The Blogging Affairs Desk

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

Found On Jim’s Desk

Dear Editors,

Sorry I’ve been all over the road lately, but this time of year is especially stressful for everyone. But hey, listen, I’m gonna go up to Boston today and flesh out an F’n’L article that’ll surely make everyone remember that I’m an above average writer.

So get off my case about stumbling into work raving drunk mad, screaming about pills and whipping Colt 45 bottles around other people’s heads.

I’m an artist. That’s what artists do.

Also, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m taking a personal day. Let those down in Accounts Payable know for me. Because I threw my cell phone out of the window of a 18 wheeler late last night.

The article will be ready for print this afternoon/evening.



December 10, 2008 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

Now: A Typical Conversation From Ten Years Ago:

The time:  1999

The Place: Southern Maine, in a car possibly going down Rt. 1

The People:  Me, at 17, on a date with some random chick.

The Conversation:

Me: So, really, what’s like, you’re worst fear about a first date?

Her: Uh, probably getting raped…?

(long silence)

Me: Jesus… that’s true.  Mine was going to be ‘farting in front of you,’

Annnddd…. SCENE!

November 22, 2008 Posted by | Uncategorized | | 2 Comments

Really, Ask Us Anything

If you missed it in the last post, The Lady and I are looking to take our reader’s questions and posting a video of us answering them, ala Pot Psychology on

So feel free to post a question in our site’s comment threads or you can email us at  We’re looking for about twelve questions, and we’ll read them on-air without anyone’s names attached.  You can ask us personal shit, current event shit, stupid shit, anything you can think of, go ahead and ask.

We’re really that bored.

I’m just sayin…

October 25, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Living in an Insane Asylum, Shameless Self Promotion, Too Much Time, Uncategorized | , | 3 Comments

Fear and Loathing When Cooler Heads Prevail

(When Jim came into the office this morning, he went straight for his stashed bottle of whiskey.  We of course intervened and told him to sit down and get to writing.  After we wrestled the pistol and two knives from his person, he reluctantly sat down and put out this article.  -ed)

Christ, where do I begin.

Can’t drink.  Gotta write this out.  Put down the drink.  You remember what happened last time, right?

Ok, coffee’s good, though it’s going to key you up a little bit.  But that’s ok.

SO!  Ok, so, yeah, if you can’t tell, I’m a little juiced up right now.  Writing for me has always been somewhat cathartic.  I’m not a person who outwardly expresses how he feels, because it always makes me feel dumb to exploit a weakness, such as “emotions” and “feelings.”

I blame my father, who after chopping off a digit with a pneumatic leather punch, cauterized the wound with a soldering iron and promptly returned to work.

Anyway, I try to write out my emotions here, or when I was younger, in an actual journal that I kept stuffed way back in my desk drawer.  The only difference between this blog and that journal, aside from the fact that this blog is (pretty much) open to the public, is that my old journal was a touch more sarcastic being that I wrote most of those entries as a snide fourteen year old.

Anyway, the point of this article is this:  I really want to punch someone out, and I can’t do it.

You’ve read my article on the consequences of lighting an asshole up, presumably in a Burger King parking lot late at night, when everyone has a wicked drunk on.  If you read the article you know that I’m able to process the pros and (mostly) cons of driving your clenched fist through someone else’s face.  But lately, my thought process on the matter has been deteriorating faster than a tissue in a toilet bowel.

First:  Two days ago while milling about the office, the roommate comes at me with this bit of information:

“Ang saw the kid who’s been breaking into people’s cars!  She saw him checking car door handles and everything!”  I checked with The Lady and she confirmed that yes, she saw the same punk kid, Tony Hawk-look-a-like, who spends his nights shadily hanging out in the parking lot bushes trying car doors.

Being that it’s been about a month since my truck was broken into, and all the hassles I’ve gone through since then, I immediately set out a plan to ambush this kid and break his spine and fracture his skull, leaving him a vegetable for the rest of his colostomy bag carrying life.

The Lady, of course, didn’t like my plan of action.

“James,” she starts, and she has that tone of utter exasperation in her voice that she only uses when she’s trying to bring me back in from the deep end, “we’ll just call the cops every time we see him in the parking lot.”

“The cops don’t work!”  I shout back into the phone, and realize that the full metamorphosis from Law Enforcement Officer to Civilian Tax Payer has been completed.  “There’s nothing they can do but question him, unless they happened to find half a dozen GPSs falling out of his pockets at the scene!  And the DA won’t care either, there’ll be no restitution.  He’s a juvenile, he’ll get community service at worst!  We need to teach this little bastard a lesson!”

And there’s nothing but fed up silence on the other end of the line.

She eventually tells me that she understands why I’m mad, but I have to be practical.  Beating a 16 year old kid and then sodomizing him with his skateboard isn’t going to rectify the damages I’ve incurred.  And what if he recognizes me?

“I’ll wear a ski mask,” and I confidently know where I keep my black knit ski mask for situations like this.

But the cooler head prevailed, and my Batman-esque fantasy of wearing a mask to beat a lowly criminal and then dropping him off, handcuffed, in front of the police station in the dead of night is vanquished.

I hate being practically minded.  It honestly serves me no purpose.  I hate being the thinker, and not the doer.  Why can’t I be more prone to action, rather than that annoying guy in the movies who’s always like “whoa, hold on everybody, let’s think this out first.”

“Mother fucker!” someone will say, “this bus is going to explode!”

“Well, it’s not going to blow up right now,” the film version of me would say, just as the fuse into the dynamite disappears into the stick.

Do they still even use dynamite?  God, I’ve been watching too many westerns on AMC.

So, my rage quietly passes and I take out my left over aggression on my three mile run and heavy bag work out. Later that day I’m weighed in and made weight at 185 lbs, my goal, seven pounds under weight.  I’m elated, and I feel really good, promising myself I’ll keep up the good work.

That night, while emailing back and forth with The Lady, she starts to get concerned with the Ferret Bianca (or as she’s being commonly called lately “Binks” which is admittedly too cute for words) saying that she’s acting lethargic.  This somewhat spirals out of control to the point where she takes Binks to the closest 24 hour Animal Hospital near by (which was over an hour away) in my truck, at 2130 at night.

