The Blogging Affairs Desk

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

TidBits: Media Over-Hype Edition

Gate Crashers:

By now you’ve heard the story about The Salahis, the eager-to-be-famous gate crashers that seemingly waltzed into President Obama’s first “State Dinner” (quotes are for the fact it wasn’t ‘really’ a State Dinner.  State Dinner’s are characterized as being with other heads of state, and this dinner was attended by India’s Prime Minister, who is the head of India’s Government, but not the head of the country) uninvited.

The obvious twist in the panties comes from the (lack of) security that was breached by two witless faux-celebrity wannabes.  Pictures of the couple appeared shortly after the ceremony on their Facebook page, which begs to ask the question: What is a couple roughly my boss’s age doing with a Facebook page?  Do they stalk their high school-aged kids?

But the real head scratcher in all of this is why people, the media and politicians especially, are getting mad at the Salahis’ and not that government entity called THE SECRET SERVICE?

Since writing this, three Secret Service agents have been placed on administrative leave until findings in the lapse in security can be properly investigated, but law makers, who love a good sturdy soap box to stand on and yell into the hills from, want to place blame on both The Salahis and the president’s Social Events Secretary.

That’s like blaming the bank teller for a robbery when the security guard is fast asleep on his stool.

Hey Washington DC, yeah it’s fucked up that these two spray tanners were able to get inside the holy of holies with little more than a clever anecdote and cleavage, but don’t blame them, and don’t call for the head of some la-di-da department secretary whose sole purpose is to plan meet and greets for Mrs. Obama and the kids.  Blame the people responsible, the guys with the ear pieces, guns and black suits, whose job is to ensure fame seeking whack jobs don’t get pictures with the President and post them all over the goddamn Facebook.

Tiger Woods:

Please leave this poor multi-national bastard alone.

I don’t condone what he’s apparently done; I would never cheat on my super model wife.  Men do stupid things and though I could come up with many reasons on why he probably did what he did, I won’t.  It’s just bad voodoo and an inevitable argument with my wife when she reads this.

But let’s not forget that Tiger is a person.  Up until now he was a very private person who wasn’t the type of celebrity athlete that shows up in the pages of People or US magazine.  He’s a winner and he’s human, fucking A.

He did break the boundaries of privacy when he crashed his SUV into a tree in front of their house, obviously fleeing a psychotic wife wielding one of his golf clubs that probably costs more than my yearly salary.  He brought that shit on himself, but damn, can’t you give him a break?

Stop demonizing him, I ask.  Plenty of celebrity athletes have done dumber shit and we’ve all gone on to pretty much forget about it, unless of course you’re Pete Rose (better luck next year, coach!).  Stop playing it up like Tiger will never be the same guy ever again, or his career will suffer.  Gatorade and fucking Nike have both stated they were going to stick by Tiger no matter what, and AT&T (whom I wasn’t aware sponsored him…) has released a ‘no comment’ comment.

I can see GM pulling out under obvious reasons, though.

Adam Lambert:

If you were like the rest of America, you missed the American Music Awards, the also-ran of musical award shows that places somewhere distant behind the VMAs, Grammys, and Country Music Awards.

Though, if you had passed by while flipping from reruns of ‘The Office’ and that shitty sitcom with that guy from ‘Everyone Loves Raymond’ … you know, the guy, the tall guy?  I think he was a cop?  That guy.  Anyway, if you were like most Americans, you had no idea who Adam Lambert was until the morning after the AMAs.

Adam Lambert was a RUNNER UP in American Idol like, last year.  He’s also come out and said he’s real gay, which is not surprising in the least.  He recently released an album which could easily be confused with a Sheila Eastan LP from 1991.

The controversy started when during the AMA’s, Lambert mocked fellatio with a fellow band mate, who happened to be of the same sex (a dude), while making out with another band mate of the same sex (…also a dude) while tromping around the stage like an awesomely flamboyant peacock.  This got him tossed from the next morning’s Good Morning America appearance, where he was scheduled to sing to school kids on an outside stage, while no one wondered why these kids weren’t in school.

Mr. Lambert likes to claim that he’s being ostracized because he’s gay, and as a gay guy he’s not entitled to performing the same lewd semi-sexual acts that straight musicians are afforded while performing.  He’s quick to point out that many famous acts have been allowed to simulate straight (see also: chick-on-dude) fellatio, but as soon as a gay dude does it, it’s ‘disgusting.’

Elton John is rolling over in his still warm grave….

Adam Lambert, you miss the point: People aren’t outraged that you thrust your crotch into another dude’s face in front of a live audience which was broadcasted into dozens of homes, no, that’s not the controversy.  If you want to flaunt how gay you are, and make it seem like it’s cooler than the next Harold and Kumar movie, that’s fine, because gay people have been doing that shit since the early 1980s.

What we’re really pissed about is your lack of talent.  Dude, you suck.  Your voice sucks, your music sucks, your production sucks, you suck, suck, suck.  The irony that you think people are upset at you for ‘sucking’ is enough to make me pop a stitch.

The next time you tour, please bring along that monotone celestial that sings the Ricky Martin songs.  You know the guy, he’s released two more albums than you?

December 7, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Hate, Why Am I Watching This?, World Wide Events | , , , , , , , , , | 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

Ex-Co-Workers: Your Office’s Lingering Fart.

In the working world people come and go, and the less transitory the job, the stronger the bonds are between co-workers.  I mean, if anyone was stuck in a foxhole with someone else long enough, I’m sure lasting friendships would be forged.

However, if you’re in a business where people tend to come and go like the breeze, it’s likely you couldn’t care less about your co-workers.  That isn’t to say that you won’t make a friend or two, or might be sad to see someone go every once in a while, however, largely you could care less.

It’s just faces in the crowd, really.

And that’s how I feel most of the time.  The bulk of people in my office I could give two shits about; you’re here, you work, and you transfer out in roughly a year or two.  It’s been nice knowin’ ya.

But what do you do when they come back?  …For a visit?

Is anything more awkward than an old co-worker coming back to your office to “hang out” and “catch up” especially when you’re busy at work?  Could you imagine sitting at your desk while someone you give less than two shits about jabbers on while leaning over you, perched on your cubical wall, not giving a shit that you’re a week behind a deadline and your phone is ringing off the hook?  Don’t you wish they’d take a hint and go the fuck away?Library_04619

Two such situations happened around my office recently, about five days apart, where old co-worker came back to the office to pay a visit.  Nothing to me is sadder than to discover a former co-worker just sitting around a common area waiting for someone to talk to, almost like a Trap Door Spider waiting to snatch some desert bird who haplessly came too close to their hovel.

But that’s what I walked into the other day when I was going from the little room I stay in when I’m here at work, to my office.  Between the two spaces I have to cross through a rather large common area, and who did I see leaning up against the wall?  This asshole that transferred out to our offices in CT at the beginning of Summer.

“Hey J, how’s things going for ya?”  He sticks his hand out.  I’m forced to be fake because the man is a born loser with a dark disposition on life, and I’m the exact opposite.  At least I like to keep up that appearance anyway.

No one was immediately in the area, so I couldn’t do the “hey,” shake, and move on bit.  I was forced to actually hit the brakes and chit chat.

“How’s Connecticut?”  I asked through somewhat gritted teeth.  He goes on to complain (because that’s a crowd-winner, right?  Who the hell cares how shitty it is, lie like everyone else and say ‘good!’) for a solid ten minutes about how it’s not like our branch, and how he hasn’t made any friends, so on, so forth.

This guy is the only guy I know who would frown while getting blown by Megan Fox.  He’s that miserable.

