This Place is Dead Anyway

Comedy Budget

2009-01-07T21:47:00.003-05:00

Most people have constructive New Years resolutions. Stop smoking, eat better, go to the gym, volunteer to teach Bangladeshee orphans how to play Backgammon. Shit like that. Me? I have no such appetites. Not to mention that I know that most New Years resolutions get broken within the first two months anyway. That's why my New Years resolution is something which, unlike yours, I've strategically planned to last the whole year. It's my comedy budget, implemented for the first time circa 2009.

Starting January 1, 2009 and going to December 31, 2009, I have a whopping $300 (about 50% of my whopping yearly salary!) set aside purely for comedy, and in particular, for comedic items of clothing. Even if I spend it all in one place (say, on a pair of leather Z Cavaricci's) in April, or a little at a time (say, on a shirt with lobsters on it in May, and on 5 shirts with assorted birds on them in October), it'll surely be the gift that keeps on giving all year long, because a man simply ain't a man unless he has funny clothing.

I saw a really funny article of clothing recently and it gave me this idea. Course, I can't remember for the life of me now what it was, but I swear it was good one. It'll come back to me one day, I'm sure of it. Unfortunately, by then someone else will have recognized it's inherent comedic value (because what I DO remember is that no one in their right mind would buy it for any other reason) and snatch it up. And then I'll be shit out of luck, up shit's creek if you will, in shit-down, feeling shitty. Shit.

Oh yeah, it was a purple crushed velvet blazer at Bloomingdales. Fuck, $300 probably wouldn't cover it anyway. Back to the drawing board!

??????????????

2008-12-30T21:55:00.002-05:00

It's been more than a year now. The work stuff panned out, but I'm still pretty bored with life, socially speaking. Case in point -- my plans for tomorrow night, new years eve, entail me sitting on the couch in my drawers, eating a large hunk of cheese (Jarlsberg, most likely). New Years eve always sucks, yeah, but spending it accompanied only by a large hunk of cheese (yup, it's confirmed--Jarlsberg) is even more depressing than that dude with one eye on the R train who tries to sing Motown classics for money. I mean, sure, everyone loves a good oldie, and at least he's trying (unlike that weird midget woman who just begs for money even though she has brand new sneakers), but man oh man is his voice high pitched for a person who (presumably) has testicles. But hey, what do I know, I still shop at Filene's basement.

Anyone still out there, reading this? Should I make a comeback?

This Place is Dead Anyway

2007-09-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

FYI--The life stuff didn't pan out.

So with that, I will now make official what has otherwise been constructively obvious for some time--that this place, is officially dead anyway.

I've been blogging for over 3 years now. And for the most part, it was a real hoot. I got to practice my writing, had a place to vent, and hopefully made some people laugh every once in a while. But after 3 years, I just don't have any steam left. The lions share of the bloggers that started off at the same time as me either (a) quit long ago, or (b) got book deals and quit their day jobs. Until now, I did neither.

Blogging is a dead media form, in my opinion. And so it goes, that this blog follows suit.

If I ever do anything with my life, I'll let you know. Until then, don't take any wooden nickels, ya hear?

Biding My Time

2007-07-31T22:43:00.001-04:00

I'm currently waiting for some "life" stuff to pan out. Hopefully it will pan out, and then perhaps I'll come back to writing up here. Or maybe I won't. Or maybe go fuck yourself. I don't know. We'll see I guess. As you've probably guessed, the motivation just ain't there at the moment. The well is dry, the . . . I can't even think of any cliched metaphors to use. See what I mean? See? See?

The Dream is Dead Anyway

2007-07-12T12:09:00.001-04:00

Two months ago at this time I was sippin Mai Tai's on a beach off the coast of Vietnam. One month ago at this time I was sitting on my couch wearing nothing but a pair of dirty, ripped boxer shorts, eating a large hunk of Jarlsberg cheese and watching Captain Kangaroo. Stated differently, for the last few months, I've been living the dream.

But alas, as all things are fleeting and must pass, so too must my dream. For now, at this moment as I write, I am sitting again behind my desk at work, reviewing documents and contemplating the quickest and most painless forms of offing myself.

Having had a nice break from the grind, I'm still quite relaxed, rested, and for lack of a better term, "unjaded." As such, for a period of time, you're likely not going to be able to log onto this site and enjoy my usual rants and complaints about relatively meaningless things. But fear not, as I begin to sink deeper and deeper back into the grind that is big firm life--a process that oft occurs quite quickly from what I recall--I'll no doubt revert back to my old self and start moaning over meaningless dribble once more.

In the meantime, enjoy the weather, treat your respective bodies like amusement parks, and check in every once in a while until things are back to normal (read: I'm angry again). And yes, I will get to finishing the other site for good . . . one of these days. So sue me, I've been busy . . . um, err, . . . cancel that.

Crushed Oreos are Better Than Whole Oreos

2007-06-25T19:40:00.000-04:00

I am going to state a fact: crushed Oreos are, far and away, better than whole Oreos.

I am going to state another fact: I have absolutely no idea how or why this is the case.

Think about it. There's no other foodstuff that you can cut down or crush up the pieces where the sum of the whole tastes much better than the whole itself. French fries, for example. You can cut french fries into smaller bits, and those small bits'll simply taste like small pieces of french fry. Or take crackers. Crush up a saltine, and the pieces will taste exactly the same as the whole cracker, except they are much more of a pain in the ass to eat. But Oreos. Those tricky Oreos. Crush em up, and for some reason, they are much more enjoyable than a single, whole Oreo cookie.