I was very torn over this issue and reluctant to step in and say “hold on, wait, are we doing the right thing here?”  But I didn’t know the situation first hand, as she did, and my concerns hovered mostly around The Lady driving around in some unknown part of the state, at night, in somewhat of a panic (she’ll say she was calm during the whole thing, but I mean, there must’ve been some level of critical-ness, right?) with terrible directions.

I didn’t want to tell her no, which is something I feel like I need to work on, because again, I didn’t know what situation was unfolding.  I suggested we wait til morning to take her to the local vet, but this was met with:

“I’ve lost too many pets by waiting til the next morning.  I’d rather do something now and have it be nothing, than wait and have her die on us over night,” and there you have it.

She fwd’d me mapquest directions to my blackberry, which I then transferred over to a piece of paper by my bed and she took off.  I sat up, and waited for status updates.

She eventually called for clarifications on the directions, which I gave her, all the while thinking that this was becoming a worse and worse idea as it unfolded.  What if she got into an accident, and had no way of letting me know?  Or got lost?  My still-living mother’s ghost came into my thought process, where I did nothing but worry the entire time.

I tried to catch some sleep here and there, especially when I knew she arrived safely at the clinic.  She called again as she was leaving and told me that the doctor did a quick physical and determined nothing was wrong with Binks, concluding that the visit in total would cost $100.00s.  I shut my eyes and tried not to say something to the effect of a Benjamin being flushed down a toilet.

She made it back fine and called me to tell me so.  I managed to collectively get about three hours sleep on and off for the rest of the night before having to wake up at 0600 this morning to leave the office.

But!  But!  And here’s where I get really mad, just in case you’re keeping score still….

My roommate comes back into the picture:

“Dude, you got some serious issues with that ferret,” he starts.

“Yeah I know,” and I catch him up on Ang’s Odyssey.

“Yeah, well, like, it was choking on some shit for like, the whole four hours I was playing video games yesterday.  I checked on it at some point and it was eating those little pellets in it’s litter tray…”

So, to help illustrate to you, the reader, how quickly the rage in my body peaked, I’ll recap everything that just happened:

-Dealt with a ton of drama the night before, where there was little I could do, and loss massive amounts of sleep from it.

-Worried for both my girlfriend’s safety and of course the health of our little pet, which I’ve become incredibly emotionally attached to.

-My loathing for my roommate has increased exponentially in the last few weeks.

-Said RM then explains, with a smile on his face, that he listened to a poor animal choke on itself for four hours, while he did nothing but play video games.  He could’ve easily called me or The Lady (who works right around the corner!) to at LEAST tell us something was wrong.

I explode.  I saw my fist flying through the air towards the spot between his nose and upper lip, dead on target to blow his front two incisors into the back of his throat.  I know how to throw a punch, and I realize that’s not the optimum location to deliver a straight punch due to the likelihood of breaking your knuckles, wrist or digits on the upper maxilla, a traditionally thick portion of the skull, but I didn’t care.

I wanted him to suffer, and perhaps choke on his own teeth, as did the poor ferret probably choked on shit and piss covered pellets.

The bastard.

Of course I didn’t strike him.  Cooler heads prevailed again.  This time it was a co-worker who ushered me out of the room, probably sensing a murderous rage boiling just under my skin.

I cool down a little, but the more and more I think about it the more pissed I get.  I walk over to the gym and beat the living piss out of the heavy bag until my fists go raw from it.  I sit on the bench and hang my head between my shoulders, my arms draped over my knees and breathe hard for about a minute, my mind racing.  The stress building and releasing in ebbs and flows.  I get mad, insanely mad for about thirty seconds, and then it fades out to a grayish black, then builds back up to blaze red again.

Then I let out a little sob, a single tear runs down my cheek, which I rub away right before I stand and walk back out.

The rest of the morning goes by without a hitch and after stopping off at The Lady’s mom’s house to pick up some laundry and groceries, I pick up some coffee and some smokes and drop those off at The Lady’s store.  I come home and find the ferret curled up in one of my old t shirts on the floor of her cage.  I coax her out from the t shirt and say hello and it seems as though she’s fine.  I wait for her to poop (don’t ever let a ferret out of her cage after she naps without making her poop first.  Trust me.) and take her out and cradle her and coo things into her ear.

We play tag for a while, where she chases my feet around the apartment, jumps on them, and then scurries away under the couch, where I chase her to.

Then my blackberry buzzes and I see an email’s been received from the RM, inexplicably in all caps:



He wants me to buy out his share of the dining room table, which is 120 bucks.  Guess what his share of the utilities will be?

Fuck him.  He can’t move out soon enough.

I’m just sayin…..

October 15, 2008 Posted by | Fear and Loathing, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate, Uncategorized | , , , , | 1 Comment

Big Rig

I don’t want to sound like I’ve gone off the deep end with my cynicism. I think being a tad bit cynical is good, especially in these times we find ourselves in lately. But I think that a wave of paranoia has definitely crashed over me, and is pulling me out with the tide.

I’m starting to think that all elections are rigged. And this scares the shit out of me.

I think the roots of this thinking extend back to when I was running for a position in the class government when I was in seventh grade. As arbitrary (and albeit nerdy) as it sounds, I ran for Veep, because I knew I had no clear shot at the President (and writing that last line probably just put me on a Secret Government Watch-List.). So I decided to run as the “zany” Veep, making wild promises and allegations during my introductory speech. I promised that I would work hard with our teachers to limit the number of pop quizzes, and increase the number of open book and/or take-home tests. I promised to push for a Mountain Biking Club, and to start a militarized Hall Monitoring unit. All while asserting with not-so-clever innuendo that my competition was likely gay, because I saw him staring at another guy’s ass in the locker room after a second period gym class.

Of course I was a wild success, receiving a standing ovation at the end of my oration. My (ahem, gay) competition didn’t even make a speech after me. He actually said in a low, inaudible mumble that he was dropping out. He pushed his eye glasses back up his chubby face and sat down, never even glancing up from the floor between his skin-tight jeans!

