I was headed to Chicago for a week, and my buddy Todd offered me a lift out there. He's kind of a gypsy cat, who moves where the spirit takes him, and he was headed out to South Dakota to do a little fishing or something. He's also a ninja with a good heart... something I should've considered before I accepted his offer of a ride.
We stopped in some small town to get gas. While we were there, some thugs tried to trash the place, and Todd dealt with them. I grabbed a pack of Twinkies and a Slim Jim, which was on the house. Todd then found out what the deal was.
Some guy named something or other was planning to take over the town and turn it into one big mall/shopping center, something to rival Tyson's Corner in Virginia. So he was planning to force all the small businesses out of town... no matter what it took. Todd was determined to stop him, because he looks out for the little guy.
I knew I needed to catch the first bus out to Chicago when we went to a bar, and the impossibly hot waitress told me she couldn't be attracted to me, because she was supposed to be Todd's love interest. My role was the wisecracking sidekick, and I just couldn't allow myself to be degraded like that. So I split.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed. I'm quite the shop-aholic, and I think there's really nothing wrong with emptying out a few small midwestern towns in the name of commerce... and if anyone stands in your way, you deal with them...
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Crazy Dream
I had this crazy dream the other night. It started with me hanging out with Dean Martin. He was wasted, and he kept trying to give me titty twisters and poking my abdomen. I took him to my apartment, where we warmed up some left-over jerk chicken my friend from Tanzania, Martinson Agunga Agunga, gave me. It was too spicey for Dean, and he flipped, throwing the bowl and swinging his arms furiously. I fell over my couch, and into a game of football being played in my living room. That Guy from those "MacMellen are you Gellin'" commercials had the ball, and I swatted at it, hitting his hand and wrist instead. He was very upset.
I saw James Joyce sitting on my loveseat, rolling a cigarette. I told him I had Parliaments if he wanted those, and he told me to go fuck myself. Then he started singing Glass Tiger's "Someday" I left him alone. I needed to urinate real badly, but my bathroom was covered in spiders, so I settled for an empty drawer in my bureau. That's when I woke up.
Thank God, I thought, I didn't actually piss myself. I went to go to the bathroom, when I saw Rosie O'Donnell from The View. I realized I was not in my house.
"Quite a rager last night, huh?" She said.
"I'll say."
I saw James Joyce sitting on my loveseat, rolling a cigarette. I told him I had Parliaments if he wanted those, and he told me to go fuck myself. Then he started singing Glass Tiger's "Someday" I left him alone. I needed to urinate real badly, but my bathroom was covered in spiders, so I settled for an empty drawer in my bureau. That's when I woke up.
Thank God, I thought, I didn't actually piss myself. I went to go to the bathroom, when I saw Rosie O'Donnell from The View. I realized I was not in my house.
"Quite a rager last night, huh?" She said.
"I'll say."
The Spiner Femme
Gwen, the Cappie, dragged me to another one of her conventions. Well, I shouldn't say dragged me… because I'm kind of starting to dig them. At one point Brent Spiner approached me with a desperate look on his face.
"Hey man, it's me… Brent… you met me at the Aviator premier, remember?"
"Yeah, man… what's the problem?"
"I need to hide out at your place for a little while…"
He dove into this harrowing tale of how a chick dressed as a cleaning woman got into his room and started giving him homemade calendars with his pictures all over them; and she showed him pictures of his appearances at various conventions, which were so numerous, she could stack them and flip them and make a de facto video of his time on stage. Then he saw the fan fiction and erotic drawings. He thought he was safe when the maid whose clothes she stole called the cops, and the crazy woman was arrested. But no, somehow she ended up at the convention.
I took him back to my place, and it just so happened Star Trek was on Spike. He did not want to watch it.
"I hated this episode," he said. "In it, I put on some mystical mask that takes over my mind and body. Do you know how badly I deserved an Emmy for having to act this crap?"
"Hey man, it's me… Brent… you met me at the Aviator premier, remember?"
"Yeah, man… what's the problem?"
"I need to hide out at your place for a little while…"
He dove into this harrowing tale of how a chick dressed as a cleaning woman got into his room and started giving him homemade calendars with his pictures all over them; and she showed him pictures of his appearances at various conventions, which were so numerous, she could stack them and flip them and make a de facto video of his time on stage. Then he saw the fan fiction and erotic drawings. He thought he was safe when the maid whose clothes she stole called the cops, and the crazy woman was arrested. But no, somehow she ended up at the convention.
I took him back to my place, and it just so happened Star Trek was on Spike. He did not want to watch it.
"I hated this episode," he said. "In it, I put on some mystical mask that takes over my mind and body. Do you know how badly I deserved an Emmy for having to act this crap?"
Oh That Puty, What Am I Going to Do With Him?
I was out with my buddies George Clooney and Matt Damon the other night, and something about my body just didn't feel right. Embarrassed, I excused myself from their company and went to the hospital. The doctor told me I tested positive for some radioactive element. I was shocked. How could this happen?
I recovered, and about a week or so later I received a manila envelope in the mail. Inside was a black and white head shot of my dear friend Russian president Vladimir Putin, with the word "Gotcha!" written in big letters across the bottom left corner. Oh, that Puty, what am I gonna do with him.
I recovered, and about a week or so later I received a manila envelope in the mail. Inside was a black and white head shot of my dear friend Russian president Vladimir Putin, with the word "Gotcha!" written in big letters across the bottom left corner. Oh, that Puty, what am I gonna do with him.
I'm a Dumb American
Since Gwenyth Paltrow made her comments on the state of American intelligence and civility, people have been asking me: "Is she right? Are Americans dumber and less civilized than our British counterparts?" Well, I'm not sure that I'm qualified to answer that. Are our sports hooligans more destructive? Are our racists less civilized? Was Bush dumber for going into Iraq, or Blair for supporting him? These are questions that I can't answer.
But I am completely convinced that Ms. Paltrow can. I had the good fortune to meet her at a luncheon served in honor of the Prince of Monaco in Newport, RI, and I must say I found my conversations with her both delightful and insightful. Here's just a few of the amazing tidbits:
Her thoughts on the poor:
"I think if the poor were more like me, they wouldn't be poor."
On the No Child Left Behind Act:
"I think if our school system wouldn't let all the poor, stupid, ugly, people in, then we wouldn't need No Child Left Behind."
On racism:
"I think the Brits handle issues of race in their society much better than Americans. For them it's simple: if a black man plays for your team, you cheer for him. If not, you give him the monkey chant."
And finally, on whether Americans are less civilized than their British counter parts or not:
"I think when I did Shallow Hal, it really broadened my range as an actress. It showed that I could do lowest common denominator, especially if I'm making fun of people that aren't as pretty or as skinny as me."
But I am completely convinced that Ms. Paltrow can. I had the good fortune to meet her at a luncheon served in honor of the Prince of Monaco in Newport, RI, and I must say I found my conversations with her both delightful and insightful. Here's just a few of the amazing tidbits:
Her thoughts on the poor:
"I think if the poor were more like me, they wouldn't be poor."
On the No Child Left Behind Act:
"I think if our school system wouldn't let all the poor, stupid, ugly, people in, then we wouldn't need No Child Left Behind."
On racism:
"I think the Brits handle issues of race in their society much better than Americans. For them it's simple: if a black man plays for your team, you cheer for him. If not, you give him the monkey chant."
And finally, on whether Americans are less civilized than their British counter parts or not:
"I think when I did Shallow Hal, it really broadened my range as an actress. It showed that I could do lowest common denominator, especially if I'm making fun of people that aren't as pretty or as skinny as me."
