, especially by male authority figures, such as fathers, husbands, serious boyfriends, and if you’ve watched COPS: Mardi Gras Edition, police officers.

So I leave it up to her, but I put some heavily influenced spin on it.  “I think you should put him on time out for a while,” I suggest, followed by “I think I want a word with him.”

Ang complains that I’m going to give the same message job I gave the first guy regarding his radar detector, which I’m not above doing.  She wants to take a non-confrontational approach wherein she just ignores the problem until it goes away.

But problems such as this can’t be ignored.  Think of every crazily-obsessed-stalkerish person you’ve ever encountered personally or in the media and you know they refuse to be ignored.  Something about trying to ignore these types of people tends to bolster their behavior.  “Why are they ignoring me?!” they think to themselves, or say aloud to the voices in their head.

When Ang tried to ignore the Radar Guy, the volume of messages he was sending her jumped exponentially, to the point where I was pretty much forced to intervene.  When John Hinkley, Jr’s letters to Jodi Foster went unanswered, he figured he’d earn her love and attention by putting a few holes in Ronald Regan.  When David Letterman’s stalker had been kicked off his property for the umpteenth time, she knelt down in front of a fucking train.  Paula Abdul’s stalker killed herself in her car just a block down from where the alcoholic karaoke judge lives.

You can’t ignore these people because it pushes them to fanaticism.  You have to tell them directly what lines they’ve crossed and how you feel about that.  They need closure in the relationship via confrontation and task direction.

Example:  “I don’t want to hang out with you anymore, because as a married man, you make me feel very uncomfortable with what you do and say.  Example, I don’t like how you touch my chest, it indicates to me that you think we’re more than friends, which we are not.”

I told Ang that I’d let her QB this, as long as she was uncharacteristically confrontational and direct with this guy.  I also gave her an out, telling her that if she didn’t think she could do that, I’d be happy to tell this guy to back off, which I think I should do anyway because I’m a good husband, and I take my queues from a fucking hawk.

November 10, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Honeymoon

You can see pics from the trip here – ed.
There’s something special about returning to work after taking time off, especially if that time off was regarding your honeymoon.  You feel so blissfully out of touch it’s amazing to find your desk as you left it, belongings mostly intact.  This all seems to soften the blow that your tub of fat-free yogurt has gone missing altogether.

That said, the time spent on your honeymoon is magical; everything seems to go right even when it’s terribly wrong, like getting lost in Upstate NY.

We weren’t really lost; the plan was to drive off the highway for a bit, see some of the “real” countryside of upstate, the side you don’t see on Rt 90 on your way to Buffalo, of all places.

I had been scanning the New York Times’ Real Estate section and observed that homes in the Saratoga Springs area were going for between 175-200K.  Good homes with two stories, a yard, maybe even a pool.  Perfect, I thought, just what we were looking for.

But Corinth, the small hamlet where we ended up, is New York State’s scraped elbow.  There’s nothing but mountains, trees, dirty depressing dilapidated store fronts, a gas station every ten feet, kitty-cornered from one another, each seemed to be manned by the same grimy-faced local who knew, instantly, that you were from out of town.

Such a local, a waitress in some sort of strange service station/diner, a face that looked beaten with a sun-heated shovel pointed her gnarled nicotine stained finger nail at the ATM in the far corner of the establishment when I asked as to where one could be found.

“You always miss it,” she hissed, as if to indicate that she knew I was from out of town, and I represented every wayward traveler to ever cross the town line.

And of course, it was easy enough to tell we, my wife and I, hadn’t graduated from the Corinth Regional High School.  Although dressed like slobs, our clothes didn’t reek of diesel fuel.  We were driving around in a whisper quiet Toyota Prius, paying more attention to our iPhones than the surroundings of the small dent in the Earth that was Corinth.

Remember in “Back to the Future” when Marty first arrives in the 50s and the locals think he’s an alien?  He has this crazy looking car with gull wings for doors, in a biohazard suit, etc.  The local hick farmer nearly cut him in two with a shotgun blast for crashing into his barn, but was too petrified to pull the triggers.