So after ten minutes of listening to him complain, I shove off, tell him I have some reports to run, yada yada yada, and he does that annoying thing where someone will start a whole new conversation as you’re taking a step to your right to walk away, just to reset their hooks in you.  I stop, looking around over his shoulder for someone to help me, begging god for someone on the PA to page me to some place, anything.  He locks me in for another solid two minutes before I finally stop him in mid sentence with:

“Oh hey, what happened with that (Blank)?”  He’s confused because he has no idea what I’m talking about, as I just made up an incident involving his new branch.  I take the pause to tell him I heard that (Blank) had happened and did he know anything about it.

“No…?”

“Oh, well, huh, that’s funny,” I say, allowing another awkward pause to settle in place.  I use that pause to segue into finally leaving this asshole leaning on the wall.  “Ok, well, I’ll be seeing you,” and I quickly turn and walk away without giving him a chance to try to rope me back in.iStock000000379976XSmallAnnoying2-main_Full

I heard similar stories of people’s run-ins with this guy for the rest of the day.  Apparently he didn’t get the message that no one really wanted to see him around.  I for one was close to paging security to come down and whisk him away, but I kept getting distracted by phone calls and text messages.

At one point I heard a page come across our PA system.  It was the guy’s voice, paging a co-worker of mine to come down to the break room.  Seriously, the nerve!

Jump ahead to this afternoon (as I’m writing this) me and some co-workers come in from a charity function here in town and there’s ANOTHER one of these former co-workers just hanging out in our administrative pool area!

This guy is ten times worse than the other guy because he’s a lying, stealing cheater with a big fat mouth and the balls to match.  He was caught red handed, twice, digging through my personal belongings both in my stay room and at my desk.  When confronted, he flat denied it to mine, and my supervisor’s face, both of us had been the ones to catch him.

He was assigned to our office a year ago from another office up the coast due to family illness.  While he was staying here, he did nothing but disrupt the natural course of business while failing to be productive.  He was a slimy leach latched on to the testicle of a happy working environment.   He was recently transferred out, back to his original office, after our office’s managers had decided they’d had enough of his antics.

But now, here he was, back again, smiling that gapped toothed smile, the very picture of an animated ventriloquist’s dummy.

We keep somewhat of a skeleton crew here at the office on the weekends; most of our bosses are at home, rightfully so, and we who are left behind are given a work list of things that require taking care of.  I don’t work every weekend, only a handful at a time, and it’s nice.

Luckily, most of my co-workers were already in the admin pool area when this dickwad sauntered in off the street to have lunch with us.

I avoided him at all cost, because I felt like I’d likely pummel him to death with my bare fists should I interact with him.  I went into my office without closing the door, as so Ivy, my dog who’s staying with me at the office this weekend, could come and go as she pleased.
complainer
In walks fuckstick.

“Cool dog, when did you get him?”

“We got HER, a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, how much did she cost?”  Who the fuck asks that?  I’ve been asked about every normal, sane question you can ask someone about their dog, and not one person asked me how much I spent on her.  And nothing is so trashy as to ask anyone how much anything costs.  Decent people don’t talk about money like that.

“Excuse me?”  I say while squinting and looking up from my screen.

“How much did you spend on her?”  He asks again while petting her. This gets under my skin real quick.  I avoid the question and ask him to shut the door.  He shuts the door, but he’s still in my office, petting my dog.

“No, I meant, shut the door with you on the other side of it,” I explain to him.  He looks up at me with a confused expression and I see the lightbulb eventually come up with a flicker.  Quietly he turns and opens up the door to my office and steps out, leaving it open.

Once you’ve left a job, be it through transfer, firing or quitting, don’t go back.  People have moved on, take it from me.  Your so-called “friends” at the office have pretty much forgotten about you the moment your car door slams shut for the last time in the company parking lot.  As you shuffle your box of belongings around on your passenger seat, people are already erasing your contact information from their email address books and rolodexes.  You’ve been “unfriended” by everyone at the office on Facebook, your tagged pictures have been “untagged.”  You’re like a fart, hanging in the air until you waft away and are forgotten for good.

How many farts do YOU really remember?

Just move on, make new “friends” where ever you land.  Always keep looking forward, and forget those behind you.

September 14, 2009 Posted by | Around The Office, Corporate America Hates You, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate | , , , , , | 1 Comment

Dissecting Cosmo

So imagine walking into your office and you catch this whiff of some fruity concoction; it’s over powering, destabilizing, and instantly you wonder if someone set off a Febreze bomb in your working space.

With coffee in hand you set your things down and looking back up at you from your desk is Megan Fox, the “it” starlet of the moment, complete with the allure of a flash frozen whore.

Someone left a Cosmopolitan Magazine on my desk, whom I have no idea, since my office is a shared workspace and I do work with members of the opposite sex.

“Cosmo” as it’s called by its utterly slutty readership has a home in America’s beauty salons, high school lockers, and under your little sister’s mattress.  I figured I’d go into the magazine and dissect some of it for my readers, because shit, it’s midnight, I’m up, you’re up, wouldn’t you like to know what men think about a magazine that purports to KNOW what men think?

The Cover:
megan-fox-cosmopolitan-magazine-october-2009
As stated, Megan Fox is on the cover, set on a pink background, she’s wearing a skanky looking pinkish dress, complete with fan-blown hair, and a bunch of gaudy costume jewelry that looks like it was purchased from a local flea market.  I do not understand her appeal, only that she’s conventionally hot.  I guess she has a new movie coming out, but… whatever.

Of course there’s headlines detailing what’s inside the issue, some of these include “Bad Girl Sex: These 12 Moves Will Show Him Your REALLY Naughty Side.  We Call Them The “Dirty Dozen.” This headline will forever ruin the classic war movie of the same name for me.  On the same subject, 12 moves?  I’m confused because I’ve been having sex for a while, and honestly, there’s really nothing new to discover, at least in my own mind, that a sexual partner, particularly a girl, can do that hasn’t been done in every porno movie I’ve ever watched while only wearing one sock.  Girls: here’s the real scoop:  Just show up, that’s it.  You don’t need “super secret dirty new moves” to impress us.  Just… climb on board.  Really.

Another headline:  “One Question No Guy Can Resist.” … Whatever the fuck that means.  Girls, ask a guy any question about himself, or his opinion, and likely he’ll cough up an answer, as long as it pertains to his thoughts regarding sports teams, high school glory days, beer vs. beer, or if he’d be interested in seeing you naked.  When it comes to that stuff, we’re usually open books.

The last headline before I move on:  “The Sexy Ass Workout:  2 Weeks to Tight Cheeks.” I don’t know what it is about that lede, but it’s so utterly unattractive.  Anything with the word “ass” in it just… ugh, and you know, I’m an ass and leg guy too?  But seeing it in big bold black letters under Megan Fox’s right tit just… it’s so unclassy.  Maybe it harkens to that “Flirty Girl Fitness” commercial I see advertised in the mornings that I’m watching old “Saved By The Bell” episodes.  You know the commercial, a handful of strippers prance around with the promise of getting “fit” by doing “sexy” stripper routines in your own living room.

But you know better.  You know that the tantalizing bodies on the screens are not the ones doing squats next to their crumb-covered couches at home.  No, it’s gross heavy weight housewives lamely attempting to get into some sort of shape in order to seduce their husbands, who will only be closing their eyes and imagining the gyrating girls from the commercial when they get to sticking it.Fat_figurestore_pole

That said, let’s take a look inside…

I flip through fifteen sum-odd pages, re-wafting that noxious gas back into my office.  Every page I turn is an ad for something or other, make up, perfume, clothes…

I’m not surprised or unfamiliar with this, as I read “Esquire” and “Men’s Health” somewhat religiously.  Periodicals have to pay the bills I understand, and advertisers know this.  If you’re interested in men’s fashion, expect Calvin Klein ads to be littered about your magazine.  Women’s mags are no different.