Mads: I Am the Winner
I received a check via certified mail today at my hotel here in Rio. It was for $50,000. At first I thought it was severance pay from Oklahoma, but it wasn't. My friend from Boston was sending me my first place winnings from our Big XII fantasy league. I couldn't really remember who I had on my team, because I hadn't looked at it since the draft in August. It's an interesting irony, because if I'd used my uncanny access to Big XII inside information due to my ties to Oklahoma, I probably would've tinkered with my team too much and lost.
I broke the news to Abdul Karim, my Persian buddy, that we would have to get rid of this 50 G's tonight, and he was none too pleased. The prospect of getting wasted and laid by amazing Brazilian women was starting to wear on him.
We went to a popular night club that is run by my friend Ukrainian Hank, a man who runs a popular spot in Boston too. The first thing we did was buy all the beer in the place so everyone could drink for free. That only set us back 15 with tip, so we needed to get rid of another 35. Next I sent Abdul out to get three inflatable pools and as much mud as possible. We'd have gone with Jell-O, but it would've taken too long to make it. That still left us with about 30 G's.
Animal time. Abdul hired three elephants, five gorillas, and myriad baboons and whatnot, and that just about took care of our money. I don't remember much after that. I woke up in one of the pools to the sound of a pistol firing, a man yelling, and a gorilla picking bugs out of my hair. The man was trying to get his pistol from one of the baboons, and it bit him on the hand. Hank was none too pleased with what I did to his place, and I had to fork over another 75 G's to pay for the damages. That's hot.
I broke the news to Abdul Karim, my Persian buddy, that we would have to get rid of this 50 G's tonight, and he was none too pleased. The prospect of getting wasted and laid by amazing Brazilian women was starting to wear on him.
We went to a popular night club that is run by my friend Ukrainian Hank, a man who runs a popular spot in Boston too. The first thing we did was buy all the beer in the place so everyone could drink for free. That only set us back 15 with tip, so we needed to get rid of another 35. Next I sent Abdul out to get three inflatable pools and as much mud as possible. We'd have gone with Jell-O, but it would've taken too long to make it. That still left us with about 30 G's.
Animal time. Abdul hired three elephants, five gorillas, and myriad baboons and whatnot, and that just about took care of our money. I don't remember much after that. I woke up in one of the pools to the sound of a pistol firing, a man yelling, and a gorilla picking bugs out of my hair. The man was trying to get his pistol from one of the baboons, and it bit him on the hand. Hank was none too pleased with what I did to his place, and I had to fork over another 75 G's to pay for the damages. That's hot.
More Power To You
Back when the Patriots won Super Bowl number 3, in their first playoff game they had to beat Indianapolis on a snowy Sunday evening in Foxboro. Our friend Jake invited me, Mads, and some of our other friends over to his house to watch the game on his new 50 inch Hi-Def TV and to meet his new girlfriend, Taylor.
Well we met her, and she was hot. Like six-feet tall; long, blonde hair; and an amazing body. The one major flaw: his chic was a dude. A real good loking dude as a chick, mind you-- I mean she wasn't like those Priscilla Queen of the Desert drag queens with too much eye make-up and muscular, maculine features. She was a hotter chick than most real chicks I knew.
Our friends couldn't tell, and Jake didn't seem to know either. I felt really bad, because she seemed like a nice enough dude: she gave us all snacks and beer. They seemed to be happy together too. Then the light went off in Mads head. Oh no, I thought, here it comes:
"Hey, Jake, man, did you know your chick's a dude?"
Our friends audibly coughed up their food. Jake and Taylor came out to the middle of the livingroom holding hands. I was mortified.
"Why did you have to say that, you Norwegian moron?"
"No, it's okay, man."
"It is? Did you already know?"
"Of course I did? What, do you think I'm a complete ignoramus?"
"You know she's a he... and you're cool with that...?"
"Yeah, why not?"
I stood up.
"No, I agree, why not? You two seem happy together, so I say more power to you."
At that point all of our friends except for Mads mumbled out excuses on why they needed to leave. I felt bad for Jake, but he understood. They were just uptight assholes, while Mads and I are completely secure in our sexuality.
Well we met her, and she was hot. Like six-feet tall; long, blonde hair; and an amazing body. The one major flaw: his chic was a dude. A real good loking dude as a chick, mind you-- I mean she wasn't like those Priscilla Queen of the Desert drag queens with too much eye make-up and muscular, maculine features. She was a hotter chick than most real chicks I knew.
Our friends couldn't tell, and Jake didn't seem to know either. I felt really bad, because she seemed like a nice enough dude: she gave us all snacks and beer. They seemed to be happy together too. Then the light went off in Mads head. Oh no, I thought, here it comes:
"Hey, Jake, man, did you know your chick's a dude?"
Our friends audibly coughed up their food. Jake and Taylor came out to the middle of the livingroom holding hands. I was mortified.
"Why did you have to say that, you Norwegian moron?"
"No, it's okay, man."
"It is? Did you already know?"
"Of course I did? What, do you think I'm a complete ignoramus?"
"You know she's a he... and you're cool with that...?"
"Yeah, why not?"
I stood up.
"No, I agree, why not? You two seem happy together, so I say more power to you."
At that point all of our friends except for Mads mumbled out excuses on why they needed to leave. I felt bad for Jake, but he understood. They were just uptight assholes, while Mads and I are completely secure in our sexuality.
Goddess Cassandra
Things didn't end well with the Vancouver me. He, I, and Hannu, his Finnish companion, were playing Rummy after long night of partying, and there was a dispute when Hannu absent mindedly discarded a Jack of Clubs that went on my Ace-King-Queen run. I and my Vancouver counterpart grabbed for it simultaneously, and we both thought we should get it. This dispute deteriorated into a violent arguement.
After they stormed out, I tried to settle my nerves with a cigarette. There was a knock at the door, which I assumed was him coming to apologize. It wasn't, but instead a slightly muscular woman with long dark hair in a leather bikini with fishnet stockings. She was slapping the flat of her hand with a wooden paddle.
"Can I help you?"
"You address me as Goddess Cassandra. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't. Who are you?"
"I am the dominatrix you ordered, now bend over and take your punishent for questioning me."
"What the hell are you talking about? You have the wrong apartment."
"Oh... oh my God, I am so sorry... I'll just..."
She left. Kind of too bad, I thought. She was attractive in a not-so-obvious way. Though I had no need for being ordered around and slapped, I wouldn't mind catching a ballgame with a woman like that. I was very excited when she came back to my room.
"Hey... um... I'm sorry to bother you... I can't find this guy... can I use your phone?"
"Absolutely."
There was some kind of a mix-up, or rather someone sent her over as a prank. She was upset, and I consoled her by making a Tombstone pizza and some Swiss Miss. We finished the night by watching Mannequin on TBS.
After they stormed out, I tried to settle my nerves with a cigarette. There was a knock at the door, which I assumed was him coming to apologize. It wasn't, but instead a slightly muscular woman with long dark hair in a leather bikini with fishnet stockings. She was slapping the flat of her hand with a wooden paddle.
"Can I help you?"
"You address me as Goddess Cassandra. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't. Who are you?"
"I am the dominatrix you ordered, now bend over and take your punishent for questioning me."
"What the hell are you talking about? You have the wrong apartment."
"Oh... oh my God, I am so sorry... I'll just..."
She left. Kind of too bad, I thought. She was attractive in a not-so-obvious way. Though I had no need for being ordered around and slapped, I wouldn't mind catching a ballgame with a woman like that. I was very excited when she came back to my room.
"Hey... um... I'm sorry to bother you... I can't find this guy... can I use your phone?"
"Absolutely."
