Functioning Rageaholic

Rescue Ranger: Tim Saves The Life of a Rodent

2010-06-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

Despite not being a fan of most people, I would have to admit that I am, at heart, an animal lover (except for cats... they're worse than people). Which is why when I spotted a chipmunk struggling in my parent's pool I did my best David Hasselhoff impression down from the second floor to attempt a water rescue. Cue the music!

(I was actually playing this in my head on the way downstairs.)

I was a lifeguard for over five years and this was by far my most dramatic rescue. I got to him (No, I do not know how to tell the gender of a chipmunk, but for the purposes of the story it's a him - It's my damn chipmunk and I'll do what I want.) just as he stopped struggling and scooped him up in the skimmer. I deposited him by the side of the pool and saw him struggle to untangle his feet from the net. He looked bad. He looked, well, like a drowned rat. He was waterlogged and shaking from the morning cold. I walked him over to the edge of the woods and away from the pool and set him down.

I left him there for about a minute, and then my ovaries kicked in. I brought him up on the deck and wrapped him in a towel trying to counteract the effects of rodent hypothermia. hen my sister chimed in, "We should take him to the animal hospital down the street." Son of a bitch. This never occured to me and now I have to do it. We put him into a shoebox and took him down the street to what turned out to not be an animal hospital, but a dog and cat hospital. Those segregationist assholes. I thought about saying it was a really small cat, but my chipmunk was already in bad shape and I didn't want to insult him. The receptionist recoiled at the sight of the chipmunk. I repeat, she recoiled at the sight of a baby chipmunk in a shoebox wrapped up in a pink towel. I wonder what it's like to not have a soul, I should ask her next time I see her.

She directed us to Tufts Veterinary Hospital in Grafton. Tufts is the best place to take your animal. Our old dog Smudge was treated there and those people are amazing. But, they're also in Grafton which is a good 20 minutes from where my parents live. I thought about how insane it is to drive a chipmunk that far to seek treatment and then I realized that I wasn't working for another six hours and this may be the most worthwhile thing that I do all week/month. Buckle up, chipmunk, we're going for a ride.

The chipmunk was riding shotgun with every heating vent pointed in his direction and I was sweating. We're making decent time without speeding (I didn't want to test out the "My chipmunk is sick" excuse on a cop). I make the turn onto the street of the hospital and suddenly the chipmunk makes a miraculous recovery and seems a bit more animated than it was previously. And by animated I mean the chipmunk was like, "Get me out of this fucking box right the fuck now!"

No problem, you say. Just put the top on the shoebox. Uhhh, I didn't bring the top. I thought the thing was dying. I didn't know it would perk up and start trying to recreate The Great Escape and Cujo at the same time. I pulled into a spot and rushed inside as the chipmunk was about to jump out of the box onto the pavement. I walked up to a receptionist and calmly (yeah, right) tried to tell her that I had rescued a chipmunk and he was currently trying to free himself into her waiting room.

"There's a chipmunk in there?" She asked as she gestured toward the box.
"Yeah, I found-"

I stopped midsentence. Why did I stop midsentence? Because of the next sentence. I never in a million years believed that I would ever hear myself say, "I'm sorry ma'am. My chipmunk is biting me."

"Oh," she answered completely unconcerned, "Is it bad?"

A WILD ANIMAL IS USING MY INDEX FINGER AS A CHEW TOY! IS IT BAD?! IT AIN'T GOOD LADY!

"No." I answered stoically.

She informed me that I had to go to the Wildlife Center because they only treat cats and dogs here (obviously). It occurs to me that if a cat swallows the chipmunk this ceases to be my problem. There were no cats in the waiting room. Figures, the one time I need one of those things they are nowhere to be found.

I make my way back out to my car yelling at a chipmunk in a shoebox for being, quote, "an ungrateful little bastard." I have reached a level of insanity that is usually reserved for homeless people. As I reached my car, I realized that I could not drive and control the murderous furball at the same time. He was hard enough to get here in the first place and now he has a taste for human flesh. I looked around for something in my car to use as a lid. I found a styrofoam take-out container. Perfect.

I walked into the Wildlife Center holding the take-out container with both hands as the chipmunk is trying to get out and finish the job it started on my finger. The elderly female receptionist regarded me warily.

"What is that?" She asked.
"This is a chipmunk in a take-out container, ma'am. It's been a weird morning." I answered.

They took the chipmunk away in the container (I was kinda hoping for a tiny gurney) and had me fill out some paperwork. I made the suggested donation for the care of an animal that I did not own. I should have used the money on a tiny life jacket instead. They informed me that he was still shaking and very cold and they were going to keep him.

I drove away feeling pretty good. If they kept him then that meant they can provide care that I could not. So, despite it making me appear insane, I guess I did the right thing. As I was thinking this a squirrel darted out from the side of the street and almost directly underneath my tire. I looked in the rearview as it scurried away unharmed and wondered why woodland rodents were conspiring to ruin my life.

Like I said, it was a weird morning.

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Tim Gets Trim: Hockey Edition

2010-06-09T07:04:00.000-07:00

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If I had to pinpoint the worst aspect of the meteorologically schizophrenic Northeast it would have to be the rapid change between the sweatshirt and shirtless seasons. Every year, many of us are caught off guard and scramble to lose the blubber that is physiologically essential to surviving the harsh winter. Running, I have been told, is the fastest way to lose this and I do it as much as I can.

That being said, running sucks. It's boring as hell. When I was rowing crew the one thing that I could not master was the skill of staring at the back of another guy's head while repeating the same motion over and over. "O'Brien, keep your fucking head in the boat" was my nickname on the team. And we were rowing on Lake Quinsigamond in Worcester. Imagine if there was actually scenery worth watching.

I realized I had to pursue other avenues of calorie burning. Playing pick-up hockey seemed like a good idea. Initially. I'm not sure why I thought this was a good idea. I haven't played in over a year. "It's just like riding a bike" someone said. No, no it is not. It's like riding a unicycle through an obstacle course while trying to hit a golf ball through a moving target the size of a dinner plate. I thought I would give it one last try before hanging up the skates and getting serious about golf.

It turns out I can still play. The first circle around the rink when I crossed over through a turn and my skates stayed under me I knew I would be alright. After a few goals the confidence was sky high; which was the part of my game that was missing back when I played competitively. In high school I never would have tried to take the puck out from behind my own net. But I did, and beat four guys in the process. The last move (in my own mind) was right out of Ovechkin's playbook, putting the puck through the final defenseman's skates and in perfect position to shoot. And I did. About three plexi-glass panels to the right of the net. The boards rattled and I laughed at myself for being so athletic and incompetent in the span of about 9 seconds.

I sat down on the bench near the end. I must have been beet red and soaked in sweat and I popped my helmet off to cool down. The kid to my right did the same. He could not have been more than 12 years old. The faded hockey bag I lugged my equipment in was literally older than him. His name was Conery as far as I could tell from the name on his jersey.

"Who do you play for?" Conery asked.
"Um, nobody."
"I mean, who did you play for in college?"
"I didn't play in college." I said between gulps of air.
"Wow," Conery said, "You could have."