I get to page 18, and on the bottom left corner there’s a picture of three celebs with the title “If You Had To Choose…” with the options of Musicians Jon Legend and Jon Mayer, and actor Jonathon Rhys Meyers, with the option to “shun, shag or marry.”  Men play this game too, but it’s typically called “Friend, Fuck or Murder” and it tends to involve female celebrities.  But in this case, I would Friend Jon Mayer (I follow him on Twitter), fuck Jon Legend, and probably murder Meyers, only because I hated the two and a half episodes of “The Tudors” I’ve seen.

More ads, more ads….

I come to the article on Ms. Fox, and I’m somewhat confused because the opening pages are photo splashes of her, full body shots, her in flirty tantalizing poses, which makes me flip the magazine back over to make sure I’m still working through an issue of Cosmo and not “Maxim.”  I know girls check each other out and probably are more inclined to bi-sexual fantasizing then men (for instance, I doubt I’m going to crack open next month’s “Esquire” and find a spread of a shirtless Alex Rodriquez on bed sheets…).  It’s just confusing.

Apparently Ms. Fox has filled out some sort of questionnaire here that they’ve superimposed into the article as filler, because even I’d be hard pressed to get 700 words out on an actress with a pool of talent shallower than anything bought at Kmart.

Information gleaned from the questionnaire:  Ms. Fox’s nickname is apparently “bird” which is never explained (maybe it’s explained in the article, but I didn’t bother to read it), her most “tomboyish trait” is her “sailor mouth” which … I’m not sure if it turns me on or makes me think of festering scurvy sores… in another life she was probably a man… According to Ms. Fox the only thing sexier than sex is a Funny Boy (Bobby Hill, watch out!)… her ideal date would be a “sexy sandwich with Andy Samberg and Jonah Hill (first of three times I would throw up in my mouth and be forced to swallow it back down while researching this article) …. The most scared she’s been was when “any time I go on stage – instant diarrhea” (That’s two!  I just want to know if she uses the loose 1 dollar bills she’s collected to clean herself up?)… and in ten years she’d like to be “still working.”  Megan I hear there’s some prime real estate over at Vh1 on Sunday nights if you’re looking… or Hollywood Square, bottom right, under Bruce Valanch and next to John Stamos’ stunt double.

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I skip ahead to the next article, titled “What He’s Really Doing at a Bachelor Party.” I’d like to point out at this time that I’m listening to Tom Waits on my Pandora radio station to help balance out the estrogen that’s bleeding out from this magazine.

From the 350 word article:  “The horror stories abound: binge drinking, strippers, lap dances, even full on sex with hookers!  You know your guy would never go there… but you also know guys act stupidly when pressured by pals.”

Ok, let me say this:  I’ve been to two bachelor parties in my entire life, neither sure as hell involved any sex with hookers, and only one involved a pair of non-English-speaking strippers who engaged in a dyke-fest on the floor of a HVAC shop while a bunch of coked out Colombians cheered them on.  Regardless, bachelor parties tend to be kinda lame.  There’s a collection of guys, both professional and personal friends of the groom who gather, watch a porno together and drink beer.  Usually, by nine-ish the married guys dip out to get back home to the wife and kids, leaving the single guys start getting picked off one by one by the booze fairy around 11ish.

Women: Honestly, you have nothing to fear from a bachelor party.

Also from the article, towards the end:  “A good time to drive your point [re: acceptable behavior at the bachelor party] home is right after a good romp, when the love hormone Oxytocin is raging for both of you.  Point out that you’re able to try new things in the bedroom because you trust him and know you’re the only one he’s doing stuff like that with.” If you read between the line here ladies, what you’re being told is to let us bareback it with you the night before, so you can say “look I let you hit it raw, you better not go to the party and bring back something nasty that’s going to make my insurance premium sky rocket the next time I get a check up.”

Moving on…

Page 48 has a huge graphic breaking down what’s apparently “Sexy vs. Skanky.”  A rhyming break down of acceptable and unacceptable fashion-type behavior.  Such helpful advice includes Sexy: “Being edgy” with a picture of the singer Fergie wearing what looks like an over sized t shirt she wore to a razor fight, and Skanky:  “Picking Wedgie” where model Victoria Silvstedt, clad in a bikini is digging knuckle deep up her ass to fetch part of her bottoms.vs23_medium

One more:  Sexy “Pumped up guys” with a picture of actor Taylor Kitsch, who I think is from the tv show “Friday Night Lights” but I could be mistaken, because I nor anyone else has ever watched a single episode of that show, and Skanky: “Frumped up girls” with a picture of Helena Bonham Carter walking some place wearing what looks like turn of the century bed clothes.

I have a problem with this because Ms. Bonham Carter is a sweetheart and hardly a “skank.”  Sure, she often looks like a crazy homeless lady, and I expect her at any second to have some small mammal leap from her hair, but she’s by no means to be lumped into the same circus of painted whores as the entire cast of “The Hills.”  She’s a very talented stage actress and will forever be Marla from ‘Fight Club.’  Cosmo, leave the poor woman alone.  I’m sure she has mirrors in her very expensive British estate, and she’s aware she leaves the house looking like a bedraggled bus riding bag lady.
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More ads… more ads… head starts to spin due to lack of sufficient O2 as office becomes saturated in perfume samples.

I get to a section called “Confessions” where readers submit embarrassing, albeit humorous anecdotes that involved their “V Zones” and an unnaturally high amount of accidents involving fellatio.  I chuckle, and figure the bulk of these are at least 50% creative fiction writing exercises, because “hooking up with a real hottie in the bathroom of this club” seldom ever really happens.

I skip ahead again, and now I’m looking at a series of close ups of some dudes eyes, with the headline “4 Truths His Eyes Reveal.”  Apparently if you study these four sets of eyes, you’ll be able to read our (men’s) minds.

Featured:  I’m Bummed – half raised eyebrows, slight smirk.
I Love You – Narrowed gaze, rapist quality eyebrows.
I’m Putting One Over On You – Eyes complete closed, face apparently becomes African-American.  Maybe it should read “I’m Putting One In You?”
I Want You – Steady, burning gaze that the longer I look into, makes me feel gay as a tree full of birds.

Not Featured:  Hunny, Get Me Another One? – Uplifted eyebrows with hopeful glint
Ugh, I’m Kinda in The Mood, (But Don’t Feel Like Fucking Around With All That Foreplay) – Squinted eyes, furrowed brow.
Please, Shut The Fuck Up – Upturned eyes, towards ceiling, almost asking for god’s hand to come down from the sky and smite thee.
I Hate Your Harpy Friends – Red eyes, bared teeth.

I next come across “The Guy Report” with useless information for women to “nudge” guys to do their bidding and to decode eating habits.  Of the eating habits “If he routinely finishes his meals long before you do, being in sync and savoring your relationship may not be priorities for him.” Or… or it could mean I’m just fucking hungry because I’ve been at work all day and the last time I ate was at about 9 am this morning which consisted of a piece of wheat toast and a handful of Corn Pops?  Lesson:  If you have time to over analyze our relationship based purely on how I’m eating, you need to check your insecurity.  The fact that I’m sucking down the meal you just made me should be a compliment.  The way I look at it, as a guy, if I’m spending my time chit-chatting to you and NOT shoveling a forkful of the meal into my mouth, I’m not interested in the food and if you made dinner, that doesn’t bode well for you, or our “relationship.”

Next page:  “Why He Calls You A Nag, When You’re Not.” …Too easy, moving on.

Blah blah blah, fashion accessory stuffy… Pandora is playing some funky shit…lights are blinking around me for some reason… the fear of keeping this magazine open much longer and developing a vagina in the course of writing this article hits my chest with a sudden thud….