There was some kind of a mix-up, or rather someone sent her over as a prank. She was upset, and I consoled her by making a Tombstone pizza and some Swiss Miss. We finished the night by watching Mannequin on TBS.
Looks Like Me, Eh?
I was taking a load off at Penang's in Chinatown with Gwen, the Cappie, when I saw a dude who looked just like me. He was dressed well and walked with a dude of Scandanavian ethnicity. I excused myself from Gwen for a second so I could talk to him. He seemed a little put off by me too.
"God, you look like me," he said.
"No, you look like me. I was here first."
We laughed, and introduced ourselves.
"And this is Hannu, my Finnish companion."
"What? Your Finnish companion?"
"Yeah, why, is that a problem?"
"Uh... no, no problem."
He was from Vancouver, but that was the only discernable difference between us. We had all the same tastes, all the same habits. When he explained what his status was in Vancouver, I believed him, if only because it was the same status I held here in Boston. Gwen came out of the restaurant with our doggy bags.
"Gwen, this is the Vancouver me, and his Finnish companion, Hannu."
"Did you tell him you lost your Norwegian companion recently?" She said.
"We can discuss that later."
"God, you look like me," he said.
"No, you look like me. I was here first."
We laughed, and introduced ourselves.
"And this is Hannu, my Finnish companion."
"What? Your Finnish companion?"
"Yeah, why, is that a problem?"
"Uh... no, no problem."
He was from Vancouver, but that was the only discernable difference between us. We had all the same tastes, all the same habits. When he explained what his status was in Vancouver, I believed him, if only because it was the same status I held here in Boston. Gwen came out of the restaurant with our doggy bags.
"Gwen, this is the Vancouver me, and his Finnish companion, Hannu."
"Did you tell him you lost your Norwegian companion recently?" She said.
"We can discuss that later."
I'm Better Than John Kerry
I met up with my man Hube over at Addis Red Sea, our favorite Ethiopian restaurant in Boston, just to touch base on his campaign. Quinnipiac College released a poll ranking the popularity of the potential presidential candidates, and Hube finished 6th out of 20, which isn't so bad. John Kerry was 20th.
"So what do we do next?" He said.
"I guess we need to try our hand at fundraising. Hilary's gonna have some serious cake to fuel her presidential run, and we'll need to get started if we want to counter any of that."
"All right, man, do it." He scopped up some food with his pancake. "You know, I got that "Tarzan Boy" in my head, you know the song I'm talking about?"
"Yeah, Baltimora."
"Is that who did it?"
"Yeah, he died of AIDS in the early 90s."
"That's too bad. That's just too bad."
"So what do we do next?" He said.
"I guess we need to try our hand at fundraising. Hilary's gonna have some serious cake to fuel her presidential run, and we'll need to get started if we want to counter any of that."
"All right, man, do it." He scopped up some food with his pancake. "You know, I got that "Tarzan Boy" in my head, you know the song I'm talking about?"
"Yeah, Baltimora."
"Is that who did it?"
"Yeah, he died of AIDS in the early 90s."
"That's too bad. That's just too bad."
Explosive
I was waiting for a train near Coolidge Corner when I heard a kid answer his cell phone:
"What's going on man? Explosive."
Explosive? He said it almost immediately after the "what's going on man?", almost making the question mark inappropriate, because any reader would assume a large pause due to the punctuation. It was amazing, and I loved it.
I was excited to use it on someone I knew, and I settled on Newland Sturgis III, a Boston Brahmin I once knew when we competed over the same girl back when we were 18. I was a poor boy from Brockton and I wooed the girl by singing Hall and Oates's "Rich Girl", which I'd heard Hall wrote to woo another girl away from the heir to the Burger King fortune. It worked for me too, only I received a black eye from Mr. Sturgis III because I impugned his sexuality.
"Hey, what's up man? Explosive."
"Explosive? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You don't know? Well I won't tell you if you don't know."
"Whatever. Listen man, I'm glad I bumped into you, because I'm in AA right now, and I'm at the stage where I've got to apologize for things I've done to wrong people in my past."
"Oh, and you want to apologize for the shiner you gave me over Julie Becker?"
"No, I want to apologize for doing your mom."
"Funny..."
"No, I'm serious. I went to your house to pay you to leave Julie alone, and your mom was there, and she was wasted, and you know..."
Explosive.
"What's going on man? Explosive."
Explosive? He said it almost immediately after the "what's going on man?", almost making the question mark inappropriate, because any reader would assume a large pause due to the punctuation. It was amazing, and I loved it.
I was excited to use it on someone I knew, and I settled on Newland Sturgis III, a Boston Brahmin I once knew when we competed over the same girl back when we were 18. I was a poor boy from Brockton and I wooed the girl by singing Hall and Oates's "Rich Girl", which I'd heard Hall wrote to woo another girl away from the heir to the Burger King fortune. It worked for me too, only I received a black eye from Mr. Sturgis III because I impugned his sexuality.
"Hey, what's up man? Explosive."
"Explosive? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You don't know? Well I won't tell you if you don't know."
"Whatever. Listen man, I'm glad I bumped into you, because I'm in AA right now, and I'm at the stage where I've got to apologize for things I've done to wrong people in my past."
"Oh, and you want to apologize for the shiner you gave me over Julie Becker?"
"No, I want to apologize for doing your mom."
"Funny..."
"No, I'm serious. I went to your house to pay you to leave Julie alone, and your mom was there, and she was wasted, and you know..."
Explosive.
You Got Served
There's a horrible myth out there that Norwegians can't dance. Maybe if you put all Norwegians under a bell curve, the mean of that curve would stand somewhere around can't dance, but I'm definitely an outlyer, because motherfucker, I can tear this bitch up.
So the dean of the college I just left calls me and I guess he's sorta kinda pissed that I bounced on down here to Brazil without giving notice. My response was, what're you going to do about it?
He flew down here to Rio with a team of tracksuited men in Pumas and Kangols, and he had revenge on his mind. I saw them approach from my seat at an outdoor cafe. I jumped over the railing and stood on the other side of the street.
"Mads, your time's up, son."
"Oh, we doin' this?"
"Belie' dat."
"A'ight, get a bar."
They started some poor choreographed number. But I'm just too superior for that crap. I was all up in their shit, mixing in some of my own stuff with some tried and true basics. The crowd loved it.
"I think you need to head back to Norman, Oklahoma, dean, because you got served."
He just waved his hand at me in a dismissive manner, and walked off. I, on the other hand, caught the eye of a vacationing Missy Elliott, and got a spot in her new video.
So the dean of the college I just left calls me and I guess he's sorta kinda pissed that I bounced on down here to Brazil without giving notice. My response was, what're you going to do about it?
He flew down here to Rio with a team of tracksuited men in Pumas and Kangols, and he had revenge on his mind. I saw them approach from my seat at an outdoor cafe. I jumped over the railing and stood on the other side of the street.
"Mads, your time's up, son."
"Oh, we doin' this?"
"Belie' dat."
"A'ight, get a bar."
They started some poor choreographed number. But I'm just too superior for that crap. I was all up in their shit, mixing in some of my own stuff with some tried and true basics. The crowd loved it.
"I think you need to head back to Norman, Oklahoma, dean, because you got served."
He just waved his hand at me in a dismissive manner, and walked off. I, on the other hand, caught the eye of a vacationing Missy Elliott, and got a spot in her new video.
The Undeserved Buttplug
Matty the Mainer stayed with me through the weekend, because he was living with his parents, and he was afraid of the fallout from his new adopted son Goodtimes that he'd brought back from Cote d'Ivoire.
"How did you get that thing through customs?"
"First of all, it's not a thing, it's my son, Goodtimes. And second, I guess I got through because my French is so bad."