Pico, an Oreo fanatic I've known for a fortnight, claims that the reason for this phenomenon is that the crushed Oreos we by and large find at the local ice cream parlor or haberdasherie (chapeau shops in NYC are known for their crushed cookie assortments) are usually a bit stale, and that this, for some reason, makes them taste more enticing than their ripe counterparts. Personally, I don't buy this. I've been eating Oreos for some time now, and not once have I come across a stale one. Simply stated, Oreos don't go stale. Pico's theory thus can't be correct--not a tremendous surprise considering that Pico has but an associate's degree from Felecian College.

Another crushed Oreo fan I know claims that the crushing of the Oreo changes the molecular distribution of the Oreo, and that there are more taste molecules in a tinier area of Oreo than in a whole Oreo. He also states that crushing up the Oreo could unleash the real power of the cream, and that they allude to this in the commercials by telling us to split the Oreo before eating it. Either way, what is clear is that for some reason, the absolute worst way to eat an Oreo is to simply take a bite out of the Oreo.

Me? I don't know why this happens, and perhaps it's best left that way. After all, what is important is that I do know that it DOES happen, and that if it were socially acceptable, I would bathe in crushed Oreos. Thank you.

Hibernation

2007-03-18T21:44:00.000-04:00

Something's happened to me. It's strange, and like nothing else I've really experienced before. They tell me it's called happiness.

I've been telling people for years that I've yearned to experience it firsthand. For whatever reason (most likely the fact that I was an insufferable curmudgeon), people never really believed me. But now that I'm no longer working, I finally have the opportunity to see what it is really like, and I have to say, I'm enjoying it.

Of course, I can't be out of work forever. Thus, it seems, my stint with happiness, like that with unemployment, will be brief. Suffice it to say, however, that I'll be enjoying every fleeting moment of my temporary freedom for as long as it lasts.

The one negative that has resulted from my newfound happiness is that it is quelched my desire to blog on this site. I hope--nay, pray--that it hasn't quelched my desire for writing altogether, or else I might be screwed six ways to Sunday, but despite the fact that I'm still coming up with newer and better blog post ideas, I'm just not finding that I can actually get myself to sit down and write them. My ability to write in the style you've become accustomed to is fed by bitterness. Unhappiness is Guy Hollerin's sustenance. Unfortunately, it seems, Guy is starting to go hungry, and is losing his motivation to continue blogging here for the time being.

As such, effective immediately, This Place is Dead Anyway will be going into temporary "Hibernation," until such time as the happiness ends and Guy returns to full form (something which most likely will happen once I begin working again). It's been almost 3 years now blogging on this site, and it's been a good run, but for the time being, Guy needs a bit of a rest.

Not to fret, however. In the interim, I will be blogging at an alternative site, that you will easily be able to navigate to if you aren't a complete and utter technophobe. Because of what I'm doing over the next few months, it will be quite different from what you've become accustomed to seing on this site in both form (the way it looks) and substance (the type of stuff that I'll be putting up there), but I hope that you'll join me over there to check it out regularly nonetheless.

In the meantime, I wanted to take the time to thank you for checking out this site for so long, and to promise you that it WILL return before you know it. Until then, all the best, love and cherish each other, and of course, avoid the clap.

-Guy Hollerin

You Know . . . Things

2007-03-10T00:25:00.000-05:00

One would think that now that I'm officially unemployed, that I'd have all this time to get caught up on blogging. Well, if by "blogging" you meant "sleeping in and masturbating," you get a gold star, and perhaps even two smacks across the mouth, if I'm feeling truly generous. Of course, it's not like I was exactly derelict in the masturbation department, but hey, who really keeps track of such things

Point being, just because I'm out of work doesn't mean I'm all out of things to do (or all out of love, for that matter). Quite the contrary, in preparation for my little adventure, I have pretty much been doing nothing all week but running errands in and around the city. By next week I should be caught up and in full form, at which point I'll let you in on such exciting events as "waiting in line at the NY Passport Agency surrounded by drooling children for seven hours," and "sleeping in and masturbating." But that's only if you behave.

So sit tight, stop sending me threatening emails telling me that you will kill my firstborn if I don't continue to provide you with mediocre toilet reading, and within a few days, I'll be back in full form. That is, of course, until I depart, at which time who knows what in heckfire will happen with this here site.

Till then.

This Place is Done Anyway

2007-03-02T13:36:00.000-05:00

Today is my last day. Err, for a while, anyway. This week has been completely insane, what with trying to clear off my plate, and dealing with some other clusterfuck (isn't that really just a great word?) nightmares that arose. But today is it. I've been walking around with a smile on my face all day, knowing what's to come. Of course the day before I come back in a few months I'll no doubt want to kill myself, but at this moment, things seem pretty peachy. Which for a notorious curmudgeon like me, is really something. More to come in the next few weeks as I embark on my little adventure.

Blogging the Oscars

2007-02-26T23:14:00.000-05:00

Because I have no idea how to productively use my free time (read: because curling wasn't on), last night I accepted a friend's offer to watch the Oscar's with her. To make things a bit more interesting (read: so I could convince myself that I am not a complete woman), I decided I would live-blog through the show. Here's what transpired:

7:30 pm: The "pre-show" is about to start! Friend comes upto my apartment and we turn to the E network. After watching for about 2 minutes, we both collectively wonder why presenter Ryan Seacrest has a career.

7:36 pm: We decide to order takeout from Patsy's for dinner. When we call, the guy who picks up tells us that they "ran out of pasta." Yes, that's right, an Italian restaurant "ran out of pasta." I throw a mini temper-tantrum on the phone which inexplicably includes the phrase "circle-jerk." The man on the other end tells me that Patsy's will "never deliver to me again." I respond by asking him "what the fuck the difference does it make," since they "don't have any pasta," and for a moment am convinced that I am "big dick Malone." A few minutes later it dawns on me that there's no good Italian in my neighborhood, and that it's me that is "fucked."