The rest of the magazine is basically ads, either in-your-face variety of paid full page ads for hair products or slick-looking “reviews” of products that no doubt the manufacturers paid for to appear in the pages with glowing reviews by some editor.

A picture of Rob Thomas, … he looks like an autistic kid with a flashlight….Screening The Duchess NY

Now on to the obligatory sex stuff that is the pride of Cosmopolitan Magazine.  A collection of essays, tips, pointers, and pictures of soft core pornography to go along with it all.

Remember earlier when I mentioned that during the research phase for this article I puked in my mouth thricely?  Here’s number three:

From the article “Fun Little Tricks Guys Love:”  “Use Your Thong as a Hair Tie.” …I’m not even remotely making that up.

It goes on:  “There are few things guys like more than long hair, women’s underwear, and sex.  So combine all three!  If things start getting hot and heavy, stopping the action to go search for a pony tail holder will kill the mood.  Instead, grab – or take off – (get read for it…) your underwear.  Simply fold the crotch up so that the thong forms an open circle, twist your hair into a low pony tail or bun, and use your panties like an elastic band to secure your locks!”

…Ok.  I can almost… ugh… I can almost smell how disgusting of an idea that is.

Let me go out on this note:  If I were ever getting frisky with my wife and she … pulled off her underwear to use to tie her fucking hair back, I’d throw her out of bed.  Without hesitation, because I figure if she has gone past the point of caring that she’s now wearing her used, hot underwear on her head and still going to have sex with me, she’s either become Helena Bonham Carter or she’s just gone plain crazy.
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My wife, and just about every girl I’ve ever been intimate with since about the age 16 has an army of fucking hair ties laying around within reach of her at all times.  If there isn’t one already on her wrist, there’s bound to be one on her fucking ankle, or the night stand, or in her pocket or purse or on the floor, on the sink faucet, on the little Buddha in the bathroom, on a toothbrush… you get the idea.  And fuck it if you can’t find one… hell, there’s times when I can’t find a condom, but that doesn’t stop us!  We just say ‘fuck it’ and keep moving forward.

I refuse to have sex with anything that will wear it’s underwear on its head and still figure I will find it attractive.  So fuck you Cosmo, for misleading young women.  Watch for next month’s article on how guys apparently think snowballing their come back into their mouths is “sexy.”

Can’t wait.

September 9, 2009 Posted by | Around The Office, Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Why Am I Reading This? | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

When Recycling, At Least As Far As Ideas, Is A Bad Idea

Pretty soon all my readers, both of you, will think I’ve gone anti-green.

This isn’t true.  I’m very green.  Well not very, but I like to think I am, because it’s trendy.  And I’m a slut for trends.

Speaking of sluts, the cable channel Vh1 has been recycling the same fucking show for at least the better part of this decade.  It’s suddenly become apparent to me that the suits over at Viacom need to pull the plug on this feeble, wheezing genre of reality dating slop.

Typically, something so mind-numbingly abysmal hardly makes it on to my radar at all.  But “Megan Wants a Millionaire”, Vh1’s latest offering on it’s spin off of a spin off of a spin off of reality television which debuted two weeks ago, has to be the craggiest of the rockiest of bottoms for the music channel that still features music (some where?) within it’s programming.

For those of you new to the game, Vh1 started rolling out with these types of shows where skinny stripper chicks and off-season MMA fighter guys compete for the affections of a “celebrity” (quotes because it’s often that the celebrity in question is some washed up has been.  I’m sure that Vh1 will likely start looking to Pittsburgh Pirates junk ball middle relievers from the late 1990s for it’s next go around of shows) and are slowly whittled away through a process of elimination where those cast aside are “sent home” either for poor performance during the days events or some sort of social faux pas made on a date or something or other.

It’s all very trite, indeed.

Regardless, Megan, of “Megan Wants a Millionare” is a conventionally shameless whore, poured into a tight dress and fed lines off screen by her handlers.  She was a runner up on another Vh1 reality dating programme, as well as a runner up on two other Vh1 programmes, “Charm School” and the truth-in-advertising and aptly named “I Love Money”.  Her biggest claim to fame before landing her own show was being pulled about by her hair and beaten by a coke-and-champagne-fueled Sharon Osborne on a reunion episode of “Charm School.”

Like all of Vh1’s programming as of late, there’s very little mystery of what’s going to happen from one minute to the next, as pretty much everything has been laid out before hand by carefully staging events, and then going back and editing them a certain way.  Guy/Girl A doesn’t like Guy/Girl B, fight ensues, someone bleeds, someone’s sent home.  Or Guy/Girl A gets too drunk on all the free booze just left out on tables all over the property, passes out face down on lawn, shits self, wears shit-stained garment to elimination, is eliminated in shit stained garment.

The only real redeeming aspect of this show, if any at all, is the host of fresh meat allowed to trot on screen for their obligatory five minutes of fame before being cast asunder by a 20-something woman with the thought capacity of this jug of protein powder on my desk next to me.

These guys are losers.

But that’s again, something that Vh1 has carefully planned out for all of it’s shows.  At it’s very foundation the show has to cast losers with the ulterior motive that appearing on this show, or any of Vh1’s shows, will some how lead to fame and fortune.  But as history has taught us over the years, no one really gains anything from appearing on these shows, except maybe a shot at getting their own show, where the process begets itself all over again (A quick aside:  One of the contestants from “I Love NY” ended up dating and I think proposing to singer Jennifer Hudson.  But other than that, not one of them, even the white girl who spat on the black girl, has landed their own sitcom yet.).

But the male suitors of “Megan Wants a Millionare” are the very epitome of loserdom.  Set aside the fact that each of these twenty guys are absolutely cool with the primary reason that Bret Michael’s thrown away cum dumpster is only interested in them for their money, they are the high school nerd-who-grew-up-and-invented-something-simple-but-genius-and-made-billions-from-it stereotype.  Each of the contestants is in fact a millionaire to some degree, whether it’s self made (there’s a plumber with his own business) to inherited (two trust fund kids, one of which doesn’t even have his inheritance yet).  As each contestant is paraded in front of the screen to give some awkward commentary on the happenings in the house, their name flashes along with their net worth.

These guys are millionaires, yes, but only just barely, which allows the show to lose the tiny bit of credibility it was holding on to.  Most of the contestants are hovering around 1-2 million dollars, net worth, which is likely non-liquid.  It’s investments, or assets such as property or shares in businesses.

Hell, looking at my Charles Schwab account online, technically I could’ve applied to be on this show….

Also, there’s been a trend lately with Vh1 where with the non-celebrity main characters, they tend to bring in “help” in the form of some adviser who helps guide the object of everyone’s affection along their path to finding “true love” or a record deal or media exposure, whatever.  This worked rather well with “Daisy of Love” where former Mtv VJ Rikki Rachtman acted somewhat as a coach for Daisy (full disclosure:  I dig Rachtman’s style).  However on “Megan” not only do they have some upper crust tuxedo wearing butler who larks about doing voice overs on all the action like it were play-by-play for a cricket match, but Megan’s brought in two other blonde strippers to give her emotional guidance and support.

“Blonde Leading The Blonde” was the best joke I could come up with before we went to press, sorry.

Seriously, these two “best friends” stand dumbly to the side as Megan goes about her business in a squeaky falsetto of feigned excitement.  They usually have a bored expression on their faces which only mimics that of the audience as we sit and watch Megan make nerds and mamas boys bend to her will like some high school jock.