Gwen, the Cappie, was playing with the boy while Matty and I surfed the Internet. We found a site selling celebrity buttplugs. One of them drew considerable attention from Matty.
"Oh my God, they made a Juglass buttplug. Can they do that?"
"I don't know, maybe..."
"He never did anything to deserve a buttplug... except for maybe the whole wearing shorts in the winter thing... is that buttplug worthy?"
I figured the only way to find out was to go to the source, so we called the company. They put me on hold. The hold music was 'Linger' by the Cranberries.
"Oh, dude, put it on speakerphone, I haven't heard that in a while."
But we didn't get the chance, because the celebrity buttplug representative got on the line. I explained to her our situation, and she was very gracious.
"Okay Matty... apparently the shorts isn't the only thing they've got... something about the dolphin on Seaquest not talking, but the box translating for it... there's something about party mix here... a recent one about a fireblanket... an AHL mascot kicking him in he ass... oh, I see... okay... no, that's good... uh-huh..."
"Dude, what's she saying?"
"I think we have enough, thank you for your time." I hung the phone up. "She said it was kind of a no brainer. You and your friends make on average more Juglass jokes than Leno does Michael Jackson, Paris Hilton, and Mel Gibson jokes combined."
"So it's my fault he has a celebrity buttplug?"
"You ever seen that Children of the Corn sequel... I think it's number 3?"
"The one where the kid says: 'Papa always says you reap what you sow'? That one?"
"Yeah."
"I've never seen it, but I saw the trailer during something else." He picked up his new son. "Come on Goodtimes, let's go meet your new grandparents."
"How did you get that thing through customs?"
"First of all, it's not a thing, it's my son, Goodtimes. And second, I guess I got through because my French is so bad."
Gwen, the Cappie, was playing with the boy while Matty and I surfed the Internet. We found a site selling celebrity buttplugs. One of them drew considerable attention from Matty.
"Oh my God, they made a Juglass buttplug. Can they do that?"
"I don't know, maybe..."
"He never did anything to deserve a buttplug... except for maybe the whole wearing shorts in the winter thing... is that buttplug worthy?"
I figured the only way to find out was to go to the source, so we called the company. They put me on hold. The hold music was 'Linger' by the Cranberries.
"Oh, dude, put it on speakerphone, I haven't heard that in a while."
But we didn't get the chance, because the celebrity buttplug representative got on the line. I explained to her our situation, and she was very gracious.
"Okay Matty... apparently the shorts isn't the only thing they've got... something about the dolphin on Seaquest not talking, but the box translating for it... there's something about party mix here... a recent one about a fireblanket... an AHL mascot kicking him in he ass... oh, I see... okay... no, that's good... uh-huh..."
"Dude, what's she saying?"
"I think we have enough, thank you for your time." I hung the phone up. "She said it was kind of a no brainer. You and your friends make on average more Juglass jokes than Leno does Michael Jackson, Paris Hilton, and Mel Gibson jokes combined."
"So it's my fault he has a celebrity buttplug?"
"You ever seen that Children of the Corn sequel... I think it's number 3?"
"The one where the kid says: 'Papa always says you reap what you sow'? That one?"
"Yeah."
"I've never seen it, but I saw the trailer during something else." He picked up his new son. "Come on Goodtimes, let's go meet your new grandparents."
Thanksgiving Cote d'Ivoire Style
I met with Matty the Mainer after Thanksgiving to update him on what's been going on in my life. My holiday was rather non-descript, while his was an adventure. It all started with this innocuous e-mail:
My name is Charles Kobenan a Banker and accountant with BIAO BANK Abidjan.I am the personal accounts manager to Engr Lake Poirier, a National of your country, who used to work with an oil servicing company here in Cote Ivoire.
My client, his wife, and their three children were involved in the ill fated Kenya Airways crash in the coasts of Abidjan in January 2000 in which all passengers on board died. Since then I have made several inquiries to your embassy to locate any of my clients extended relatives but has been unsuccessful.After several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to trace his last name over the internet,to see if I could locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.
Of particular interest is this huge deposit with our bank here in,where the deceased has an account valued at about ($16 million US dollars).They have issued me a noti ce to pro vide the next of kin or the bank will declare the account unservisable and thereby send the funds to the bank treasury.
Since I have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over last 2 years now, I will seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceased since you have the same last names, so that the proceeds of this account valued at ($16million US dollars) can be paid to you and then you and I can share the money.
All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us see this deal through.I guarantee that this will be executed under all legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. In your reply mail, I want you to give me your full names, address, date of birth, telephone and fax numbers.If you can handle this with me, reach me now through this mail box
for more details.
Thanking you for your anticipated cooperation.
Sincerely,
Charles Kobenan.
Instead of deleting the letter and moving on, Matty set up a meeting at a coffee shop in Veazie, Maine. A man claiming to be Charles showed up, and Matty said if he was going to put this together, he'd need some start up capital. The man couldn't undertstand, because all he wanted was his personal information. But he obliged and gave him $1000.
The rest of the details are sketchy, but I guess he used the $1000 to make a trip to the Cote d'Ivoire better business bureau, and they mistook him for a celebrity looking to adopt a child. His French is bad, which exacerbated the mix-up, and now he was sitting before me with his two-year old son Goodtimes. Quite a Thanksgiving.
My name is Charles Kobenan a Banker and accountant with BIAO BANK Abidjan.I am the personal accounts manager to Engr Lake Poirier, a National of your country, who used to work with an oil servicing company here in Cote Ivoire.
My client, his wife, and their three children were involved in the ill fated Kenya Airways crash in the coasts of Abidjan in January 2000 in which all passengers on board died. Since then I have made several inquiries to your embassy to locate any of my clients extended relatives but has been unsuccessful.After several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to trace his last name over the internet,to see if I could locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.
Of particular interest is this huge deposit with our bank here in,where the deceased has an account valued at about ($16 million US dollars).They have issued me a noti ce to pro vide the next of kin or the bank will declare the account unservisable and thereby send the funds to the bank treasury.
Since I have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over last 2 years now, I will seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceased since you have the same last names, so that the proceeds of this account valued at ($16million US dollars) can be paid to you and then you and I can share the money.
All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us see this deal through.I guarantee that this will be executed under all legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. In your reply mail, I want you to give me your full names, address, date of birth, telephone and fax numbers.If you can handle this with me, reach me now through this mail box
for more details.
Thanking you for your anticipated cooperation.
Sincerely,
Charles Kobenan.
Instead of deleting the letter and moving on, Matty set up a meeting at a coffee shop in Veazie, Maine. A man claiming to be Charles showed up, and Matty said if he was going to put this together, he'd need some start up capital. The man couldn't undertstand, because all he wanted was his personal information. But he obliged and gave him $1000.
The rest of the details are sketchy, but I guess he used the $1000 to make a trip to the Cote d'Ivoire better business bureau, and they mistook him for a celebrity looking to adopt a child. His French is bad, which exacerbated the mix-up, and now he was sitting before me with his two-year old son Goodtimes. Quite a Thanksgiving.
Tupac vs. Shakespeare
A friend of mine got that new Gaystation 3. Most of the games were all right, but nothing that would make me want to run out and buy the fucker right now. Except for one.
The Poetry Fighting Tournament was a game where famous poets duel in modern day coffee shops for the bragging rights of Best Ever. You as the player actually don't have to write the poetry, you need to travel around from city to city collecting things that make you a better poet. Sometimes you study under grand masters in studio apartments, or take books out of the library. And you have to drink... a lot.
The end goal is to beat Shakespeare in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village.