7:41 pm: We see the feet of a woman on the screen. The camera pans up slowly to show her incredible, chiseled legs. As the camera continues to pan up and we start to see her shiny green dress, her tiny waist, and finally, her revealing top, I assert out loud that if you "got a couple of drinks in me," I would "probably" do her. My friend calls me out, at which point I admit that yes, this woman is "fucking hot" and that I would "like to lick her calve muscles." Friend is sufficiently repulsed and no longer minds that we will not be eating pasta for dinner.

7:42 pm: The camera continues to pan up, finally revealing the face of this beautiful woman to be . . . ARRRRGHHHHH . . . Nooooooooooooooooo!!! . . . It can't be--it's . . . it's Celine Dion!! I lusted after Celine Dion????? Fuuuuck meeee!!!, I scream as loud as I can, after which I run to my closet, grab a phillips head screwdriver, and gouge my eyes out. After the bleeding subsides, I spend the next 17 hours cleaning the tile grout in my bathroom with an old toothbrush. From what I can tell, it still isn't clean enough. Must get clean. Clean is good. Clean. Clean. Clean. Good. Must clean. Clean. Please. Clean.

Is There Just Something About Me?

2007-02-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

Below is a completely accurate, non-fictionalized recap of my exchange with the sandwich-woman at Hale & Hearty Soup but a few moments ago:

Sandwich-Woman: "Can I help you?"

Me: "Tuna sandwich, please."

Sandwich-Woman: "Excuse me, sir, I would appreciate it if you weren't so sarcastic. It doesn't make my job any easier."

Me: (quite confused) "Um, I'm sorry?"

Sandwich-Woman: "I would appreciate it if you didn't use sarcasm."

Me: (looking around and furrowing my brow as if she were crazy (which she clearly is)) "I'm sorry, but all I said, literally, were the words 'Tuna Sandwich, please.' How could I possibly have been sarcastic???"

Sandwich-Woman: "You know exactly what you are doing, sir."

Me: "You know, normally you'd be right. But right now all I'm trying to do is order a Tuna Sandwich--which is why, when you asked me what I wanted, all I said 'Tuna Sandwich.' I'm really not trying to do anything else other than that."

Sandwich-Woman: (waving her hand at me) "Well it didn't appear that way to me."

Me: "Well I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you need to get your glasses fixed or something."

Sandwich-Woman: "I don't wear glasses."

Me: "Perhaps therein lies the problem."

I kid you not, this is exactly how the exchange went down (yes, I actually talk like that in real life). And unlike the majority of my daily interactions, this time I really wasn't trying to be sarcastic. Literally, all I said to the woman was "Tuna Sandwich," and all I wanted to do was get the sandwich. Nothing more, nothing less. So why is it that she thought I was being sarcastic? Is there just something about me that screams "prick" and causes people to instantly detest me? If so, that would certainly explain the treatment I've been getting the last few weeks at my new asian dry cleaners. Well, that or the fact that they're asian dry cleaners.

Ticketmaster Etiquette

2007-02-20T09:48:00.000-05:00

If you're ever going to be waiting out at a Ticketmaster for concert tickets on a freezing cold morning, and don't want to be on the receiving end of (at best) evil stares from everyone in line behind you, or (at worst) threats that "if the rest of us actually somehow manage to get tickets despite your fucking stupidity and see you at the concert, [we're] going to spill a fucking beer over your head you fucking cunt," follow the following two simple rules, and you'll be as good as gold:

1. Bring cash. It takes at least three times as long (scientific fact) to complete your transaction when you use a credit card as opposed to cash. And in an age where concert tickets can (and do) sell out in mere minutes, this likely means the difference between whether those behind you in line are able to get tickets or not.

Take this morning, for example. Everyone in line behind you (yes, YOU, woman at [redacted] in [redacted]) was holding cash. Yet you decided--despite the fact that everyone in line (well, ok, just me) "highly encouraged" you to also use cash (and indeed, you demonstrated that you had enough cash on you to pay for the tickets)--to use your credit card nonetheless. 4 minutes later, you were nearly finished with your transaction, and they finally were able to start servicing the woman behind you (your seemingly illiterate, yet buxom friend, who, incidentally, also used a credit card). Meanwhile, the rest of us had to stand there and watch while the concert was selling out before our eyes.

Of course, you clearly don't give two shits about anyone but yourself, what with your frizzy golden locks and your "cougarwear," and you secretly laugh at the prospect of those behind you getting screwed. Someday, however, one of those people behind you in line trying to get tickets (likely to a SuperTramp reunion concert) will turn out to be an Immigration officer and will make sure that you and your Eurotrashiness are send back to Dusseldorf where they belong.

Also, this is a bit off point, but you really need to get yourself to the gym and up on a stairmaster, honey. It's clearly been a few too many years and a few too many Cougartinis (two parts Pinot Grigio, one part Red Bull--the staple drink of your breed, the Cougar ).

2. Once you get your tickets, take them and leave the store. Don't start bitching about how you don't like the seats and that you're entitled to exchange your tickets for better ones. Ticketmaster works like this--you tell the (asian/indian) teller how many tickets you want, the machine spits out the tickets, you pay, take the tickets and move away, and the process is (hopefully) repeated for the next customer in line. When, instead, you take the tickets, compare them to a seating chart, and then return to the counter and proceed to start moaning about how you don't like your seats and want to try to get different ones, it creates significant delay and confusion--especially when your illiterate, yet buxom friend who I'd really love to hate-fuck, attempts, in broken english, to join in the argument with you.