Again, I don’t know why I, or anyone would watch this or any other show like it.  There’s nothing redeeming about the programme.  Not one thing.  I literally get dumber for watching it.  And to be honest, I haven’t even been able to watch a full episode of the season premiere for this article and I forgot the square root of 144.  I get about half way through and my brain starts to poke me behind my eyeballs.  It says:  “Hey buddy, seriously, turn it to something else, or I’m packing my shit and leaving.”  He says this with a little hat on, holding a suit case, with an unlit stump of a cigar pushed into the corner of his brain mouth.

So I turn it over to ESPN 2 and watch billiard trick shots until the bleeding from my nose stops.

August 7, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Hate, The Great Indoors, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , | 2 Comments

Independence Day Debrief

For the second year in a row I had to work over Independence Day, and the irony doesn’t escape me.  Working over Labor Day makes sense for two reasons:  The name and the fact that seldom have I worked in a field where it was afforded to employees to take that day off.

But Independence Day, the day that we celebrate our independence as a Nation, or from an alien scourge if you’re Will Smith, Jeff Goldbloom or what’s-his-face, Bill Pullman?  Bill Paxton? -has eluded me twice now.

As you’ve previously read, I view most modern celebrations of Independence Day as Ebenezer Scrooge views Xmas; with carefully placed disdain and contempt for those celebrating.  I’m not going to get back into it, I’ve exhausted the subject, but to me there’s more focus on Nathan’s Hotdog Eating Contest than there is Thomas Jefferson drafting the Declaration of Independence on July the 4th.

So what’d I do all day as my friends partied, drank, went to parades, etc?  I worked.  I worked at my office, because it was my turn to pull the weekend duty.  I had been off for two weeks, and I had somewhat planned (after the fact) that coming back on a holiday weekend wouldn’t be a bad way to calmly enter the waters around my job.  Little in the way were supervisors and bosses and company presidents to ask me how the move went, how my little trip to Connecticut went, etc etc.

So come Saturday the 4th, I was up early and in my office, sitting in front of a screen banging out five or six pages of the fiction I’ve been slowly working on over the last few months.  A phone call here, a buzz at the front door there, and the overwhelming sense that a huge party was going on around me and not only was I not invited, but politely asked not to attend.

What made matters worse, my wife Ang was spending her second Independence Day in a row alone as well, although she was able to escape up the road from our new house to the pond-side cottage and, as she put it “inject some cancer under her skin.”

Christ, even as I write this, I can smell someone’s grill going… Jesus, that smells awesome.

About noon time I broke out of my office, complete with a view of the harbor, and made myself a turkey sandwich and went to my little room and watched like four hours of The History Channel’s run of “The Revolution” a marathon of hour-long shows detailing the fight of colonists against the British Regular Army.  For a channel that’s been dropping the ball lately (attention History Channel execs, no one gives a shit about Ice Road Truckers, or loggers, or fucking whiney professor-types running across Africa) they were the only ones to get it right today.

By five-ish, I decided to go out for a run.  Because I’m at work, I can’t drink, play with explosives, fire any of my guns off into the air, gamble…- I can’t do anything fun.  It’s like I’m on a Fun-Diet when I’m here over a holiday.  But nothing says I can’t go for a run through town, right?

So I gear up: an UnderArmour long sleeve pull over and running shorts, my iPod and my Nikes, and take off.

Now, my office is located in a gay neighborhood.  That is to say, it’s not a bad neighborhood, it’s just gay.  As in, homosexual.  As in, two shirtless gym-buffed dudes holding hands and whispering to each other about their favorite style of nipple rings.  Being that I’m not gay, but easily confused as one because I keep a short head of hair and I’m in good shape, I tend to get a lot of cat calls and whistles as I pound the pavement during this time of year.

I don’t care.  I’ve never had a problem with the gays; do whatever it is you need to do to get off, that’s been my mantra.  If sex with another guy or kissing another girl or sitting on a cake and farting into it get you off, than by-golly, do your thing.  It’s what our Founding Father’s fought for in a round about way, and what better way to celebrate that than on Independence Day?

But when I’m crossing over to my fourth mile under a hot sun with little shade, and I’ve been listening to nothing less than angry thrash metal, I can be a bit temperamental.  Add into the fact that I’m weaving in and out of a circus of colorful people who have no idea how to move in a crowd because they’re collectively tourist bovine, all while pushing up a 25% incline.

So this guy, a gay guy, a fabulously-gay gay in a pedicab sees me working up this hill, drenched in sweat, shining, grunting, let your imagination run wild, starts staring at me, to the point where I actually notice I’m being raped with his eyes, I get a little pissed.  Just because you have an exuberant style and are surrounded by others like you, and it’s a holiday weekend, does not give you the excuse to be rude to others.  I’m not meat for you to fantasize about while you lube up, asshole.

So as I get closer and he’s staring me down from behind giant faux-Prada sunglasses (and I know the difference, ask Ang), breathlessly (which added to his fantasy, I’m sure) I say “take a picture, it’ll last longer,” to which he gasps in a stereotypical way, then produces a tiny silver digital camera and snaps a picture of me as I’m running ahead of him.

What a fucking asshole.

I pull in through the gated lot of my work and take a long walk to cool off.

Later in the evening, after a lackluster dinner of ribs and salad, I head back into the office.  Ang doesn’t feel like making the twenty minute drive out to my work to watch fireworks with me, and I don’t blame her.  To drive twenty minutes out, only to have to sit through two hours of traffic to get back home, is hardly worth it.  So, alone, I sit in this office looking out the window at a fireworks display that barely holds my interest for more than ten minutes.

I conclude that fireworks have hardly been improved upon in the last twenty-five years.  The firework displays I watched as a kid, ooh’d and ahh’d about back then are the same boring displays I see now as a jaded adult.  Slow, painfully slow explosions and bright lights over a dark sky make the throngs of people below my window in captured astonishment seem like a group of cavemen who have just discovered fire.

I don’t want to sound like the Grinch Who Shit on Your 4th of July Picnic, but people, it’s just colored phosphorus.  Its lame, I’m sorry.  I’m sure there are things I take pleasure in that you will find equally lame.  But really, you clap like a retard at loud noises and bright lights.  Think about that.

I turned away from the fireworks out of my window and started writing this article, in a bad mood because everyone I cared about was not with me and they probably had easy access to alcohol and/or grilled meats.  I, on the other hand, am kicking myself for not extending my vacation by three measly days.

Now, someone bring me ice cream, lest I perish.

July 5, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

From The Vlogging Affairs Desk: The “Talk”

Ang wants me to get snipped.  The following video is a recording of our conversation on the matter after she linked me to the wiki page on vasectomies.  Enjoy.

I tried to get the subtitles to work for when Ang is talking… but I couldn’t do get it to sync up.  I’m still learning the whole video editing thing on here, so bare with me.  Just turn your volume up.

June 27, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors | , , , | 1 Comment

How to Dress Like a Douche

So the other day, the wife and I went out to the local mall to go clothes shopping.  Mind you, this is not something I regularly do with my wife, because normally she’s fussy and indecisive.  Watching her pick through a pair of pants is akin to waiting to be shot by a firing squad.  But we stoically persist, we married men, to smile and tell our wives whatever they want/need to hear in order to buy a pair of overpriced denim pants.

Regardless, during our outing, we came across one particular store that I had no honest intention to go into, even on a goof, ever.

If you have a Hollister Co. store in your mall, you’re probably aware of it by smell before you even lay eyes on it’s dark, foreboding tiki-like surf shop appearance.  This is because there is a paid employee who ritualistically stands at the front of the store spraying a Lysol-sized bottle of their overbearing, overpriced cologne on the mannequins at the entrance.  How do I know this?  Because as we walked by, some oafish clown decked out in Hollister Co. clothing was doing just that.

I smelled an article for this blog, along with the overpowering aroma of douche at the same time.