I picked Tupac Shakur as my poet, and it took me weeks of game time to work my way past people like Byron, Shelley, and Keats to finally get that showdown. He's impossible to beat on the first try. I almost broke my friend's controller I was so frustrated. He said he ran into the same problems using Seamus Heaney. So I kept at it, and when the guy in the black turtleneck finally bestowed that honor of Best Ever on me, I felt like I'd really accomplished something.
The Poetry Fighting Tournament was a game where famous poets duel in modern day coffee shops for the bragging rights of Best Ever. You as the player actually don't have to write the poetry, you need to travel around from city to city collecting things that make you a better poet. Sometimes you study under grand masters in studio apartments, or take books out of the library. And you have to drink... a lot.
The end goal is to beat Shakespeare in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village.
I picked Tupac Shakur as my poet, and it took me weeks of game time to work my way past people like Byron, Shelley, and Keats to finally get that showdown. He's impossible to beat on the first try. I almost broke my friend's controller I was so frustrated. He said he ran into the same problems using Seamus Heaney. So I kept at it, and when the guy in the black turtleneck finally bestowed that honor of Best Ever on me, I felt like I'd really accomplished something.
Harold Miner Throwback
I'm a thrift shop kind of cat, but you gotta know what you're doing in an environment like that. There must be no shopping agenda, but rather, the store must tell the shopper what to buy. Never was this more true than my recent trip with my friend, who was looking for "something crazy" for some costume party he had to attend.
I found an old black Miami Heat Harold Miner away jersey, sized XL. I'd have preferred something a bit smaller, but all in all, it was hot. This was by far the best pick up I've made since the three button navy Armani suit I found in 1997 for $20.
My friend tried to get me to give him my find, because he felt it would be a hit at the party. I told him to play hide and go fuck himself.
I found an old black Miami Heat Harold Miner away jersey, sized XL. I'd have preferred something a bit smaller, but all in all, it was hot. This was by far the best pick up I've made since the three button navy Armani suit I found in 1997 for $20.
My friend tried to get me to give him my find, because he felt it would be a hit at the party. I told him to play hide and go fuck himself.
Evil Baboon
Gwen, the Cappie, won two tickets to a big comic book convention out in San Diego, so I accepted her offer to join her out there.
At the zoo, the baboons had taken over, and were holding some of the zoo keepers hostage. One of them, the Evil Baboon, had acquired some bombs with some horrific virus that was contained in green balls, and he threatened to unleash it on the city. For some reason the zoo asked for my help. They brought in the one baboon who had ever escaped from the zoo, and with him, we were supposed to sneak in and free everyone.
The whole thing semmed asinine, but I played along. The baboon who had escaped knew all these little secret passages and whatnot which were extremely difficult to get in and out of. After I twisted my ankle falling out of a tree, I was fed up. I let the baboon do his thing while I put together my own plan: the Trojan Baboon.
We put a bunch of SWAT inside this big wooden replica baboon and wheeled it in, then gassed the hell out of those fuckers. Only one zoo keeper was hurt. The baboon that I'd been working with was very upset. He bit me as I went to shake his hand. So I kicked him in his red ass.
At the zoo, the baboons had taken over, and were holding some of the zoo keepers hostage. One of them, the Evil Baboon, had acquired some bombs with some horrific virus that was contained in green balls, and he threatened to unleash it on the city. For some reason the zoo asked for my help. They brought in the one baboon who had ever escaped from the zoo, and with him, we were supposed to sneak in and free everyone.
The whole thing semmed asinine, but I played along. The baboon who had escaped knew all these little secret passages and whatnot which were extremely difficult to get in and out of. After I twisted my ankle falling out of a tree, I was fed up. I let the baboon do his thing while I put together my own plan: the Trojan Baboon.
We put a bunch of SWAT inside this big wooden replica baboon and wheeled it in, then gassed the hell out of those fuckers. Only one zoo keeper was hurt. The baboon that I'd been working with was very upset. He bit me as I went to shake his hand. So I kicked him in his red ass.
Beef Cheeks Stew
I saw it on the menu, and figured, what the hell, let's give it a try. No one at the restaurant could tell me exactly what cheeks were used in the recipe, which made me a bit uneasy.
It didn't taste that bad, but all I could see was that Robbie Williams "Rock DJ" video where he rips his buttcheeks off, and thought of Angus Bulls doing the same thing. But bulls don't have buttcheeks, do they? That's just crazy talk...
It didn't taste that bad, but all I could see was that Robbie Williams "Rock DJ" video where he rips his buttcheeks off, and thought of Angus Bulls doing the same thing. But bulls don't have buttcheeks, do they? That's just crazy talk...
Norwegian Thanksgiving
Yes, we do have our own Thanksgiving in Norway. No, we don't have a history of genocide against First Nation people to celebrate like Americans do. Yes, we do love consumerism like Americans do. A man came up with the concept of Norwegian Thanksgiving to make money, and it worked.
His name is Tomas Sorenstam. He owned a company that distributed foods like fois gras and serrano ham, and he wanted a holiday for the end of the winter quarter so he could show big profits to his stockholders. He invented a knight named Tomas who went to the Crusades and faught valiantly in the name of Norway. On his way back to the country, he was waylaid at a castle and had to live off fois gras for six weeks.
It became a hit, and now he sells tons of the stuff every November. Though I thought the whole thing was a crock, I too am a Norwegian, and while I was in Brazil, I was a little nostalgic. So I bought me a little fois gras and some wine, and thought about the fjords and seal beating. It felt good.
His name is Tomas Sorenstam. He owned a company that distributed foods like fois gras and serrano ham, and he wanted a holiday for the end of the winter quarter so he could show big profits to his stockholders. He invented a knight named Tomas who went to the Crusades and faught valiantly in the name of Norway. On his way back to the country, he was waylaid at a castle and had to live off fois gras for six weeks.
It became a hit, and now he sells tons of the stuff every November. Though I thought the whole thing was a crock, I too am a Norwegian, and while I was in Brazil, I was a little nostalgic. So I bought me a little fois gras and some wine, and thought about the fjords and seal beating. It felt good.
Halloween
Yes, I went as Dr. Phil for Halloween. I had the hair and the suit. I wanted Gwen, the Cappie, to go as Robin, but she wanted to go as Wonder Woman, and I couldn't really argue with that, being a heterosexual guy.
I became the novelty du jour at every party we went to. Once people found out that I came complete with canned Dr. Phil responses, they flocked to me.
"Okay, okay. Dr. Phil, me and my husband are having problems in our relationship. What can we do?"
"You need to take that pig and put him in the barn before it rains."
"I got one. Dr. Phil, why can't I find a decent guy in this city?"
"I think the source of your problem starts with you."
"Me? What's wrong with me?"
"Don't pee in my margerine and tell me it's butter."
Gwen was extremely bored. My Dr. Philisms were things she'd heard from me for who knows how long. Though I enjoyed the attention (and who doesn't), Gwen was dressed as Wonder Woman.
"Now if y'all excuse me, I need to get to the gettin' while the gettin's good."
I became the novelty du jour at every party we went to. Once people found out that I came complete with canned Dr. Phil responses, they flocked to me.
"Okay, okay. Dr. Phil, me and my husband are having problems in our relationship. What can we do?"
"You need to take that pig and put him in the barn before it rains."
"I got one. Dr. Phil, why can't I find a decent guy in this city?"
"I think the source of your problem starts with you."
"Me? What's wrong with me?"
"Don't pee in my margerine and tell me it's butter."
Gwen was extremely bored. My Dr. Philisms were things she'd heard from me for who knows how long. Though I enjoyed the attention (and who doesn't), Gwen was dressed as Wonder Woman.
"Now if y'all excuse me, I need to get to the gettin' while the gettin's good."