I figured that I had the election in the bag, and of course like all good politicians, I had no intentions of following through on my promises. By the end of the day I waited anxiously to hear the general election results broadcasted over the PA system, with all the other afternoon announcements and calls to the buses. I chomped at the bit as they got the crappier, no-one-gives-a-shit-that-you’re-the-class-treasurer positions out of the way, and on to the President and Vice President.

“And now, you’re new Grade Seven Class Vice President is….” And as I inhaled and held it in, ready to burst from my seat as they read my name, to take a victory lap around the room, letting my LL Bean back pack bounce up and down on my back like a crazed midget holding on for dear life, they read someone else’s name.

They read the other kid’s name.

I was understandably stunned, even shell shocked! My jaw swung open as I glanced over my shoulder at the pudgy bastard, who for all intents and purposes withdrew from the race hours earlier, beam. I had been duped! Given my speech, there wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t vote for my charisma and charm! The other guy didn’t even make a speech! What in the blue fuck was going on!

Since then, I’ve observed some elections, and my theory that they’re all controlled by some coalition of unnamed people, far more powerful than the voting constituency, and are pulling the marionette strings that control everything. We saw this play out in 2000, when Al Gore won the popular vote, but then G-Dub walked away with the electoral college vote, after some shady Supreme Court dealings that I’m not sure I could rightfully explain without the help of heavy narcotics.

Then, in 2004, a similar situation played itself out with John Kerry and the incumbent President… but that one might be a little more of a stretch, and not so much in the public’s eye. Maybe those who control whatever have gotten better in their craft?

Then of course there were the “other elections” ones that average people seemed to care about more than the ones that mean the most. I’m talking about fucking American Idol (Clay Aiken over Ruben Studdard? Chris Daughtry being dropped before the final three?), Survivor, (don’t really watch it, but I’m sure there’s been some bullshit calls in it) Flava of Love, and I Love New York (With these shows, the primary paramour never sticks around, so that a new season can start a year later, where the celeb is “still looking for love”). I haven’t really been paying much attention to Vh1’s latest deviant incarnation “I Love Money” but it’s wholly rigged beyond expectations to keep the more audacious characters around longer so that they can keep the scandal-loving viewer in his seat, more aptly glued to the series, which all translates into advertiser’s dollars pouring in.

Oh, and don’t get me started on last season’s “America’s Got Talent.” Are you fucking kidding me? A guy who could sing Police and Sting covers like… well like Sting himself, lost to a fucking asshole with… puppets. A fucking hack comedian ventriloquist. I nearly shot my television set.

It’s all a fix. The general populace no longer has a say anymore. It’s all controlled by those who have the influence and money to manipulate these matters for their own twisted purposes.

A more local, and timely, example of this would be where I work. Instead of having “Employees of the Month” we do it by quarters, because… I dunno, that’s just the way it’s always been. So for the last two quarters, that’s half a year if you’re keeping score, there’s been total dipshits in the position of EOQ. People no one in their right mind would’ve voted for.

It works like this. When we start getting down to the nitty-gritty of the quarter we’re currently in (based on the fiscal year that runs from July to June, or whatever it is) the person in charge of the voting will hand out little slips of paper that we’re supposed to put someone’s name on and hand back in. In the past, the voting seemed legitimate; people who I thought were very deserving were getting picked. But then, roughly three or four months ago, the guy who does the counting, suddenly ended up getting picked to be the EOQ…

Suspicious? Let me go on:

This guy is a world-class fuck up, and I can’t conceivably think anyone in their right mind would vote him into the position of EOQ, let alone a majority of the office. I know that our bosses, the President and his Veeps all have a final say in the voting, as they are the ones who hand the award out, so it tells me that they had it in their minds, from the jump, to make him EOQ, despite what the votes said. This means our voting was a complete waste of time.

An example of how incredibly fucking ridiculous this guy is: He’s a grown adult who got kicked off our Flag Football team for trying to instigate a fight between himself and a player from the other team. He tried to open field tackle this guy, and when the guy wouldn’t go down (and subsequently dragged this asshole across the field by his waist) the guy jumps up and shoves him. The ref blew his whistle, threw a flag, and told the guy to hit the showers.

A grown-ass man.

Ok, so anyway, I let that go. This next round of voting, we again were issued our slips of paper, and we all filled them out and sent them back in. Then, about a week later, we’re all sitting around in our morning meeting, when it’s announced that this other total fuck up was named EOQ. And again, I was stunned out of my seat.

This guy has been with the company for probably two years, and has done nothing to improve his position. He’s taken untold amounts of personal vacation time, often screwing his fellow co-workers over in the process. The easiest, mildest of tasks are of considerable labor to him. And again, I can’t think of anyone, nor a majority of those who’ve voted, would outright pick this guy.

So I’ve just given up altogether on voting for THAT.

Now with the general elections coming up in November (though I plan on voting absentee a week early, for my own reasons…) I fear greatly that my vote won’t count. I’m going to vote, believe me, but what if the wheels are already in motion, and McCain’s elected outright, by some weird whimsical miracle? Even if Barak Obama blows him out in a landslide, there could be some sort of “technicality” that prevents him from ascending to the White House. One of his staffers could’ve forgotten to sign some ridiculous form from when he first started his campaign. Something like that.

We’ve seen this twice before, and I’m so very afraid it could happen again. It’s all rigged, nothing is left to chance, McCain sleeps easy at night knowing that his completely maniacal, bat-shit-crazy foreign policy will soon be in place, that his dearly retarded running mate can gaffe all she wants, it won’t effect a goddamn thing, because he’s had this sown up for probably years.

Shit, I’m hyperventilating…. Gimmie a sec here….

If there’s a god in heaven, please hear this: Restore my faith in the electoral process. Make this about people’s voices, the people who matter most, not the people who think they matter the most. I ask this in Christ’s name I pray.

I’m just sayin….

