Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I, were flown out to LA recently to witness the premier of a new romantic comedy starring, who else, Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey. This one was special, though, because the screenplay was written by my own personal biographer, Matty.
The film was about McConaughey as this eccentric dude who’s into all these get rich quick schemes. His newest one involves creating a nonprofit organization dedicated to saving lobsters. Kate Hudson is a marine biologist from Maine who happens to love eating lobsters and is an advocate of the Maine lobster fishing industry. They have a mutual friend who invites them over to dinner one night, with disastrous results. As in all romantic comedies, they hate each other’s guts at first. Then they grow on each other. Then they fall in love. It was a sack of paint-by-numbers asscrack, and as you can well imagine, it had a great first weekend, grossing over $14 million.
"I thought it was kind of cute," Mads said.
"You would."
"Bite me."
Friday, April 18, 2008
Mads: It's Okay, I'm With Corporate
I was eating at McDonald’s the other day with my Boston friend and Matty, his personal biographer, when I realized my Big Mac wasn’t made properly.
"This is an outrage," I said. "I’m going to go back there and make this right."
So I jumped the counter and pushed the dude out of the way that was constructing the burgers. There was the perfunctory protest from the manager asking me what I was doing, so I showed him my card and let him know:
"It’s okay, I’m with corporate."
It works everytime, and I was allowed my chance to demonstrate to these nervous teenagers how one constructs a proper Big Mac.
I went back to our table.
"Now come on," I said. "That’s gotta be cool enough to keep me from being shipped out to the Branch Office."
"I don’t think so," Matty said. "It was kind of old hat for you."
"This is an outrage," I said. "I’m going to go back there and make this right."
So I jumped the counter and pushed the dude out of the way that was constructing the burgers. There was the perfunctory protest from the manager asking me what I was doing, so I showed him my card and let him know:
"It’s okay, I’m with corporate."
It works everytime, and I was allowed my chance to demonstrate to these nervous teenagers how one constructs a proper Big Mac.
I went back to our table.
"Now come on," I said. "That’s gotta be cool enough to keep me from being shipped out to the Branch Office."
"I don’t think so," Matty said. "It was kind of old hat for you."
Doug Christie #13 Jersey
I was putting away some laundry for Mads, my Norwegian companion, the other day, when I noticed an article of clothing I found to be very interesting: a Doug Christie 13 jersey. Everyone knows that that jersey is the international sign that some one is being whipped by his woman. Friends give that jersey to friends to let them know: dude, your woman controls you like Doug Christie’s.
I confronted Mads with my new found knowledge.
"A while back, there was this woman, Contessa. She had everything: looks, brains, sexual prowess. I would do anything for her. I wanted to marry her."
"No!"
"Yes, it’s true."
"Well what happened? You obviously didn’t marry her."
"My mom didn’t like her."
"And that was it?"
"That was it."
I confronted Mads with my new found knowledge.
"A while back, there was this woman, Contessa. She had everything: looks, brains, sexual prowess. I would do anything for her. I wanted to marry her."
"No!"
"Yes, it’s true."
"Well what happened? You obviously didn’t marry her."
"My mom didn’t like her."
"And that was it?"
"That was it."
Mayor McCheese: The "R" Word
We don’t know if it’s official, but people are saying it, so it must be true: we’re in the throws of a recession. The "R" word, and you know what that means: big profits for McDonald’s. No one wants to eat anywhere fancy when they ain’t got no cash, but Mickey D's is where it’s at.
Even if we aren’t in a recession, just the mere mention of it causes our stocks to jump. All we need is MSNBC and FOXNews to scare people, and it’s like free advertising.
Even if we aren’t in a recession, just the mere mention of it causes our stocks to jump. All we need is MSNBC and FOXNews to scare people, and it’s like free advertising.
Umberto D.
Matty, my personal biographer, has been on this Italian neorealism kick lately. He saw my copy of Umberto D. when he was over the last time, so we watched it together. It had been years since I’d seen it, and there was an aspect of film I understood now that I’d missed before: who was going to look after me when I got older?
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home, and I broached the issue with him.
"You’re worried about that? You’re ridiculous."
"I am not. It’s easy for you to say when you have seven or eight kids. You’ll be well taken care of when you’re senile. I have no one: no kids, no family."
"What about your niece with the kid that all the politicos want to get a hold of?"
"Does that count?"
"Why not? Besides, I’m not sure you noticed, but Umberto was struggling to procure 10,000 lira a month for rent. You’re worth like $220 million dollars. Remember, the porn spamming device you and those guys developed at MIT?"
"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. I could probably pay for my own Maria, right?"
"God, Maria, she was hot as hell, huh?"
"She was also 15."
"Well she’s not now, right?"
"No, she’s like 73."
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home, and I broached the issue with him.
"You’re worried about that? You’re ridiculous."
"I am not. It’s easy for you to say when you have seven or eight kids. You’ll be well taken care of when you’re senile. I have no one: no kids, no family."
"What about your niece with the kid that all the politicos want to get a hold of?"
"Does that count?"
"Why not? Besides, I’m not sure you noticed, but Umberto was struggling to procure 10,000 lira a month for rent. You’re worth like $220 million dollars. Remember, the porn spamming device you and those guys developed at MIT?"
"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. I could probably pay for my own Maria, right?"
"God, Maria, she was hot as hell, huh?"
"She was also 15."
"Well she’s not now, right?"
"No, she’s like 73."
You're Either Old or in High School
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were meeting Matty, my personal biographer, at a local coffee shop so I could give him my weekly wrap-up to put in his blog. These two cute, yet young, girls were looking at Mads and me and laughing. One of them just happened to be at the counter grabbing a napkin while Matty was waiting for his Venti Iced Latte.
"That chick was talking on her phone about you," he said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, she said you were a hot old guy."
"Old guy? I’m not even thirty-eight yet."
"Five days," Mads said. He and I share a birthday, one of the cool things we have in common.
"Of course you’re an old guy," Matty said. "And I am too."
"Okay," I said, "I’ll bite. What’ve you got?"
He opened his backpack and pulled out an anthropology journal. On the front cover I saw listed under his name: "You’re Either Old or in High School: How Teenagers Frame Their World, and How This Affects Teacher/Student Relations in the Classroom".
"Long enough title?"
"Here’s the deal: there was this ring tone with a high pitched sound that only young people could hear. High school kids were using it so they could take calls in class. Anyway, this one teacher’s only 28, and she can hear the ring tone too. The kids were shocked, because they were certain only kids could hear it. You’re either old, or you’re in high school."
"You based an entire journal article on that thesis?"
"Si. I did an ethnography of a high school in Maine, examining the interactions between the students and teachers. My findings were quite profound."
"And how about you? Did the kids think you were old since you’re not in high school?"
"Yep, but a Cool Old Guy."
"Oh, because you were into their music and watched The Hills?"
"Nope, because I bought them beer."
"That chick was talking on her phone about you," he said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, she said you were a hot old guy."
"Old guy? I’m not even thirty-eight yet."
"Five days," Mads said. He and I share a birthday, one of the cool things we have in common.
"Of course you’re an old guy," Matty said. "And I am too."
"Okay," I said, "I’ll bite. What’ve you got?"
He opened his backpack and pulled out an anthropology journal. On the front cover I saw listed under his name: "You’re Either Old or in High School: How Teenagers Frame Their World, and How This Affects Teacher/Student Relations in the Classroom".
"Long enough title?"
"Here’s the deal: there was this ring tone with a high pitched sound that only young people could hear. High school kids were using it so they could take calls in class. Anyway, this one teacher’s only 28, and she can hear the ring tone too. The kids were shocked, because they were certain only kids could hear it. You’re either old, or you’re in high school."
"You based an entire journal article on that thesis?"
"Si. I did an ethnography of a high school in Maine, examining the interactions between the students and teachers. My findings were quite profound."
"And how about you? Did the kids think you were old since you’re not in high school?"
"Yep, but a Cool Old Guy."
"Oh, because you were into their music and watched The Hills?"
"Nope, because I bought them beer."
Mads: Making My Case
This whole being shipped out to the branch office in Western Europe was making me uneasy. I know my Boston friend was unconcerned, but that didn’t make me any better. I felt I needed to converse with the source.
"So, are you really shipping me out?"
"Shipping you out?"
"To that Mads guy and your Western European branch office."
"You’re the only Mads guy in my life."
"Don’t patronize me. I think you’re making a big mistake."
"You do?"
"Listen, I can still be of use to you. I heard Will Farrell was interested in adapting a screenplay based on my blogs here."
"No you didn’t."
"Well, a friend of mine, he said..."
"No, he didn’t."
"Well, you can imagine... right...?"
"Um... okay...?"
"So, are you really shipping me out?"
"Shipping you out?"
"To that Mads guy and your Western European branch office."
"You’re the only Mads guy in my life."
"Don’t patronize me. I think you’re making a big mistake."
"You do?"
"Listen, I can still be of use to you. I heard Will Farrell was interested in adapting a screenplay based on my blogs here."
"No you didn’t."
"Well, a friend of mine, he said..."
"No, he didn’t."
"Well, you can imagine... right...?"
"Um... okay...?"
The Sober Friend
My buddy Jonas just came back from LA. He seemed beat, and so Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I, had him rest on the couch so he could get his strength back.
"What were you doing out there?" I said.
"You wouldn’t believe it if I told you."
And he told us. He was making a living as a sober friend. Sober friends are hired by celebrities to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"It’s harder than it sounds: not too much to drink. Keep them away from the coke. What’s that in the medicine cabinet? I don’t think he prescribes that many at a time. Do you really need Red Bull at 3AM? After a while I just couldn’t take it.... And the paparazzi, don’t get me started! I needed these over-sized Jackie Onassis sunglasses just to keep from losing my sight with all those flashbulbs!"
"I was a sober friend once," Mads said.
I looked at him. He couldn’t keep a straight face, and we both laughed.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Fuckers like you were the reason I couldn’t get any rest at night."
We looked at each other again. You thinking what I’m thinking? We jumped up and gave Jonas a huge wedgie.
"What were you doing out there?" I said.
"You wouldn’t believe it if I told you."
And he told us. He was making a living as a sober friend. Sober friends are hired by celebrities to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"It’s harder than it sounds: not too much to drink. Keep them away from the coke. What’s that in the medicine cabinet? I don’t think he prescribes that many at a time. Do you really need Red Bull at 3AM? After a while I just couldn’t take it.... And the paparazzi, don’t get me started! I needed these over-sized Jackie Onassis sunglasses just to keep from losing my sight with all those flashbulbs!"
"I was a sober friend once," Mads said.
I looked at him. He couldn’t keep a straight face, and we both laughed.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Fuckers like you were the reason I couldn’t get any rest at night."
We looked at each other again. You thinking what I’m thinking? We jumped up and gave Jonas a huge wedgie.
Francesco Totti
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were out with some chicks the other night. They were really hot, and really dumb (the best kind, right?). Anyway, this one that thought she was smart was giving us her profound take on the differences between men and women.
"See, women are cool with their sexuality. We have no trouble saying when another woman is attractive. You guys can’t do it. You’re afraid people will think you’re gay."
"Not true," I said.
"Absolutely not," Mads said.
"Okay, name one guy you’d want to sleep with."