I didn't realize it, but that's what I was playing for. I never really struggled with a sense of belonging but it suddenly occurred to me how much I wanted the approval of these 13 strangers I was playing with and against. I missed having a team even if the team only lasted for 2 hours and our only common bond was that we chose to wear a dark jersey today instead of white or grey. But it felt better than running alone. Thanks, Conery. Good luck next year at Winchendon.

Tim Tries Golfing; Mediocrity Ensues

2010-05-13T15:41:00.000-07:00

Every year, my father signs up a foursome to play in a charity golf tournament and every year it is the first time I touch my clubs. Not this year. This year, I will be a finely tuned golf machine. I will not be the weak link.

That being said, I will probably be the weak link. I have always considered myself a halfway decent athlete, but I've come to realize that's very relative. Here's the combined resume of the guys I know:

There are 4 former college football players
One of them was Division 1AA
One of them has the interception record at his college
There are 3 former Division 1 hockey players
2 of them play professionally now
One of them rowed crew for one semester at the Division 3 level

Alright, that last one was me. I got my membership in the N.C.A.A. and then called it a career after one season (those fuckers get up early). The point is, despite making the single most important play in the history of Marlborough High School Junior Varsity football,* it's easy to be intimidated by that group. So, I wanted to get out and practice a little first. I headed to Quincy to play at a course we will call "Commander in Chief's." (If you can't figure this out, this blog is too much for you. This one is more your speed.)

I had to be the only one listening to Jay-Z while rolling up to the course. I sheepishly put my windows up so I didn't spook the geriatric locals. After unloading my clubs I worked my way up to the club house to talk to one of the crankiest men in the world. And I do not make that last statement lightly. I know cranky.

He greeted me with a disinterested "Yeah?" I pondered for a minute what this man thought I could possibly want. "Yes sir. My troop is trying to raise money to go to space camp and I wanted to know if you wanted to buy some cookies."

I'm in a borrowed polo shirt and golf shoes: why do you think I'm here, dickhead? Yeah, I know the camo cargo shorts were a bad touch and God knows I don't like them either but they're the only shorts I own. I told him I was going to play eighteen (in the best Stephanie Tanner "no duh" voice I could muster). He answered with a gruff, "it could be a while." But he said it like a question. Like, "I'm gonna make you wait so long that you should probably just pack up the camo cargos and get the fuck out of here."

That's it, asshole. To paraphrase The Rolling Stones: wild horses being ridden by Victoria's Secret models holding bowls of ice cream couldn't drag me away. I am going to play the shit out of this course. I might not even replace a couple divots. Take that, bitch. By the way, your course is not nearly nice enough for you to be such a prick.

I said none of this but I think my expression conveyed the sentiment. I went out to the practice green and immediately saw an old man wearing jeans and a young kid wearing wind pants. I walked in the camo cargos with a little more pride after that. After putting on a horrendous display of short game I was called to join three other guys on the first tee.

I wish I could say something dramatic happened like I shot a 75 (is that even good?) or that I went all "Tin Cup" on the eighteenth and put it in the hole from the fairway on my fourteenth shot. But it was just a normal round of golf. There were good shots. There were bad shots. I was happy. I was mad. I hate this God damn game. I can't wait to play again.

At the very least, I don't think I'll be embarrassed on Saturday at the tournament. Especially once I can toss out the camo cargos in favor of my new golf pants:

*I defy anybody to dispute this.

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Beadle-Mania

2010-05-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Michelle Beadle,

Seeing as it is Friday, it seems like as good a time as any to ask you. I've been working up the courage to write this for a while, so here goes: You and I should get together for dinner this weekend.

I see you almost everyday on the increasingly palatable SportsNation and with all due respect to your partner, sometimes I get halfway through the program and all of a sudden say, "Holy shit. That's Colin Cowherd. I didn't know he was on this show." I only have eyes for you.

I have decided to include a graph, since you seem to love graphs:
Bar graph
(X axis: Times I've asked out ESPN personalities this week.)
(Y axis: Michelle Beadle, Hannah Storm, Sage Steele, John Buccigross)
Beadle is at 1. Everybody else is at zero.

This was just your run-of-the-mill crush until I heard you on Bill Simmon's podcast. Yeah, yeah, the sports talk was great, but you also dropped this gem: "I'm not a huge believer in the whole institution. The marriage thing to me is a very bizarre ritual." Ironically, I've never wanted to marry a woman more than I did at that moment. And I've never wanted to make out with a girl on a tractor more than this moment:

Bill Simmons: Where have been the locations that Beadle has lived since college?
Michelle Beadle: Oh, well Oklahoma. Elk city to be specific.
Bill Simmons: Really?
Michelle Beadle: I was quote, unquote engaged to a professional bull rider.

Wow. I can be your new cowboy, Michelle. At a bar in Springfield once I rode the mechanical bull for the full eight seconds and got some really impressive distance on the dismount. However, I might not even have to go that route since you did say, "Don't get me started because I'm gonna say something, Bill, and I'm a woman. Hockey dudes, there's something there."

Lucky for you, I played high school hockey at the Division 3 level less than a decade ago. I'll dust the skates off if that'll help my chances. So, let's drop this puck, Michelle. I will treat you to a meal at the finest dining establishment in Bristol, CT (which I would imagine is probably a Chili's). Ball's in your court, Beadle.

Sincerely,
Tim

PS. If the date goes well, can I play with your touch screen?

Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz? (Four is the new magic number: Part II)

2010-04-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

Girls, it's only fair we give guys the same treatment you got yesterday. So, here it is: The guide to guys put in terms you'll understand. The metaphor today? Chick cars. You know them. The kind of car that guys have to look inside and see who's driving because 98% of the time it's an attractive girl. Girls, if you drive one of these cars, you're either hot or disappointing men at stoplights constantly.

Make: Volkswagen Model: Beetle

He's more cute than hot. He is a little offbeat but that makes him special, right? Right? Sometimes people think he's gay and you even have to wonder a little. But he's considerate and unique, even if he does try a little too hard sometimes. His displays of affection are nice but they're a bit superfluous and awkward at times. Like having a place to put flowers in your car. Not for everyone, but appealing to a certain kind of girl.

Make: Acura Model: Any (Mostly the RSX)
He's almost as good looking as he thinks he is. The problem is he thinks this is enough to make him interesting. It's not. But an Acura is just as good as an Audi or Mercedes, you say. No, no it's not. And you and him wishing that were true will not make it so. He looks good and maintenance is relatively low so you decide to keep him until he acts up. You're not exactly rifling through AutoTrader late at night looking for a trade in per se, but if a car commercial comes on you definitely take a look.

Make: Volkswagen Model: Jetta or Make: Dodge Model: Neon
This is a good, not great, guy. His maintenance is lower than the Acura but lacks the high-end, name brand recognition. This guy will mildly impress your friends and you wouldn't be embarrassed to drive him home to Mom and Dad. He won't leave you stranded on the side of the road but he doesn't exactly blow your skirt up either. This guy (though reliable and kind of fun) is a dime a dozen. You're gonna drive him until the wheels fall off. But when they do, you're not gonna be all that sad to see him off to the junk yard.