October 6, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Those Crazy Politicians, Too Much Time, Uncategorized, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , | 2 Comments

Update Num. 2: The Greek Weighs In…

So I finally get back home from the office and I have a shit-ton of shit to do.  Can you tell I’m somewhat fatigued by this point?  I’ve absolutely stopped trying to use actual words to describe things, and instead have just used shit patois.


So, first order of business as soon as I got done running some menial errands for The Lady on the way home (stop at her moms, pick up her eye glasses, stop at her sisters across the street, pick up her Mac) I stop off at the house, say hello, climb half naked into bed, become the Grocery Store Owl (‘Who’ told you to make me a list?), get dressed into dry clothes (might I mention it’s a fucking monsoon outdoors today?), drive around the block, drop The Lady off at work, drive around the block again, pick her up smokie-treats and a Dunks coffee for both of us, drive around the block again (fucking goddamn one-way Main St…) drop off items (except my coffee, of course), drive around the block FOR FUCKS SAKE AGAIN, to get to the post office to mail out some packages.

I’ve finally found a buyer for my crippled bike.  If you’re just joining us, the bike tends to just … die… after riding it for two or so miles.  I brought it to a local bike shop, where I was promptly put over a barrel and roughly fucked from behind with maybe just a smiggen of spit as lube.  In short, I was told that with parts and labour, the bike would be up and running ‘like new’ at the price of 1500 dollars, half of what I originally paid for it.

Mind you, these were the same guys who said they “couldn’t find anything wrong” with the bike a few weeks earlier, which ended up leaving me stranded for three hours on the side of a road.

So, just to wrap up this whole side story, I brought the bike back up to Maine one weekend (same weekend I bought my new truck) for dad to deal with.  He couldn’t make heads or tails of the problem either, and we both decided just to cut our loses and sell the bike.  I put a randomly placed ad on (I’d post a link, but it has my parent’s phone number so….) and Creeping Jesus if someone didn’t respond.

This would be the first time CL has ever worked for me, except for that one time I used it as a social experiment.  I need to find that article and repost it on here…

Anyway, this rube… I mean, guy… fell in love with DAFT (name of my bike) and despite the electrical “death” problem, he wants to give me the full 3K I’m asking for the bike.  The deal is, he’ll give me the 3K, but he’s going to take out whatever it costs to fix the bike.

At worst, I’m looking at 1500 bucks…

So my dad and this guy take the bike to this other shop in North Hampton, NH, where they quote me at 400 dollars to fix the bike, parts and labour.  Holy shit, that is awesome, I say to no one, because I’m in my office, listening to iTunes right now.

So, ok, the whole point of this is that I had to mail out my old helmet because it matches the bike, and in the CL ad I mentioned that I’d throw the helmet in as part of the deal (a 250 dollar value, yours free!).  So I have the helmet, the reg, insurance cards, inspection sticker, blah blah blah, all boxed up, ready to go.  And I wouldn’t have had a box had The Lady not gone dumpster diving for me behind her store.

So thank you luvy, I love you.

So along with this box with my helmet, I also have to ship off this tea set that The Lady got for my mom for her birthday on Sunday.  I also needed a book of stamps.

Well I get to the Post Office, get a box for the tea stuff and wait in line.  I’m called forward by a postal employee who looks like a bee-stung Benjamin Franklin, with the attitude and wit of Cosmo Kramer’s buddy Newman.

“Ok, what’ve we got here, man” He says to me.  I let the “man” slide and explain to him the contents of the boxes.  “Ok ok ok, he’s what we’re going to do,” starts the obviously thrilled with his life choices asshole.  “You’re going to make the box uniform, ok?  Here, take this,” and he hands me a tape roller with packing tape on it, despite my befuddled expression.


“Yeah yeah, see, ok, here, see,” and he takes apart the folds I made in the tops and bottoms of the box and lays everything flat.  “Uniform, see?”

“Ok,”  He then goes on to explain how to fill out the slips, all while being a total jerk off.  Look, postal guy, I’m not going to start a beef with you, because for all I know you probably have a .357 loaded with +P rounds, where you cut into the ball to make them dum-dums, under your desk.  In the very least you’ll probably mace me with that dog mace you guys carry on your bags, you fucking bureaucratic Nazi.  You’re acting like you just crushed up some No Doz and snorted it out back in the lav, so calm the fuck down, I just want to pay for this shit, have the birthday stuff get to Maine by tomorrow afternoon, and a book of stamps, thanks.

After all of this (it takes at least 20 minutes, but I don’t want to take up this whole article dealing with this douchington) I send the shit out and now make my way over to the local constables, to file my car burglary report.

Queue the ‘Law and Order’ Dun-Dun!

Barnstable Police Dept, 1200 Phinny’s Ln, Hyannis, MA

Sept. 26, 2008, 11:35am.

I’m cooling my heels in their lobby, feeling every much a total scumbag because for one of the few times in my life, I’m not on the other side of the glassed off area where all the officers are sitting around bullshitting and drinking coffee.  I’ve been waiting for about fifteen minutes and I know the drill:  They’re pawning me off on some low level patrolman, who in his opinion, has got better things to do than to take my miserable car break-in report.  I know this, because I was once that low level patrolman who’s sole purpose was to get the duty sergeants’ coffee order, and take bullshit reports that just ate up my day until 1800 when I would cut loose.

I would make these guys sit and wait, so why should this dick with a badge be any different.

He finally comes out of the little door with a note pad and a pen.  He has a groomed mustache and a look on his face like this is the umpteenth thousandth time he’s done this dance.  I stand up and extend my hand and he takes it quickly, giving a quick practiced squeeze and one pump.  We let go and he doesn’t bother to look up from his pad.  I quickly observe he has a light dusting of white powdered sugar on the corner of his mouth and left lapel/breast pocket area of his uniform blouse.

“What’s your name?”  I give it to him and he writes it down.  “Social?”  I’m never comfortable giving this out, because I know they use it to run NCIC checks on persons, but since I have nothing to hide, I spit out my nine digits.