So I suggested to Ang that we go check it out, on a goof, to see what they had to offer, not telling her that I was using this experience as fodder down the line for an article when I got home.  She agreed and the goon at the door stopped hosing down the poor plastic mannequins long enough for us to walk by without being maced by a riot-sized can of his scent.

Allow me to take you on a tour of Hollister Co.’s store, if you will.  It’s dark, that’s what you’re going to notice first after your sinuses clear themselves from the clear-colored gunk that’s clotted them up.  It’s so dark that you can’t even see what the hell you’re really looking at, as far as merch is concerned.  Is this shirt navy blue or black?  Where the hell is the price tag?  Did I just bump into someone or was that a low table?  Why is there a baby crying somewhere around here?  Where the hell is the exit?

And that’s probably what they want, they don’t want you to be able to find the exit once you’ve walked in the door.  Lobster and crab traps work in similar fashions, only instead of fish bait, Hollister uses sensory deprivation, canceling out your vision, smell and hearing.

That’s the other thing, the terribly trendy music you’ll find inside this store is cranked up to bluddy twelve, so you have to shout at the top of your lungs to be heard.  The US Army uses a similar tactic when trying to drive narco-dictators out of hiding.  This apparently works opposite for gushing teenagers and 20-somethings bent on being walking billboards for Hollister and their sister company Abercrombie and Fitch.

Did you know, that… before Abercrombie and Fitch sold out to being trend whores, they were fine purveyors of high end garments and luggage?  It’s true, look it up.

Anyway, you can’t find a sales associate to save your life, because number one, it’s dark as shit in the store, almost to the point that given the thumping music and acrid, acidic musk-like smell of their cologne, you’d think an orgy was taking place around the polo shirts, and two, they blend right in with the lifeless plastic mannequins.  They mimic the mannequins so well in the fact that they too are fake-looking, no personality having walking, barely talking, shirt folding counterfeits of real people.  Getting one of these impostors to help you with anything is as frustrating as waiting for Ang to pick out a pair of pants she can settle on enough to purchase.

I know the decor is supposed to be a surf shop mock up, but how many surf shops have you been in that can’t pay their electric bill while open at 11 at night?

I’m not going to get into what I think is fashionable and what’s not, because my own taste in fashion differs probably from yours, but what ever happened to wearing clothing that wasn’t adorned in a fucking giant label across the chest, un-centered, that wraps around the back?  Since when did flying the flag of a corporation become trendy?  I mean, I used to wear Nike t shirts when I was in middle school, but that was nearly 15 years ago, and I was an impressionable moron.

No, now-a-days, if I wear a t shirt, it might have some funny, ironic slogan on it, or it’s just a plain white v-neck from Calvin Klein.  Usually, for me, it’s jeans, and monochromatic tops of neutral colors, blacks, whites, a splash of red or blue, and that’s that.  Though, I’ve been told I look handsome in kelly green.

I can’t picture myself being a bluddy pitchman for some company because I think people will like me better, or think I have money to throw away on some poorly manafactured piece of garmetry that was stitched together in Mexico, I just can’t do it.  But then again, I don’t really care about what people think about me, especially if those opinions are based upon my cover and not at least my table of contents.

June 5, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fear and Loathing At Opening Day

I honestly have no idea how to start this article.  I know I have to write it, which I think is somewhat of the roadblock in chief; that is, when I HAVE to write something, it seldom wants to come out.

I can’t FORCE it out.  I might pop an “O” Ring.

Regardless, my head is swimming with other tidbits of information that I want to put down on paper.  Britney Spears’ latest CD is actually good.  The latest Kings of Leon CD is better.  There’s no fucking jam in the fridge here at work, so how am I supposed to make my ritualistic PB+J at three in the morning to go with this cup of cheap tasting coffee?  My elbow is fucking killing me, and I wish I could juice up on steroids.  Fuck the health risks, I’m not a pro athlete nor a role model.

But I can’t talk about any of these things, because there’s a bigger story to tell, sorta.  I have to tell you about Opening Day.

***

Opening Day, for any red blooded American Male not only signifies the end of a long drawn out winter/hockey season, but traditionally it’s the real start of spring.  Look around you, men, as your favorite ball club strides out to take the field on your team’s Opening Day, and see how the women are now dressing in less.  Gone are the pea coats and scarves that cover their bodies.  They forgo turtle necks for tank tops, furry boots for flip-flops.

The calendar says Spring started weeks ago, I say it starts on Opening Day.

For the past month, the few people at my job whom I can tolerate just long enough for me to have a civil conversation with them,  planned an epic excursion to the Boston Red Sox Opening Day this past Monday.  Nate had a hook up with a guy who used to work in my company who now owns his own limo service, so we all chipped in X amount of dollars to hire him to take us into Boston and wait around for us to get absolutely shit faced while paying for the cheapest seats available to watch grown men play a game that most children get bored of playing about the same time they discover their ability to touch the tits on Next Door Nancy.

The plan went like this:  Those involved in this trip would get the day off from work, and we’d all rally at Nate’s house at for 1030 in the morning in order to catch the limo into Boston, some two hours away, to catch the 205 first pitch.  On the way into Boston, we would get absolutely shmammered by drinking an assortment of booze that we would provide ourselves, so that we wouldn’t have to pay Fenway Prices for the same experience.  We had the limo until 730 that night, so we would probably do something completely stupid, like take the limo to a casino or strip club, following the likely 530-ish end of the game, if we even made it that far without one of us passing out, getting sick or being arrested.

When the plan was first formulated there were only four of us going:  Myself, Kev, Rog, and Nate, plus one guest apiece.  I was obviously going to bring Ang along, but as the date crept closer, she became more skittish about piling into a limo with a bunch of rowdy 20-somethings to get drunk and watch baseball all afternoon on a Monday.  Same went for Rog’s female guest, who was supposed to be flying in from Miami, but backed out at the last minute.  This left Nate with his girlfriend Michelle, who suddenly became the only female on the trip.

Kev had to drop out all together from the limo ride as he found out his wife’s sister and husband were going to the game as well, and he would meet us at the park by taking his own transportation, in order to meet with his extended family first.  So now what had started at a limo of 8, whittled back down to four.

In our excitement of the upcoming event, we (the original) four blabbed the event all over work, causing some less-than-desirable characters from around the office to pop their heads up from behind their cubes and pretty much invite themselves along.  How do you say “no” to someone with whom you work, who tends to think their included in your clique?  So, in an act similar to shooting yourself in the foot, once said foot has been firmly placed into your mouth the invitations were extended to the other folks.

The upside was that now the cost of the limo could be spread out a little thinner; instead of four people paying a total of 700 bucks, it was now seven people, 100 smackers per person, which if you know anything about attending a Sox game, is the cost of admission alone.  Parking anywhere in the vicinity of Fenway Park and its tangle of neighborhood streets will run the average dupe from Rhode Island or New Hampshire fifty bucks, plus a six block hike to get to Yawkey Way or Lansdowne St, whichever gate they’re sitting at.  Tickets for the game cost an average of 70 bucks last time I bothered to look which was last season.  Concessions at America’s Oldest Ballpark will run you about $4.25 for a fucking hotdog, $4.50 for a Coors Light draught which is 40% foam.  The average family of four, not counting souvenirs like t-shirts, bobble headed dolls, baseball caps, etc, is looking at roughly a 500 dollar day to watch 9 innings of baseball you can watch for free at home.

You’re paying for the EXPERIENCE.