Make: BMW Model: 3 Series convertible (white with contrasting black top) or

Make: Land Rover Model: Range Rover Sport (White)
They're hot. They know it. You know it. So hot in fact, you expect there to be nothing under the hood. Oh, but sometimes there is. This guy might have a V8 supercharged with a good education, dynamite job (though not necessarily high paying), and great family. Then again, they could have a V6 that's in desperate need of an oil change. Either way they're fun to be seen in, but they're not easy to get or keep. Make sure you keep up regular maintenance (blowies) because these can be an absolute bitch to fix or replace. Worth the effort though.

There you go, girls. Carfax for the male mind. You're welcome. Oh, and guys? If you drive any of these cars, you can go ahead and forget about any girl taking you for a spin*.

*Just to be clear, we're talking about sex. If you didn't get this, you're a moped. Enjoy celibacy.

Four is the New Magic Number

2010-04-28T11:22:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of theories about women. This is probably my second favorite*. Women travel in groups of four because there are usually four sides to a table. If you have three people, there is a spot open and you look unpopular. If you have five, you need a bigger table and then feel like you have to fill it. Then the group gets a little too big and unwieldy.

Girls, guys form into groups of four because we like to hunt in packs and the ratio should always be 1:1. Ideally, we would be in groups of five like The A-Team and *NSYNC the branches of the U.S. Military. But you make the rules and we just dutifully follow them**.

Within the group there are four kinds of women. To make this easy for guys, I have put it in terms they can understand:

1. Donatello: The interesting one. This girl has backpacked Europe and loves outdoor sports. The volunteer experience part of their resume is actually true. Most people think this girl would be the ugly one. This is not (always) true. In fact, many women find the confidence to be the interesting one because of their looks. Admittedly, sometimes it’s to make up for them.

2. Leonardo: The leader/hot one. This is the big-breasted masthead on the ship that leaves lesser vessels in her wake. This is the Helen of Troy that has led many good soldiers to their doom. Sometimes, she's fun to talk to. Often, she thinks she's too hot to have to give a shit. More often than not, this girl will be terrible in bed.

3. Raphael: The surly one who thinks she’s the hot one. She has no idea that she isn't. She thinks everyone is crazy for thinking otherwise. Sure, she's not classically hot, but she's hot in an alternative Shannon Sossamyn kind of way. At least that what she tells herself in the mirror in her “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” moments. More often than not, this girl will be incredible in bed.

4. Michelangelo: Of course, the slutty one. This does not mean she is a lay-up by any means. It just means you have a better chance of going home with her that night than the other three. The friends like that this girl makes them laugh and gives them a sense of moral superiority. This one is usually the most fun because she's the most carefree and open. Also, she puts out.

Like I said, I feel pretty good about this theory. Oh, and to the girl who inevitably e-mails me and says, “You’re wrong because the girls on ‘Sex and the City’ totally weren’t like that.” Congratulations, you’re Raphael.

*My favorite: If a girl has a strong handshake (like really comes over the top and down on you like a haymaker) I think, “Wow. This girl will never fuck me.” Not only does she see you as such a nonviable sexual candidate that she shook your hand like a man, your handshake ended up limp-wristed because you misjudged how hard she was coming in.

**Don’t worry girls. Tomorrow we’ll go through the four types of guys.

Dim Summers

2010-04-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

It was that kind of morning. The kind where between waking up and opening your eyes you run a complete system check. You lay still and enjoy those quiet moments between sleep and when your body begins to register pain in several areas, particularly the head and stomach. I would make the mistake of saying never again but I've already broken that promise too many times to believe it anyway. Besides, a far more troubling thought occupied my mind now.

Did I really agree to go to Chinatown for lunch today?

Yes. Yes, I did. Drunk Tim committed Sober Tim to go get dim sum with his buddies. Drunk Tim probably acted all excited about it, too. Drunk Tim is a dick. After a quick shower I was off to our version of the far east. Chinatown is like no other place in the city. It is still the most authentic neighborhood in Boston. Every other neighborhood from the North End to South Boston have become more racially diverse in the past years. Not Chinatown.

Going there is like being on vacation because you don't feel like you're in Boston at all. I was a mile and a half from my apartment and it might as well have been across the world it felt so foreign. Luckily, we had a guide. Enter Kit. He is a high school friend and our token Asian. He weaved through the streets expertly and we arrived at our destination, China Pearl.

We sat down and were immediately given tea and water. Very little water. I held up the slightly-bigger-than-a-shot-glass of water and immediately said a silent apology to my body. I will hydrate you soon, I said. Fuck you, it answered. Heated carts of food started rolling by and the women pushing them were ignoring everyone at the table but Kit. It's like they knew that we were only there because of him.

Then one of my buddies nailed it. "Look at all the tables of white people," he said. Without fail, every table of white people had a token Asian that was ordering for them. Soon, our Asian had filled our table with several plates of things that looked very hot and slightly gelatinous. It did not look very appealing. Everything I know about food I have learned from Iron Chef; and these people were not getting high marks for plating.

However, they were off the charts in the taste department. I loved it all. I was literally shoving food in my face (the consistency of the food upped the degree of difficulty of chopsticks). The whole time my taste buds were yelling at my eyes: "This is awesome! You were telling me this was going to be terrible! You don't know shit! Everything you know is wrong."

However, the saltiness of the food and the hangover combined to make me issue the following threat to Kit: "Listen, these people are ignoring me. Unless you get us a pitcher of water soon, I am going to stand on my chair and yell 'Excuse me, white people are thirsty' at the top of my lungs." I'm pretty sure Kit knew I was bluffing, but soon enough we had water.

I gorged myself on everything, only pausing to ask Kit what I was eating. His response every time was, "I don't know." I didn't care, it was good. We were very full when the busboys came by to collect the obscene amount of plates we had used. They were in black and gold vests and bow ties. They reminded me of the blackjack dealers at Foxwood's and it was oddly fitting since this meal certainly felt like a gamble. We left there up big-time and will definitely be back to play again.

How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love Country Music

2010-04-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

I know exactly when it happened. The exact moment when I stopped fighting it and succumbed to the sweet sounds of country music. Everyone who likes country, especially those like me who formerly despised it, have that one song that cracked the dam and opened the floodgates. It's as much as where you are and who you're with as it is about the song itself.

For me, it was in the back of a white Escalade that looked like we should have been sipping Cristal from the bottle and listening to Chingy. Instead we were blasting "Back Where I Come From" by Kenny Chesney and drinking out of a pitcher we had just stolen from a Hooters on Cape Cod. I was partly drunk, riding that special high that comes with passing off a fake I.D. and by the second chorus I was crooning with Kenny like I was a farm boy from Tennessee. Aside from vodka and puppies it's probably the greatest thing ever.