That’s what it was like for us, driving around Corinth with out of state plates in a car that made no noise.

We had enough “small town charm”, not bothering to stop at the Dollar General (we did eat in the one restaurant in town that didn’t look like someone’s wind-smashed porch.  A Chinese food place called Golden Dragon, or Double Gold, or Lucky Dragon… I think it’s a rule that Chinese restaurants have to have either “dragon” “gold” or “lucky” in their names in our order get a business license.) before high tailing it the hell out of Dodge.

***

Niagara was beautiful however, a trip that I will never forget, thanks to technology.  We arrived late, after putting in 12 hours on the road between Portland, ME and Niagara Falls.

We left later than what I wanted to, due to a slower start, but at the time it seemed the all engines were firing just fine.  But with a stop at the Tim Hortons before even leaving my mom’s home town – which sucked up about half an hour – we were in rough shape.

We pulled into the tiny B&B around 1930 and were greeted at the door by a charmingly cheerful owner, a young woman whom I had no idea would be old enough to have mothered a kindergartener.  She had our room squared away, a tiny “French Room” at the top of a set of grand stairs, with a private bath and tiny television.

Ang instantly took to the shower, as 12 hours on the road will make you believe that God himself demands you bathe.  As for me, I asked to be pointed towards the nearest liquor store.
Cassidy, the matron, busted out a touristy map and with a black pen started to scribble out a route by foot towards the nearest liquor store.

“You want to avoid this area, entirely,” she squared off a section of about twelve blocks due north of where we were.  “It’s a HUGE ghetto.”

But that’s who I am, a shit magnet, that despite my best efforts, would haphazardly wind up waist deep in … dark… waters.

I followed the instructions to what I thought was a “T”.  Taking a left where I was supposed to, staying on a street, etc.  I found myself looking at a dimly lit convenience store, a ratty Caddy idling with a rhythmic clank and rattle.

I rubbed my stubble and wandered in.  Inside I found what you’d find in any inner city general store:  non-descript bags of neon-colored popcorn, 24-count cases of Natural Ice, on sale.  Nylon doo-rags in cellophane packets dangling from a spinning wire rack , non-NFL sanctioned Buffalo Bills memorabilia, 40 oz bottles of some brackish-colored alcohol stacked at the end of one of the aisles (the brand escapes me, but it wasn’t one of the ‘hood classics’ like Cobra, Colt .45, or Steel Reserve), scratch tickets, festering hotdogs on rollers, and black people shouting at each other.

I went in looking for, of all things, wine, a loofah, and tampons.  Maybe a snack for myself, since it was likely we weren’t going to be having dinner.  I left with nothing but fear that at any moment I was going to become a tragic victim of urban violence.  A sad state of affairs, when a young promising male, successful in his own right, was gunned down at a convenience store  outside of Buffalo, NY.  Another tale of “wrong place, wrong time.”

I can see the befuddled detectives standing over my splayed out corpse, bullet wounds in my back leading towards a growing puddle of blood:

“What the hell was this guy doing here, anyway?”  One says to the other, as he flick’s my out-of-state driver’s license.

“Fuck if I know, probably trying to score drugs,”

***

We did the whole sight-seeing bit, which given the time of year, wasn’t a whole lot.  We were only really up there for one full day sandwiched by two days of traveling.

The weather was some-what cooperative; to ask for warmth so late through October would’ve been asking for too much.  But at least it didn’t rain, which would’ve been too much for either of us to stand.

We did the falls, got wet, then went shopping at the outlets, which seemed to be the best option going, as the mall was crowded.

That night, we went to the Casino.

Admittedly, the last time I was in a casino I was 21 or 22, a raging alcoholic who often surrounded himself with hooligans equally intoxicated.  The last time I was in a casino, we were asked to leave by security.

What had happened was innocent enough:  We had been gambling, I think, and decided we wanted to go to the fancy buffet on whatever floor above the betting floor.  We, the three or four of us, clambered into a glass elevator and rode upwards.