“Ok, so what kind of vehicle do you have?”  I describe my truck, give him my plates and when he asks if there’s any damage, I say:

“No, no damage, this guy was a pro, probably been doing it for a while.  Left nothing amiss, no vandalism- shit strewn, nothing.  He saw what he wanted and took it.  He then left the door slightly closed, just enough to get the dome light to go out, so there wouldn’t be a loud bang as the door closed, alerting his presence to anyone who could be around.”  The cop stops writing for a second, doesn’t look up, and to my disbelief says:

“You know, people watch enough ‘CSI’ on television, and they think they’re experts,” my jaw drops.

“Excuse me?”  He back pedals.

“You know, just, you sound like you know what you’re talking about is all,” he tries to look up at me, but the expression of my face probably tells him I think he’s a massive dick who took this job because he was picked on a lot in high school.  The guy’s roughly my age, and I knew plenty like him when I worked the beat.

“I used to be on the Job,” I seeth.  He then finally looks up at me, his groomed mustache black like an ink smudge across his lip.

“Oh, where at?”


“Where in Maine?”


He gets the hint that I don’t want to talk about it.

“What do you do now?”

“Something more lucrative.”  He gets that hint too, and gets back to the crime.

“So…” long pause, he goes back over his notes, “what’d they take?”

I go down the list, explaining everything.  I notice his pen not writing as much as I’m telling him.  I just go through the motions knowing that this is all going to be just stat reporting in the end.

“And uh, do you have any serial numbers for any of this property, sir?”

“No, just like everyone else, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, that’s tough.  You know those GPSs are targeted big time.  We’ve had a string of these lately, and uh, that’s the one thing everyone’s been mentioning.  You’re lucky they didn’t smash out your window.  So you left the vehicle unlocked?”

“Well, I thought it was locked.  I think the battery in my fob is low or something, I dunno.”  He nods along and scribbles more on his note pad.  He takes my contact information and gives me the cursory:

“If we need anything else from you Mr. N we’ll give a call, ok?  Have a nice day,” and I watch him suck himself back inside the warm womb of his fellow dick bags.

I leave, another items scratched off the to-do list.  I head over to the barber shop because I’ve been getting that look from everyone I work with that my hair’s getting poofy again.  I park, take my coffee inside, insult the barber who’s reading a book in his chair when I tell him I’m going to wait for Greek.  Greek waves a hello from his station and I sit and flip through one of the tabloids out of NYC, sipping my coffee.

Greek finishes up with his customer and I get up, shake hands and he asks me why the long face-type questions.  I catch him up to speed on what’s been going on, and he looks like I just punched him in his last good lung.

“You’re kidding me!”  He exclaims as he wraps me in a barber’s bib and tucks a napkin into the neck.  I nod and he shakes his head.

“You know what,” he starts and he leans in closer to my ear, looking around, “it’s those goddamn Brazilians.”

Good ol’ Greek, never lets you down for a racist scapegoat.

He goes on, in detail to tell me how he himself, his son, and his grandson’s cars have all been ripped off thricely, and he largely suspects that if the multitude of Brazilians that live across the street didn’t do it, they certainly know who did.  He snips my hair, laying into them left and right.

“Animals,” I mutter in agreement, fearing that he might snip off the tip of my ear in anger any second now.

“And now, they want the police department to start learning Portuguese, so they can better interact with the cops!  I was thirteen years old when I came to this country, didn’t speak a fucking word of English, and no one was expected to learn Greek!  I had to learn English, with everyone calling me a greasy dumb bastard to my face!  Now if you call one of these… goddamn Puerto Ricans or whatever they want to be called, a dumb greasy bastard, then oh no, all of a sudden the ACLU and the fucking weeping Marys and everyone comes out to call you an asshole!  What the fuck!”  And the other old man barber next to him nods in agreement from behind a newspaper.

“But Greek,” I start as he lowers me back to shave my face, “I saw a white kid lurking near the cars in the parking lot that night, and I think he might have something to do with it,”

“That’s nonsense!  They caught fifty of those goddamn banana-eaters last year for breaking into cars, and you know what the judge does!?  He lets them all go!  He says ‘no restitution, no community service,’ nothing!  They all got off scott free to go do this stupid shit again!  And now they know they can get away with it, nothing’s stopping them!

…And they want the police to start learning Portuguese… HA!”

He then goes on to tell me about the apartment across the street:

“There’s this apartment across the street, full of the little shits.  Any given time, there’s like, ten cars parked out front and it’s a shitty two bedroom, one bathroom joint.  You mean to tell me that place can accommodate that many people?  I’ve been over there, before these new Brazilians took it over a few years ago, when… what was his name, Bill?”

“Dantangelo, Frank Dantangelo,” says Bill from behind his newspaper.

“When Frankie lived there.  And it’s small, real small.  No matter what they say, there’s no way they can fit that many people over there.  And you know what they’re doing, right?”

“No….” I say as he props me back up.  I check my face in the mirror to make sure I’m not bleeding.

“It’s a safehouse!  When the heat from Immigration gets too hot in Boston, they ship out to here!  For a couple hundred bucks they get three hots and a cot, and they get hooked up with a gig at some fucking Bodega where NO ONE SPEAKS ENGLISH!”

“Easy, Greek,” I say.

“I’m just sayin….”

September 26, 2008 Posted by | Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, Uncategorized | , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Twenty-One Again

I really try not to sound older than what I am. For all intents and purposes I’m on the cusp of 27 (forty days and counting, depending on when this article gets posted…), my body feels it the next day when I either work out too hard or play back to back flag football games (we split the games, the second was a loss in double OT, our star defensive back tipped a duck of a pass into the hands of an ungodly tall and uncoordinated receiver at the edge of the end zone), and I have a gray pubic hair.

So when I start to get nostalgic for ‘21’ don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to desperately grasp on to the few short strands of my dark pubic haired childhood, though it may sound like that. I just want to pass along an interesting story with some insight on aging.


A kid I work with is turning 21 today. In his frenzied excitement, he’s gotten the rest of us to feel like we’re turning 21 again too. And as plans have been carefully laid for weeks now on how to celebrate this kid’s birthday (sushi and saki all afternoon – limo ride to a strip club – titties and cocktails all night), the excitement has become infectious.