Like my board shorts and flip-flops, it always goes away in the Fall. The country music gets packed up and placed in the attic of my iPod. It just doesn't work in the winter. Country musicians do not do weary very well. It needs to be too hot to think or else you talk yourself out of it. The simplistic nature of country music is the number one reason people claim to hate it or love it. I love Matthew McConaughey movies for that same reason; he's just there to have a good time. You wanna join in? Great. If not, your loss. You're probably the kind of person who wouldn't know a good time if it was playing the bongos naked in your living room.

And if you are that kind of person, I can't explain the appeal of country music to you any more than you can explain the appeal of Coldplay to me. One of my country hating friends nailed it on the head: it is a musical genre completely devoid of metaphors. They say what they mean and mean what they say. Anyone uncomfortable with that level of honesty is suspect as far as I'm concerned. There's a kind of intimacy in the straight talk songwriting that you don't really get from self-important acts like The Dave Matthews Band*.

Plus, how hard do you really want to think when the sun's out? Summertime is too damn hot for subtext. I like to do my real analytical thinking in the winter when my Seasonal Affected Disorder is in full swing. Right about now all I want is sun, steel guitars and cooler full of silver bullets. If that sounds like a bad time to you, see you in the fall.

*This will probably be the most controversial thing I've ever written. Dave Matthews Band fans are easily offended and love to try and talk you into liking them. As if it's possible to talk someone into liking a band. Oh, and D.M.B. fans... the girls who listen to country are way hotter than your chicks. Unless you dig leg hair. In which case, enjoy all that.

Ma'am-o-gram

2010-04-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure exactly when it happened but I suspect it was around the same time that I embraced country music.* I started calling women "ma'am" and men "sir." And I don't understand why it pisses people off so bad. Like, pisses them off Kanye-West-at-award-shows bad. But I refuse to stop.

This post was brought on by a community question fielded by the phenomenal Heather Armstrong on Dooce.com (a blog that is so much better than mine that I almost don't want to link to it... enjoy the extra seven readers this garners you, Mrs. Armstrong). The question was: When do you think it is inappropriate to call a woman ma'am?

The answer is never as far as I am concerned.

I work in a bar and I don't know your name. I have to call you something. It's not going to be the annoying "hon," the condescending "sweetheart," or the creepy "dear." It's going to be something that I was taught was a sign of respect and in no way a dig about your age. Although, if you're old enough that you're insulted by it, you're old enough that you shouldn't take offense to innocuous greetings. Besides, I haven't called the same woman "sir" three weeks in a row like my old bar partner Steve. Now that woman was justifiably pissed.

The thing is, there are high school girls at work who are ~~much~~ a little bit younger than me and I call them ma'am as well. They don't care. Of course they're girls in high school so ambivalence is kind of their thing. Very few men care but everyone who does uses the exact same line: "Don't call me sir. I work for a living." Exactly, sir. If you were a hobo or a trust fund baby and didn't work for a living, I wouldn't call you that. Not to mention that phrase originated in the military as a way for the grunts to differentiate themselves from the officers. Even more reason for the sir treatment.

I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to call you. I wish I could pull off the southern mannerism of calling women "Ms." followed by their first name. I cannot. You need a little bit of a drawl for that, doesn't really work with a Boston accent.

The words "ma'am" and "sir" have been around for hundreds of years and are in jeopardy because of vanity and youth envy. You should wear the fact that people call you ma'am as a badge of honor. You should make younger women address you like a drill instructor where the first and last word that comes out of their mouths when they address you is ma'am. Ma'am, yes, Ma'am. And you should appreciate men who try to desensitize you to the word ma'am by using it about 42 times in a closing paragraph.

In short, embrace your Ma'amhood because like the polar bear, you'll miss it when it's gone.

*Yes I do listen to country music and we'll be having a long talk about this later in the week.

P.S. This is by far my favorite title I have ever come up with for anything.

Sprung

2010-04-08T21:56:00.000-07:00

If you know me at all, you know I don't want to do this. I am a malcontent and that amuses other people so I guess it makes me happy. I am judgmental and pessimistic and immediately derisive toward and suspicious of anyone I don't know. Which is why this might get a little weird. Yes, spring is here. And with it I'm afraid, may be a kinder, gentler Rageaholic.

I didn't sit down to write a clichéd "hope springs eternal" post, I swear. I wish I could rail against Easter with the same fervor I reserve for Christmas. In fact, it's downright hypocritical since every gripe I have against Christmas can be applied to Easter. They're both perversions of important religious holidays that are thinly veiled attempts to bribe children into behaving for once in their goddamn lives. One of the only differences between them is that one is in the middle of the winter and one is at the beginning of spring. It's a huge difference though.

Especially when you get to see people you really should see more. Like your siblings you're related to and the ones you've picked up along the way. On Sunday night, as the Yankees and the Red Sox did battle I was busy being a bad fan. Their efforts were ignored as I sat around a bonfire with the guys I grew up with. It was better that way. Instead of someone grounding into a double play and me griping that the Sox will blow it in the playoffs I was tapping the Rockies around a fire and talking shit with expert shit talkers.

As I sat too close to the fire I could literally feel the winter depression melting away, along with my eyebrows. (Yeah, I can't believe I just typed that sentence either; it's like I sprouted a vagina and started reading Nicholas Sparks). But I could feel my sanity returning as sobriety slipped away and we clinked our cans to the fifth brother who couldn't make it because of his new job (which happens to be as a right winger for the Ottawa Senators).

It was a rough year, a harsh winter, and even that very afternoon was pretty trying, but it didn't matter. There was country music coming from someone's car while a tractor loomed behind us and I had the attention of a pretty blond girl who thought I was interesting. I couldn't have complained if I tried. And the weird part is that I didn't. Who has time for unhappy thoughts when there is beer to drink and fire to stare at?

Being driven home by my buddy the next day I was rooting around in the glove box for something when I found something better.

"Hey, where did you get these sunglasses?" I asked.

"Somebody left them at the house after Al's graduation party," he answered.

"Yeah," I said, "That was me."

I slipped on the sunglasses and laid the back of my pounding skull onto the headrest. "Things are looking up," I thought. And after a short pause, "Fuck, spring is making me corny."

PS. If you ever meet my friend JR, ask him what him and my brother Mikey found in a parking lot in Long Island one time. Trust me.

Sarong. So, so wrong.

2010-03-29T08:03:00.000-07:00

Just about the most metrosexual activity I engage in would have to be reading GQ magazine. Sure, it’s 55% ads and the clothes in there are unaffordable but nestled between all that stuff is some of the best writing anyone is doing in America. You can learn a lot.

I was flipping through one the other day, despite my hatred for the cover model Kobe Bryant, and learned a lot. Then... things got weird. Right after telling me the best brown liquors to buy, the quintessential man drink by the way, a mere six pages later a picture of photographer Peter Beard wearing a sarong caught my eye (not like that). It was accompaniment to the following question:

“I’m going to the Caribbean next month, and I want to wear a sarong. Do I walk in a store and ask for one, or do I just grab a picnic blanket and wear that? And most important, do I go commando beneath it?”