We looked at each other and said at the same time:
"Francesco Totti."
"Who’s that?"
"Francesco Totti?" I said. "Star striker for AS Roma? Only the coolest guy ever."
"And also ten kinds of hot."
"Okay, name another."
But we ignored her and went on talking about Totti.
"You know," Mads said. "It’d be way cooler to just hang out with him instead of sleep with him."
"Yeah, doing him in the butt would ruin it. We’d need a more feminine dude to do. Besides, Totti’d have so many women around him, we’d totally hook up with some of them instead."
"Oh yeah, just hanging out with Totti’d be awesome enough, but then you figure some of those women would sleep with us just to get closer to him, like chicks who sleep with the other band members in the Goo Goo Dolls."
"Only Totti’s way cooler than the Goo Goo Dolls’ lead singer. Can you imagine doing some chick, and Totti’d come in after having done three others that were way hotter?"
"And all at the same time."
"Of course. And he’d pat you on the back and say something like 'nice work', and we’d be so stoked that we got a complement from Totti. We’d be high-fiving after he left the room."
"Oh, it’d rule."
We noticed the girls had left us. We thought about going after them, but then went back to daydreaming about hanging out with Totti.
"See, women are cool with their sexuality. We have no trouble saying when another woman is attractive. You guys can’t do it. You’re afraid people will think you’re gay."
"Not true," I said.
"Absolutely not," Mads said.
"Okay, name one guy you’d want to sleep with."
We looked at each other and said at the same time:
"Francesco Totti."
"Who’s that?"
"Francesco Totti?" I said. "Star striker for AS Roma? Only the coolest guy ever."
"And also ten kinds of hot."
"Okay, name another."
But we ignored her and went on talking about Totti.
"You know," Mads said. "It’d be way cooler to just hang out with him instead of sleep with him."
"Yeah, doing him in the butt would ruin it. We’d need a more feminine dude to do. Besides, Totti’d have so many women around him, we’d totally hook up with some of them instead."
"Oh yeah, just hanging out with Totti’d be awesome enough, but then you figure some of those women would sleep with us just to get closer to him, like chicks who sleep with the other band members in the Goo Goo Dolls."
"Only Totti’s way cooler than the Goo Goo Dolls’ lead singer. Can you imagine doing some chick, and Totti’d come in after having done three others that were way hotter?"
"And all at the same time."
"Of course. And he’d pat you on the back and say something like 'nice work', and we’d be so stoked that we got a complement from Totti. We’d be high-fiving after he left the room."
"Oh, it’d rule."
We noticed the girls had left us. We thought about going after them, but then went back to daydreaming about hanging out with Totti.
Bathroom Polo
Right now... he’s probably dabbing on three dollars worth of that bathroom polooooooooooo...
"My problem with this song is thrice fold," Mads, my Norewegian companion, said.
"Okay, hit me sweet cheeks."
"First, we all know for a fact she doesn’t shoot whiskey and couldn’t swing a Louisville Slugger if Wade Boggs gave her step-by-step instructions. This is obviously a transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of that sweet girl box using some type of female-empowerment applause anthem."
"Well, who’s worse? The PR people, or the women who can’t see through the transparent attempt at an applause/female-empowerment song and eat the crap up."
"Ooh, good point."
"I know. Okay, go on."
"All right, second, she carves her name into his upholstery. No one with any experience in breaking the law at all would do something like that. Now the cops know who to catch. Right?"
"It just goes back to the transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of the good girl box. Neither they nor her know anything about breaking the law. It’s as silly as Crash was in discussing race relations."
"The movie with James Spader?"
"No, the bad one with Don Cheadle."
"Oh, but he was good in that, didn’t you think?"
"He was, but the movie was lame. Okay, bring it home."
"Okay. Third, she talks about the guy wearing Bathroom Polo. Who is that a bigger indictment of? The cheeseball who wears that crap, or you for dating him?"
"Oh, you for dating him, of course."
"Of course. It’s just stupid."
"Well, what if this is a post modern depiction of a white trash chick from the South?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if it’s not an applause song? What if the chick is as much the subject of the songstress’ ire as the guy and his hoochie fling? What if it’s a statement of the whole Jerry Springer culture?"
"You’re giving them way too much credit."
"You’re right."
"My problem with this song is thrice fold," Mads, my Norewegian companion, said.
"Okay, hit me sweet cheeks."
"First, we all know for a fact she doesn’t shoot whiskey and couldn’t swing a Louisville Slugger if Wade Boggs gave her step-by-step instructions. This is obviously a transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of that sweet girl box using some type of female-empowerment applause anthem."
"Well, who’s worse? The PR people, or the women who can’t see through the transparent attempt at an applause/female-empowerment song and eat the crap up."
"Ooh, good point."
"I know. Okay, go on."
"All right, second, she carves her name into his upholstery. No one with any experience in breaking the law at all would do something like that. Now the cops know who to catch. Right?"
"It just goes back to the transparent attempt by her PR people to get her out of the good girl box. Neither they nor her know anything about breaking the law. It’s as silly as Crash was in discussing race relations."
"The movie with James Spader?"
"No, the bad one with Don Cheadle."
"Oh, but he was good in that, didn’t you think?"
"He was, but the movie was lame. Okay, bring it home."
"Okay. Third, she talks about the guy wearing Bathroom Polo. Who is that a bigger indictment of? The cheeseball who wears that crap, or you for dating him?"
"Oh, you for dating him, of course."
"Of course. It’s just stupid."
"Well, what if this is a post modern depiction of a white trash chick from the South?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if it’s not an applause song? What if the chick is as much the subject of the songstress’ ire as the guy and his hoochie fling? What if it’s a statement of the whole Jerry Springer culture?"
"You’re giving them way too much credit."
"You’re right."
Monday, April 14, 2008
Mads: Nightmare
A while back me and my Boston friend were traveling in England. We met a boy, coincidentally also named Mads, who ran a shop. The weird thing about the shop was that it sold stuff from Matty, my Boston friend’s personal biographer’s, past. Things like the movie Bad Taste or a baseball bat for hitting mailboxes. The boy explained that he was Matty’s branch office in Western Europe.
I had a dream last night that I was stuck in that office. It was very disheartening to say the least. No one wants to be put out to pasture. I woke my Boston friend up and told him my fears.
"It was just a dream. We’re too cool to end up over there. Besides, we’re real, they’re fake. Real people don’t get stowed in branch offices. Now go back to bed."
I wanted to believe him.
I had a dream last night that I was stuck in that office. It was very disheartening to say the least. No one wants to be put out to pasture. I woke my Boston friend up and told him my fears.
"It was just a dream. We’re too cool to end up over there. Besides, we’re real, they’re fake. Real people don’t get stowed in branch offices. Now go back to bed."
I wanted to believe him.
The Beard
I hadn’t seen Gwen, the Cappie, in a long time. I didn’t really think anything of it, until Matty, my personal biographer, mentioned he was commissioned to write the script for the new Captain America movie.
"Jesus," I thought, "I haven’t heard from Gwen in a while."
I called her and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop. When I got there, I was stunned: she looked exactly like she did before I had given her her make-over. This was somewhat distressing. I needed an explanation, simply for my own edification, if anything else.
"I was tired of being your beard."
"My beard?"
"You know, a woman used by a gay man to--"
"I know what it is. What gave you the impression I was gay?"
"You and that Norwegian friend of yours."
"Mads, my Norwegian companion?"
"Yeah. Don’t pretend you don’t have anything going on."
I couldn’t convince her otherwise: she was adamant that I was a homosexual. There was no real reason for me to hide my gay lifestyle if in fact I had one, but that wasn’t enough for her. I left her at the cafe, wearing the gross guy jeans and over-sized shirts she had on when I first met her all those years ago. C’est la vie.
"Jesus," I thought, "I haven’t heard from Gwen in a while."
I called her and we agreed to meet at a coffee shop. When I got there, I was stunned: she looked exactly like she did before I had given her her make-over. This was somewhat distressing. I needed an explanation, simply for my own edification, if anything else.
"I was tired of being your beard."
"My beard?"
"You know, a woman used by a gay man to--"
"I know what it is. What gave you the impression I was gay?"
"You and that Norwegian friend of yours."
"Mads, my Norwegian companion?"
"Yeah. Don’t pretend you don’t have anything going on."
I couldn’t convince her otherwise: she was adamant that I was a homosexual. There was no real reason for me to hide my gay lifestyle if in fact I had one, but that wasn’t enough for her. I left her at the cafe, wearing the gross guy jeans and over-sized shirts she had on when I first met her all those years ago. C’est la vie.
Barack Out With My...
Months ago Hubert Humphrey disappeared from the '08 presidential race. It was a disappointment, because he was really the only candidate I could get behind. Now I was stuck with Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Yay!
So I asked Matty, my personal biographer, who he thought I should vote for, considering he at one time was pursuing a post-graduate degree in Political Science.
"I’m voting for Hillary."
"Why?"
"Because she sent me a letter to my folks’ house to go to the local high school and caucus for her."
"That’s it? Not anything special about the issues or her plans on health care versus Obama...?"
"I’m sorry man, I don’t know what to tell you."
I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought about all this. He was playing FIFA ’08 as SK Brann, and trying to win the FA Cup in England.
"It just so happens I’ve kept a running tally of every time we’ve been contacted by either campaign’s staffers."
"You have?"
"Yeah, just to see who I should vote for. I like Matty’s system for picking a candidate."
"But you can’t vote. You’re a Norwegian citizen."
"They don’t know that."
"Yes they do."
"No they don’t. I’ve been voting here since 1996. Now do you want to hear who we should vote for?"
"Fine, all right."
"From letters, phone calls, and people yelling at me on the street, we’ve been contacted by Hillary 13 times, and Obama 15."
"I guess we’re voting for Obama then."
"See," Matty said. "It’s people like you who are dividing our party!"
So I asked Matty, my personal biographer, who he thought I should vote for, considering he at one time was pursuing a post-graduate degree in Political Science.
"I’m voting for Hillary."
"Why?"
"Because she sent me a letter to my folks’ house to go to the local high school and caucus for her."
"That’s it? Not anything special about the issues or her plans on health care versus Obama...?"
"I’m sorry man, I don’t know what to tell you."
I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought about all this. He was playing FIFA ’08 as SK Brann, and trying to win the FA Cup in England.
"It just so happens I’ve kept a running tally of every time we’ve been contacted by either campaign’s staffers."
"You have?"
"Yeah, just to see who I should vote for. I like Matty’s system for picking a candidate."
"But you can’t vote. You’re a Norwegian citizen."
"They don’t know that."
"Yes they do."
"No they don’t. I’ve been voting here since 1996. Now do you want to hear who we should vote for?"
"Fine, all right."
"From letters, phone calls, and people yelling at me on the street, we’ve been contacted by Hillary 13 times, and Obama 15."
"I guess we’re voting for Obama then."
"See," Matty said. "It’s people like you who are dividing our party!"
DVR Etiquette
There was this Wednesday a while back that was a great day for soccer, what with a Premier League fixture and the second leg of the UEFA Cup tie between Everton and Fiorentina. Of course, I was out of town for these events, and needed to TiVo them. Much to my chagrin, neither game taped, due to insufficient space on our DVR box. I looked, and 90% of it was taken up with Reba episodes.