The Ticketmaster tellers are trying to explain to you that you have to take whatever seats that you get, you are trying to argue that you "deserve" better seats and are entitled to stand there and take your pick after more tickets are pumped out of the machine, and all the while, the people in line behind you who have yet to be serviced are just waiting for the chance to get any tickets at all. After (at least) three minutes of your bitching, the tellers will finally attempt to try to service the other customers while still trying to get you out of the way by explaining that you have to take what you get, but between this and the fact that you used a credit card, the rest of those customers are screwed. The guy directly behind you (me) will end up only getting 2 obstructed view seats behind the stage, and the rest of the line will end up getting completely fucked out of seats altogether. Meanwhile, you have 4 tickets that are a tiny bit further from the stage than you would like, and judging from the sore on your upper lip, a raging case of Herpes Simplex 1. Seriously, get some cream or something and cover that shit up, because the rest of us were planning on eating something today.

To conclude--it really shouldn't be that hard. After all, it's only 2 rules--unlike, say, the Ten Commodements. So whether you're an aging Eurotrash Cougar with a cottage cheese bottom, a Herpes-face, and a buxom non-English speaking friend in tow, or you're just a regular, non-viral guy or gal trying to get yourself some concert tickets, be considerate to your fellow ticket purchasers. Don't use a credit card, take whatever tickets you get (and be happy that you got any tickets at all), and you'll leave the store without the rest of the people in line secretly hoping that your Herpes spreads to your genitals (if it hasn't already).

For somehow, in this world, things have a way of working themselves out in the end. Some call it poetic justice. Some call it karma. I call it "overhearing you bitch about your 'crappy' seats in section [redacted], Row C, seats 4-8," approaching you at the concert, and ruining your perm by pouring an overpriced beer on your oversized head.

Bi-Sexual Chocolate

2007-02-15T23:35:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I see commercials for "Almond Joy" and its cousin candy, "Mounds," and think to myself: "Who are the ad-wizards that came up with that one?" I mean, seriously, how does it make any sense that a candy called "Mounds" DOESN'T have any nuts in it? It's like you're eatin gargonzola when it's clearly brie time. Ya know?

I cannot, in good conscience, live in a world where there is a candy that masquerades as if it should have nuts in it--both by name AND appearance--but in fact, only contains chocolate and coconut. If Mounds are supposed to be the non-nut version of Almond Joy, shouldn't they just be called "Joy." Then, Almond Joy could be the nutted version of Joy. THAT makes sense. Mounds, sir, does not.

Recently though, it struck me--Almond Joy is the "male" version and "Mounds" the female version of the candy--and if, as the slogan says, "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't," these concoctions were invented, mass-produced, and marketed exclusively to and for, bi-sexuals. Every aspect of these candies--from their to their marketing to their packaging to their fucking contents just screams AC-DC. Take a look:

1. The slogan for Almond Joy and Mounds says it all. Do I really need to go into more detail on this one? Actually, yes I do, or else this post would be way too short. So here it is--one of them, Amond Joy, like the male of our species, "has nuts," the other--the one called "Mounds" (which, incidentally, is a common nickname for a woman's VAGINA)--like the female (or post-op transexual) of our species, "don't." And Almond Joy and Mounds eaters "sometimes feel" like one or the other.

Of course, this slogan could apply equally to folks afflicted with bi-polar disorder or Swedes--who have a notorious love-hate relationship with nuts and legumes of all types--but still.

2. If you pay really close attention, you'll notice that when the singers in the commercial are singing the slogan in the jingle, it is a man that sings the phrase "Almond Joy's got nuts" while a woman then goes on after the man to sing the phrase "Mounds don't." Here again, maleness associated with Almond Joy and nuts, and femininity associated with Mounds and nutlessness and vaginas and things. And again, from what I gather, bisexual folk "sometimes feel" like [having] one or the other.

[There's also the fact that the male voice and mention of Almond Joy comes before the female voice and mention of Mounds in the jingle--sort of like how men both "come before" and "are better than" women in real life--but that doesn't really add anything to my thesis about Almond Joy and Mounds being for bisexuals, so rather than offend my female readers by even suggesting such a thing, I'll just keep it to myself and avoid any controversy]

3. Did I mention that Mounds is a common nickname for the VAGINA? Oh I did? Ok, moving on . . .

4. Almond Joy comes in a blue wrapper, Mounds in a red wrapper. Blue has been historically been associated with masculinity and strength. Indeed, men's nuts--also often referred to as "balls"--can sometimes go "blue," especially in high school as a result of an OTPHJ (over-the-pants-hand-job) in the back of the schoolbus returning from the planetarium, gone wrong. Red, on the other hand, since the dawn of time, has been associated with menstruation and bloody maxi-pads and Chevy Pintos--all things decidedly female.

5. Both candies have a hard coated chocolate exterior, but inside are filled mostly with coconut. Coconut, if you didn't know, is actually not a nut, but a fruit. Fruit, people, fruit!*

6. And finally, the kicker: the creator of both Almond Joy and Mounds? Dr. Felix Wankel, a renowned bisexual swinger from an age long past** (as well as the inventor of the rotary engine).

So give it a few minutes thought. Let it sink in. Even grab a bite of an Almond Joy or a Mounds if you like to get things going (I mean, if that's your thing--and it's totally cool if it is, free country and all, I dig it. Hey, I respect Ellen DeGeneres and Mario Cantone and Carrot Top and all that too. Really, I do. Well, ok, I don't really respect Carrot Top so much, but you get what I'm saying, right? It's that I think you should be allowed to marry ANYONE you want that isn't your first cousin). Eventually, you'll start to realize that the Almond Joy/Mounds campaign is perhaps the most ingenius marketing device since the staged marriage of Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben back in '43. Almond Joy and Mounds are bi-sexual chocolate! Bi-sexual chocolate, ladies and gentlemen.