Let's Play Hardball
Forming an exploratory committee for Hubert was a bigger deal than his appearence at the Bruins game a month ago. I forgot that no one watched hockey anymore. But they do watch MSNBC, and Chris Matthews' people approached me about doing Hardball.
"Hello, and welcome to Hardball. I'm Chris Matthews. With us today is the campaign manager to Hubert Humphrey, here to talk about his candidate's platform. Hello and welcome."
"How are you Chris?"
"Good... Let's start with the war. Last week the people of this country voted essentially against the war... they said they'd had enough with stay the course... but the newly elected Congress has decided to wait and see what Baker turns up... my question to you is, if your candidate is elected president, will he remove the troops... will he say it's not working... it's not worth losing more good lives... that we've got Shi'a fighting Shi'a, we've got Shi'a fighting Sunni, we've got Kurds trying to break away... that in a year... two years, it won't make a bit of difference except in terms of losing more lives..."
The question actually went on for about two more minutes, before he finally turned it over to me.
"So you're asking if Mr. Humphrey would pull our troops out if he was elected?"
"That's what I'm asking. The American people want an end to this war... they said so last week at the polls... they're tired of losing Americans over there and getting no result..."
That went on for another two minutes too.
"Mr. Humphrey is in a unique position, in that he is not currently holding office. Now, if in 2008, the situation is as untenable as it seems now, of course he'll pull the troops. But if in two years we see progress, of course we'll keep doing what's good."
"So you're saying if he were in office today, he'd keep the troops in for two more years?"
"I'm saying that since he isn't, we can only answer what he can do. He's not in office today, so..."
"But what if he was?"
"But what if my parents were pigs? I'd be the B in a BLT."
"I want to draw your attention to a recent USA Today/Gallup poll. The American people picked Humbert Humphrey by a margin of about two-to-one over Hillary and Barack Obama. What does that say about the Democratic party that their best presidential candidate is a 95-year old man who's been dead for 28 years?"
"You tell me, Mr. Matthews, you tell me."
"No, I'm asking you."
"It says that 28 years after he died, the climate is right for him to run, I guess."
"Hello, and welcome to Hardball. I'm Chris Matthews. With us today is the campaign manager to Hubert Humphrey, here to talk about his candidate's platform. Hello and welcome."
"How are you Chris?"
"Good... Let's start with the war. Last week the people of this country voted essentially against the war... they said they'd had enough with stay the course... but the newly elected Congress has decided to wait and see what Baker turns up... my question to you is, if your candidate is elected president, will he remove the troops... will he say it's not working... it's not worth losing more good lives... that we've got Shi'a fighting Shi'a, we've got Shi'a fighting Sunni, we've got Kurds trying to break away... that in a year... two years, it won't make a bit of difference except in terms of losing more lives..."
The question actually went on for about two more minutes, before he finally turned it over to me.
"So you're asking if Mr. Humphrey would pull our troops out if he was elected?"
"That's what I'm asking. The American people want an end to this war... they said so last week at the polls... they're tired of losing Americans over there and getting no result..."
That went on for another two minutes too.
"Mr. Humphrey is in a unique position, in that he is not currently holding office. Now, if in 2008, the situation is as untenable as it seems now, of course he'll pull the troops. But if in two years we see progress, of course we'll keep doing what's good."
"So you're saying if he were in office today, he'd keep the troops in for two more years?"
"I'm saying that since he isn't, we can only answer what he can do. He's not in office today, so..."
"But what if he was?"
"But what if my parents were pigs? I'd be the B in a BLT."
"I want to draw your attention to a recent USA Today/Gallup poll. The American people picked Humbert Humphrey by a margin of about two-to-one over Hillary and Barack Obama. What does that say about the Democratic party that their best presidential candidate is a 95-year old man who's been dead for 28 years?"
"You tell me, Mr. Matthews, you tell me."
"No, I'm asking you."
"It says that 28 years after he died, the climate is right for him to run, I guess."
Mom Rock
I saw James Blunt on Oprah. No, I don't watch Oprah, she was on after Dr. Phil. Yes, I do watch Dr. Phil. I don't see what the big deal is... anyway, so I see James Blunt, and I'm hooked, an instant fan. I run down to the Virgin Megastore and grab me a copy of his CD, to which the 18 year-old clerk behind the counter tells me:
"Oh, my mom loves this CD."
"Really...?"
"Oh... I'm not saying anything about you... it's just that my mom saw him on Oprah..."
I get outside and tear open my CD. That's when I hear two 45 year-old moms discudssing how much they loved James Blunt, and how excited they were to see John Meyer in concert.
Fast-forward two weeks, and I'm hooked. I'm waking up in the middle of the night with Daniel Powter cravings. I was chased away from the front of Newbury Comics because I was trying to find middle-aged moms to buy me the new Teddy Geiger EP. One night I came home to an intervention.
John Meyer was running it, with some of my friends, mom rockers Jason Mraz and Gavin deGraw, and former mom idol Leif Garrett in attendance. John Meyer started:
"I'm not going to lie to you. You're not our targeted demographic."
"I'm not?"
"We don't want single thirtysomethings at our shows. We want women aged from 13 to 19, and from 37 to 55. We want you to get some help."
"But 'Your Body is a Wonderland'...?"
"Mom Rock."
"Gavin, c'mon man, 'Chariot'... that wasn't Mom Rock, was it?"
"This isn't about Gavin, this is about you." Meyer said. "Your friends called us over here because you have a problem. Now you can go get help, or your friends will all be forced to cut you out of their lives."
"What?"
Gwen, the Cappie stood up.
"You used to listen to such great music. Music intended for your demographic, like Human League, and Depeche Mode, or the Gin Blossoms."
"The Gin Blossoms aren't Mom Rock?"
"This isn't about the Gin Blossoms," Meyer said. "This is about you and your problem."
All my friends spoke about the toll Mom Rock was taking on my life. Maybe they were right. I agreed to seek help, and they made an appointment for me to see Simon LeBon and Nick Rhodes.
"Oh, my mom loves this CD."
"Really...?"
"Oh... I'm not saying anything about you... it's just that my mom saw him on Oprah..."
I get outside and tear open my CD. That's when I hear two 45 year-old moms discudssing how much they loved James Blunt, and how excited they were to see John Meyer in concert.
Fast-forward two weeks, and I'm hooked. I'm waking up in the middle of the night with Daniel Powter cravings. I was chased away from the front of Newbury Comics because I was trying to find middle-aged moms to buy me the new Teddy Geiger EP. One night I came home to an intervention.
John Meyer was running it, with some of my friends, mom rockers Jason Mraz and Gavin deGraw, and former mom idol Leif Garrett in attendance. John Meyer started:
"I'm not going to lie to you. You're not our targeted demographic."
"I'm not?"
"We don't want single thirtysomethings at our shows. We want women aged from 13 to 19, and from 37 to 55. We want you to get some help."
"But 'Your Body is a Wonderland'...?"
"Mom Rock."
"Gavin, c'mon man, 'Chariot'... that wasn't Mom Rock, was it?"
"This isn't about Gavin, this is about you." Meyer said. "Your friends called us over here because you have a problem. Now you can go get help, or your friends will all be forced to cut you out of their lives."
"What?"
Gwen, the Cappie stood up.
"You used to listen to such great music. Music intended for your demographic, like Human League, and Depeche Mode, or the Gin Blossoms."
"The Gin Blossoms aren't Mom Rock?"
"This isn't about the Gin Blossoms," Meyer said. "This is about you and your problem."
All my friends spoke about the toll Mom Rock was taking on my life. Maybe they were right. I agreed to seek help, and they made an appointment for me to see Simon LeBon and Nick Rhodes.