I called in Mads, my Norwegian companion.
"What?"
"Do you know anything about this?"
"Oh, yeah, there was a marathon. I figured I could get all of them at once, and not have to buy them on DVD. I plan on converting them on your DVD burner."
"Dude, we both share this DVR box. You can’t just take up 90% of it for an inordinate amount of time."
"Why can’t I?"
"It’s rude, in the first place."
"How is it rude?"
"How is it rude?"
"Yeah. I mean, the idea of TiVo is so new, there really haven’t been a list of guidelines laid out for DVR etiquette."
He made an excellent point. Too excellent, in fact. I felt like it was my job as a concerned citizen to remedy this issue. I asked Matty, my personal biographer, what he thought.
"Yeah, I was just talking to my buddy Brett about the same thing. He too was suggesting a sort of DVR etiquette."
I took up the torch.
Elements of DVR Etiquette:
RULE 1: DVR space must be allocated equally among all members of the television watching household. If one or more members of said household wish to relinquish some or all of designated space, an arrangement may be made to dole this space out amongst the remaining members in a manner that is fair and equitable.
RULE 1a: Always keep in mind that Hi-Definition programing takes up more space than regular broadcasts. One may only tape a few shows, but each show may take up much more of the allocated space than he or she expects.
RULE 2: If an individual must temporarily exceed his or her space limit, this must be done with the rest of the household’s consent. Once consent is given, the person exceeding the limit must make haste to watch his or her program swiftly and erase it so that the space is returned to the rest of the household.
RULE 3: Sporting events by their very nature exact a heavy toll on a DVR Box: not only do they take up large amounts of space, but the time they tape and the need to extend the designated recording time in case of overtime and whatnot tends to cause conflicts with already scheduled recordings. Sporing events should always be dealt with very carefully.
RULE 4: If two programs are recording at the same time, thus forcing anyone watching television at that moment to watch one or the other, the person watching at that time can cancel one of the recordings to watch his or her own program, especially if no prior arrangement has been made with respect to the two programs being on at the same time. Just because one individual is not present and must tape his or her programs, does not mean the rest of the household has to suffer and not enjoy their own programs.
RULE 5: Finally, when recording The Banana Splits, one must never keep more than two episodes saved on the DVR hard drive at any time.
I presented the rules to Mads, and at first he didn’t accept them. When he saw the Martha Stewart stamp of approval I received after I ran them by her, he was forced to relent. I can now with all assurances say that only 50% of our DVR box is filled with Reba.
I called in Mads, my Norwegian companion.
"What?"
"Do you know anything about this?"
"Oh, yeah, there was a marathon. I figured I could get all of them at once, and not have to buy them on DVD. I plan on converting them on your DVD burner."
"Dude, we both share this DVR box. You can’t just take up 90% of it for an inordinate amount of time."
"Why can’t I?"
"It’s rude, in the first place."
"How is it rude?"
"How is it rude?"
"Yeah. I mean, the idea of TiVo is so new, there really haven’t been a list of guidelines laid out for DVR etiquette."
He made an excellent point. Too excellent, in fact. I felt like it was my job as a concerned citizen to remedy this issue. I asked Matty, my personal biographer, what he thought.
"Yeah, I was just talking to my buddy Brett about the same thing. He too was suggesting a sort of DVR etiquette."
I took up the torch.
Elements of DVR Etiquette:
RULE 1: DVR space must be allocated equally among all members of the television watching household. If one or more members of said household wish to relinquish some or all of designated space, an arrangement may be made to dole this space out amongst the remaining members in a manner that is fair and equitable.
RULE 1a: Always keep in mind that Hi-Definition programing takes up more space than regular broadcasts. One may only tape a few shows, but each show may take up much more of the allocated space than he or she expects.
RULE 2: If an individual must temporarily exceed his or her space limit, this must be done with the rest of the household’s consent. Once consent is given, the person exceeding the limit must make haste to watch his or her program swiftly and erase it so that the space is returned to the rest of the household.
RULE 3: Sporting events by their very nature exact a heavy toll on a DVR Box: not only do they take up large amounts of space, but the time they tape and the need to extend the designated recording time in case of overtime and whatnot tends to cause conflicts with already scheduled recordings. Sporing events should always be dealt with very carefully.
RULE 4: If two programs are recording at the same time, thus forcing anyone watching television at that moment to watch one or the other, the person watching at that time can cancel one of the recordings to watch his or her own program, especially if no prior arrangement has been made with respect to the two programs being on at the same time. Just because one individual is not present and must tape his or her programs, does not mean the rest of the household has to suffer and not enjoy their own programs.
RULE 5: Finally, when recording The Banana Splits, one must never keep more than two episodes saved on the DVR hard drive at any time.
I presented the rules to Mads, and at first he didn’t accept them. When he saw the Martha Stewart stamp of approval I received after I ran them by her, he was forced to relent. I can now with all assurances say that only 50% of our DVR box is filled with Reba.
Strippers Have Feelings Too
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were rocking out to a little Morrissey and reading the paper, when Matty, my personal biographer, stopped in.
"Sweet, Morrissey, I love this... the more you ignore me... the closer I get..."
"I know," I said. "It’s hot."
Mads turned the page. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise.
"So last weekend," Matty said. "I was at this bachelor party. Well, it wasn’t so much a bachelor party as much as a bunch of guys going out and getting wasted and hitting a strip club before some dude I barely knew was getting married."
"So a Poor Man’s bachelor party."
"Exactly."
"And you barely knew the groom to be?"
"Friend of a friend. So anyway, we hit the strip club, and me and a couple buddies weren’t really in the mood, you know?"
"Not in the mood? To see vaginas?"
"Well, it’s Maine, so you don’t see vaginas anyway. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t in the mood to see them, just not to pay for them."
"I got you."
"So my buddies and I are off to the side, watching the action, and one of them comes and sits on my lap."
"A stripper? Just sits right down?"
"Sits right down. And my buddies and I are kinda put off. I mean, she was just trying to get us to buy some private dances."
"Of course."
"And we weren’t having it."
"Well no, you didn’t want to spend any money."
"Right."
Mads adjusted his legs and scratched his crotch, then turned the page again.
"So things are getting kind of uncomfortable, because she realizes this ain’t goin’ no where, and she’s still on my lap."
"Was she hot?"
"Not so much."
"Okay, go on."
"So then she says, get this: 'Oh, I’m sorry, I must be crushing your lap', and she gets up. Then I say, and here’s the crazy thing: 'Oh, you weren’t crushing my lap', like I’m trying to say 'No, you’re not fat.'"
"Well, was she fat?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, I don’t know."
"I just thought it was crazy how all I wanted to do was get this stripper off me, but then I had to be polite because I was afraid she thought I thought she was fat."
"Well, that’s just how it is. Whenever weight’s brought into the conversation, the first reaction of the guy is to say: 'you’re not fat.'"
"He’s right," Mads said from behind his paper. "And it’s not like strippers don’t have feelings to consider too. They’re only human."
"Born to make mistakes."
"Okay, what if the woman in question’s a 300 pound behemoth? What do I say then when weight’s brought into the conversation? Saying she’s not fat would just be disingenuous."
"Then you tell her she has a really pretty face."
Mads put down his paper and uncrossed his legs.
"Strippers really don’t show vagina in Maine?"
"Sweet, Morrissey, I love this... the more you ignore me... the closer I get..."
"I know," I said. "It’s hot."
Mads turned the page. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise.
"So last weekend," Matty said. "I was at this bachelor party. Well, it wasn’t so much a bachelor party as much as a bunch of guys going out and getting wasted and hitting a strip club before some dude I barely knew was getting married."
"So a Poor Man’s bachelor party."
"Exactly."
"And you barely knew the groom to be?"
"Friend of a friend. So anyway, we hit the strip club, and me and a couple buddies weren’t really in the mood, you know?"
"Not in the mood? To see vaginas?"
"Well, it’s Maine, so you don’t see vaginas anyway. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t in the mood to see them, just not to pay for them."
"I got you."
"So my buddies and I are off to the side, watching the action, and one of them comes and sits on my lap."
"A stripper? Just sits right down?"
"Sits right down. And my buddies and I are kinda put off. I mean, she was just trying to get us to buy some private dances."
"Of course."
"And we weren’t having it."
"Well no, you didn’t want to spend any money."
"Right."
Mads adjusted his legs and scratched his crotch, then turned the page again.
"So things are getting kind of uncomfortable, because she realizes this ain’t goin’ no where, and she’s still on my lap."
"Was she hot?"
"Not so much."
"Okay, go on."
"So then she says, get this: 'Oh, I’m sorry, I must be crushing your lap', and she gets up. Then I say, and here’s the crazy thing: 'Oh, you weren’t crushing my lap', like I’m trying to say 'No, you’re not fat.'"
"Well, was she fat?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, I don’t know."
"I just thought it was crazy how all I wanted to do was get this stripper off me, but then I had to be polite because I was afraid she thought I thought she was fat."
"Well, that’s just how it is. Whenever weight’s brought into the conversation, the first reaction of the guy is to say: 'you’re not fat.'"
"He’s right," Mads said from behind his paper. "And it’s not like strippers don’t have feelings to consider too. They’re only human."
"Born to make mistakes."
"Okay, what if the woman in question’s a 300 pound behemoth? What do I say then when weight’s brought into the conversation? Saying she’s not fat would just be disingenuous."
"Then you tell her she has a really pretty face."
Mads put down his paper and uncrossed his legs.
"Strippers really don’t show vagina in Maine?"
Mads: Foxwoods
Me and my Boston friend needed a break from the city, so we hopped in a car and shot down to Foxwoods. Nothing like gambling to make one feel better, you know.
While my friend spent his money on exotic horse bets and high stakes craps tables, I went for the gusto: grinding it out at the 2-4 limit poker table. Sure, I have more cash than I’ll ever spend, and the money I make or lose at that table over the course of 16 hours is nothing, but playing 2-4 limit is more than just about the money: it’s about the love of the game-- kind of like playing professional soccer for the Major Indoor Soccer League.
So my Boston friend shows up so we can go to dinner right as I get the hand of the night. I'm dealt pocket queens. I’m in the small blind, so I limp into the flop with another dude-- one of those losers who talks about poker strategy and bad beats while everyone else at the table wants to kill him. Anyway, I know his hand before he bets: Ace and some face card kicker: no problem.
The flop comes Ace-Queen-Seven. Now I know I’ve got him. He’s betting his 2, raising to four, raising to eight, and I’m calling him. The turn comes up: Queen. Quad Queens. Now I’m golden. The kid’s betting his life off: I know he’s holding Ace Queen. River’s meaningless: 8. The pot’s like $40 or so, and the kid smugly turns over his Ace-Queen.
As I left the table, my Boston friend chided me on my play:
"You moron, you could’ve raked in 50 Gs with a hand like that at the tables I play in. That won’t even pay for our meal at The Dragon."
"You know," I said. "You’re the reason for the teardrops on my guitar."
"Am I the only one with enough of you to break your heart?"
"Yep."