So I was grateful to squeak by with only paying a fraction of the cost, for an Opening Day game, which was a repeat of last year’s American League Championship Series against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

I had never been to ANY Opening Day, ever.  I had been to some great games at Fenway, including a bunch of Sox/Yankees games from the late 90s and early 00s where Pedro Martinez faced off against an aged Roger Clemons.  I even got to see a game from a swanky Sky Box the same year that the All-Star game was being held at Fenway.  But no, Opening Day, what I consider in the world of Fandom to be the equivalent to standing in the first row of runners at the start of the Boston Marathon, had never come my way.  I was so excited about this trip that I had special Red Sox t shirts made up for both me and my wife, with our names on the backs, with the numbers representing our birth years.  Hers is red, mine’s the traditional blue.  I bought a new light jacket.  I purchased roughly fifty dollars in booze.  I stretched.  All I fucking did was chatter about Opening Day for the weeks and days leading up to it.

On the day in question, I got up early and got dressed, kissed the wife goodbye and heeded her advice about bail.  I made a few phone calls to the guys as if there was anything else they needed and took a short list with me to the local Luke’s Liquors dressed in all my Opening Day Garb.

I was walking on sunshine even though the weather was predicted to be nasty.  All weekend long we had been monitoring the forecast which called for 80% rain on Monday, Opening Day.  But I had an incredibly optimistic outlook, trying to send good vibes to the Weather Channel Gods, to keep the rain away for a day or better.  And besides, what little rain was being forecasted was going to hit in the middle of the afternoon, so there was still a good chance we would be able to catch a few miserable innings without a shining sun to warm us before knocking off to look at gyrating tits in a poorly lit strip club in New Jersey – possibly.

So into the Luke’s I walk, whistling some tune, grabbing a green grocery cart and pushing it up and down the short aisles, grabbing a few bottles of Sprite, a 12 pack of Molson Canadian, two bottles of cheapish champagne, some fruit punch, cups, ice, and to substitute my usual 20 oz Sapporo, a 32 oz Sam Adams.  I wheel all of this up to the register, which is manned by a mustached older gentleman who looks and sounds like an old sergeant I used to work for when I was a cop.

“Going to Opening Day?”  He asks as he rings in my order.

“Yuh,” I say between whistling and snapping my fingers from behind a pair of sunglasses.

“I can tell,” he beeps another bottle on to the receipt.  “You know they canceled the game though, right?”  He’s looking at me over the tops of his glasses the same way my old sarge used to when he would be correcting one of my reports.  I stop in mid beat, mid snap and mid whistle, and look at him.

“You’re fucking with me,” I say, looking into his face for any signs of a gag, a joke, a “HA, you’re on Candid Camera!”  But there’s nothing.

“No seriously, they just canceled it because of the weather.”  And he’s completely serious.

“Nah!”  I object.  Normally they won’t call a game until at least an hour before the first pitch.  To call an afternoon game in the middle of the morning was ridiculous.  The man behind the counter reaches over and turns up his radio, which is tuned into WEEI, the local sports talk radio.  Larry Luccino, one of the principal owners of the Red Sox franchise, is being interviewed:

“We at the Red Sox organization wanted to save everyone the hassle and just call the game now, ahead of time, we feel it would be irresponsible of us to make everyone come out to the park just to wait around, get cold and wet, to hear the inevitable.  All of our forecasters are predicting 100% rain at the time of the first pitch,” and he went on.

I must’ve looked like I just got punched in the dick, because the guy behind the counter, who was boxing up my booze looks at me from over his glasses and offers:

“Hey, I hate to be the barer of bad news but…” and he trails off.  I’m stunned and the look on the face of the guy who works the early shift at the local liquor store is one of a person who has just molested a five year old at the circus.  I numbly pick up my box of stuff and walk out the door.

Once I get into Ang’s car (we switched for the day) I dug into my pocket and called Nate and gave him the bad news.  Apparently they hadn’t heard yet and like AIDS I was giving them same diseased information I had just received from someone else.  He told me to come out anyway so we could formulate a back up plan.

Heading over, I somewhat figured it wouldn’t be a total bust.  I was nearly certain that the “undesirables” wouldn’t have shown up namely because they were all talk and hardly ever came out to the wild shit me and my clique did in our off time, including parties, etc.  So imagine my surprise when I walk through the door to Nate’s house, that they’re both sitting on the couch dumbly watching television.

At least one of them put forth the effort to at least wear a Red Sox t shirt.  The other was dressed as if he was going to spend the rest of his day on a couch while his kids ran around the living room screaming at the tops of their lungs.  My mood went from bad to worse faster than it takes Dick Cheney to kill something.  I shuffled into the apartment, digging my 32 oz of Sam Adams out of the box and asked for a Church Key to open it.  I sucked it down bitterly as the discussion turned towards alternatives for the day’s plans.

Mind you, we still hadn’t paid for the limo yet, which was on its way.  How easy would it be for us to just call the guy off and cut our losses here and now, send everyone home to our wives, kids, girlfriends and Xboxes, divvy up the booze and say “see ya back at the office!”  It wouldn’t be hard at all, but the look in everyone’s eyes, including those who were not explicitly invited, said one word and one word only:  party.

The room was split down the middle as far as what to tell this fucking limo driver when he showed up:  Michelle, Rog and one of the undesirables wanted to go to a casino, Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun, whichever was closer and had the most affordable slots.  The other undesirable, Nate and another guy in our clique, Bryce voted for going into Boston and bar hop.  Granted, this was the safer option as it had no chance of me blowing a bunch of money on “black” but it was a sour taste in my mouth to go into Boston in a limo to pay for booze I already paid for, plus the fact that it was going to be with people I couldn’t stand.

I had to cast the deciding vote, of course.

I weighed out everyone’s arguments while seated on a toilet and judiciously proclaimed that we would split the difference between the two venues.  We’d travel to Boston to see Kev and his people, have a few drinks, and by early afternoon start the trek to one of the casinos in Connecticut where we would most likely encounter enough vice to send us all back to church the following weekend.  This seemed agreeable to most everyone and at the same time we reached the consensus, the limo pulled up to the house.

I was half expecting something ridiculous, unrestrained and gawdy, like when you’re driving down the highway and pass a stretched Ford Excursion or something else that seems to defy carbon footprint-logic.  What pulled up was an all white Lincoln, similar to what most people see in prom photos.  The driver was the same guy that Nate knew from the limo company and handshakes were had all around.  Booze was loaded along with people and soon gangsta rap music was being bumped loud enough for the driver to give up trying to explain the “rules” to a bunch of rowdy kids.

I quickly positioned myself into the furthest reaches of the 14 passenger limo, nearest to the whiskey canters where I started pouring myself a triple and adding a slice of lime for visual effects.  Everyone else started cracking open Bud Lights and breaking balls.

By the time we got into Boston, not a single drop of rain nor whiskey had spilt.  I was floaty-drunk, giddy, piss-filled and cramped from the fact that my knees were up near my chest as I tried to get a little room away from the undesirable that was donkey-laughing in my ear for the last 90 minutes.

One more round, please!

We arrived at Faneuil Hall and staggered out of the limo to find the skies gray and foreboding.   The gaggle of Red Sox adorned drunkards marched down the street towards the Black Rose, a pub/restaurant where we all agreed we would need some high carb food to help balance out the elevated levels of booze in our systems.  I ordered a turkey sandwich and split an order of onion rings with everyone at the table, making sure not to make too big of a pig of myself, risking falling off of my diet.  I washed down my meal with a tall black Guinness.

One of the undesirables was an older guy who shall remain nameless who tends to be the “mother” of the group, which means he’s usually a fucking downer.  All morning and into the evening I would catch him giving me dirty, disapproving glances, overhear him mentioning to someone else how “drunk” and “out of control” I was.

In reality, I was drunk, yes, but not to the point of being out of control.  Being drunk and out of control would be defined as staggering around with one’s pants around their knees, waving a pistol around in a public place, like a subway (the train or the sandwich shop, whichever is appropriate).  I did not partake in this behavior.