Salted
Gwen, the Cappie, and I were headed to a comic book shop so she could purchase an expensive Captain America back-issue from the 60s, when we saw a woman slap a man, then storm off.
"I wonder what that was about," Gwen said.
"She must've been salted about something."
"Salted?"
"You know, upset."
"I know, but I've never heard that before."
"People say 'salted' all the time."
"No they don't. You got that from some TV show or something, like The Real World."
"What?"
"C'mon, be serious."
"Okay, the second season of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge, back when they didn't kick people off, but just traveled around doing games. Piggy slapped Los, and Heather picked up Los at a hotel to bring him back to his team. She asked him what happened, and he said: 'She's just salted because she thinks I tried to throw the mission', or something like that, and Heather said: 'You tried to throw the mission?' to which he said 'Well, I wasn't helping', and Heather said 'Why wasn't you helping?' and Los was like: 'Cause I'm sick of this shit', only the 'shit' was cut out."
"Then how do you know he said it?"
"Said what?"
"Shit. How do you know he said it if it was cut out?"
"I guess a little poetic license."
"I wonder what that was about," Gwen said.
"She must've been salted about something."
"Salted?"
"You know, upset."
"I know, but I've never heard that before."
"People say 'salted' all the time."
"No they don't. You got that from some TV show or something, like The Real World."
"What?"
"C'mon, be serious."
"Okay, the second season of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge, back when they didn't kick people off, but just traveled around doing games. Piggy slapped Los, and Heather picked up Los at a hotel to bring him back to his team. She asked him what happened, and he said: 'She's just salted because she thinks I tried to throw the mission', or something like that, and Heather said: 'You tried to throw the mission?' to which he said 'Well, I wasn't helping', and Heather said 'Why wasn't you helping?' and Los was like: 'Cause I'm sick of this shit', only the 'shit' was cut out."
"Then how do you know he said it?"
"Said what?"
"Shit. How do you know he said it if it was cut out?"
"I guess a little poetic license."
Hube on Decision '06
It didn't take long for good old Hube to get a hold of me after the Dems took the House and Senate. I met him at a coffee shop where a folk singer was performing.
"I'm sure you've heard the news."
"I have, Hube, I have."
"I think I got this in the bag. I mean look, the country has had it with the Republicans, but who is really going to run in '08? Clinton? Obama? Please. I have the credentials. And you know, that Pelosi woman is hot. She's not so bad looking for 60-plus, no?"
"Well, it depends on who you're comparing her to. I mean, Hube, you don't look so bad for a 95 year-old man who's been dead for 28 years. You don't look a day over 65."
"I bet that'll play well on the coasts. In the heartland, though, I gotta be more affable."
"Should we work on your exploratory committee?"
"Do we have the cash for that?"
"My niece has been out there raising cash. We'll be all set."
"Then do it. Now let's chill out and listen to this song. Went down to nazereth, was feelin' 'bout half-past dead..."
He was right. 28 years after his death the country was ripe for his candidacy.
"I'm sure you've heard the news."
"I have, Hube, I have."
"I think I got this in the bag. I mean look, the country has had it with the Republicans, but who is really going to run in '08? Clinton? Obama? Please. I have the credentials. And you know, that Pelosi woman is hot. She's not so bad looking for 60-plus, no?"
"Well, it depends on who you're comparing her to. I mean, Hube, you don't look so bad for a 95 year-old man who's been dead for 28 years. You don't look a day over 65."
"I bet that'll play well on the coasts. In the heartland, though, I gotta be more affable."
"Should we work on your exploratory committee?"
"Do we have the cash for that?"
"My niece has been out there raising cash. We'll be all set."
"Then do it. Now let's chill out and listen to this song. Went down to nazereth, was feelin' 'bout half-past dead..."
He was right. 28 years after his death the country was ripe for his candidacy.
Mads: Trekkies Brazilian Style
I'm not a big fan of Star Trek. There's something about the whole concept that is just anathema to your card carrying Scandanavian. But I've never seen Star Trek like this.
Abdul Karim, still in jail while his name clears, asked for season five of Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD. I don't know how he planned on watching it, but I let him deal with that. I went to a little sci-fi store, hoping I could find a used copy, and I found so much more. Two amazing looking women with light caramel skin and long dark hair with hi-lights browsing the Star Trek action ficgure section. They had perfectly curved bodies that their tight shirts and jeans accentuated.
"Hello, I'm [don't remember] and this is [does it really matter?]."
"Hi, I'm Mads."
"Do you like Star Trek too?"
"Oh, yes."
My poor Persian friend. I never got him those DVDs.
Abdul Karim, still in jail while his name clears, asked for season five of Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD. I don't know how he planned on watching it, but I let him deal with that. I went to a little sci-fi store, hoping I could find a used copy, and I found so much more. Two amazing looking women with light caramel skin and long dark hair with hi-lights browsing the Star Trek action ficgure section. They had perfectly curved bodies that their tight shirts and jeans accentuated.
"Hello, I'm [don't remember] and this is [does it really matter?]."
"Hi, I'm Mads."
"Do you like Star Trek too?"
"Oh, yes."
My poor Persian friend. I never got him those DVDs.
Fur
I've never really had an opinion on the morality of fur: it's just not my thing baby. But I never wear fur either: it's just always smacked me as what we in the biz call tacky. With that in mind, Gwen, the Cappie, and I went out to eat the other night, and a bunch of PETA people were protesting outside of some store that sold fur. They got in our face and shoved pamphlets at us. Gwen was a little more sympathetic.
Now don't get me wrong, I have no problem with a person's right to protest: it's what makes us American; but when you're annoying and in my way, I'm forced to take that right from you. I made a few phone calls, and within five minutes riot cops swept in and arrested the whole mob, smacking any kids that tried to argue with their billy clubs.
Gwen guilted me into bailing them all out the next day, and I did, but on one condition: I lectured them on the power of subtlety. You can always catch more flies with honey, no? Gwen was satisfied with that, and allowed me to accompany her to a Firefly marathon at Coolidge Corner.
Now don't get me wrong, I have no problem with a person's right to protest: it's what makes us American; but when you're annoying and in my way, I'm forced to take that right from you. I made a few phone calls, and within five minutes riot cops swept in and arrested the whole mob, smacking any kids that tried to argue with their billy clubs.
Gwen guilted me into bailing them all out the next day, and I did, but on one condition: I lectured them on the power of subtlety. You can always catch more flies with honey, no? Gwen was satisfied with that, and allowed me to accompany her to a Firefly marathon at Coolidge Corner.
Black Coffee in Bed
I was out with Gwen, the Cappie, grabbing a bite to eat at the McDonald's near Fanueil Hall, when one of her friends, some frumpy guy with gross sideburns and a shirt with a picture of Klaus Kinski in Medieval armor, came to our table, lamenting his lost love.
"Nice Klaus Kinski shirt," I said.
"No, it's Viggo from Lord of the Rings dude, duh."
"First, if you ever talk to me like that again, I'll come across you with one of those high-chairs over there. Second, it's a Klaus Kinski, I'd know it anywhere."
Before he knew what was going on, I pulled it off him. While he was sitting there trying to cover his enourmous bologna tits, I found the tag on the back part of the collar.
"See that, Forrest T's inc. They make tons of great shirts, like Joe Estevez, M Doushous (sp?), Throbbing Gristle, Ilsa She Wolf of the SS... hell, they've even got a limited edition Christopher Lambert on horseback slapping another guy on horseback. That's no Viggo, baby, that's Klaus Kinski."
He took the shirt back and quickly put it on.
"Okay, okay, you win, it's not Viggo."
"Don't ever argue with me again."
"I'm not here about my shirt, I'm here because Tonya left me."