At some point, this kid named Anthony, or Michael, or Patrick, … some Irish fuckhead, decided to pull down his cargo shorts and press his ass cheeks against the glass.

Security met us at the elevator just as the doors opened to let us out.

Now, some five or six years later, I was going into a casino with my wife on my arm, wearing half a suit I bought off the rack at H&M before we left for the vacation.

The suit was all black, complete with vest.  I wanted to wear the whole thing, but Ang protested, saying I’d be way over dressed.  I relented and opted to wear designer blue jeans with the jacket and vest.

Walking on to the betting floor was a lot like what I imagine walking on to a kill floor of a slaughter house circa 1890.  It’s disgusting; cigarette smoke hangs in the air just above the dizzying lights and sounds of all the machines.  Mummified remains of happy grandparents sit in front of computerized screens, punching buttons in some sort of twisted scientific experiment.

“How long can we keep these withered bodies here, pressing the same button over and over again, using the Reward System?”

Some were so addicted that they had some sort of punch card attached to a lanyard plugged into the machine.  If we could somehow harness the power from five hundred elderly people mashing buttons for 12 hours at a whack, we’d have solved the energy crisis.

I’m not a gambler, I make terrible bets and even worse decisions when I’m faced with a choice in my betting.  All one has to do is watch me agonize over my fantasy football picks every week to get a clear idea on how I’d make a terrible gambler.

We made a round of the floor, went to the bar, and each got a beer.  I sipped my beer and decided that I was going to play blackjack.  I had 50 dollars in my pocket to use towards that end, and I made up my mind that I would not walk out with less than that amount, so help me god.  I found a lonely dealer at a blackjack table and sat down.

The dealer and I chatted for a bit as I played, and before I knew it, I was up by about 100 dollars from my initial 20 dollar investment.  The pressure suddenly got too high, or maybe it was boredom at how easily I was making money.  I even hit on 16 and drew a five, much to the dealer’s amazement.  I knew nothing of player/dealer etiquette, and failed to tip as I got up from the table.  He changed my chips from stacks of fives to a few stacks of tens.

It was then, holding the tens in my hands, I could see the addiction welling up.  If I bet just one of these chips, worth 10 dollars, I could potentially double it, and then double that amount, and so on.  I could FEEL the gravity of the table; a pull on my spine no short of someone actually reaching in and tugging on my bones.

I finished my beer and found Ang back at the bar, checking her phone.

“How’d you do?”  She asked.  I shrug.

“Well, I have fewer chips,” and I opened up my hand to show that I indeed had fewer chips, but they were worth a lot more than what I started.  She was pleased, especially when I said I was going to cash out and we were getting the hell out of there.

The entire time, walking across the floor to the cashier, I felt eyes on me.  Maybe it was how I was dressed (“what’re you so dressed up for?” the dealer would ask.  “I’m on my honeymoon,” I told him.  “Huh, where are you from?”  “Cape Cod.”  “…You came out to Niagara Falls and you’re from Cape Cod… on your honeymoon?  What, you don’t like palm trees?”) or maybe it was that I was walking out with the casino’s money.

I was for certain that in order to cash out I’d be required to fill out a mailing slip so they could send me promotions, or invite me back, etc.  But no, they simply took my chips, counted them out, and handed me back the appropriate amount of money back, hassle free.

We left, the feeling of a thousand eyes on my neck following me out of the casino.
***

We were on the road early the next morning to get back to reality.  The sky was gray, the air cold and uninviting, almost telling us that we were doomed.  Fourteen hours we arrived at our apartment with two ferrets and a load of bags that needed to be hauled up a flight of rickety stairs.  The dog was picked up shortly after from a friend on a rain soaked night that welcomed us home like the chilling embrace of a bear trap.

October 21, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Corporate America Hates You, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Animal Magentism

In case you haven’t been following me on Facebook or Twitter (@BAD0rg)IMG_0105, it may come as a surprise to you that my wife and I adopted a yellow lab about a week ago.