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. Hah! Ad-wizards indeed.

* Please note that I have nothing at all against members of the gay or bisexual community, and hope it doesn't come off like I do, no pun intended. I just think that the genius of the Almond Joy/Mounds marketing scheme needs to be publicized, and I don't know how to do so (or do anything in life, for that matter) in a manner that doesn't appear to be in bad taste.

** NOTE: There is no actual evidence supporting the fact that Wankel was bisexual, a swinger, or the inventor of Almond Joy and/or Mounds. It is undisputable, however, that he was a fan-fucking-tastic ballroom dancer.

Pass the Paulaner All-Fruit

2007-02-09T15:13:00.000-05:00

Everybody is going crazy about the death of Anna Nicole Smith. Blah blah blah. At the end of the day, she was righteous white trash who probably died from a drug overdose. Or maybe not. I don't know.

Either way, the barrage of press coverage of her untimely demise is completely overshadowing what, in my opinion, is a much much bigger story--the death of the actor from those old Grey Poupon commercials, Ian Richardson. At least cnn.com is covering his tragic death and paying tribute to Richardson's impact on the American condiment scene, in a story with a hyperlink entitled "Actor in Grey Poupon ad dead at 72," which I personally found laugh-out-loudable, if there is even a such term. Apparently Richardson did some other shit in his life too, but compared to those classic commercials, what could even compare??

As much respect as I've always had for Richardson though, I must say--I hope that when I die, people don't permanently associate my memory with mustard. Oh wait, I forgot--Grey Poupon isn't "just" mustard--kind of like how Paulaner All-Fruit isn't "just" jelly. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to dance on your grave there, Ian.

Finally!

2007-02-01T10:38:00.000-05:00

Finally! After nearly two and a half years of blogging, a reader contacts me, and without pussyfooting around (no pun intended), straight up offers me a roll in the hay (I think). This morning, the following email appeared in my inbox:

Hello.

I am anzhela, I am from Moscow. Russia. I am dreaming to find my real man. I like you much. Maybe this is you? What do you thinkabout it? Please, send me a reply here [email redacted]. I very much like fuck. You too.

emma p.

Now granted, her English isn't all that great, it appears that she's a bit confused as to her first name, and also, the email is probably "fake," but hey, it's a lead nonetheless. And these days, I've gotta take what I can get, for after all, I haven't felt the warm, supple touch of a woman in many moons.

Still Hittin Them Corners in Them Low-Lows, Girl

2007-01-30T10:31:00.000-05:00

You may recall that in October, 2005, I announced to the world that I had once again started eating tuna sandwiches for lunch. Well, my fair readers, you will be pleased to know that I am still going strong, and that I happily and heartily imbibe a tuna (and on special occassions, fancy albacore) sandwich for lunch a few days a week.

They say that on the whole, tuna sandwiches aren't all that healthy because the mayonaisse really takes away from the value of the fish, but when "light mayo" is used, I'm not so sure that this argument retains its validity. Regardless of the type of mayo used, you're always getting a healthy dose of protein when you eat tuna, so I guess that's something, right?

Some people wonder if Bill Parcells will transition into the "tuna" business now that he is retired from football. Others wonder if he'll "sell his body for deli" and end up on tuna sandwiches throughout the nation, himself. These people are fucking idiots, and also "don't exist" because I "made them up."

And yes, I'm quite well aware that this blog now officially stinks.

Eugoogley

2007-01-25T13:44:00.000-05:00

It need not even be stated that google.com is, hands down, the best (non porn-specific) search engine on the net. And even if this weren't true, had I even suggested otherwise, I'm certain that not only would this blog suddenly disappear, but that I would be "greeted" at my home in the middle of the night by two Ukrainian outfit men donning crowbars and a blowtorch, seeking to "set me straight."

There is one thing, however, that www.google.com sometimes does, which just really gets my goat--and that's pretty damn hard to do, considering that I keep him securely fastened to a waterpipe that runs through my basement. Often, when you type a name or phrase into Google, the site will attempt to correct your spelling and suggest another option with a prompt that reads: "Did you mean: _________." Especially when you're searching for a phrase or a person who's name you're not sure how to spell, this can be very reassuring, and in most cases, I'll click for this option, confident that the thing or person I was looking for will more quickly be found. And usually, it works like an underage Indonesian sneaker factory employee-- slavishly.

But sometimes, like this morning, for example, the option can completely backfire, and throw me for a loop that wastes many a precious second from a somewhat busy day. At about 11 am, I did a Google search for a person's name--for purposes of this exercise, lets call her "Kristen McPherson." After I entered the name and pressed "search," Google attempted to correct my spelling, asking "Did you mean: Kristen McPhearson?" Because I wasn't entirely sure how to spell her name in the first place, I thought to myself "Yes, Google, perhaps that IS what I meant, salutations!", and clicked the option. A few seconds later, the page changed, and Google presented me with the following response:

Your search - Kristen McPhearson - did not match any documents. Suggestions:

Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
Try different keywords.
Try more general keywords.
Try fewer keywords.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I could've sworn that it was GOOGLE ITSELF that suggested I might've meant "Kristen McPhearson" rather than "Kristen McPherson"!! Why would Google suggest a different spelling that doesn't actually yield any results? Isn't Google the one that knows the entire contents of the world wide web?? This is just like if a tourist came up to you and asked how to get to "Channel Street," you asked in response "Do you mean 'Canal' Street, the main thoroughfare through Chinatown spanning from the Williamsburg Bridge on the East River, to the West Side Highway, on which you can pick up knockoff merchandise of all varieties, cheap, poorly-made trinkets, stolen and refurbished electronics, fresh fish, and salty, mediocre chinese food," the tourist responded "Yes, that's the one, do you know how to get there?", and you responded "No, no idea at all."