I’m not really going to be participating in the festivities. Given that I’m still somewhat in the dog house with The Lady, it’d be prudent for me not to run off leaving a sore, swollen, in-the-midst-of-her-period, angry woman behind to wait for me all night alone with my firearms and collection of combat knives, counting down the minutes until I come in staggering smelling like cheap whiskey and cheaper women.

My guess, the body glitter that would’ve been rubbed on to face, along with the scent of a Victoria Secret’s knock off body spray compounded with the fact I’ve yet to remove the shit-smeared mustache I’ve been sporting lately would be what will put her over the edge, and plunge something heavy and sharp through my chest like she was King Leonitis.

So yeah, but I will get raw fish and rice grain booze with the boys after I get back from a little business trip scheduled for tomorrow morning. She knows about that, and as long as I don’t come back sideways, speaking backwards Korean, things should remain amicable.

But turning Japanese…. Er… I mean, turning ‘21’ is a big deal, and it’s one of those American Rights of Passage. Way back in whenever, young men would be forced by their tribal elders to seek out enlightenment in the woods. Spirit Journeys were what they were called and you’d wander the fucking woods, eating hallucinogenic plants and berries until you were greeted by a Spirit Animal, who would guide you either back home, or off a nearby cliff.

Turning ‘21’ is roughly the same experience, only instead of (well, for most of us) eating mushrooms and letting a talking Giraffe bring us home, it’s imbibing liquors til our eyeballs bleed and then letting a friend or yellow taxi (either which could take the form of a talking Giraffe if the right combination of alcohols are consumed) home to hang our heads over the rims of our toilets and curse the day we were born exactly 21 years ago today.

One of the most simplest and gratifying things to do on your ‘21st’ is to go to the liquor or package store and buy enough libations to supply a small rebel army, bring your arm load over to the counter to the disinterested packie employee, and have them card you. You think it’s a big deal, and you try not to beam when you hand over your DL, but to the clerk behind the register with her display of cured meats and infinite rolls of lottery scratch tickets, this happens about twice daily, so she’s about as impressed with you as you’d be impressed with your obnoxious nine year old cousin’s mastery of making armpit farts.

This never happened to me though – the packie store employee carding me, not the arm pit farts – when I turned the big two-one. Let’s hop into my Delorean here and go back to October of 2002, and please mind the Flux Capacitor.

I was a college Sophomore with a nasty clump of facial hair that most would consider an unconnected and spotty goatee and about twenty to twenty-five pounds heavier. Being that I was in college, I probably already had a decent sized buzz on at 0930 in the morning, when I just woke up and managed to hustle myself across campus to get the last bit of breakfast at the café before they tossed everything out leaving me with either fruit or stale bread and a bucket of grape jelly with bit of peanut butter in it, because some obvious honor student used the same knife in both the peanut butter and jelly buckets.

So, three hash browns, a plate of eggs, drizzle syrup all over everything, shovel it down my gullet, and then hustle back to my non-frat house-house on the fringe of campus and up three flights of stairs, reward myself with a semi-cold pre-opened can of Bud Light that’s still on my desk from whenever it was I passed out the night before, grab the keys to my 89 Ford Thunderbird, and back down the flights of stairs, crash into the fat black girl RA with the affinity for bright colored visors, spin move, X Button-sprint, nearly crash over the porch railing because I’m a colossal buzzed mess, and jump into my car parked half a block away.

At the packie (a local colour term here in New England and most of the Northeast Region for ‘Package Stores’ small convenience stores where one can procure alcohol, lottery tickets, and cigarettes), like a shark I’m slowly meandering up and down aisles, the scent of my prey lingering close; if I stop I won’t be able to breathe, so it’s a constant pacing up and down the lacquered floors.

It’s about ten am at this point and I’m the only customer. The clerk behind the bullet-proofed glass encased counter is watching me warily, probably unable to tell if I’m going to try to pull a fake ID or just bum rush the front door with an armload of booze. I finally find what I’m looking for, two litres of Crown Royal, tucked between bottles of Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker and Canadian Mist.

But fuck it, while I’m ahead, I might as well push it, right?

I grab a thirty-rack case of Bud Lights and a 6 pack of Sam Adams and haul this cargo up to the woman behind the counter. I have a sly smirk on my face and I remember trying to act as professional as I possibly could under the circumstances. She removed her scanning wand-thing from its holder and beeped the two bottles of Whiskey, the giant case of cheap beers and the small pack of higher end stuff. The total came out to about seventy-something dollars, which I paid in cash, the majority of which was birthday money sent to me in a check from Memere a few days early.

“Spend it on something fun!” Memere wrote on the memo line of the check. She probably meant ice cream for me and the “pals” those degenerate Southie-Irish assholes who never slept, never went to class, took pills, and all had friends named “Sully” and “Mickey.”

I hand over the cash and I anxiously await for the “can I see your ID, please?” from this glass-encased woman. I wait and I wait and I wait and it never comes. She continues to stare at me as the tension builds, and she looks over the stacks of booze to see that she even already handed me a receipt. What else could I possibly be waiting for?

I give it another agonizing ten seconds and come to the conclusions that she’s not going to ask to see my picture ID, with today’s date, minus 21 years on it. Of course, walking out of there with over seventy dollars of alcoholic drinks, it should’ve been a win-win anyway. Fuck it if she never asked to see an ID on the one day where I WANTED someone to ask for it, NEEDED someone to ask for it. Fuck it, I thought as I lumbered back to my car and loaded the trunk with the purchase to bring back to my “dry” campus.

Now-a-days I seem to get carded all the fucking time and it drives me nuts. I know I should be charmed that someone’s thinking I may not be old enough to legally consume alcohol in the Continental United States, but seldom are these people really skilled at determining age anyway. In short, usually I’m carded at convenience and grocery stores by pimply sixteen year olds in fear of losing their eight dollar an hour job because the shift manager, who’s my age, caught them not carding someone. I’m never carded in bars or lounges (god I haven’t been to a lounge in forever) probably due to the fact that I order complicated drinks and am as fussy as a gay guy on how their made, oppose to a wino/more amateurish drinker, who would order something like “a beer, whatever’s cheap.”