I... wh-. No, just no. Not okay. Not ever. A sarong could not be manly even if it were tied around your face while you were robbing a bank. The caption under the Peter Beard picture was: Sarong? When you’re as cool - and tan - as Peter Beard, you can pretty much wear a mini-skirt. Um... no. No you may not. I know we men don’t agree on a whole lot, but I thought we could get together on this issue. Yet, here was a reader confident that GQ would not ridicule his question but instead steer him in the right direction. And he was right.

Glenn O’Brien (no relation) is GQ’s Style Guy and he not only told the man where to find one but (shudder) how to fold it correctly. Is this what modern men have become? Wholly comfortable with the thought of wearing a skirt to the point that we can have conversations about it? Women are embarrassed if they are wearing the same top as another woman at a party. How do you think a woman would feel if she looked down the beach and saw the same cover up she brought wrapped around a man’s legs?

What the fuck? Everywhere I look there are “men” devoid of body hair, fake tanned, and sipping on vodka and soda water with just a splash of cranberry juice. Hey Lance, all the splash does is make your drink look pink, it doesn’t really add to the flavor. And if you’re really worried about the calories in beer, just drink water instead. It will garner you more respect than sipping on a Michelob Ultra. I know Lance Armstrong drinks it. Beat testicular cancer and win 7 Tours De France and you can too. Until then, it’s bourbon or Budweiser.

Four days ago it was Steve McQueen’s birthday. If he laid eyes on the exfoliated faces of the 21st century man we could power the city of Boston if we could figure out how to harness the energy of him spinning in his own grave. If we added John Wayne and Paul Newman, we would have a wind farm that would end our dependence on foreign oil once and for all.

In short, it’s time for men to be men again. Here’s a quick refresher: The only reality show you should watch is Cops. You should not own a loofah. None of your clothing should be unisex. Clint Eastwood is your God. Nicholas Sparks is the enemy. Twilight is the time between work and drinking; nothing else. You need to watch The Great Escape, The Hustler, and The Longest Day. There should be more electric guitar than acoustic on your iPod. The bulk of the acoustic should be Bob Dylan, pre-Newport Folk Festival. The elliptical should not be part of your workout. Whatever machine puts you in full view of the elliptical machines should be. You never “go Dutch.” You always hold the door.

I can’t believe I have to say this, but you air dry at the beach. If you feel the need to cover yourself it should be with a bikini clad female companion or a mound of sand shaped like a mermaid with impressive breasts. That’s it.

There are many advantages to acting like a man again. Respect is one. It’s unarguably lower maintenance, both in time and cost. But the biggest advantage may be this: When you stop acting like the fairer sex, you’ll be surprised how much attention you get from them. And isn’t that how this all started in the first place?

The Psychology of Selling Out

2010-03-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

Kicking back midday and watching Anthony Bourdain is something that immediately makes me feel better about being me. For all the mistakes and missed opportunities in my life I've never found myself addicted to heroin or crack. Bourdain once was and it’s heartening to see someone who not only took a meandering road toward success but also relished the journey; or at least would not trade the lessons learned for all the pork in China.

He should be dead or in a gutter. Not in Singapore or Hawaii or Ecuador sampling local delicacies, getting drunk on the local hooch, or making interesting friends in the process. In Northern China he decided to bring together all of the local guides who led him through the minutiae that makes their hometown home. They drank and laughed and Bourdain led them down the boozy philosophical path he loves to steer conversation down. At the end of the meal in a magnanimous gesture he, or perhaps more accurately The Travel Channel, offers to pay for the meal. Bourdain digs into his pocket and produces a Discover card which he awkwardly hands to the waiter in a way that would display the front of the card and the logo perfectly. Watching the exchange, and the annoyed look on the host’s face, you could tell they probably did more than one take.

Could it be that Bourdain has sold out? Has the cantankerous cook turned corporate shill? Bourdain is endearing because he never tries to sell us anything. He doesn’t drop the names of swank hotels and gets visibly nauseous when near a resort of any kind. In fact, if Bourdain ever turned into a bounty hunter you could be confident living on the lam in any tourist trap that he would sooner die than be found in. His personal version of hell would probably be a Jamaican Club Med filled with Americanized food, umbrella drinks and reddish rotund tourists in Tommy Bahama shirts belting out The Pina Colada Song.

Yet, here he is turning his counter culture vibe into corporate currency. A few years ago I would have written him off audibly to anyone within earshot. I would have decried his eagerness to turn his back on his biggest fans who probably have credit scores lower than their weight. The only piece of plastic most of them have any chance of seeing their name on is the nametag of the restaurant in which they work. And a younger Anthony Bourdain might have agreed with me.

The difference now? Bourdain did something that I desperately need to: he grew the fuck up. He realized that life is not all about happiness, nor is it completely about sacrifice. It is about a million tiny compromises; a delicate push and pull of want and need. Compromise has had a negative connotation ever since Hollywood decided to usher in the Age of the Antihero. For too long we have been sold that steadfast refusal to change is a virtue that will eventually pay off in a glorious way. In reality, being an immovable object does nothing but make you stationary. Turns out, stagnant is a far dirtier word than compromise.

The younger version of myself could never imagine setting an alarm in the morning in exchange for health insurance, let alone Tony Bourdain flashing a credit card to help pay the bills. Now, I realize it’s a small price to pay for living the dream. The only reason I don’t conspicuously use a certain companies credit card? Because they haven’t asked me to. If it keeps you traveling, go ahead and flash that plastic, Tony. And if you ever need a travel companion, I’m in. I’ll even pay my own way. In cash though.

The 5 People You Meet On St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-15T22:23:00.000-07:00

Have fun tomorrow, but be careful not to be any of these guys:

The Irish Stereotype: He is not just content drinking Jameson and Guinness; he has to berate anyone who is drinking a domestic beer. He is constantly either trying to start a fight with anyone (and squares up to them like the Notre Dame mascot) or he is hugging people and telling them he loves them. He will do both of these things to the same person in a five minute span. He is one-eighth Irish but will tell everyone who will listen (which is nobody) that his family is from County Kildaire as if they got off the boat that morning. He loves potatoes and hates English people. He is wearing: A "26+6=1" T-shirt. Famous Last Words: "What are you? A fucking British queer? Póg mo Thóin! I'm sorry bro, I didn't mean it, I love you. Gimme a hug."
The Way Too Drunk Way Too Early Guy: He is constantly on the verge of vomiting and passing out and he has been so obnoxious for so long that people are actually starting to root for it. Instead of trying to make him stop drinking, everyone is starting to pour him shots of whiskey. He tries to leave the party wearing someone else's jacket and then adamantly declares it is his own that he bought at Forever 21*. It isn't yours Nancy, find your own jacket that you bought at a woman's clothing store and get the fuck out. He is wearing: No pants. Famous Last Words: "Merrrrrrrrr..."
The Guy Who Studied Abroad In Ireland: Yeah, we know it's really a religious holiday. And in Ireland, they give thanks to St. Patrick for spreading Catholicism and do not use it as a mask for their drinking problem. Guess what, dickhead? We're not in Ireland. We're in America, so do as we do. Drink some green beer, eat corned beef, try to have sex with a red head, and stop being an elitist douche. By the way, you look fucking awful in that scally cap. He is wearing: A Bray Wanderers scarf that he got at a football, not soccer, match. Famous Last Words: "You know, if we were in Ireland we would be in church today."
The Guy Who Has No Idea What We're Celebrating: He shows up wearing orange and drinking Smithwicks. Irish people would sooner punch the Pope than do either. When questioned, he says St. Patrick did something with snakes. Yeah, idiot, we're all celebrating a glorified Pied Piper. If you wanna drink that bad, just do it for the same reason as all the other alcoholics: It's Wednesday. He is wearing: Nothing green. Famous Last Words: Quoting Sean Connery in a Scottish accent all day.
The Irish Music On His iPhone Guy: He momentarily kills the party by stopping the music so he can put on The Saw Doctors. Never heard of them? He would love to tell you about them for an hour and a half. Also, there's a reason you've never heard of them. They sound good for one day a year and then just take up gigabytes the other 364. I like bagpipes as much as the next guy but when you've been drinking all day they have the same effect on your cerebral cortex as a cat giving birth while scratching a chalkboard. He is wearing: The Chieftains tour t-shirt he bought on Ebay. Famous Last Words: "All you have is U2 and the Dropkick Murphy's?" (Eyeroll).

Tap the Rockies

2010-02-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

Don't try to shush me number 25, I'm telling people the truth. Whoop it up about beating the Americans all you want bitch, but you're drinking a Coors Light and you know it. I know a Silver Bullet when I see one. And you're chugging that sweet American nectar while the Molson Canadian bottle sits untouched like the one Canadian girl at a make out party.

The Curling Cougar

2010-02-24T12:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Cheryl Bernard,

I'm gonna come right out with it. I know you Canadians like to play it coy but us Americans just say it like it is. So here goes: Cheryl, let's get married.

I know, it seems crazy. I've only known you for a week. But when you know, you know. And sure, you're married in Canada, but what does that even mean? I do not recognize the authority of the Canadian government, therefore I do not recognize your Canadian nuptials. I do recognize a perfect spouse when I see one though. And your grace, poise, clutchness, and most of all flexibility have caught my attention.

I understand that not knowing me even a little bit might make this decision difficult. I'll go ahead and tell you what I will offer as a husband:

• I will go to all your curling matches provided you are wearing the tight white uniform that you were wearing when I realized I loved you for the first time.

• I will not move to Canada, but I will buy pine tree scented candles from Target to make you feel more at home.

• I will buy you a pet moose that we will name Alex Trebek.

• I will wear one of Don Cherry's suits at our wedding.

• I will grow a mustache and wear denim shirts.
(Pictured: Canadian sex symbol.)

And don't let our age difference bother you. The exchange rate is like 1 Canadian year equals 1.55 years here. So you're only 28 in America.

So there it is: my proposal. Ball's in your court, Cheryl. Yes or no?

Love,
Tim

**Update: You're a San Diego Chargers fan?! How the hell did that happen? This changes everything, I take it all back. Sorry baby, we'll always have Vancouver.

FX: Television for Macho Men

2010-02-23T12:27:00.000-08:00

Let me get this straight.

You started out with a show about soldiers:

Then there was a cop show:

Then there was a biker show:

Now, we're getting a cowboy show?

This seems familiar:

(Pictured: FX's lineup)

Can't wait for the shows Hard Hat and Navajo coming in 2011. Keep up the good work, FX.

PS- I'm going to watch every episode of Justified.

Lombardi Gras

2010-02-09T21:19:00.000-08:00

• Peyton Manning throwing an interception that led to a backbreaking touchdown is proof that God really does love me.

• Guys, if your girlfriend saw Drew Brees holding his baby after the game she’s already made the decision to stop taking her birth control. Plan accordingly. Also, when she is trying to make a love child with you she’s going to be picturing Drew Brees. Yes Reggie, even Kim.

• Speaking of Baby Brees, I hope he either:
A. Plays quarterback like his dad or
B. Grows into that forehead
Life can be tough for a kid whose facial features are smushed into the bottom quarter of their face. The fact that “Drew Brees son down syndrome” spiked on Google trends means I am not the only one that feels this way. And no, he doesn’t have down syndrome, do not send me hate mail.

• Holy shit, Jim Caldwell is black. I honestly had never seen him before this game. I think while Peyton is running the team he’s usually listening to Raffi music in his Motorola headset and coloring in the locker room.

• The kicker for the Saints who made that onside kick will definitely see his 3rd to 270th pairs of breasts this week. Good for him.

• Hank Baskett, with hands like that Kendra probably misses Hef.

• I called Peyton Manning an average playoff quarterback in a bar the other night and of course I am around the only fucking Colts fan in the Boston area. This guy was incredible; he was like a super villain whose power was being impervious to logic. Good thing I’m like a superhero whose power is being able to call people dickheads loudly.

• Hey, Dickhead: Going 9-9 in the playoffs and 1-1 in Super Bowls is the definition of average.

• After the game, Bill Cowher was wearing Mardi Gras beads and someone made the obligatory, “I wonder what he did for those” joke. I’m pretty sure the resulting mental image gave me erectile dysfunction.

• Viagra: now a proud sponsor of FunctioningRageaholic.com

• Speaking of endorsement deals, Brees missed a golden opportunity. Instead of holding his kid at the end of the game, he should have cashed in and held the baby from the E*Trade commercials. That kid’s way more photogenic anyway.

• The commercials were pretty weak again this year. I only remember two of them. There was the Google one where the guy has to Google fucking everything. Seriously? How did he land a hot French chick with his nose buried in a Blackberry Googling tips on flirting? Foreplay would be tough too with him looking up how to unhook a bra in the middle of it. Bullshit.

• Let me get this straight:

“I will get up and walk the dog at 6 a.m. I will sit through two-hour meetings. I will say yes when you want me to say yes. I will be quiet when you don’t want me to say no. I will take your call.I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friends’ opinions of my friends. I will be civil to your mother. I will put the seat down I will watch your vampire T.V. shows with you. I will take my socks off before getting into bed. I will put my underwear in the basket.”

And because of this, I get to drive a Dodge Charger? And I would. Directly into the biggest and hardest structure I could find. Maybe it’s me but it seems like a shitty deal. No thank you, Dodge.

• You know this commercial will be the breaking point in at least a few marriages. Nothing like giving an emasculating pep talk and a jumping off point for a domestic violence dispute to men who have been drinking heavily and watching a violent sport for 3 hours.
Man: I will drive the car I want to drive! I do all these things for you!
Wife: You literally do none of those things.
Man: You made me buy a Chrysler Town & Country!
Wife: I let you pick the color.
Man: I wanted black!
Wife: Well, black’s not a color, now is it?
Man: (Pause) I AM BUYING A DODGE CHARGER TOMORROW!
Wife: I regret marrying you.
Man: MY CHARGER WOULD NEVER TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!