While my friend spent his money on exotic horse bets and high stakes craps tables, I went for the gusto: grinding it out at the 2-4 limit poker table. Sure, I have more cash than I’ll ever spend, and the money I make or lose at that table over the course of 16 hours is nothing, but playing 2-4 limit is more than just about the money: it’s about the love of the game-- kind of like playing professional soccer for the Major Indoor Soccer League.
So my Boston friend shows up so we can go to dinner right as I get the hand of the night. I'm dealt pocket queens. I’m in the small blind, so I limp into the flop with another dude-- one of those losers who talks about poker strategy and bad beats while everyone else at the table wants to kill him. Anyway, I know his hand before he bets: Ace and some face card kicker: no problem.
The flop comes Ace-Queen-Seven. Now I know I’ve got him. He’s betting his 2, raising to four, raising to eight, and I’m calling him. The turn comes up: Queen. Quad Queens. Now I’m golden. The kid’s betting his life off: I know he’s holding Ace Queen. River’s meaningless: 8. The pot’s like $40 or so, and the kid smugly turns over his Ace-Queen.
As I left the table, my Boston friend chided me on my play:
"You moron, you could’ve raked in 50 Gs with a hand like that at the tables I play in. That won’t even pay for our meal at The Dragon."
"You know," I said. "You’re the reason for the teardrops on my guitar."
"Am I the only one with enough of you to break your heart?"
"Yep."
Had to Get Rid of It
I woke up the other morning, and found Mads, my Norwegian companion, sitting in my living room, reading about Nicole Richie's baby in the new People.
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be running your McDonald's?"
"No, not anymore."
"What? Why?"
"We decided to get rid of it. It just wasn't working."
"Wasn't working?"
"Yeah, as a premise it wasn't working. It was like on Roseanne when they won the lottery. It was just a bad idea. A bad way to wrap things up, you know?"
"Ooh, I remember that. When she was walking around on the show in just her bra. Ugh!"
"Exactly."
"So what do you want to do now that you have the day free?"
"Go to Harvard and fuck up some smart kids?"
"Sounds like a plan."
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be running your McDonald's?"
"No, not anymore."
"What? Why?"
"We decided to get rid of it. It just wasn't working."
"Wasn't working?"
"Yeah, as a premise it wasn't working. It was like on Roseanne when they won the lottery. It was just a bad idea. A bad way to wrap things up, you know?"
"Ooh, I remember that. When she was walking around on the show in just her bra. Ugh!"
"Exactly."
"So what do you want to do now that you have the day free?"
"Go to Harvard and fuck up some smart kids?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Table Manners
It's been a while since I've had contact with Matty, my personal biographer. It all happened when we were eating at Mads, my Norwegian companion's, McDonald's. We were discussing the cease and desist order McDonald's sent him because his franchise was hurting the overall image of the chain.
"So," Matty said, "do you think he'll really close this?"
"It's Mads. Of course not."
"Really, dude? You're doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"You're napkin in your lap? You're at a fucking McDonald's for Christ's Sake."
"First off, I'm not sure what business it is of Christ's how I keep my napkin. And second, I apologize if I feel the need to maintain a modicum of decorum in my everyday life."
"That's right, because you're so much better."
I threw the table over in front of us in a fit of anger.
"That's right, mister, I am so much better. And you better recognize."
"Have fun with your fois gras. I'm outro."
And that was the last I'd heard from him, until three weeks ago, when I bumped into him at a club in Boston called The Liquor Store. His buddy had gotten a limo, and Matty was fairly inebriated on TNTs.
"I'm sorry for the whole table throwing thing."
"I'm sorry for the whole table manners thing."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
"So," Matty said, "do you think he'll really close this?"
"It's Mads. Of course not."
"Really, dude? You're doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"You're napkin in your lap? You're at a fucking McDonald's for Christ's Sake."
"First off, I'm not sure what business it is of Christ's how I keep my napkin. And second, I apologize if I feel the need to maintain a modicum of decorum in my everyday life."
"That's right, because you're so much better."
I threw the table over in front of us in a fit of anger.
"That's right, mister, I am so much better. And you better recognize."
"Have fun with your fois gras. I'm outro."
And that was the last I'd heard from him, until three weeks ago, when I bumped into him at a club in Boston called The Liquor Store. His buddy had gotten a limo, and Matty was fairly inebriated on TNTs.
"I'm sorry for the whole table throwing thing."
"I'm sorry for the whole table manners thing."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
Boybandification, Poppunkification
I have this habit of falling asleep with the TV on, and when I wake at 3 AM, I find the weirdest things showing.
This time it was something like the Charlie Rose show, where this dude was interviewing another dude about his new book.
"I'm here with Ted Cameloshinswin about the book, Poppunkification, how people crave stupid music but don't exactly want to admit it. People are hailing this as the most definitive critique of people's tastes in music since Adorno."
"I do take some umbrage with that. Adorno was saying that Jazz was crap compared to Classical. I personally believe that Jazz is amazing."
"Okay, okay, I understand. Anyway, let's discuss your book."
"Let's."
"You say that the late nineties early new millennium music scene was saturated with bubble pop acts... what you termed the Boybandification of popular music."
"Right. Then there was a backlash, because people felt dumb for listening to it. I'm not saying they were, they just felt like that. Some acts survived. Justin Timberlake, for example, got himself a Ghetto Pass."
"I see."
"Christina Aguilerra (sp?) transformed from a suburban white girl from outside of Pittsburgh to a Boricuan princess from Spanish Harlem. Others weren't so lucky. Ask Britney. You could even say Fred Durst was a victim of collateral damage."
"Right, I get it."
"But, the problem was, we needed bad pop music to fill the void left by the end of Boybandification. Remember, we still like bubble gum."
"Enter Poppunkification?"
"Exactly. With popunkification, you had acts like Avril Lavigne, Blink 182, and Good Charlotte, who were essentially giving us bubble gum pop hits, but were packaging it in this edgy box that included spiky hair, tattoos, and rebellious clothing. Now the buying public could get their cheesy pop fix, but not feel like they were sacrificing their integrity. No choreographed dances, guys who played guitars-- everyone felt better."
"Okay, so I guess the big question is: when's the backlash?"
"I'm not sure I see one."
"Really?"
"You may see a backlash against individual acts, like people may be sick of hearing Fall Out Boy on Verizon Wireless commercials, but the overall genre may be here to stay."
"Amazing. So people can listen to dumb pop without feeling as dumb."
"It's a very good thing."
I switched it off then turned on my stereo.
It's tearin' up my heart...
I'm not ashamed of liking boy bands.
This time it was something like the Charlie Rose show, where this dude was interviewing another dude about his new book.
"I'm here with Ted Cameloshinswin about the book, Poppunkification, how people crave stupid music but don't exactly want to admit it. People are hailing this as the most definitive critique of people's tastes in music since Adorno."
"I do take some umbrage with that. Adorno was saying that Jazz was crap compared to Classical. I personally believe that Jazz is amazing."
"Okay, okay, I understand. Anyway, let's discuss your book."
"Let's."
"You say that the late nineties early new millennium music scene was saturated with bubble pop acts... what you termed the Boybandification of popular music."
"Right. Then there was a backlash, because people felt dumb for listening to it. I'm not saying they were, they just felt like that. Some acts survived. Justin Timberlake, for example, got himself a Ghetto Pass."
"I see."
"Christina Aguilerra (sp?) transformed from a suburban white girl from outside of Pittsburgh to a Boricuan princess from Spanish Harlem. Others weren't so lucky. Ask Britney. You could even say Fred Durst was a victim of collateral damage."
"Right, I get it."
"But, the problem was, we needed bad pop music to fill the void left by the end of Boybandification. Remember, we still like bubble gum."
"Enter Poppunkification?"
"Exactly. With popunkification, you had acts like Avril Lavigne, Blink 182, and Good Charlotte, who were essentially giving us bubble gum pop hits, but were packaging it in this edgy box that included spiky hair, tattoos, and rebellious clothing. Now the buying public could get their cheesy pop fix, but not feel like they were sacrificing their integrity. No choreographed dances, guys who played guitars-- everyone felt better."
"Okay, so I guess the big question is: when's the backlash?"
"I'm not sure I see one."
"Really?"
"You may see a backlash against individual acts, like people may be sick of hearing Fall Out Boy on Verizon Wireless commercials, but the overall genre may be here to stay."
"Amazing. So people can listen to dumb pop without feeling as dumb."
"It's a very good thing."
I switched it off then turned on my stereo.
It's tearin' up my heart...
I'm not ashamed of liking boy bands.
Cease and Desist Letter
"Dude, we dropped our hookah in the Metro and it shattered everywhere and the bus drivers were all laughing at us... how ignorant is that?"
These were the kinds of conversations that made it difficult to read in a coffee shop. After the girl complained about the less than sensitive livery workers, her friend explained his plan for upward movement at the Burger King he worked at.
"I'm the only one there who knows all the jobs. They can't afford to lose me."
I was waiting for Mads, my Norwegian companion, to meet me, and he was fifteen minutes late. An older man approached the kids' table and spoke to the girl.
"You know you'd be very attractive if you took all those nasty piercings out and washed your hair."
"Wow, that's a nice suit," she said. "Do you work for GM?"
"No... why?"
"Aww, that's too bad. Otherwise you could trade in that dumbass face for a Caddy."
Oh, snap! How could that line come from the same girl that had the unfortunate hookah accident? I had little time to ponder, as Mads finally showed. Before I could inquire as to his tardiness, he dropped a letter in front of me, printed on McDonald's letterhead.
It was a cease and desist order, signed by the big man himself. Apparently Mads' idea of a McDonald's is not contiguous with the brand they're trying to project.
"What do you think of that?" He said.
"That's very ignorant."
These were the kinds of conversations that made it difficult to read in a coffee shop. After the girl complained about the less than sensitive livery workers, her friend explained his plan for upward movement at the Burger King he worked at.
"I'm the only one there who knows all the jobs. They can't afford to lose me."
I was waiting for Mads, my Norwegian companion, to meet me, and he was fifteen minutes late. An older man approached the kids' table and spoke to the girl.
"You know you'd be very attractive if you took all those nasty piercings out and washed your hair."
"Wow, that's a nice suit," she said. "Do you work for GM?"
"No... why?"
"Aww, that's too bad. Otherwise you could trade in that dumbass face for a Caddy."
Oh, snap! How could that line come from the same girl that had the unfortunate hookah accident? I had little time to ponder, as Mads finally showed. Before I could inquire as to his tardiness, he dropped a letter in front of me, printed on McDonald's letterhead.
It was a cease and desist order, signed by the big man himself. Apparently Mads' idea of a McDonald's is not contiguous with the brand they're trying to project.
"What do you think of that?" He said.
"That's very ignorant."
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Vote for Chris Bosh
A long time ago Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I had a conversation about American all-star games.
"I never got all-star games. What's the point?" He said.
"They started in the Negro Leagues as a showcase to generate interest in the players who weren't getting the attention they deserved because they were shut out of the Majors. I guess it's not something you had to deal with growing up in Norway."
That changed, though, when I entered his McDonald's the other day, and saw "Vote For Chris Bosh" posters and cardboard cut-outs displayed everywhere. Many of them had Bosh dressed like a Texas used car salesman, which was even more interesting. I had to ask.