The charm of being “21” wears off faster than the newly anointed seem to realize, especially if you’re the only one who, in your group of friends, is of age to procure beverages. Typically this lends itself to having to stay sober enough to drive to the store when the booze runs dry, and the parties still going. Also, you have no one to really go out drinking with, and you find yourself bellying up to the bar by yourself surrounded by depressing bar fly regulars, who probably were once in your same shoes, but never were able to cut the chord from their surrogate mother, the local tavern.

The former scenario bugged the shit out of me, because in my group of friends I was close to being almost two years older than most of my guys. For instance, when I graduated high school I was 19, to everyone else’s 18 and 17. So it was I, when I was twenty-one, who got the calls for “the hook up.”

“Dude, we’re having this party…” someone would whisper on their end of the line, into my phone and into my ear.

“Sweet, who’s there?” I’d ask.

“Shut up. Listen, you had better deliver some ice cold brews to this location within twenty minutes, or I’m going to send a Samoan with bolt cutters to take your balls off,”


The latter scenario, about being at the bar by yourself, has never really bothered me, which in a sense, bothers me, because it seems to foster the implications that I’m an alcoholic. While The Lady would argue that this is mostly true, it isn’t. I just like being alone, in my own thoughts when I tie one on.

There’s something pleasant about just stepping up to your neighborhood’s bar and sitting down and quietly nursing a beer while watching golf or something else that’s wholly tiresome on the provided television; You can collect your thoughts and analyze things better. Bar tenders are usually pretty sage, and know enough not to pry on a customer who’s tipping well and being un-conversational. Although you do sometimes run into the loud, obnoxious former Mayor, who wants to be everyone’s friend because he feels some inadequacy, however these tend to run few and far between.

I find that when I go to a bar, a pub, with someone else, it’s awkward to sit there and drink with them, because you feel like you need to converse, you need a subject to talk about. I always feel like I’m on a date with whoever I’m there with, because I’m constantly struggling through my neurosis to talk about something, when I know damn well enough that this person probably also wants to drink in utter silence, save for the Rush single playing on the computerized juke box or the tv blaring ESPN.

But I’m getting off topic. I blame my low grade ADD and the Taurine in this Rockstar energy drink that I’ve been sipping for the last hour. It might also have something to do with the Carvel ice cream cake we had with dinner tonight that half way through eating became a soup on my plate and I just ended up drinking it.

Shit, probably shouldn’t be consuming this much caffeine before my business trip tomorrow. Could prove disastrous for everyone…

Regardless, should probably try to put a cap on this before I run a decent article into the dirt harder than drunken face plant on your own front lawn at four in the morning when you’re stumbling home from a strip club, hoping to god your live-in girlfriend is passed out on muscle relaxers and white wine.

I’m just sayin…..

September 22, 2008 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Dear Music Industry…

(Jim wrote this article in response to the story he read online about how music industry heavies like Sony and Virgin were going to team up with in an effort to boost music sales.  The following article should be read with a sneer on your face.  -ed)

Dear Music Industry:

No one’s buying your shitty cds anymore for a few reasons. Number one, cds are virtually antiquated, a technology that has it’s roots in the 1980s, along with Pong and Tony Danza. Also, cds are too expensive; you can still purchase cds in stores for twenty dollars, no lie. Why the hell would I want to spend twenty dollars on a cd when I really have nothing to play it on? Sure I guess I could load it up into my computer and rip the songs from it to put on to my iPod, but why not just cut out the middle man and buy directly from iTunes for half the price?

I was in a co-workers car the other day going to a flag football game, when I saw him fidgeting with the controls on his radio. He was pressing buttons and when I leaned forward from the backseat to see what he was doing, I saw that he was changing the track on the in-car cd player.

“We’re listening to a cd right now?” I asked him.

“Yeah, the car came with this system already installed, a 12 disc changer, Bose speakers, everything. I kinda feel bad hooking my iPod up to it, so I make cds.” He said and I had to think about how completely stupid he sounded.

Here’s another fun fact music industry: Your cds hold maybe 18 songs, give or take, requiring me to change out the plastic disc and replacing it with another one when I’m tired of listening to the first album. Have you ever tried to do this at highway speeds in heavy traffic? It’s a process: take the new cd out of the case or holder or whatever, set it on your lap. Hit the eject button on your cd player, pull the old cd out, set that on your lap. Pick up the new cd from your lap (be careful not to get them confused!) and push it into the narrow fucking slot on the dash.

Here’s how I switch albums on my iPod: Scroll, scroll, scroll, click, click.

The fact is, the music industry is suffering so badly because it’s still investing in a technology we, the consumers, no longer or seldom use. Ten years ago even, in the glory days of Napster (before it became all commercialized) the only choice a music lover had was buying a thin piece of plastic to listen to their music. But even then the ability to burn your own cds was coming out and the music industry began to shudder. That’s the time they should’ve been looking for that next wave, how to stay on top. No one wants your cds anymore, because there’s a better cheaper alternative.

Let me explain this in Urban Economics: Let’s say the music industry is selling crack cocaine on one corner for ten dollars for two rocks, which is pretty much the standard price, I from what I understand. Then out of no where, this young upstart starts selling his crack cocaine for two dollars less, and the discerning crackhead then is going to shuffle himself down the street to the cheaper supplier. For as long as it takes until the music industry comes by in a blacked out van and shoots the shit out of the other guy in broad daylight.

And honestly, that’s what the music industry needs to do, not literally, but take an aggressive stance towards companies like Apple’s iTunes and Rhapsody, et al. They have to compete and stop crying themselves to sleep every night wondering when people will come back to them and their cds.

Another metaphor to explain that last line: It’s like an inattentive husband thinking his wife is going to come back to him even though he hasn’t made any efforts to change in the last ten years. So his wife is dating the hot new tennis instructor in iTunes.

Even artists are riding the tide away from the music industries plastic grasps. Last year Radiohead released an album online allowing fans to pay however much they felt like paying for the album, unsurprisingly a majority paid zero or one cent. This isn’t to say that the pulse of free music is still strong, as it says that no one would readily pay for Thom Yorke’s warbling (Sorry Hoke).