Gwen was shocked. I almost choked on my Big Mac.
"You had a girlfriend?"
"Stop it," Gwen said. "What happened? I thought you two were getting married."
"I did too. Now she's gone. All I've got is this stain on my notebook where her coffee cup was to remind me of her."
Ohhhh now she's gone, and I'm out with a friend, with lips full of passion, and coffee in bed.
"Nice Klaus Kinski shirt," I said.
"No, it's Viggo from Lord of the Rings dude, duh."
"First, if you ever talk to me like that again, I'll come across you with one of those high-chairs over there. Second, it's a Klaus Kinski, I'd know it anywhere."
Before he knew what was going on, I pulled it off him. While he was sitting there trying to cover his enourmous bologna tits, I found the tag on the back part of the collar.
"See that, Forrest T's inc. They make tons of great shirts, like Joe Estevez, M Doushous (sp?), Throbbing Gristle, Ilsa She Wolf of the SS... hell, they've even got a limited edition Christopher Lambert on horseback slapping another guy on horseback. That's no Viggo, baby, that's Klaus Kinski."
He took the shirt back and quickly put it on.
"Okay, okay, you win, it's not Viggo."
"Don't ever argue with me again."
"I'm not here about my shirt, I'm here because Tonya left me."
Gwen was shocked. I almost choked on my Big Mac.
"You had a girlfriend?"
"Stop it," Gwen said. "What happened? I thought you two were getting married."
"I did too. Now she's gone. All I've got is this stain on my notebook where her coffee cup was to remind me of her."
Ohhhh now she's gone, and I'm out with a friend, with lips full of passion, and coffee in bed.
Sponge Robert
I was watching Through a Glass Darkly with George Clooney and Don Cheadle, when I heard a knock at my door. We paused the film so I could go and answer it. There was a man in a Sponge Bob Squarepants costume standing in my doorway. He looked like a mascot at a sporting event, with the big head and expressionless eyes. We stared at each other for a good five minutes, saying nothing. I asked if he wanted to come in, but he said nothing and kept staring. I was about to shut the door, when he pulled from behind his back a copy of the Watchtower. I thought he was going to shoot me, so a Jehovah's Witness magazine was a relief. I thanked him and went back inside.
Interior Design Hulk
I have a friend living in the closet. I probably shouldn't give you his name, but I will anyway: Dirk Swisher. He's a physicist who works at some lab somewhere desiging nuclear weapons. One day he was testing some bomb device, and was bombarded with gamma radiation. To this day, he lives a duel life: one as straight Dirk the physicist, the other as the queer Interior Design Hulk.
I learned of his secret when I took him to a couple's house warming party.
"Someone needs to change those drapes... they do not match the couches."
"I know, they're horrible."
"No, someone's gotta change them now, or I'll get mad... and you don't want to see me when I get mad."
Well, as you can imagine, no one changed the drapes, and his skin started turning all pink. A bright pink. And he grew muscles. He was a big hulk of a man. And he completely destroyed their house and redecorated it. After, lying in a beautiful new living room, he was passed out on the floor, falling out of his ripped clothes. I threw some water on him.
"Dude, you okay?"
"What happened?"
"You just redesigned the Parker's house. It looks amazing."
"Oh God, not again... not again... please help me!"
I threw him the card of a talent agent I knew.
"Dude, you could get a job on HG or Bravo with those skills."
I've seen him since. He tries to live a double life, but it's difficult. He's become something of a pariah among his fellow physicists because he refuses their invitation to come over and have supper or watch the game. He's probably right to figure guys with coke-bottle glasses, bad comb-overs, and pocket-protectors, aren't the best interior decorators.
So he stays in the lab, night after night, searching desperately for a cure. Personally, I don't see why he does. The man's got a talent Carson Kressly could only dream of. He should use it for good, not bottle it up and be ashamed of it.
I learned of his secret when I took him to a couple's house warming party.
"Someone needs to change those drapes... they do not match the couches."
"I know, they're horrible."
"No, someone's gotta change them now, or I'll get mad... and you don't want to see me when I get mad."
Well, as you can imagine, no one changed the drapes, and his skin started turning all pink. A bright pink. And he grew muscles. He was a big hulk of a man. And he completely destroyed their house and redecorated it. After, lying in a beautiful new living room, he was passed out on the floor, falling out of his ripped clothes. I threw some water on him.
"Dude, you okay?"
"What happened?"
"You just redesigned the Parker's house. It looks amazing."
"Oh God, not again... not again... please help me!"
I threw him the card of a talent agent I knew.
"Dude, you could get a job on HG or Bravo with those skills."
I've seen him since. He tries to live a double life, but it's difficult. He's become something of a pariah among his fellow physicists because he refuses their invitation to come over and have supper or watch the game. He's probably right to figure guys with coke-bottle glasses, bad comb-overs, and pocket-protectors, aren't the best interior decorators.
So he stays in the lab, night after night, searching desperately for a cure. Personally, I don't see why he does. The man's got a talent Carson Kressly could only dream of. He should use it for good, not bottle it up and be ashamed of it.
Big Changes in America
Well, I guess you've already heard, Britney's filed for divorce from K-Fed, citing the always popular "irreconcilable differences". This is huge, and symbolizes a new direction that our country will be going in. Britney Spears as a single mom as opposed to one with a Kept Man changes the entire landscape of magazines like People and US, and VH-1 TV shows about celebrities doing silly stuff with commentary by C-list comics.
Pres. Bush said in a press conference that in spite of last night's events, we cannot "admit defeat"; but unfortunately the Britney/K-Fed divorce has already claimed its first casualty: Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has resigned. I think he just needed some time to collect himself in order to re-evaluate the new cultural landscape in this great country of ours. Maybe he thinks he's got a shot with her now.
And who wouldn't. On some levels, she's a dream girl. Even at her messiest, there's something about her that just reinofrces our faith in the United States of America, that we really can make a difference. When being a Pop Star was no longer cool, she didn't pretend to be Latino like Christina Aguilerra (sp?... who cares), or African American like Justin Timberlake (even though I loved his first CD); she married a broke, jobless, white dude in a wife-beater and had two kids. She didn't try to fool the American people with fake urban credibility or by trying to earn a Ghetto Pass, she went back to her legitimate White Trash roots. It makes me proud to live in this country.
And her divorce last night simply reinforced that pride. It's a new day in the United States, and I'll tell ya what fella', I'm more than just a little excited. Though I was a little melancholy after leaving Mads again, the news on Election Day that Britney was single again has reinvigorated me. Let's go Teen Gang!
Pres. Bush said in a press conference that in spite of last night's events, we cannot "admit defeat"; but unfortunately the Britney/K-Fed divorce has already claimed its first casualty: Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has resigned. I think he just needed some time to collect himself in order to re-evaluate the new cultural landscape in this great country of ours. Maybe he thinks he's got a shot with her now.
And who wouldn't. On some levels, she's a dream girl. Even at her messiest, there's something about her that just reinofrces our faith in the United States of America, that we really can make a difference. When being a Pop Star was no longer cool, she didn't pretend to be Latino like Christina Aguilerra (sp?... who cares), or African American like Justin Timberlake (even though I loved his first CD); she married a broke, jobless, white dude in a wife-beater and had two kids. She didn't try to fool the American people with fake urban credibility or by trying to earn a Ghetto Pass, she went back to her legitimate White Trash roots. It makes me proud to live in this country.
And her divorce last night simply reinforced that pride. It's a new day in the United States, and I'll tell ya what fella', I'm more than just a little excited. Though I was a little melancholy after leaving Mads again, the news on Election Day that Britney was single again has reinvigorated me. Let's go Teen Gang!
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