I could go into the why’s and how’s but I don’t feel like getting into it right now.  Just take for granted we went to a shelter, found ourselves a pretty laid back, albeit beat up, 5-8 year old yellow lab – slash – something else, and brought her home with us.

I’ve noticed, in the last week though, that people will literally (!) cross the street to come pet my dog.  Why, I have no idea.

I don’t mean to say that my dog, Ivy (so named because when we first took her for a “getting to know you” walk at the shelter, she dragged us through a patch of Poison Ivy), isn’t worth the attention.  She’s a great dog, great personality, non-aggressive or skittish.  She’s just a laid back dog, like any dog you’d find on a leash on Cape Cod.IMG_0103

Yet, everyone wants to talk to us about her, or pet her, or fawn a ton of attention on her.  People, she’s not like, Princess Diana’s dog or anything, Christ.

It’s annoying in the way that I can’t walk down our street without being stopped at least three times by some tourist asshole asking me a bunch of questions about my dog.

To wit:  Ang asked me to pick her up from work, as it was a Saturday night, and she’s taken a gig at a shop down the street from my office.  It was a nice night and since the aspect of having a pet I could actually walk was still somewhat new to me, I decided to take Ivy along and walk her down this boulevard towards Ang’s shop.

Because it was Saturday night the place was teaming with people, mostly hanging out in front of the many bars along particular stretch of road.  The road itself is congested, so when a slow moving vehicle is trying to squeeze through the throngs of people, I had to pull Ivy to the side between me and the loiterers.

“Hey, can I pet your dog?”  A gay guy asked me as I was walking by.  I don’t know if I hesitated or not, because I was walking with a purpose towards the other end of the street towards the shop, and Ivy loves to smell people/things so I was giving her little tugs on her leash to keep her moving.  Knowing the question was directed at me and was still up in the air, I half turned my head and said:

“No,” and kept walking.  The gay guy didn’t really like that.  He makes a huge fuss, calling me a douche bag.

“Who says ‘no?’ to someone asking to pet their dog!?” Shrieked the man.

I’m sorry that I don’t stop and let you pet my dog, sir.  In case you didn’t notice, I’m fucking walking someplace.  If I stopped and let every asshole in town who asked pet my dog, it’d take me an hour to go the four hundred yards down the street.  If you want an animal to pet so badly, go adopt one of your own.

Not to mention that my dog is currently in kinda rough shape and takes a bunch of pills because her former owners didn’t give two shits about her.  So how would you like to be swatted and rubbed down by complete strangers while you convalesced?  Or better yet, as you walked down the street?

I don’t understand it, honestly.  Before we were dog owners, I never went out of my way to play with or pet a stranger’s dog.  I see a dog being walked on a leash I just smile and keep walking; I probably side step too, just to get out of their way.  I sure as hell don’t stop that person and ask them 20 questions about the breed, age, pedigree, temperament, colorings/markings of the animal.

I understand that dogs can be used to attract people as well.  There’s countless movies where some hapless everyman is trying to attract a woman in a park with the aid of a puppy.  This ploy has been well documented.  But I’m a married man, out walking my dog.  My motives are clear:  I’m trying to get the animal to shit outdoors so it doesn’t shit in the middle of our living room.

Ang and I work in a gay community, so that Saturday night as I arrived at Ang’s shop, she was just closing up, and it was going to be a minute or two before she was going to be ready.

So Ivy and I hung out in front of the store, the dog sitting by my feet while I scanned the latest headlines on my phone.  This obviously was a huge signal for a group of gay men to come over and start talking to me.

“Wow, can I like, pet your dog?”  A member of the group of three or four asks.

I can’t be the same “douche bag” to these people, especially if I’m stationary, so I finish reading what I was reading on my phone and tell them they can shower Ivy with a bunch of attention.  While petting and rubbing her they press upon me the typical compliments about the dog I’ve been receiving the whole time, all while undressing me with their eyes.

“So what’re you doing here tonight in town?”  Another in the group asks.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for my wife,” I make sure to say.  That seems to get them to move along as they talk about visiting the “adult toy store” across the street.