No, instead I simply drank quietly and staggered around, bumping into the occasional wall or barstool, fielding calls from my wife with a drunk accent so potent that even Ang could smell the booze on my breath on her end of the call.  I was at no time a hazard to anyone, except maybe a few waitress who weren’t moving fast enough to keep a fresh flow of booze coming my way.

But still, his comments towards me, not to me, were irksome.  If I really had been out of control, I imagine I probably would’ve said something to this guy in the form of kicking him square in the face with a black Chuck Taylor.

When I wasn’t dealing with him and his frowning disapproval of my good time, (“he’s going to end up getting us all arrested!” I would overhear him saying with actual worry to Rog, which somehow proves that this guy has never been drunk in public in his life) I was dealing with the other undesirable buying me drinks and giving me shoulder rubs.

Now, I’m all for another guy buying me drinks all night.  This would explain why I hang out in gay bars.  However, when another man’s hands touch me – to do of all things, rub my shoulders (?!), I get antsy and nervous.  I was almost waiting for him to offer me a blow job in the bathroom, to which I would’ve probably shot him on sight.  I’m not homophobic, I just think I’m classier than being taken to some bar bathroom.

So because of all this, my mood was darkening.  I soon removed myself from just about everyone in the party due to my drunken boredom with the people and activities.  We wound up playing billiards at Jillian’s, a bar a block from Fenway that is half arcade/bowling alley/pool hall, half restaurant.  I tried playing a few games but tired after my hand-eye coordination made it nearly impossible for me to make shots I would otherwise make blindfolded.  Deeper into the pit of boredom I fell.

We soon took off, back to the Cape, music playing in the limo with me laying down in one of the corner seats, alternating between texting Ang, reading the NY Times on my Blackberry, and telling everyone that I was “fine” and “just tired, ready to get home.”  What was supposed to be a male adulthood adventure turned out to be something like a flaccid attempt at coitus where you substitute the frustration of Blue Balls with the frustration of Just Wanting to Get Home Already coupled with an idiot playing with the “mood lighting” in the limo every twenty or so seconds.

No, Opening Day, … what was supposed to be the Real Opening Day, was a complete bust.  The game was rescheduled for the following day at 405, which turned out to be beautiful.  The Sox stomped the Rays 5 to 1, Becket pitching a strong 7 innings only giving up three hits and the one run.

Don’t tell anyone, but we’re planning another trip, this time, Nate, Kev and I are going to attempt to go see the Sox play the queeahs from New York on the 24th.  If anyone else asks, tell them the games on the 28th.

I’m just saying….

April 10, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Fear and Loathing, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate | , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Fear and Loathing Around the Corner

There are many advantages to moving away from a city setting and into a more relaxed and suburban setting, as we did this past week.  For one, it’s quieter, much, much quieter.  I don’t think we’ve even heard our neighbors in the last week, and if we had, it was certainly before 7 pm.

But there are downsides as well; for instance the fact that nothing in our new little town seems to stay open past 8 at night, which can prove to be very bothersome when it’s say, 9ish at night and husband and wife are plum-out of condoms.

This was the case the other night when the discussion of whether to “get-” or “not to get frisky” came up, and responsible ol’ me remembered we were out of condoms.

Not a problem, I thought, there are two places right near by:  a small deli/convenience store and a major pharmacy that’s not a CVS.  Give me a sec and I’ll be right back.

“Bring back some OJ,” she called after me after I dressed, grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

I first drove all of a quarter mile to the local Rite Aid and found it dark and unwelcoming.  I did a small loop in the parking lot getting close enough to the door to see the store’s operating hours and found that I was in fact, too late.

Ok, well, I’ll hit up the little store across the street, I thought, and did so.

I found the little store to be well lit and empty, except the two slackerish early 20-somethings manning the check out and deli counters.  They were engaged in some conversation that I wasn’t really paying attention to, mostly because I was scanning up and down the aisles looking for the fucking condoms.

From the way back of the store, by the coolers with the drinks in them, I saw the limited supply of condoms hanging behind the check out guy.  Now, granted I’m a married 27 year old man, I still hate having to ASK for condoms behind the register, specifying a particular brand.  It’s humiliating and demoralizing.  I don’t even think I’d be able to get it up after the fact, because I would be too busy thinking about the judgmental snickering that would surely be going on as soon as I left the store with my purchases.

So I sent Ang a text explaining that they didn’t sell condoms (which wasn’t a lie; the particular “latex-free” brand we use wasn’t being sold at this particular place anyway, so I was telling the truth) and it was too late for me to drive fifteen minutes to where the Google Maps app on my phone was telling me there was the closest CVS.  She didn’t respond so I simply took the OJ and a thing of Canada Dry Ginger Ale for myself up to the counter.

The goatee’d slacker mumbled something to his partner over at the deli counter, who then hobbled over to where we were standing.  He was some sort of deformed cripple, suffering from obvious bone deformations.  He wore a green M67 field jacket, similar to mine, only mine’s gray and looked at me with a wild gaze; something that would freeze a highway patrolman dead in his tracks if he saw it in a car he had just pulled over on some lonely stretch of American Highway at 2 am.

The other slacker rang up my order and I handed him my debit card.  He then decided to include me into their existing conversation.  I’m not making the following up:

“Hey, would you rather be stabbed with a knife, or something else?”  Said the goatee’d slacker.  I pause for a second, eyeing him and his side kick Quasimodo.  Quasi’s grinning at me and I feel very tense.

“I have to get stabbed?”  I ask.

“Yeah, like, if you knew you were gonna get stabbed, would you rather get stabbed with like,” and the slacker cashier produces a standard black BIC pen from his counter, “this, or with something like,” and from under his coat, Quasimodo produces a black combat knife with a serrated back edge and hefts it at about eye level, still with that slick, sick grin.
The strangest part about all of this is the first thing I notice is how chipped the black is on the knife.  The knife’s blade has been painted black at some factory where they produce cheap pig stickers like the one this mutant is carrying under his coat.  The chipping paint tells me that he’s probably dropped it a handful of times and doesn’t own a sheath for it, or he had at one time, but lost it.  This tells me that the blade’s edge is probably dull from not being maintained or looked after properly, meaning that the knife would be ineffectual should he try to swipe at me in a slicing motion.  However, if he tried to ram it through me, I’d be in for more than a world of hurt.

I go back to my police training.  When I went through academy they taught us about the 21 step rule (no revised to 30+ feet) which is the minimum distance one should be from an adversary with a knife.  The idea is that it’ll take roughly 21 steps before the assailant with the knife can close the distance between the two of you before you can react and draw your sidearm and put a new bellybutton into your attacker’s stomach.

Between me and this freak was roughly eight feet.

I think for a second longer, I consider brandishing both my Gerber in my back pocket and my .380 on my waist, but think better of it, not knowing if these two hooligans would call the cops on me or not.

“Um, I think I’d rather get stuck with the knife,” I finally answer.  I explain that the knife’s purpose is to stab through soft tissue, where as with the pen, it’s job is to write down phone numbers, notes, etc, anything but to stab through your abdomen.  Also, the pen is far more duller than the knife (at least one would think so) so using it as a stabbing tool would be more or less using it like a punch, which would result in morbid levels of pain.

The slacker cashier reluctantly agrees with me and then goes on to note that he would choose not to be stabbed in the stomach, forgoing it for any other part of his body.

“Even your dick?”  I ask.  He again, reluctantly agrees citing that a stab to the cock would be “most painful.”

I signed my printed off slip for my debit card, keeping both eyes on these two lunatics and wished them a good evening as I backed out of the store in a hasty rush towards my truck.

I’m just saying….

March 4, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Fear and Loathing, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About | , , , , , , | 3 Comments