In all seriousness this progression is becoming common in big name acts that can afford to put out an album for basically free. Their own promotional websites and blogger buzz will help push the word out that you can get a free album from a high notoriety band and you can name your own price.

Wait, what’s that sound? …Oh I think it’s the hammering of the last nail in the coffin of the music industry.

I’ll probably never buy another cd ever again. Sitting here, I can’t even fathom purchasing any format of music outside of digital, from my computer directly to my iPod or any other mass storage portable device that also integrates into my truck and computer. It wouldn’t make sense. No longer would you have to buy an album twice over so you could have a copy in your car and in your home. Just bring it with you on your iPod or … god help you… a Zune.

Long gone are the days of buying ridiculously shrink wrapped plastic that takes you a solid half hour to get through. Long gone are the days where you have to browse countless aisles of unorganized cds that some sweetly retarded store employee haphazardly put together if he even gave two shits about his 9.00 dollar an hour job. The music industry has late stage terminal cancer and anything it does to rectify its weakening health is too little too late.

An example of this is the music industries heaviest shit birds signing on with News Corps’ owned in order to get a foothold on the digital music edge. Companies like Sony, Columbia, etc are all signing on to be part of Myspace’s revamped music page where subscribers will be able to surf tunes for free. No word on whether or not you’ll be able to download, or if the downloads will be comparatively priced with that of Apple’s iTunes.

Even still, the music industry is still four or five years behind the times, and even with Apple’s fair share of technical problems with the iPhone and iPod Touch, their share of the market is still fiercely loyal, and pretty much untouchable no matter what you throw at them.

So go ahead music industry, try and pander shamelessly to the kids. Use a vehicle that will automatically target a key demographic. You know who else tends to do that? John McCain, that’s who. And if you’ve been keeping an eye on politics lately, the young people of this country tend to hate McCain just for that reason: his shameless pandering to people fifty years younger than him.

I’m just sayin’….

September 17, 2008 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , | 6 Comments

Sarah Palin Redux

I would like to know, exactly when Gov. Sarah Palin became the sole focus of the 2008 Presidential Elections? I’m not asking for an exact date, down to the minute, but I’d like it if someone came down and told me that it was right around *here* that it became all about Palin.


The Alaskan Governor has become the center piece in a year long drama for two reasons which are total polar opposites of each other, yet exemplify the partisanship of our great nation.

She’s hot.

She’s a political abomination.

Either way you slice it, you fall into one of the two camps. If you spend your Sundays slugging back Budweisers and watching Junior do left-handed turns all afternoon, you likely support the former reason on why you’re going to vote McCain/Palin, should you get up off your wife-choking, child-whuppin’ ass to do so on that first Tuesday in November. Should you be for the latter reason, take a minute to turn down NPR for a second before you do any more letter writing to your congressman asking why the Capitol Building isn’t permanently affixed with solar panels.

I was browsing through the blogs on ‘The New Republic’ this afternoon and I came across a commenter who made a super valid point I have yet to see anywhere else: All the so-called male supporters of Palin were virtually absent during Hilary’s run for the democratic nomination. This could be explained with two more reasons:

Palin is hotter than Clinton.


These men, so-called Palin supporters, have somewhat of a politically themed agenda they want to get behind, and could not relate it to what Clinton was all about.

The commenter stated that it was biased (if I could find the exact comment on the exact blog I’d surely link you, but I can’t, because I don’t know where to start looking. You’ll just have to take my word on all of this I guess) for men to support Palin but not Clinton. She (I assume it was a ‘she’) said our ‘double standards’ were showing. I call bullshit on that statement: Just because Palin is “prettier” or perhaps looks better dressed up as a slutty school girl, isn’t the sole reason why red state men are going to get behind her. …Er… support her.

To them, Palin is an easily digestible idea. She’s a slow pitch softball league toss over the middle of the plate. What you see is pretty much what you get, a bubbly air headed beauty queen pageant runner up/baby factory who likes to hunt. It’s easier for these men to romanticize the idea of a woman like that, than the obvious authoritarian aspect brought about by Clinton.

I’ll tell you this much: There’d be no way in hell I’d vote for Palin on any ticket, even for Ms. Alaska (and apparently I’m not alone on that, considering she was in fact the… say it with me….runner up.), but compared to Hilary, who has all the charm of a burning plague corpse launched over an enemy’s battlements, I would be tempted. Hilary suffers from what I think a lot of success-driven women suffer from in our country, and that’s being too aggressive.

Now before I piss off everyone I know carrying lady-lap-equipment, I’m not saying that I take issue with a woman who’s aggressive and know what she wants. I’m saying that as a general consensus, people are put off by that characteristic. Especially old white men, who fear losing control to anyone other than another member of the Old Boy’s Club.

I hate admitting that, I honestly do. You’d think that in 2008 we as a nation would be able to put things like gender far behind us in history. It was in 1921 that women were given the right to vote, so 87 year later you’d think it’d be no sweat to hand the torch off to a woman.

But then again, you’d think it’d be just as easy to hand it off to a darkie too, right? Tell that to Alabama, West Virginia, and Mississippi voters on their way to dropping the kids off at Bass fishing lessons.

Palin is more acceptable of a choice for these voters because she’s not in a position of power to begin with. She’s on the ticket as the Veep, subservient to an old white guy. Her style is like their wives and girlfriends, ready to please the voter and take care of all their needs, including having dinner ready on time. She represents putting these types of voters at ease. Don’t have to worry about her getting up to answer the phone at 3 am, because she’ll likely be asleep, obviously worn out from being with her 6 fucking kids all day. She’ll probably sleep right through the ringing.

So, don’t allow the scent of bullshit because Palin is “hotter” than Clinton, be the only reason why male red state voters, or even just males in general are siding with the “other women.” Men are just hardwired to like simplicity. And Sarah Palin is the very definition of simplicity.

I’m just sayin’….

September 17, 2008 Posted by | Those Crazy Politicians, Too Much Time, Uncategorized, World Wide Events | , , | 1 Comment