"Dude, you know the NBA All-Star game was a couple months ago, right? You can't vote for Chris Bosh anymore."
He had the Vote for Chris Bosh YouTube video showing on a loop on an overhead flatscreen. I had to admit, it was still pretty funny.
"You know, I thought it was weird," Mads said, "that there wasn't a link so I could vote for him. I figured it was just because I was Norwegian, and maybe they only let American citizens vote."
I helped him take down the signs and posters.
"What do we do about the video?" He said.
"Maybe show the Paul Robinson own goal against Croatia instead?"
"Yeah, we can do that, but it wasn't a Paul Robinson own goal, it was a Gary Neville one."
"Whatever."
"I never got all-star games. What's the point?" He said.
"They started in the Negro Leagues as a showcase to generate interest in the players who weren't getting the attention they deserved because they were shut out of the Majors. I guess it's not something you had to deal with growing up in Norway."
That changed, though, when I entered his McDonald's the other day, and saw "Vote For Chris Bosh" posters and cardboard cut-outs displayed everywhere. Many of them had Bosh dressed like a Texas used car salesman, which was even more interesting. I had to ask.
"Dude, you know the NBA All-Star game was a couple months ago, right? You can't vote for Chris Bosh anymore."
He had the Vote for Chris Bosh YouTube video showing on a loop on an overhead flatscreen. I had to admit, it was still pretty funny.
"You know, I thought it was weird," Mads said, "that there wasn't a link so I could vote for him. I figured it was just because I was Norwegian, and maybe they only let American citizens vote."
I helped him take down the signs and posters.
"What do we do about the video?" He said.
"Maybe show the Paul Robinson own goal against Croatia instead?"
"Yeah, we can do that, but it wasn't a Paul Robinson own goal, it was a Gary Neville one."
"Whatever."
The Mayor's Back
It had to happen eventually. Mads, my Norwegian companion's, new McDonald's franchise with it's fresh take on the old fast food titan was generating a lot of heat. Newspapers, magazines-- even the Today show had former Giants standout Tiki Barber stop by (which delighted Mads, because Tiki was his favorite player). With all this attention, we knew you-know-who would have to come out of hiding and make an appearance, and he did.
I was sitting in the corner with Matty, my personal biographer, eating a McRibb while Matty played with a Mac Tonight doll he got in his Happy Meal, when we saw him. He showed up in a dirty and torn Ron Paul for President T-shirt and ripped, faded jeans. He didn't go to the counter to place his order, but rather went straight to a booth, and sat down, putting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Mads saw this, and sent his son, Aidan, over to take his order.
"I'm the fuckin' Mayor, bitch! Give me ten cheeseburgers."
"You know you can get ten double cheeseburgers for the same price, or even five double cheeseburgers with the same amount of meat as ten regular cheeseburgers for half the price."
The Mayor grabbed him by the shirt and pulled the poor boy close, eyeball to eyeball.
"Look at my fuckin' head, junior. Do you think I'm kidding you when I say I want ten cheeseburgers?"
The boy shook his head quickly.
"Do you think I don't know what kind of menu options a McDonald's offers?"
The boy shook his head again. At this point Mads felt his son had dealt with enough, and he stepped in.
"Go get the man his ten cheeseburgers."
The Mayor ignored Mads and went back to sitting with his head in his hands. Mads sat down across from him and lit a cigarette.
"You know," the Mayor said. "McDonald's has banned smoking from all its franchises."
Mads took a big drag and exhaled.
"Yep. And the state of Massachusetts has banned smoking in all of it's restaurants. What the fuck do I care? Go ahead and fine my ass."
The Mayor looked up and stared at Mads for a second. Then he laughed.
"We've had some interesting times together, Mads..."
"Yes, most of them involve you pointing a gun at me and me having to put you to sleep with a rear-naked choke."
Mads' son brought the food and set it quickly in front of the Mayor. Mads gave the boy twenty bucks and told him to go on his break. The Mayor Dove into his food.
"Let's get down to brass tacks here, Mads. I've been in hiding for a long time. That 'We're into nuggets y'all' thing really put a hurtin' on my sensibilities, you know?"
Mads took another drag.
"Will this take long, because I got work to do."
"Listen, man, I think you got a good thing going here, and I want to help."
"What makes you think I want your help?"
"Oh, come on, dude! You know how I get down. 20, 10 and 5, every night."
"I think that's Kevin Garnett."
"Whatever. I'm the fuckin' Mayor. What you're doing here: it's the reason why I got into this in the first place."
"Look at yourself. You're a fucking mess. What good can you do me?"
"Give me ten minutes."
"Fine. Get changed. There's a bathroom out back. I'll also need you to fill out a W-2."
He jumped up and ran to the bathroom, very excited.
"What do you think of that?" I said to Matty.
He looked up from his doll.
"...the shark has... sharp teeth and...What?"
"Nevermind."
I was sitting in the corner with Matty, my personal biographer, eating a McRibb while Matty played with a Mac Tonight doll he got in his Happy Meal, when we saw him. He showed up in a dirty and torn Ron Paul for President T-shirt and ripped, faded jeans. He didn't go to the counter to place his order, but rather went straight to a booth, and sat down, putting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Mads saw this, and sent his son, Aidan, over to take his order.
"I'm the fuckin' Mayor, bitch! Give me ten cheeseburgers."
"You know you can get ten double cheeseburgers for the same price, or even five double cheeseburgers with the same amount of meat as ten regular cheeseburgers for half the price."
The Mayor grabbed him by the shirt and pulled the poor boy close, eyeball to eyeball.
"Look at my fuckin' head, junior. Do you think I'm kidding you when I say I want ten cheeseburgers?"
The boy shook his head quickly.
"Do you think I don't know what kind of menu options a McDonald's offers?"
The boy shook his head again. At this point Mads felt his son had dealt with enough, and he stepped in.
"Go get the man his ten cheeseburgers."
The Mayor ignored Mads and went back to sitting with his head in his hands. Mads sat down across from him and lit a cigarette.
"You know," the Mayor said. "McDonald's has banned smoking from all its franchises."
Mads took a big drag and exhaled.
"Yep. And the state of Massachusetts has banned smoking in all of it's restaurants. What the fuck do I care? Go ahead and fine my ass."
The Mayor looked up and stared at Mads for a second. Then he laughed.
"We've had some interesting times together, Mads..."
"Yes, most of them involve you pointing a gun at me and me having to put you to sleep with a rear-naked choke."
Mads' son brought the food and set it quickly in front of the Mayor. Mads gave the boy twenty bucks and told him to go on his break. The Mayor Dove into his food.
"Let's get down to brass tacks here, Mads. I've been in hiding for a long time. That 'We're into nuggets y'all' thing really put a hurtin' on my sensibilities, you know?"
Mads took another drag.
"Will this take long, because I got work to do."
"Listen, man, I think you got a good thing going here, and I want to help."
"What makes you think I want your help?"
"Oh, come on, dude! You know how I get down. 20, 10 and 5, every night."
"I think that's Kevin Garnett."
"Whatever. I'm the fuckin' Mayor. What you're doing here: it's the reason why I got into this in the first place."
"Look at yourself. You're a fucking mess. What good can you do me?"
"Give me ten minutes."
"Fine. Get changed. There's a bathroom out back. I'll also need you to fill out a W-2."
He jumped up and ran to the bathroom, very excited.
"What do you think of that?" I said to Matty.
He looked up from his doll.
"...the shark has... sharp teeth and...What?"
"Nevermind."
Mayor McCheese: I'm Back Bitches
As I looked at myself in the mirror of Mads' bathroom at his new McDonald's, fixing my sash and making sure my hat was on straight, I breathed a large sigh. Relief? Maybe. Perhaps more likely, I was breathing a new life into my once tired bones. It had been a long time coming.
I thought back to months before: a commercial that turned my stomach. Two young men... We're into nuggets y'all... ketchup and mayo... the pain was near unbearable. I went to the man in charge and expressed my outrage. Was this what it had come to? My arguments fell upon deaf ears. "This is what's in," Ronald told me. "Viral videos. Customer generated content. This is the YouTube generation." "But it's not," I pleaded. "This is so bad. It's not LonelyGirl15 or OK Go!, this is two losers sending you a dumb video. You're annoying the people of America!"
The fight became more heated, and I threw my sash and hat into the bin on my way out. Ronald did nothing to make me to stay, so convinced was he that his New Way was the path to venture. I was so disgusted, I went into hiding, playing Grand Theft Auto for hours on end, and reading Dos Passos' USA trilogy. But then, a voice spoke to me from beyond.
It was the Hamburgler. His Robble Robble told me all I needed to know. My old adversary, Mads, decided to open his own McDonald's franchise. He was serving Fois Gras extra value meals, and bringing back old favorites like the McRibb and the McJordan. I felt like I was needed again. I had a new purpose. I didn't even change my clothes, just left in what I was wearing, and drove straight from Chicago to Massachusetts in my beat-up Chevy Celebrity.
Now I'm back, and I'm ready to put the horrible past behind me. I had kids to entertain, lives to change. I took one last look in the mirror, and made my way out there, into the great unknown.... It was gonna be one hell of a 2008!
I thought back to months before: a commercial that turned my stomach. Two young men... We're into nuggets y'all... ketchup and mayo... the pain was near unbearable. I went to the man in charge and expressed my outrage. Was this what it had come to? My arguments fell upon deaf ears. "This is what's in," Ronald told me. "Viral videos. Customer generated content. This is the YouTube generation." "But it's not," I pleaded. "This is so bad. It's not LonelyGirl15 or OK Go!, this is two losers sending you a dumb video. You're annoying the people of America!"
The fight became more heated, and I threw my sash and hat into the bin on my way out. Ronald did nothing to make me to stay, so convinced was he that his New Way was the path to venture. I was so disgusted, I went into hiding, playing Grand Theft Auto for hours on end, and reading Dos Passos' USA trilogy. But then, a voice spoke to me from beyond.
It was the Hamburgler. His Robble Robble told me all I needed to know. My old adversary, Mads, decided to open his own McDonald's franchise. He was serving Fois Gras extra value meals, and bringing back old favorites like the McRibb and the McJordan. I felt like I was needed again. I had a new purpose. I didn't even change my clothes, just left in what I was wearing, and drove straight from Chicago to Massachusetts in my beat-up Chevy Celebrity.
Now I'm back, and I'm ready to put the horrible past behind me. I had kids to entertain, lives to change. I took one last look in the mirror, and made my way out there, into the great unknown.... It was gonna be one hell of a 2008!
Losing All Control
I was taking the train the other day to Newburyport so I could get a little R&R. Sitting a few seats in front of me, a man was traveling with what sounded like 4 to 8 young boys, all his, and sans wife.
There was one boy, we'll call him Trevor, who was disturbing little brat. He would run around the cars, yell at the top of his lungs, bang things off the metal sides of the train: a real asshole.
Anyway, his father's solution to his juvenile delinquent excuse for a child was to say his name everytime he did something bad. Trevor. Trevor Stop. Trevor I Mean It, Stop. Trevor I'm Serious This Time. The unfortunate reality of the situation was that Trevor, his father, and everyone else on the train knew that the man had completely lost all semblance of control over his son. It was a sad state of affairs.