IMG_0114To reiterate on my point:  If the dog is leashed, people, just mind your business.  If I’m at the dog park, or trails, or someplace where the dog isn’t leashed, then sure, don’t even ask, rub her little butt – she loves that.  But for Chrissakes, get your fucking hands off my dog.

August 26, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Pic Post | , , , , , | 2 Comments

Fuck It, Let It Ride (With Edits, However)

A slightly edited version of the earlier article.

Given where I live, I spend about 65% of my time on the road, either commuting or running errands.  Since moving to Cape Cod about two years ago, I’ve learned to hate driving, begun to detest riding my motorcycle, and have found that I have “rage triggers” when I’m stuck in traffic.

So I decided to write this article, breaking down my rage as to better understand it.  Each of the following sections will detail exactly how I feel at that given moment, as this piece was written largely in my head, while behind the wheel of my truck as I operated it like I was maneuvering a one ton black bomb on four wheels.

Section One:  Traffic.

traffic

Until I moved to Cape Cod I had never experienced the level of fucking traffic I’ve witnessed on this miserable tourist trap of an island, and this is someone who lived in NYC for three years.  It seems that during the summer tourist months people will come from all over the country to just sit in traffic from the Bourne Bridge to Provincetown.  “Hey kids, let’s go spend a blistering week this summer in our car, packed tighter than inmate’s shit and stare at NOTHING while we drive from one end of Cape Cod to the other!”  Why else would these people come out here?  It’s can’t be because of the beaches, because they suck and are over crowded when they are in fact open (thanks to a species of endangered bird, beaches on Cape are closed for half the summer).

So all these people come out and clog up the major arteries to get around Cape Cod.  What usually is a ten minute drive to the super market a few towns over takes three times as long because there’s just so much traffic to contend with.  Compounding things is that most of these jag offs want to turn left while driving down our one highway, causing a huge log jam of traffic.  The other tourists in the opposite lane won’t yield to let the turner make his turn because they have places they want to get to and can’t be bothered, leading me to lean out of my truck’s open window and hurl a fruit smoothie at someone’s windshield.

Section Two:  Other Drivers.

102_road_rage

As stated above, the mass of population I tend to deal with are out of staters here on vacation.  Like any vacationing sheep, they pack just about everything except their god given common sense.  Hey asshole, how about looking behind you when you back up, and I mean actually looking over your shoulder and not relying solely on your mirrors?  Or if I’m out for a run (I know I’m not behind the wheel of a car at that moment but it relates, just go with it) how about you don’t just pull out blindly from a side street?  Nearly getting fucking T Boned when I’m out minding my own business and trying to avoid you at all costs kinda puts a damper on my spirits.

Also, thanks for flying that “stay the fuck out of my way” flag on your rear view mirror.  Be it a handicap or camp ground parking placard, seeing something dangling from your rear view mirror tells me that you require wide birth because either you’re actually handicapped and shouldn’t be allowed to operate a motor vehicle but we feel bad for you, so here’s a set of keys, go wild, or you’re a fucking tourist staying at a camp ground and have no clue what you’re doing or where you’re going.  Either way, I know to stay the hell away from you.

One more thing about the camp ground placard:  The camp ground placard is also a swell indicator that the operator of the vehicle will likely slam on their brakes at any moment and try to make an abrupt left handed turn into traffic to take his tourist brood to either an ice cream shop, fried seafood restaurant, some gaudy eye-sore of an inflatable knick-knack/t shirt store, or yard sale.  The placard may as well just read “Caution;  Stay Back 500 Feet.”

Section Three:  Parking

103

If there’s anything on Cape Cod that’s an overpriced commodity, it’s real estate.  And at an even higher premium is a parking space.

To wit:  My wife bought a town parking pass to use for when she has to go to work.  This pass is supposedly designed for the purpose of people who work/live in town to be able to park at a reasonably close distance to their places of employment.  However, in practice, this is not the case at all.