• Congratulations to the Saints though. They deserved it; Sean Payton made some ballsy calls that paid off. The city of New Orleans deserves th- who am I kidding? I don’t care that the Saints won. I just care that the Colts didn’t. If the Colts were playing a team full of my worst enemies all wearing Jets jerseys, I would root my ass off for Gang Green all day. It wouldn’t matter much though because my enemies are all terrible football players.
Coworker: You really hate Peyton Manning, huh?
Rageaholic: I do, I really do.
Coworker: Bin Laden and Peyton Manning are standing in front of you and you have a gun with one bullet. What do you do?
Rageaholic: First you have to convince me that they’re not the same person.
Coworker: Jesus Christ.

• We just lost our Viagra sponsorship, didn’t we?

• Son of a bitch.

Things I’ve learned while killing brain cells

2010-01-29T00:14:00.000-08:00

These are the things I’ve learned by going out in Boston the past couple of weeks, but first, an anecdote:

A pretty girl was standing in line to get into a bar and the guy in front of her starts chatting her up. She was out of his league but nobody ever told him that before because he thought he was God’s gift to women, wrapped in a North Face fleece (and instead of a bow on top, there was a really big nose). And by chatting her up, I mean he spoke nonstop for about five minutes. I would place her facial expression somewhere between “disinterested” and “I want to give this guy a puncture wound with my apartment key." She was polite and listened the whole time this asshole talked about what bars and clubs in Boston were fun (none of them, apparently), what bars/clubs are busy (everywhere is dead), and where his favorite places to eat are (and by favorite, he means the places that suck the least). He is an authority on Boston because he has lived here for almost four years. Finally, he asks her a question that he did not answer himself (something else that he did several times).

BigNose: So, where are you from?
PrettyGirl: Boston.
BigNose: (Condescendingly) No, I mean originally.
PrettyGirl: Boston.
Me: (Not even trying to control my laughter)

BigNose sheepishly dismissed himself after taking what I’m almost positive was a fake phone call from his iPhone. Apparently, he was going somewhere cooler, with more people, where he knew a guy so he didn’t have to wait in line. PrettyGirl was very easy to talk to after that. Thank you, BigNose, wherever you are. On to the lessons:

1. Some people would describe five men consuming two bottles of Ketel One, several beers, and a few nips in the hour before they go out as “problem drinking.” I call it “fiscally responsible.”

2. If you’re ever on your way to the bathroom and someone stops you and says, “Don’t go in there, there’s a fight.” You should at least crack the door and see if the people fighting are your friends. If you don’t and your friends are in there, you will feel bad for several days that you stood four feet away from them oblivious to their struggle.

3. Girls have absolutely no idea how much they are able to drink. I don’t even think it’s their fault. I have female friends who I have seen hammered off of three drinks and other nights they could drive home after twelve. That being said girls, the nights that the booze sneaks up on you, don’t wander around the bar with your bra hanging out repeating, “I don’t know how I got this drunk…” You know damn well how, in fact that was your goal for the evening. Job well done, now shut up and fix your shirt.

4. The recipe to get me to dance my best (or at least my very hardest) = three shots of Jameson + two Coors Lights + Jackson 5. Seriously, go find a piece of rug at the Bell in Hand. You can’t, I cut it all up.

5. It is surprisingly easy to pee right in the middle of Faneuil Hall.

6. Always check to see if the party bus outside the bar is available to drive you and your friends home for five dollars each. It could be the best part of your night. I momentarily put aside my hatred for Lady Gaga and rocked out while looking under the seats for left over beer.

7. Someone bumped into my friend Matt and I thought it was a good idea to follow him around the entire bar while fist pumping. He never saw me. I’m like a Guido ninja.

8. Inevitably, when you give the coat check girl a good tip to take care of your expensive jacket, the girl who gives your jacket back at the end of the night will be a completely different girl. You will think about explaining you gave generously on the way in but instead you will sheepishly drop two more dollars in the tip bucket instead.

9. Apparently, hitting on a guy’s girlfriend in front of him can be easily smoothed over by complimenting his sweater.

10. And finally, when you are wearing the same shirt as a guy at a bar, he will not think it’s funny if you stand next to him and mimic his exact movements. Especially when the girl he is dancing with (who has her bra hanging out) gets confused and starts grinding with you instead.

If I want to see orange people, I will watch Willy Wonka

2010-01-20T18:36:00.000-08:00

I have avoided watching The Jersey Shore for the same reason I have never tried hard drugs like cocaine: I’m afraid I’ll like it and I know it’s bad for me.

I understand why reality television is so pervasive. Networks love it because it’s cheap to produce. People love it because after a long day at work they don’t want to think, they want to be entertained. I get it, I do. The only redeeming characteristic of The Jersey Shore is that this may be the show that finally kills reality television.

We live in a world where most people want to be famous, few people should be famous, and anybody can be famous. People’s desire for notoriety has become so extreme that people will actually allow their lives to be openly mocked just for airtime. I understand that the people on The Jersey Shore are not rocket scientists, but they must know that people are laughing at them, right? It’s a strange concept that some people would rather be known as morons than not known at all.

But they’re not even the problem. They wouldn’t be on television if there wasn’t an audience for them. That’s where we come in. We get sucked into idiotic things like this because it’s easier than reading or thinking about the things that we’re consuming. I suppose that’s another reason why I refuse to watch it. By watching the show, I am legitimizing it. And I know myself well enough to predict that I'll just end up bitching about it’s existence right after contributing to the reason it exists in the first place. There’s a very good chance that I am over thinking this, but I can't let those orange airheads and ‘roid stuffed meat sticks on the shore make me feel like a hypocrite.

I’m sure part of the viewing appeal is the ability to feel better about yourself for not being one of those people on the show. It’s the pop culture equivalent of laughing at the fat kid in gym class.

Getting back my original drug analogy, I just don’t see the high from The Jersey Shore lasting very long. And while it seems like fun now, you’re never going to want to tell your kids that you did it.

Vote Bobby Butler for Hobie Baker

2010-01-13T10:17:00.000-08:00

A buddy of mine, and the best hockey player I’ve ever played with, is on the short list of candidates for the Hobey Baker Award. This award is given to the best college hockey player in America. Past winners include Paul Kariya and Chris Drury. If you would like to lend your support to him, visit this link to throw him a vote. His play and his stats speak for themselves. You can’t argue with the facts.

Vote for Bobby now.