I looked at the man, and could see in his eyes not shame or embarrassment at how bad it had all gone, but rather this sense that this was how things were and how things should be. Trevor ruled the roost. He was flying this plane, and his father was pleading with him to take it to the airport and not make too many gut-wrenching turns. How do you get to that point? How does one allow a 4-year old that kind of power?
Around Beverly Depot, I'd decided I'd had enough, and I called one of the attendants over.
"If someone can't get Trevor to cut the shit, I'm going to beat him with this rolled up copy of the Metro I found on my seat."
"Um... I'm sorry... who's Trevor...?"
"That little brat that just ran past us yelling at the top of his lungs."
"Oh, yes, that Trevor. I mean... what exactly can I do? I can yell at the kid, do you think that'll work?"
I slipped the man a twenty dollar bill.
"I think they need to be removed from the train. They're a nuisance to the other travelers."
He nodded. Trevor's dad was asked one last time to control his son, and when his Dad's final pleas to Trevor went on deaf ears, they were dumped in North Beverly. I gave the attendant another fifty for being so gracious. Hopefully Trevor learned his lesson.
There was one boy, we'll call him Trevor, who was disturbing little brat. He would run around the cars, yell at the top of his lungs, bang things off the metal sides of the train: a real asshole.
Anyway, his father's solution to his juvenile delinquent excuse for a child was to say his name everytime he did something bad. Trevor. Trevor Stop. Trevor I Mean It, Stop. Trevor I'm Serious This Time. The unfortunate reality of the situation was that Trevor, his father, and everyone else on the train knew that the man had completely lost all semblance of control over his son. It was a sad state of affairs.
I looked at the man, and could see in his eyes not shame or embarrassment at how bad it had all gone, but rather this sense that this was how things were and how things should be. Trevor ruled the roost. He was flying this plane, and his father was pleading with him to take it to the airport and not make too many gut-wrenching turns. How do you get to that point? How does one allow a 4-year old that kind of power?
Around Beverly Depot, I'd decided I'd had enough, and I called one of the attendants over.
"If someone can't get Trevor to cut the shit, I'm going to beat him with this rolled up copy of the Metro I found on my seat."
"Um... I'm sorry... who's Trevor...?"
"That little brat that just ran past us yelling at the top of his lungs."
"Oh, yes, that Trevor. I mean... what exactly can I do? I can yell at the kid, do you think that'll work?"
I slipped the man a twenty dollar bill.
"I think they need to be removed from the train. They're a nuisance to the other travelers."
He nodded. Trevor's dad was asked one last time to control his son, and when his Dad's final pleas to Trevor went on deaf ears, they were dumped in North Beverly. I gave the attendant another fifty for being so gracious. Hopefully Trevor learned his lesson.
National Treasure Two
A while back, Matty, my personal biographer, was eating a Big Mac and trying to get over a massive hangover, when an ad for the new Nicolas Cage film National Treasure Part Two aired on TV.
"Who's going to watch that sack of ass crack?" He said. "Isn't there a Lorenzo Lamas movie somewhere?"
I shook my head in agreement.
"I saw it."
It was Mads, my Norwegian companion. He was sitting on my couch, reading James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake.
"You watched what, Finnegan's Wake?" I said.
"You mean National Treasure Part Two?"
"Yeah, what did I say?"
"Finnegan's Wake."
"Oh, sorry. Anyway, why did you see that movie. National Treausure Part Two, I mean."
"Because. I felt I needed someone to patronize me, you know? I needed to be told: 'you'll like this movie because it's got Nicolas Cage and it's got cool special FX and cool plot twists. You'll not only like this, but you'll tell your friends it's a "Fun Movie", and they'll go an see it because they're just as dumb.' You know what I'm saying? That's why I saw it. I needed to be dropped down a peg. Sometimes I need to be a sales figure, a merchandising projection, a potential first weekend gross, right? I want to feel like all I need is a not only a poor rip-off of Indiana Jones, but it's sequel, to entertain me. I wanna be bored by foreign films from the 50s because they not only have subtitles, but because they're in Black and White too, you know? Is that so bad? I watched National Treasure Part Two, because I think I deserve to be stupid too, right?"
Matty and I both squinted at him.
"You don't expect us to believe that, do you?" I said.
"I guess, not, but it was a good try, no?"
"Who's going to watch that sack of ass crack?" He said. "Isn't there a Lorenzo Lamas movie somewhere?"
I shook my head in agreement.
"I saw it."
It was Mads, my Norwegian companion. He was sitting on my couch, reading James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake.
"You watched what, Finnegan's Wake?" I said.
"You mean National Treasure Part Two?"
"Yeah, what did I say?"
"Finnegan's Wake."
"Oh, sorry. Anyway, why did you see that movie. National Treausure Part Two, I mean."
"Because. I felt I needed someone to patronize me, you know? I needed to be told: 'you'll like this movie because it's got Nicolas Cage and it's got cool special FX and cool plot twists. You'll not only like this, but you'll tell your friends it's a "Fun Movie", and they'll go an see it because they're just as dumb.' You know what I'm saying? That's why I saw it. I needed to be dropped down a peg. Sometimes I need to be a sales figure, a merchandising projection, a potential first weekend gross, right? I want to feel like all I need is a not only a poor rip-off of Indiana Jones, but it's sequel, to entertain me. I wanna be bored by foreign films from the 50s because they not only have subtitles, but because they're in Black and White too, you know? Is that so bad? I watched National Treasure Part Two, because I think I deserve to be stupid too, right?"
Matty and I both squinted at him.
"You don't expect us to believe that, do you?" I said.
"I guess, not, but it was a good try, no?"
A Drunk and His Avril Lavigne
I was startled awake at 2:07 the other morning by the sound of Avril Lavigne's "Complicated" playing in my livingroom. I figured it was Mads, my Norwegian companion, but decided to check it out anyway. I found Matty, my personal biographer, sitting on my couch with his eyes closed and all the lights on. Without stirring he spoke to me.
"Why'd'ya have'ta go an' make shit so complicated?"
When I got close he grabbed me by the collar.
"No one, and I repeat, NO ONE is more perspicacious than a 16-year old telling me what life is like!"
Perspicacity was probably the one thing a drunk sitting in my living room after 2AM listening to Avril Lavigne with all the lights on and his eyes closed needed the most. A part of me pitied him, like the clergy members imploring Joan to confess to avoid the stake in Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's all a matter of erections and secretions."
He had to know I was too keen to miss a Bergman reference. I assumed he'd just seen The Silence, the film that that line was taken from. My silence indicated that his response was not sufficient.
He answered me without opening his eyes.
"I had a day to kill before meeting a friend in New Hampshire. The Celtics are on a West Coast road trip, so I got drunk instead."
"You know, the Bruins were playing, you could've seen them."
"What?"
"Nevermind. Let me change the music."
"I'm gonna have to respectfully disagree with you."
"I know, and that's what makes this so hard."
I switched my radio over to KISS 108, which was playing Taylor Swift's "Teardrops on My Guitar." I went to walk back into my bedroom, but Matty stopped me. He held my arm and used his other to indicate that this would only take a second. Then he nodded. We both sang:
"He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar..."
"Why'd'ya have'ta go an' make shit so complicated?"
When I got close he grabbed me by the collar.
"No one, and I repeat, NO ONE is more perspicacious than a 16-year old telling me what life is like!"
Perspicacity was probably the one thing a drunk sitting in my living room after 2AM listening to Avril Lavigne with all the lights on and his eyes closed needed the most. A part of me pitied him, like the clergy members imploring Joan to confess to avoid the stake in Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's all a matter of erections and secretions."
He had to know I was too keen to miss a Bergman reference. I assumed he'd just seen The Silence, the film that that line was taken from. My silence indicated that his response was not sufficient.
He answered me without opening his eyes.
"I had a day to kill before meeting a friend in New Hampshire. The Celtics are on a West Coast road trip, so I got drunk instead."
"You know, the Bruins were playing, you could've seen them."
"What?"
"Nevermind. Let me change the music."
"I'm gonna have to respectfully disagree with you."
"I know, and that's what makes this so hard."
I switched my radio over to KISS 108, which was playing Taylor Swift's "Teardrops on My Guitar." I went to walk back into my bedroom, but Matty stopped me. He held my arm and used his other to indicate that this would only take a second. Then he nodded. We both sang:
"He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar..."
The Dude Who Hooked up With the Octopus Lady
I was eating a Big 33 at Mads, my Norwegian companion's, new McDonald's the other day. The Big 33, named after Larry Bird, and only available for a short period of time, was just one of many classic menu items Mads has brought back for his McDonald's after looking up the franchise on wikipedia.
"So how was your Christmas?" He asked me.
"Not bad. It was kind of weird, because I visited a buddy who has kids."
"I have kids."
"Kids he's raising with a wife in a home."
"Oh, sor-REE."
"Whatever."
"Well, why do you feel weird?"
Playing overhead was the new Timbaland and One Republic song "Apologize".
It's too late to pon a jyyyyyyye...
"What the hell are we listening to? I thought you only wanted to play 80s in here?"
"Oh, this is the kids."
"Your kids, Nadia and Aidan?"
"Yeah, I had them run the place when I was gone. They did a decent job, so I let them keep playing their music. It's KISS 108. They love Matty in the Morning."
"Who doesn't? But you just left this place alone to your teenage kids?"
"Yeah, I went to Tortuga for the holiday."
"How long were you gone?"
"Like three weeks. You didn't notice I'd left?"
"I guess not. That's not the point: didn't you think it's a bad idea to not be here to run your own restaurant."
"Don't get too crazy here. It's a McDonald's, not a restaurant. Now get back to what you were saying about feeling weird."
"Weird?"
"About seeing your buddy's kids."
"Oh yeah, right. It's just that I remember back when I was their age--"
"The kids?"
"Yeah. They're like six or seven. Anyway, I remember when my dad had people over--"
"I thought you didn't know your dad."
"No, I knew him. He left my mom at about ten."
"And you remember that?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I don't remember anything from before I was like 12 or 13."
"You're a moron."
"You're a moron."
"Whatever. Anyway, so like my dad had this dude over when I was like seven, and he was talking about this woman he hooked up with that had a huge octopus tattooed on her back."
"Was she hot?"
"I'm assuming. I never met her."
"And how old was he."
"Like 50."
I'm not gonna write you a love song
"So what does this have to do with anything?"
"I'm the dude who hooked up with the octopus lady now."
"That's asinine. Eat your Big 33."
"So how was your Christmas?" He asked me.
"Not bad. It was kind of weird, because I visited a buddy who has kids."
"I have kids."
"Kids he's raising with a wife in a home."
"Oh, sor-REE."
"Whatever."
"Well, why do you feel weird?"
Playing overhead was the new Timbaland and One Republic song "Apologize".
It's too late to pon a jyyyyyyye...
"What the hell are we listening to? I thought you only wanted to play 80s in here?"
"Oh, this is the kids."
"Your kids, Nadia and Aidan?"
"Yeah, I had them run the place when I was gone. They did a decent job, so I let them keep playing their music. It's KISS 108. They love Matty in the Morning."
"Who doesn't? But you just left this place alone to your teenage kids?"
"Yeah, I went to Tortuga for the holiday."