On numerous occasions she’s had to double back to our apartment and have me drive her back out to work and drop her off and pick her up because the lot she’s supposed to park in is full.  Now, either the town sold too many passes (at 135 dollars a piece!) or people are just saying “fuck it” and are taking the 20 dollar hit on a parking ticket for illegally parking in the lot which they’ll never pay because they’re out of state residence.  Regardless, it’s a huge pain in our asses.

Also, again, getting back to the whole tourism thing, tourists out here tend to think they can park where ever they want, whenever they want, regardless of people’s feelings or intentions.  We, Ang and I, were going to do some laundry.  We had parked her car in the lot next to our apartment, all the way at the end, so the car would be out of everyone’s way.  It was mid day, the lot was about a third full.

We’re walking down the lot, carrying laundry baskets, detergent, quarters, etc, and we both get that weird sensation that we’re being followed.  So we both turn and there’s this champagne-colored Mercedes with Florida plates slowly rolling behind us.  Behind the wheel is some middle aged self-righteous She-Bitch in a big hat and sunglasses.

She waits for us to get to our car, load our laundry, get in and start the car.  She then proceeds to block us in by taking the spot next to us, making it impossible for us to pull out smoothly, resulting in me having to “shimmy” out of the spot.

Enraged by this cuntbag tourist’s selfish actions, I put the window down on my wife’s Honda and yell out “there’s like a million other spots you could’ve taken!”

From behind her cell phone she calls back “but none of them were in the shade, thank you!”

Thank you?  Was she thanking me for my comment, this arrogant bitch?  I was livid, to the point of wanting to drive directly to the nearest hardware store, purchase a spade, and proceed to bludgeon and dismember this audacious bitch into pieces to be eaten by seagulls.  I couldn’t believe her.

I should’ve rammed Ang’s shitty little Honda into the rear quarter of this old cock dumpster’s Merc, and shouted “THANK YOU!” over and over again.

I would’ve rammed her cell phone down her throat and kicked in her stomach until I dialed Tokyo.

Section Four:  Pedestrians.

pedestrians

Is it me, or do people generally think they have a magic force field around them as soon as they enter a cross walk?

Shortly after the vaginal swab of a tourist blocked us in, we were driving down our main drag when some beer delivery man decided to step out from behind the front of a parked truck, on a crosswalk, without looking to check for traffic, pushing his dolly in front of him.

I hit the brakes hard and let out an audible “YO!” with our windows down.  The dickbag with the hand cart turns over his shoulder at me and says “state law!” and keeps on pushing.

Yes, it is in fact a state law to stop for pedestrians crossing in a crosswalk, very good sir.  But that same state law will not mend your broken legs and hip when you get struck by a car because you failed to uphold your end of the bargain by stepping out into a busy street without looking.

You can claim “state law” all you like as a matter of fact, because when the state police’s accident reconstruction team arrive and release their findings on the collision, they’ll determine I was driving maybe 20 mph and see that you failed to look both ways when crossing a street, the first lesson we as people learn shortly after managing to tie our own fucking shoes.

Left, right, and left again, dildo-licker.

I have all the respect in the world too, for beer delivery people.  It’s a tough job and they truly are some of America’s unsung heroes.  So it sucks that one of you guys has to be a sandy tampon about crossing a street.

Part two of this section:  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

growling_dog

I understand that this certain street by where I work is a thoroughfare of just.., bizarre shit and that you’re all on vacation from your jobs as doctors and teachers and who knows what else, and you’re all having a gay ol’ time, I get it.  However, you’re walking down the middle of a fucking street, dude, where there’s actual traffic, slow moving I know, but it’s still traffic.  We, in the big objects on four wheels known as “cars” can’t fucking get down the street if you and your Abercrombie and Fitch model friends are blocking it up by walking down the middle of it eight abreast, blowing bubbles, slowly riding a bicycle, walking your poof ball little dog, or doing one handed push ups in tiny briefs (for real, not an embellishment).