In all seriousness though, Google is SO much better than sliced bread. It rocks and should never be second-guessed. Please don't hurt me, Sergei.

The Office of Dr. Idiot

2007-01-23T13:14:00.000-05:00

It's "nine month cold" season, folks! Which is to say that for the last 3 weeks, I've been stuffy, sniffly, achy, tired, coughy, congested, and generally miserable. In other words, I'm feeling pretty much the same as always.

After suffering for a few days at the beginning of the month and even missing a few days of work at the height of it, I decided to go to my internist, who proceeded, as usual, to prescribe an antibiotic regimen--which I completed, faithfully, 5 days later. Once the antibiotics started to kick in, I immediately started to feel better. When the regimen was completed, however, I still wasn't 100%. "Give it a few more days," I figured, and I would be back to normal. A few days after, that, however, and I was still a bit congested, and hacking gobs of green mucous up with a newly formed "whooping" cough.

Any ladies out there looking for a date for Valentine's day, btw?

A few days after that, and the cough was still present, although the congestion was basically gone. So again, I opted to merely ignore it, figuring (i.e. hoping) that it would go away on it's own.

If I could only be so lucky.

This morning, I woke up in a strange bed with a kid with an accent playing with my feet. Also, I was once again completely congested. It seems that for some reason, the illness has decided to move back from my chest and into my olfactory cavity, where it originated long ago, in the days of France, where men would hit each other with their gloves and say "Dartagnan, how dare you."

Yes, I'm a bit delirious as a result.

After a morning suffering with clogged sinuses, I made up my mind and decided to call up my otalaryngologist (ENT) to make an appointment. Why didn't I do this at the outset, you ask (if you're still even bothering to read this)? Well, the truth is, I don't like going to my ENT. Sure, he's a nice enough guy, but every time I go to him, not only does he stick a red hot poker up my nose (to quarterize it), which hurts something fierce, but he also gives me a speech about "proper sinus care." Use your imagination on that one. Needless to say, it is quite uncomfortable, and I wish not to endure it unless absolutely necessary.

So this morning, I called up his office to make an appointment, and was told that he was on vacation, and that I would have to make an appointment with the doctor who was covering for him. When I asked to do so, however, I was told that the guy who is covering for him also on vacation, and that I couldn't actually see him, either. Ignoring, for a moment, the utter stupidity of this arrangement, I then asked if I could see any of the other doctors in the office. "No," I was told by the receptionist, I could only see the doctor who was covering for my doctor. Upon learning this, the following idiotic exchange took place:

Me: "Wait, so I can only see the doctor who is covering for my doctor, right?"

Receptionist: "Yes."

Me: "Except I CAN'T see that doctor because he is ALSO on vacation, right?"

Receptionist: "Well, yes."

Me: "So can I see any of the other 8 doctors in the office?"

Receptionist: "No."

Me: "Right, right, I can only see the doctor who is covering for my doctor."

Receptionist: "That is correct."

Me: (now completely irate) "Except I CAN'T see the doctor who is covering for my doctor because THAT doctor is ALSO on vacation!!!"

Receptionist: "He is, yes."

Me: "Then why can't I just see one of the other 8 doctors in the office, since neither my doctor no the doctor covering for him, are available"

Receptionist: "Because you can only see the doctor who is covering for Dr. [redacted]."

Me: "But in reality, I can't."

Receptionist: "Not until mid-February, no."

Me: "Doesn't it defeat the purpose of arranging to have a doctor on vacation covered by a doctor who is also on vacation? The sheer stupidity of this arrangement is mind-boggling."

Receptionist: "Sir, I'm not . . ."

Me: (cutting her off) "Seriously, don't try to 'sir' me. All I want to do is see a friggin doctor in your office to help me with my friggin nose, and you're telling me that you won't take my business."

Receptionist: "SIR, we are happy to make an appointment for you when your doctor is back from vacation, in two weeks."

Me: "But I'm sick now. Do you want me to die? Do you? Do you?

Receptionist: (long pause . . . long pause . . . long pause (presumably she's thinking about how to answer this))

Me: "Hello?"

Receptionist: "Would you like to make an appointment for the second week in February?"

Me: "No, I can't do that, I'll be dead by then and it'll be all your fault. Thanks though!"

Receptionist: "Thank you sir!"

So because of the Office of Dr. Idiot, I now have NO choice but to make an appointment with some foreign (literally, foreign--I can't pronounce the fucker's name) ENT who was recommended, somewhat lukewarmly, by the aunt of my fourth-former roomate's ex-girlfriend. I'm seriously afraid that he's actually some sort of witch doctor, and that he will put a hex on me for being a Jew with a deviated septum* instead of actually treating my illness. Even if that is the case, however, at least his patients aren't being covered by a doctor who is on vacation.

* Actually, if he did THAT he probably wouldn't get any business, so I'm not so worried, really.

I'm Buyin What Lindsay's Sellin

2007-01-18T17:25:00.000-05:00

I am not a teenager. Nor do I have acne. But after watching perpetually troubled teen (is she still a teen?) actress Linsday Lohan in a commercial hawking Proactiv solution at 3 am the other night, I came THIS* close to picking up the phone and ordering some for myself. It was only the sudden desire to masturbate and the subsequent sleepiness ensuing thereafter that (thankfully) prevented me from the making the call/unecessary purchase.**

What is it about Lohan that I find so appealing and convincing? Is it her acting skills? Her piercing blue eyes? Perhaps it's her cigarette-burned voice or her ever changing hair color? Or maybe it's the fact that she's a cracked-out, attention-starved, sex-crazed psycho with a mamoth appetite for coke and booze who reacts like a petulent child when she doesn't get her way/hasn't appeared in the headlines in the previous 5 minutes. You know, all the things we have in common.