"How long were you gone?"
"Like three weeks. You didn't notice I'd left?"
"I guess not. That's not the point: didn't you think it's a bad idea to not be here to run your own restaurant."
"Don't get too crazy here. It's a McDonald's, not a restaurant. Now get back to what you were saying about feeling weird."
"Weird?"
"About seeing your buddy's kids."
"Oh yeah, right. It's just that I remember back when I was their age--"
"The kids?"
"Yeah. They're like six or seven. Anyway, I remember when my dad had people over--"
"I thought you didn't know your dad."
"No, I knew him. He left my mom at about ten."
"And you remember that?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I don't remember anything from before I was like 12 or 13."
"You're a moron."
"You're a moron."
"Whatever. Anyway, so like my dad had this dude over when I was like seven, and he was talking about this woman he hooked up with that had a huge octopus tattooed on her back."
"Was she hot?"
"I'm assuming. I never met her."
"And how old was he."
"Like 50."
I'm not gonna write you a love song
"So what does this have to do with anything?"
"I'm the dude who hooked up with the octopus lady now."
"That's asinine. Eat your Big 33."
Mads' McDonald's
I found out the next day what Mads, my Norwegian companion, had in store for his two eldest children. When me and Matty went to his McDonald's, we found the two of them donning visors and working registers.
I usually order a number one, the Big Mac meal. I was in the process of telling Nadia that, when I heard Matty ask Aidan if they really had pan seared fois. I looked at the menu behind the counter, and saw listed as number four on the value meals, pan seared fois with fries and a drink for $9.88. He also had wasabi crusted Ahi tuna. I went back to see Mads to find out what was going on. I bumped into celebrity chef Mario Batali rolling fresh pasta.
"Mads, what's going on?"
"Hey, good buddy, I'm glad you could make it. NADIA! Don't charge this man! Here, have a seat. Tell me what you think so far?"
"Pan seared fois?"
"Pretty sweet, huh? I got a local food distribution center that specializes in fine dining to hook me up. And look at this:" It was a sea foam green cardboard hinged container with the McDonald's logo on it. It was for his fois to go in for the customers.
"So what'll you have, ol' buddy?"
"Give me a number one."
"Good choice."
I took a seat in a booth with Matty, who had ordered the fois meal, large.
I usually order a number one, the Big Mac meal. I was in the process of telling Nadia that, when I heard Matty ask Aidan if they really had pan seared fois. I looked at the menu behind the counter, and saw listed as number four on the value meals, pan seared fois with fries and a drink for $9.88. He also had wasabi crusted Ahi tuna. I went back to see Mads to find out what was going on. I bumped into celebrity chef Mario Batali rolling fresh pasta.
"Mads, what's going on?"
"Hey, good buddy, I'm glad you could make it. NADIA! Don't charge this man! Here, have a seat. Tell me what you think so far?"
"Pan seared fois?"
"Pretty sweet, huh? I got a local food distribution center that specializes in fine dining to hook me up. And look at this:" It was a sea foam green cardboard hinged container with the McDonald's logo on it. It was for his fois to go in for the customers.
"So what'll you have, ol' buddy?"
"Give me a number one."
"Good choice."
I took a seat in a booth with Matty, who had ordered the fois meal, large.
Nadia and Aidan
I was relaxing in my apartment the other night with Gwen, the Cappie, and Matty, my personal biographer, watching the Criterion Collection edition of Le Samourai. As is usually the case, we were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was two teenage kids, one a boy and one a girl.
"Hello, is Mads here?" The girl said. She had a French accent, and it was noticeable, but she properly pronounced each word she said in English.
"No, he's out finishing a transaction so he can buy a McDonald's. Who can I tell him stopped by?"
"Nadia and Aidan. We're his children."
Oh, wow, I thought. I had them take a seat on the couch. I tried to guess their age based on what little I knew of Mads' kids. D'Brickishaw was supposedly the second, and he wasn't quite 18 when he was in town. The sister looked a little older than the brother, so maybe these were numbers one and three. On the other hand, they looked a lot alike, and the fact that their names were the other's spelled backwards didn't escape me either. What if they were fraternal twins? That would mean they'd both have to be younger than D'Brickishaw.
As I was speculating, Mads came in. The kids were here to ask for money. Mads told them to come back tomorrow morning. I knew he had something up his sleeve. They left in a bit of a huff.
I found out they were in fact fraternal twins. The names were Mads' idea. These were the children of an American ex-pat living in Paris that he'd carried on a relationship with when he was only 18. They were his first children, but because they're twins, Mads only counts them as one child. Who'd thunk it? So he actually has eight kids.
"Hello, is Mads here?" The girl said. She had a French accent, and it was noticeable, but she properly pronounced each word she said in English.
"No, he's out finishing a transaction so he can buy a McDonald's. Who can I tell him stopped by?"
"Nadia and Aidan. We're his children."
Oh, wow, I thought. I had them take a seat on the couch. I tried to guess their age based on what little I knew of Mads' kids. D'Brickishaw was supposedly the second, and he wasn't quite 18 when he was in town. The sister looked a little older than the brother, so maybe these were numbers one and three. On the other hand, they looked a lot alike, and the fact that their names were the other's spelled backwards didn't escape me either. What if they were fraternal twins? That would mean they'd both have to be younger than D'Brickishaw.
As I was speculating, Mads came in. The kids were here to ask for money. Mads told them to come back tomorrow morning. I knew he had something up his sleeve. They left in a bit of a huff.
I found out they were in fact fraternal twins. The names were Mads' idea. These were the children of an American ex-pat living in Paris that he'd carried on a relationship with when he was only 18. They were his first children, but because they're twins, Mads only counts them as one child. Who'd thunk it? So he actually has eight kids.
Facebook Limbo
Gwen was over the other day, looking at some stuff on the Internet. I heard her sigh audibly.
"What is it?"
"Oh, I have this dude who won't get the hint. He keeps sending me an add request on Facebook, and I keep denying him."
"You know what you do," Matty, my personal biographer said, while he was bouncing his adopted son Goodtimes on his knee, "you put him in Friend Request Limbo."
"What's that?"
"If you don't accept or deny him when he sends you a friend request, he can't send you another. He's stuck waiting on your decision. I have a few people I'm not so fond of in limbo myself."
"So wait, I just ignore this request, and he can't send me another? How long does it last?"
"Indefinitely as far as I can tell."
Mads, my Norwegian companion entered the room carrying a bunch of folders with information regarding owning your own McDonald's franchise.
"Still on that McDonald's kick, huh?"
"Still on that asshole kick, huh?"
"What is it?"
"Oh, I have this dude who won't get the hint. He keeps sending me an add request on Facebook, and I keep denying him."
"You know what you do," Matty, my personal biographer said, while he was bouncing his adopted son Goodtimes on his knee, "you put him in Friend Request Limbo."
"What's that?"
"If you don't accept or deny him when he sends you a friend request, he can't send you another. He's stuck waiting on your decision. I have a few people I'm not so fond of in limbo myself."
"So wait, I just ignore this request, and he can't send me another? How long does it last?"
"Indefinitely as far as I can tell."
Mads, my Norwegian companion entered the room carrying a bunch of folders with information regarding owning your own McDonald's franchise.
"Still on that McDonald's kick, huh?"
"Still on that asshole kick, huh?"
Who Likes Fall Out Boy?
Mads, my Norwegian companion, was still on his McDonald's franchise kick, so we went to the one at Faneuil Hall with Matty, my personal biographer, who was in town with his adopted son, Goodtimes, so Mads could do a little research.
After we got our food, we sat in a booth. I was nodding my head to the song playing above us.
"This song is pretty hot: thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories..."
Mads and Matty looked at each other.
"You're serious?"
"Why?"
"This is Fall Out Boy," Mads said.
"So."
"So, they suck."
"Whatever."
"Hey, do they do that everything is all right song?" Matty said.
"I think that's Motion City Soundtrack."
"Same difference."
"Whatever."
"I'm just sayin'. Man, I remember hearing that song at a strip club."
"Everything is all right?"
"Yeah."
"What is that song called, anyway?"
"I think it's 'Everything is All Right'."
"Oh, that's easy."
"Remember when they used that song on Laguna Beach?"
"No."
"Jason and his friends were playing golf. It was when he was dating Alex, but hooking up with Jessica again."
"Oh, right before Cabo?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I remember that."
"Hey, how did we start talking about this?"
After we got our food, we sat in a booth. I was nodding my head to the song playing above us.
"This song is pretty hot: thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories..."
Mads and Matty looked at each other.
"You're serious?"
"Why?"
"This is Fall Out Boy," Mads said.
"So."
"So, they suck."
"Whatever."
"Hey, do they do that everything is all right song?" Matty said.
"I think that's Motion City Soundtrack."
"Same difference."
"Whatever."
"I'm just sayin'. Man, I remember hearing that song at a strip club."
"Everything is all right?"
"Yeah."
"What is that song called, anyway?"
"I think it's 'Everything is All Right'."
"Oh, that's easy."
"Remember when they used that song on Laguna Beach?"
"No."
"Jason and his friends were playing golf. It was when he was dating Alex, but hooking up with Jessica again."
"Oh, right before Cabo?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I remember that."
"Hey, how did we start talking about this?"
Franchise
I came back to my apartment the other day to find Mads, my Norwegian companion, perusing the Internet on his laptop.
"When did you get a lap top?" I said.
"I needed it so I could look this up on the Internet."
"You didn't want to use my computer?"
"What?"
"Nevermind. What're looking at?"
"McDonald's franchise information. I'm thinking of owning one."
"Did you talk to The Mayor?"
"What?"
"The Mayor... did you ask his advice?"
"He's gone AWOL."
"AWOL?"
"Yeah, after that 'We're into nuggets y'all' commercial, he had a falling out with Ronald and no one's heard from him since."
"Wow. I didn't know that."
"I thought you did."
"Well, I didn't. Anyway, where do you plan on opening a McDonald's?"
"I don't know. I just liked the idea of having my own, you know, where I can go and get stuff whenever I want. I don't really care if it's not successful and I'm hemorrhaging cash."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"When did you get a lap top?" I said.
"I needed it so I could look this up on the Internet."
"You didn't want to use my computer?"
"What?"
"Nevermind. What're looking at?"
"McDonald's franchise information. I'm thinking of owning one."
"Did you talk to The Mayor?"
"What?"
"The Mayor... did you ask his advice?"
"He's gone AWOL."
"AWOL?"
"Yeah, after that 'We're into nuggets y'all' commercial, he had a falling out with Ronald and no one's heard from him since."
"Wow. I didn't know that."
"I thought you did."
"Well, I didn't. Anyway, where do you plan on opening a McDonald's?"
"I don't know. I just liked the idea of having my own, you know, where I can go and get stuff whenever I want. I don't really care if it's not successful and I'm hemorrhaging cash."
"Yeah, I can see that."
Norwegian Thanksgiving
I was in the mood for a nontraditional Thanksgiving this year, and Mads, my Norwegian companion, had just the thing. In Norway, Thanksgiving is very different from ours. With no genocide of First Nation people to celebrate, they're forced to focus on the consumerism side to the holiday. This is done by replacing the turkey with fois gras. I can get with that.