I have a job I need to get to, and my office is at the tail end of this street.  It takes me almost half an hour to go one mile some times, from the hardware store to my front gate.  If I tap my horn, and I say “tap” because that’s what it is, a friendly “get out of my way please I’m driving here” and not a long, boorish blast that says “hey fucknuts, get the fuck out of the middle of the road or I’m going to dropkick you off the top rope” do not turn your head over your shoulder and give me some bitchy/sassy fucking look like I’m the one who’s fucking up YOUR day.  Just scamper out of my way, that’s all you have to do.  Do not argue with me, because sir, or ma’am or whatever, I am encased in an air conditioned almost-sound proof chamber and can’t hear your bitchy effeminate whining.

Section Five:  The Radio.

Retro Radio DJ

Here’s a sampling of the songs that were playing on my presets as I was writing this article out in my head:  Station 1: Smashmouth “All Star”, Station 2: that one song by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.  Station 3:  Some generic Led Zeppelin song.  Station 4:  Some generic song by Papa Roach.  Station Five:  NPR’s Fresh Air, but the topic was something obscure and boring, probably to do with some artist I’m unfamiliar with.  Station 6:  WEEI, sports talk radio, which I think is just a cover for their conservative media agenda, so I don’t really listen to it.

I don’t know about where you live, but here on Cape, the radio is fucking trash.  Until my truck was broken into a year ago, I used to listen to my iPod through an FM tuner.  Most mornings on my commute I listen to NPR, unless it’s something boring, as stated, or if it’s The Diane Ream Show, which makes me want to snort a line of chalk and sit down upon the Seattle Space Needle, bare ass.

Nothing is more frustrating than dealing with all the shit I’ve already listed, and then having to fiddle with your pre sets in the car, to find one station out of six that’s playing A) music, and B) something worth listening to.  I love Led Zeppelin, but it doesn’t have to be the only thing the stations around here play, because honestly, I think that’s the only album some of these stations have.  I will guarantee you right now, if I were to flip on the radio in the other room, I could get a Zep song, any Zep song, right now.

YOU’RE RUINING LED ZEPPELIN FOR ME PIXY 102.9!!
I’d shell out for satellite radio, but it seems overly costly for something I can get for free, that’s only really giving me more options.  Instead of 6 channels to choose from, now I have 600, but like that old Bruce Springsteen song goes “150 channels and not a damn thing on” or something like that.

I slam the buttons on the presets so often that I’m actually starting to wear away the numbered decals a little.  And if it isn’t music that’s being played, it’s some god awful local business advertisement, usually a used car lot.

“Come on down to Jeff’s Subaru, where we’ll give you honest prices from honest guys.  Hell, we’ll even throw in a fifty dollar gas card for just taking a test drive!” and so on.  Or the staged interview with the lot’s owner, dispelling some sort of rumor that he has a “private connection” with the factories in Detroit.

Dickhead, Detroit doesn’t make cars anymore, they’re all made in Canada now, get a clue.

I don’t know how to conclude this article, so I’m just going to say this:  People, next summer, just stay the fuck home.  Do me a favor, and don’t come out here, don’t spend your money on an overrated tourist trap, don’t waste your time bullshitting yourself that Cape Cod is a magical place to spend a week or two.  Sell your condo, time share, cottage, and get the fuck out of here.

I’m selling my motorcycle because of you.  Do you know what that means?  Let me put it another way:  I’m 27 years old, and I’m going gray because I get so stressed out behind the wheel.  Just stay home, if not for me, do it for your kids.  Because next summer if I see them lollygagging in the middle of a road I’m trying to transverse, I’ll fucking eat them.  I’ll kick them each in the balls so they can understand the pain I feel.

I fucking promise you.

August 22, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Post That Was Here Was Removed By The Author.

The Post that was here, all 2500 words of it, has been deleted by it’s author due to excessive descriptions of violence.  If you want to read it, shoot me a message, one way or another, and maybe I’ll email it to you.

August 21, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors, Too Much Time | , | 1 Comment

@Recant: Tweet?

@Recant:  Tweet?

A while back I posted an article where I pretty much took a match and a can of gas to Twitter.  For those of you who somehow still haven’t heard of Twitter, it’s the “microblogging” website that allows it’s users to post “status updates” in 140 character increments that are broadcast around the web to all those who mindlessly “follow” you.  In turn, you “follow” other people’s “tweets” – what it’s called when you “Twitter” but no one calls it “Twittering” because that just sounds like something a gay would do.