Fuck Facebook

2010-01-11T19:27:00.000-08:00

There is a Facebook page for this site, but I don’t have one personally anymore. People ask me why all the time. Let’s settle this once and for all:

• I would get friend requests with more than one girl in them and just assume it was the hot one. It never was.
• There are also what my buddies from college would call “Facebook Fakers." Facebook Fakers set their profile picture as either the only good picture ever taken of them or a picture from 3 years and 75 pounds ago.
• Friends of my parents started to friend request me. At first I just rejected them and realized that wasn’t a strong enough statement. I then made an effigy of Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook, out of straw and beat it with a hockey stick.
• Thinking about putting up a picture of your baby as your profile picture? Know what would be cuter? Deleting your fucking account and raising your child privately.
• No, Burger King, I do not accept your friend request. First of all, you are not a person that I can be friends with. You are a corporation who is insulting my intelligence by thinking that I will think you are cool if you use social networking sites. And also, I have nightmares about your mascot.
• Farmville
• All of the other applications. The first person that tried starting a food fight with me via Facebook was surprised as shit when I showed up at their dorm room and hit them with a steaming bowl of Ramen.
• Bars in the area where I went to college would make a page, friend request the entire city, and then send out 50-100 messages a day flooding my inbox with inane shit. I don’t care if your Jello shots are half off on Wednesday, Leitrim’s Pub, this friendship is over.
• People I knew from high school would constantly friend request me. I thought maybe it was an attempt at reconnecting. If I wanted any connection at all, we would have one. Denied.
• My sister told me that they didn’t actually want to talk to me, they just wanted to be my “friend” so they could Facebook stalk me. This made me feel uncomfortable and immediately suspicious of my sister.
• Sorority girls wear their ability to Facebook stalk a badge of honor. My sister’s abilities fall somewhere between Wizard-like and Jesus.

These things that say that they are trying to connect us actually seem to be separating us further. You don’t interact with anybody you don’t know on Facebook. You do not make any new friends. You do not reconnect with old ones. You interact with the same people that you talk to in real life everyday. If you do look at someone’s profile that you don’t know, it’s to ridicule their pictures or make fun of their status update.

If you want friends, go make them the old-fashioned way. Go to a bar and get drunk until you are socially lubed up enough to talk to strangers. You’d be surprised how fun it is when you unplug yourself from the computer and accept (or deny) people face to face without “the book.” And don’t worry, Facebook will still be there when you get home. Including the best thing on it.

Where were you 2 assholes when we needed you?

2010-01-08T13:59:00.000-08:00

Somebody get the Crimson Tide a tampon

2010-01-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

I was walking through Best Buy yesterday wearing a Texas Longhorns hat when a young African-American gentleman loudly yelled at me, “Yeahhh! Hook them Horns, n***a!” My answer: “I love your enthusiasm.” Yes, the National Championship game is upon us.

I’m not sure how or when a young kid from central Massachusetts adopted the Longhorns as his college team. I do know that it happened early enough that I don’t remember rooting for anybody else. I also know that it paid off in a big way in 2005 when the underdog Longhorns beat the Trojans of the University of Southern California. I was living in Southern California at the time. Awkward…and awesome.

Vince Young would not be denied in that game just as Colt McCoy will do everything in his power to bring home the hardware tonight. For those of you who do not follow college football, yes, those are the real names of Texas’ quarterbacks. I do not think those are their birth names.

I believe there is a knighting ceremony when you become the starting quarterback and they rename you something as Texas sounding as possible. Something like, “Kneel Kyle Webster, and rise Alamo Steercock.” Some kid at Texas U should really come up with a Longhorn Quarterback name generator.

Anyway, it’s still about eight hours until game time and I am filled with nervous energy. I wanted to do a poll for profiling purposes just to see how many Alabama Crimson Tide fans read this.

P.S. If anyone knows of the best bar in Boston to watch college football, let me know.

P.P.S. Clarissa can suck it.

Snow, Snow Go Away

2010-01-07T05:07:00.000-08:00

I sat down to write something, anything, but only one thought keeps running through my head: God damn it, it’s cold. I know a lot of people watched Al Gore’s documentary An Inconvenient Truth and say that it made them want to live more environmentally conscious lives. I watched it and immediately went outside and started spraying two aerosol cans directly into the atmosphere.

Some people say that they love the snow and would miss it were it gone. These are mostly old people who have lived in the Northeast since the Mayflower, Paul Revere, Reconstruction fucking period. Of course you love the snow, old people, you don’t have to deal with it. You have other people shovel the shit and you repay them with a quarter or a handful of hard candy. Con artists, all of you.

The rest of us able-bodied people have to go out into the elements and try to remember which frozen bump of snow our cars are under. And then as we are shoveling the car out and brushing off the snow we are saying a prayer that the thing will start once it is liberated from it’s snowy grave. Because if it does not then you have to deal with the condescending people at Consumer Auto Parts that think it’s ridiculous that a 24 year old man is unaware that there is more than one kind of car battery. Fuck me, right?

Oh, and make sure that your car is always at least half full with gas. Because otherwise, it may freeze. Allow me to repeat that. Gasoline, which is highly flammable, can freeze in your car in these elements. We choose to live in an area where that is possible and yet consider ourselves the most intelligent species. Birds that are too stupid to find the feeder that my mother puts out for them know that when the weather gets cold it’s time to go somewhere where the sun is out for more than three hours a day.

Dear Mr. President

2010-01-06T17:35:00.000-08:00

After a long holiday season that seems to be getting longer every year, most of us are struggling with an all too familiar feeling. We are completely full and still not yet satiated. That’s what happens when you’re hungry. You wait all day for that one great meal that’s going to fulfill you. This is where we have been as people for a while now, only for the fortunate most of us, it’s not about food.

We’ve been starved for inspiration for some time now. We have been in two unpopular wars that we have been told were over. We have been mired in an economic downturn that has left some of us jobless, most of us hopeless, and all of us searching for answers that won’t come easy. Every day we have been reminded that we've ruined our one planet and some would have us believe that our transgressions cannot be reversed. We have become cynical. We have become riddled with the odd complacency that comes with resigning ourselves to our fate. We have become uninspired.

The year began with your inauguration and democrats and republicans alike should all be able to agree that this was a source of pride. And for a little while, we were full. We thought we would be alright. You inherited the most difficult job in the country at one of the worst possible times. Admittedly, our expectations were a little high, but can you blame us? We just watched a black man named Barack Hussein swear in to the highest political office in America. We legitimately thought anything was possible.

Since then? Not a whole lot has happened. I know, these things take time. You have a lot to deal with and the guy before you didn’t help. The best thing you have done so far is win the Nobel Peace Prize and I think you yourself might even have a little trouble explaining why.

Here’s the good news. Our bellies are empty. We are hungry like we haven’t been in a long time. It won’t take that much for us to be full again.

I understand everyone expected you to have a six-shooter full of silver bullets. We all wanted you to saunter into Washington and shoot the lights out. Even deep down in places they don’t ever talk about, the Republicans were rooting for you too. Everyone wants answers so badly; they no longer care about the source. I don’t think that was the bipartisan dream you wished for in your campaign though.

Like I said, we’ll do our part. Our wild expectations have been checked and we realize we need to do this together. We realize that inspiration without execution is useless. But we need someone to start us off. Fair or not, that someone is you. You have to give us something. If you do, I promise you will get more than you ever imagined in return.

It’s not about proving the people who voted for you right. It’s not about proving those who voted against you wrong. You are the captain of the whole ship, not just the members of the crew who like you. You need to see through this storm and steer us straight.

Ready?

Go.