Of, course, it could also be her firecrotch and massive boobage.

Yeah, on second thought, that's probably it.

* You can't see me now, but I'm holding my right thumb and pointer-finger about half-an-inch from each other.

** I attempted to post the ad, as it appears on youtube, on my site here, but APPARENTLY I can't log in to youtube now that fucking blogger has migrated with gmail. If you aren't a blogger you don't know what I'm talking about. You probably also have a life.

Clay Aiken Clay Aiken Clay Aiken

2007-01-15T22:39:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, I've never watched an episode of "American Idol." Yeah, I know, I'm so un-American, blah blah blah. Well, you've never watched helplessly as your buddies fell, face down in the dirt on Hill 63, so go fuck yourself.*

Nor do I really follow what's happening on the pop charts and in top-40 music. So you can imagine my surprise when I found out, this evening, over my traditional MLK day feast of fried chicken and waffles, that Clay Aiken--runner up from American Idol a few years back (or something)--is not only enjoying a vibrant and successful solo career, but apparently he is the obsession of forty-something housewives throughout middle America. Why this is the case, considering that the dude looks like a wimpy, homosexual Napolean Dynamite, is beyond me, but I long ago stopped questioning the tastes of the American public when I first tasted Vernor's soda--and subsequently affirmed my stance not to question the moronic public when George W. Bush was elected for the first time, in 2004.

What is more, apparently the rage among those fortysomething middle-American housewifes who single-handedly keep Aiken in golden diapers, is wearing t-shirts picturing Aiken's mug and containing such raunchy phrases as "Clay Aiken Makes My Cooter Wet" and "I Want Clay Aiken To Fuck Me With A Broomstick." At first, I didn't believe this could possibly be true. Once I finally accepted it--after many, many fried chicken wings--I then figured that these shirts had to be worn ironically--sort of like how Williamsburg hipsters** love to wear "DARE to keep kids off drugs" and "Just Say No" t-shirts. Eventually, however, I was convinced that this is not the case, and that fortysomething middle-American housewives really do love that little redheaded bugger, despite the obvious fact that he could never, ever love them back--at least not the way that they yearn to be loved.

Like I've always said, people are morons.

I've also since been told that if you post Aiken's name on any website--even one as pointless as mine--you are bound to immediately get strange comments, emails, and hits in response, because apparently there is a whole army of Aiken lovers who scour the web in search of new mentions of his name. So consider this something of an experiment. I can't test whether or not Aiken is gay, nor whether people really wear t-shirts that feature both his photo AND the word "cooter." But I can test whether or not I will receive strange and random comments in response to this here post, which at last count, mentioned Aiken's name 14 times.****

I'm so excited to see what will happen, I don't think I'm going to go to sleep tonight--which as it happens won't be so difficult, because in the last month I've somehow become an actual insomniac, and not just the kind of insomniac who says they are an insomniac because they can't fall asleep until 2 am. By the way, if you're up tonight and bored, and need someone to talk to, give me a call at 917-XXX-XXXX.

*NOTE: Neither did I.

** And me back in high school.***

*** Ok, fine--college.

**** NOTE: I didn't actually count.

Being a Girl

2007-01-11T17:28:00.000-05:00

If you are a female--and by that, I mean a person with a natural vagina and the concomitant hormones that come with natural vagina ownership/operation (in other words, no pre or post-op trannies)--no matter how hard you try to avoid it, every once in a while you will inevitably resort to "being a girl." What, you ask, does "being a girl" entail? Well, it's quite simple: "being a girl" consists of "not making any sense whatsoever."

This afternoon, I was involved with a phone conversation with a friend during which I mentioned that I am "an ass." This observation is, of course, something personal associates and blog readers alike should recognize as indisputable, empirical fact. My friend, however, for reasons that I still can't quite understand despite the fact that she has since explained her anger to me, got upset with this comment.

"What are you talking about," she said. "You're a nice person."

"I'm an ass," I said. "There's really no disputing it. Everyone knows it. It's plain fact."

"I can't believe you just said that . . . I've got to go," she retorted, as she hung up the phone.

"Are you kidding me?," I responded. "Hello? Hello? . . . What the fuck??"

A few minutes later, I received a text from her which read as follows: "I hate it when I say nice things that I mean and you insult me as though I am delusional. It makes me feel furious."

I, of course, responded by texting the following: "See, I AM an ass. Point proven. Just call me."

About ten minutes later, she finally called back.

"Why are you getting so upset about this? I really don't get it?"

"Because I think that you're nice and if you say you're an ass, you don't really mean all the nice things that you do for me," she responded?

"Huh?? What does one thing have to do with the other? They aren't mutually exclusive. One can simultaneously be "nice" and "an ass," you know? I have to say, right now you are really. . ."

"Acting like a girl?", she cut me off with.

"Well, yeah, exactly. You're getting angry for reasons that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. In other words, you are acting like a girl. I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Well, I don't act like a girl that often, so just deal with it, I guess," was her response.

(after a few seconds of pondering) "Fine, fine. I'm not an ass. I'm not an ass at all. You're right."

(silence)

"Hello, hello?"

(click, dial tone)

Fucking girls.

The Umbrella People

2007-01-08T13:13:00.000-05:00

For years, I was convinced that the "Umbrella People"--the (predominantly Asian) folk who sell umbrellas on street corners when it is raining--live underground and literally materialize out of the sidewalks the moment the first drop of rain hits the streets. How else could their nearly magical appearance at the first sign of a sprinkle possibly be explained? Applying Occam's Razor--the scientific theorem that posits that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one--it could not. So while I had never actually witnessed, firsthand, an Umbrella Person pop-up from inside of the sidewalk, it was clear to me that this was simply because I had never walking the streets during the true beginning of a rainstorm.