I’ve been largely conflicted as of late about Twitter.  Initially I was a huge naysayer of the service mainly because I had no real need for it; I updated my status regularly on my Facebook page which in essence is the same thing that Twitter does, so I saw no need to be redundant, even though you can link the two together.

But then one night, Ang and I had a friend over for drinking and bullshitting around the living room and the subject of Twitter came up.  I, being two beers in, loudly and quickly made my opinions known that Twitter was crap, that it was “simple blogging” or something to that affect, as from Twitter we get the lovely term “Microblogging” as seen above.

My argument was that Twitter makes blogging easy, so easy in fact, that my mom can do it, not that she does, thank god.  My stance was largely based around the fact that I work my ass off to maintain my blog, put out fresh article ideas, and try to promote the shit out of my site.  Twitter pretty much opened the door even wider for Civilian Journalism – a market with an expanding waist line and no foreseeable over-saturation point in sight.

Which brought up my wife’s point:  During our discussion, it came to light that she had a Twitter account (I was actually shocked and maybe a little pissed), which she says she created in light of the political protests in Iran regarding the reelection of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.  The Iranian Government pretty much shut down cell phones and internet access across the country, but a few people were able to “Tweet” what was happening at ground zero, which made for invaluable journalism.

I had to admit that she had a point, that Twitter, in that case at least, served a purpose, oppose to allowing Ashton Kutcher to post pictures of Demi Moore in granny panties.

So fast forward a few weeks and with Twitter all over the news, everyone talking about the service, a million fucking Apps for the iPhone related to Twitter, it kind of dawned on me that I was fighting against the tide.

I could easily stay the course I am now and just try to ignore the inevitable; I could be the technology resistant North Korea of sorts and try to keep myself in the dark regarding Twitter’s presence in the world, or I could make it work for me.

I regularly will post a weekly update of this blog on my Facebook page complete with a primer, a picture I found on the web that somewhat ties together my general thesis, a funny caption, and tag all of my friends who I think might be interested in the article.  I try to keep it as non-intrusive/abrasive as possible by not establishing a link to the article but rather just writing out the web address telling people they can “read more” at my site.

But these little “notes” only reach maybe twenty people because of the security settings I have in place on my Facebook page (see also: Fort Knox).  So of the 20 people I ‘tag’ in the note, maybe two or three will wander over to my site and glance over the whole article.

By the way, these notes on Facebook are the only real advertising I can do for my site, aside from handing out flyers to people on the street.

With Twitter I can potentially raise my readership exponentially, as I use it as a catalyst for my own brand of advertising.  In the same sense that I blogsurf and leave a few thoughtful comments on some random guy’s blog (which tends to prove futile half the time because … well I’ll get into that in a minute) I can do the same on Twitter by “following” people and getting them to “follow” me in turn.  I can post links directly to freshly written articles and keep updates hot and fresh from my phone throughout the day without feeling like too big of a douche bag for flooding my friend’s News Feeds on Facebook.  With my Facebook only being about 40 people in size, I could grow my Twitter account to ten times the size, and see ten times the readership with little cost to any real friendships I have.

(We)B-logging (remember when it was still called that, circa like, 2000?) is becoming somewhat of a lost art on the internet anyway, as everyone a few years ago jumped on the bandwagon and soon the internet was a flood with people thinking they were special enough to post a few pictures of their cat and write a few half hearted articles in relation.  Soon they’d lose interest and move on to some other fad.  Now the tubes are messy with discarded blogs which lay in the middle of the road like a splattered squirrel.

In relation to blogsurfing, the waves, you could say, have died down to nothing.

Twitter seems to be the next logical step in order for me to get my name (and this site) out there.  I hate to admit when I’m wrong, and I hate to succumb to a fad so trendy, but to survive is to adapt.

You can follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/BADorg

August 17, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors, World Wide Events | , , , , , , , | 2 Comments