And so, I accepted the fact that these people in fact live the majority of their lives trapped within the literal confines of the concrete jungle, and are allowed reprieve from their rocky prisons only upon precipitation, during which they are granted temporary furlow to provide Manhattan residents with cheap, poorly made umbrellas that will inevitably be lost within 3 days if they haven't already broken by then. It was metaphysical fact: some sort of cosmic contract between the heavens, the umbrella production lobby, and the Umbrella People, I figured--something far beyond my capacity to understand or appreciate--and thus, like gravity, the changing of the seasons, or the fact that asparagus makes one's piss smell strange, I never thought to question it.

Until yesterday.

Last night, around 11 pm, I realized that I was fresh out of toilet tissue. Because of my stomach woes and the frequency with which I defecate, I knew that I probably couldn't make it through the night without a fresh supply, and was thus forced to set off for yet another trek over to Duane Reade--the 4th such trek of the weekend, if I'm counting correctly. When I left my apartment, the rain hadn't yet begun to fall. 3 minutes later when I arrived at Duane Reade, it still hadn't started yet--though the wind and the moisture in the air signified that it would be beginning any second. Had I been smart, I would've waited on the street for the rain to begin, to see if the Umbrella People, in fact, materialize out of the concrete, but as it were, my stomach had once again begun to rumble like it has so many times before, and I knew I only had but a few moments before the inevitable eruption would once again take place. So instead, I dashed inside, was amazed to find 3 cashiers working and not a single person waiting in line,* and was checked out within 2 minutes. Perhaps a Duane Reade world speed record?

3 minutes after I had arrived, I exited the store to find not only that the rain had begun, but that an Umbrella Person was standing on the corner, umbrella cart in tow, hocking his wares to the random stragglers scattering to seek shelter from the storm! If anything, the man's sudden appearance should've lent creedence to the theorem (postulate?) that the Umbrella Folk, in fact, live within the concrete sidewalks--but for some reason, and despite the pressure I was feeling on the inner walls of my colon, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and find out, once and for all, if it were really true. And so, at 11 pm last night, I approached the Umbrella Man, and asked him, point blank, if he really lived underground and materialized to the surface at the first sign of rainfall. And a few minutes later, after a somewhat awkward and confusing conversation that I'm still not quite sure was conducted entirely in English, I had my answer.

As it turns out, I had been applying Occam's Razor incorrectly, and things are in fact, much simpler than I had ever thought. The Umbrella Folk, it seems, live a quite life, waiting patiently in their apartments watching the Weather Channel and peering out their windows, and at the first sign of precipitation, they grab their umbrella carts and head down to street corners (conveniently located near their homes), to provide the good people of Manhattan with temporary protection from the elements.

What they do to pass the time during bouts of sunshine is anyone's guess, but if they're anything like me, they masturbate and defecate to excess.

* Why it is that they have 3 cashiers working at 11 pm when no one is waiting in line, yet always only have 1 cashier working when the place is packed is beyond me, but at that moment I wasn't going to ask any questions.

Don't Fret

2007-01-02T14:32:00.000-05:00

Not to fear (or celebrate, depending on your point of view), I'm still alive. As you now know, my promise to post over my vacation with the regularity with which I deficate, proved hollow, and now that it's over and I'm back at work, I find myself languishing with the remnants of the post new years hangover, the dread of being once again forced to lawyer, and a headcold that will no doubt morph into full body paralysis in the coming days. I promise, once things start rolling again I'll begin to post more often and with more frequency, but it may take me a few days to get back into the swing of things. Please bear with me as I reemerge, reacclimated, from my hyperbaric chamber of blogging.

This is hard

2006-12-21T17:58:00.000-05:00

That's what she said. Zing! No, seriously. My vacation has begun. I'm sitting in a bar, trying to write "the book." What book, you ask? Well, truthfully, I'm asking myself the same thing. 5 beers and 4 pisses later, and I'm still not quite sure. Writing the blog drunk is a cinch. Writing a book for which you only have a few vague, loosely connected ideas and only a few hours over a few weeks without having to worry about work, while drunk--a whole different animal. And in color, too.

Anyway, I'll no doubt be posting nonsense on the blog over the course of the next few weeks--despite the fact that the space bar on my brand new laptop barely works (anyone know how to fix that?)--so stay tuned, and get excited. I know I'm not. Ok. Bye.

Everything is Coming Up Roses

2006-12-18T14:19:00.000-05:00

Last week, my refrigerator started sounding like a monkey hopped up on cocaine. By the weekend it sounded like the second encore at a Misfits concert. Needless to say, not exactly the type of behavior you expect from a major household appliance. So Saturday, I decided to have it replaced.

When my new fridge came this morning, despite the time of year (tip time), surprisingly not a single building employee could be found to help me move it upstairs and to remove the old one. So, eschewing my traditional jewish values (paying someone else to do the work), I opted to do everything myself--and lugged the old fridge to the basement, lugged the new one upstairs and installed it (read: plugging it in) all on my own. But the best part of all: when I went to remove the old fridge and finally jimmied* it out of its old spot--I found 2 quarters (and a very shriveled, rotten pomegranate). I'm so excited! Now I can buy that piece of cheese i've been saving up for!

Quite an exciting life I'm leading these days, I know. I know. Will you please be my friend?

*Anybody know the etymology of the term "jimmied"? Was there some dude named Jimmy who was really good at removing things from tight spots?? Did that last sentence sound really perverted to you too? Good.