We didn't have many people over, just Gwen after she was done with her parents, Sir Ian McKellen, and Dracula from next door. I put on a nice adult contempo mix CD, and served some Cakebread chardonnay, which went well with Mads' seared fois.
I made the observation that last Thanksgiving was spent sans my Norwegian companion, and a single tear welled up in my eye. I had much to be thankful for. Then Sir Ian McKellen farted, and we all laughed.
We didn't have many people over, just Gwen after she was done with her parents, Sir Ian McKellen, and Dracula from next door. I put on a nice adult contempo mix CD, and served some Cakebread chardonnay, which went well with Mads' seared fois.
I made the observation that last Thanksgiving was spent sans my Norwegian companion, and a single tear welled up in my eye. I had much to be thankful for. Then Sir Ian McKellen farted, and we all laughed.
Jodie Foster
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I saw some horrible movie the other day where Jodie Foster took the law into her own hands.
"When was the last good movie Jodie Foster did?" I said.
"That's a tough one. Could it be Silence of the Lambs?"
"Wow, that came out a while ago. Why is she still presented to us like some must-see actress then? She's used up that credibility long ago I'd assume."
"I wouldn't be so sure. Think of her as the female Nicolas Cage, only she's yet to realize it herself. Maybe when she does, she'll go back and do poignant indie flick that'll garner critical acclaim."
"Good point. Only she's way worse than Cage. I'd rather watch a guy who solely by the virtue of his being psychic also has lightning quick reflexes, than a ridiculous woman running around a plane hitting people with a fire extinguisher and yelling Where's Julia!"
"You talking 'bout Flightplan? God that sucked."
"Where's Julia! Where's Julia!"
"Okay, stop it."
"Where's Julia!"
He shook his head. Then we both sat on the subway in silence for a few minutes, before he had an idea.
"I figured out a movie she did since Silence of the Lambs that was good."
"Okay?"
"The Dangerous Lives of Alter Boys. She played a nun."
"So she's already done the indie flick that's supposed to save her from Cage-dom?"
"I guess she'll need to do another..."
"When was the last good movie Jodie Foster did?" I said.
"That's a tough one. Could it be Silence of the Lambs?"
"Wow, that came out a while ago. Why is she still presented to us like some must-see actress then? She's used up that credibility long ago I'd assume."
"I wouldn't be so sure. Think of her as the female Nicolas Cage, only she's yet to realize it herself. Maybe when she does, she'll go back and do poignant indie flick that'll garner critical acclaim."
"Good point. Only she's way worse than Cage. I'd rather watch a guy who solely by the virtue of his being psychic also has lightning quick reflexes, than a ridiculous woman running around a plane hitting people with a fire extinguisher and yelling Where's Julia!"
"You talking 'bout Flightplan? God that sucked."
"Where's Julia! Where's Julia!"
"Okay, stop it."
"Where's Julia!"
He shook his head. Then we both sat on the subway in silence for a few minutes, before he had an idea.
"I figured out a movie she did since Silence of the Lambs that was good."
"Okay?"
"The Dangerous Lives of Alter Boys. She played a nun."
"So she's already done the indie flick that's supposed to save her from Cage-dom?"
"I guess she'll need to do another..."
Five Points of Pressure
Often my apartment is the setting for an impromptu game of football. That's actually not true. It's never been one before, and I'm not sure why it ever should be again.
Matty, my personal biographer, was visiting, and he and Mads, my Norwegian companion, were discussing some of the subtle nuances of American football that Mads may not have picked up being a foreigner.
"You're holding the football all wrong."
"Not like this?"
"No, tuck it between your arm and chest... like this. Now hold it tight. You want five points of pressure. Don't let anyone knock it out... like this:"
He swatted at the ball in Mads' arm, causing it to bounce off the floor and knock over a lamp. Ignoring the lamp, he retrieved the ball.
"Watch me. See, now you try and knock it out."
Mads slapped in futility as the ball remained in Matty's control. I was getting nervous. The lamp was an omen of things to come. I've seen how Matty gets around any kind of sporting equipment or anything that might resemble a potential athletic contest. He's put out windows showing off his batting stance, killed a TV when he lost control of a basketball while trying to demonstrate his spin move, and I don't need to mention that celebrity charity soccer game I took him too. Putting Mads in the equation only heightened the effect: it was like drinking while on acid.
"Let me try. I think I got it now. Slap the ball you pussy."
Mixing things up, Matty used his fist like he was serving a volleyball and popped the football out from underneath Mads' hold.
"You just got no skills, Norwegian boy. Here, try and stop me from getting to the kitchen."
Matty picked up the football, and held it as he did earlier, with his five points of pressure. Mads tried to tackle him, and with one head fake Matty was by him and touching the stove with his hand. As he turned to yell "Touchdown", we both heard a crash. Mads had tripped over something in his pursuit of Matty, and fell, landing square in the middle of our coffee table. The table wasn't sturdy enough to hold him, and he destroyed it. Matty walked over to the disaster, flipping the ball in his left hand, while helping Mads up with his right.
"Maybe you ought to go back to seal clubbing, or whatever it is you guys do over in Norway."
Matty, my personal biographer, was visiting, and he and Mads, my Norwegian companion, were discussing some of the subtle nuances of American football that Mads may not have picked up being a foreigner.
"You're holding the football all wrong."
"Not like this?"
"No, tuck it between your arm and chest... like this. Now hold it tight. You want five points of pressure. Don't let anyone knock it out... like this:"
He swatted at the ball in Mads' arm, causing it to bounce off the floor and knock over a lamp. Ignoring the lamp, he retrieved the ball.
"Watch me. See, now you try and knock it out."
Mads slapped in futility as the ball remained in Matty's control. I was getting nervous. The lamp was an omen of things to come. I've seen how Matty gets around any kind of sporting equipment or anything that might resemble a potential athletic contest. He's put out windows showing off his batting stance, killed a TV when he lost control of a basketball while trying to demonstrate his spin move, and I don't need to mention that celebrity charity soccer game I took him too. Putting Mads in the equation only heightened the effect: it was like drinking while on acid.
"Let me try. I think I got it now. Slap the ball you pussy."
Mixing things up, Matty used his fist like he was serving a volleyball and popped the football out from underneath Mads' hold.
"You just got no skills, Norwegian boy. Here, try and stop me from getting to the kitchen."
Matty picked up the football, and held it as he did earlier, with his five points of pressure. Mads tried to tackle him, and with one head fake Matty was by him and touching the stove with his hand. As he turned to yell "Touchdown", we both heard a crash. Mads had tripped over something in his pursuit of Matty, and fell, landing square in the middle of our coffee table. The table wasn't sturdy enough to hold him, and he destroyed it. Matty walked over to the disaster, flipping the ball in his left hand, while helping Mads up with his right.
"Maybe you ought to go back to seal clubbing, or whatever it is you guys do over in Norway."
Nipples
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were out the other day, and I noticed when I went to scratch my chest, that my left nipple was extremely hard. It was like a sharp piece of plastic. I asked Mads.
"What?"
"Just feel it and tell me if it's extraordinarily hard."
"What are you talking about? Your nipple's hard?"
"Really hard."
"Do you think it could cut glass?"
"Cut glass?"
"Yeah, like a cat burglar. You could cut those perfect circles in a window, then sneak in."
"Do they do that?"
"The best ones do."
"Wow. No, I don't think it's that sharp. But why would it be hard like that at all?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know."
"What?"
"Just feel it and tell me if it's extraordinarily hard."
"What are you talking about? Your nipple's hard?"
"Really hard."
"Do you think it could cut glass?"
"Cut glass?"
"Yeah, like a cat burglar. You could cut those perfect circles in a window, then sneak in."
"Do they do that?"
"The best ones do."
"Wow. No, I don't think it's that sharp. But why would it be hard like that at all?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know."
Caged Heat
There was a knock at the door the other day while I was watching Maury. I answered it, and there was a woman on the other side. I would've offered for her to come in, but something about her didn't seem right. She was kind of pretty, but she had on too much make-up. She was wearing a long coat and a skirt with go-go boots. I could see the edge of a tattoo peaking out from under her shirt right above her breasts, and I tried to discern what it was without staring at it.
"Can I help you?"
"Is Mads here?"
I had to know that Mads, my Norwegian companion, had something to do with this.
"I'm sorry, he's out, can I tell him you stopped in?"
"Um... okay. My name's Peaches... um... Mads was my pen pal..."
Oh my God. Pen pal? I couldn't help scowling.
"Um... I just got out of prison, you know? and I really don't have anywhere to go right now... would it be all right if, like..."
I should've just said "No" and slammed the door in her face. Instead I relented and let her in. It was an awkward twenty minutes that seemed like four hours before Mads would come back with our food. I offered Peaches a drink, but she couldn't, because it would be a violation of her parole.
When Mads finally showed up he didn't recognize his friend.
"Oh, good to see you hired some talent while we watch more Maury."
I cleared my throat and nodded my head in her direction. He didn't get it. Peaches finally stood up and put her arms around him. He pushed back somewhat, but he was still in her grasp.
"Do I know you?"
"What! Are you kidding? We've talked for two years."
"Peaches? Oh my God... you look so different from your picture... what're you doing here... in my house...?"
"The return address was on all the letters you sent..."
I glared at him, and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Remember when I got those cute Donald Duck address labels? I kinda used them on everything."
Long story short, Mads gave Peaches $500 to get a hotel and whatnot. I shook my head.
"You know, if you give them money, they'll keep coming back for more?"
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
"Can I help you?"
"Is Mads here?"
I had to know that Mads, my Norwegian companion, had something to do with this.
"I'm sorry, he's out, can I tell him you stopped in?"
"Um... okay. My name's Peaches... um... Mads was my pen pal..."
Oh my God. Pen pal? I couldn't help scowling.
"Um... I just got out of prison, you know? and I really don't have anywhere to go right now... would it be all right if, like..."
I should've just said "No" and slammed the door in her face. Instead I relented and let her in. It was an awkward twenty minutes that seemed like four hours before Mads would come back with our food. I offered Peaches a drink, but she couldn't, because it would be a violation of her parole.
When Mads finally showed up he didn't recognize his friend.
"Oh, good to see you hired some talent while we watch more Maury."
I cleared my throat and nodded my head in her direction. He didn't get it. Peaches finally stood up and put her arms around him. He pushed back somewhat, but he was still in her grasp.
"Do I know you?"
"What! Are you kidding? We've talked for two years."
"Peaches? Oh my God... you look so different from your picture... what're you doing here... in my house...?"
"The return address was on all the letters you sent..."
I glared at him, and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Remember when I got those cute Donald Duck address labels? I kinda used them on everything."
Long story short, Mads gave Peaches $500 to get a hotel and whatnot. I shook my head.
"You know, if you give them money, they'll keep coming back for more?"
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
Classy as PBR
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I decided to take in the Pats/Colts game a while back at a bar instead of watching a TiVoed version at home. As such, we were forced to suffer the myriad lowest-common-denominator advertisements aired every time the game stops for two seconds.
The Miller Lite and Bud Light ones hurt my soul the most. The former had a preening schmo of a John McGinley advocating a "More Taste League", which is a euphemism for "Really Dumb Ad Campaign"; while Bud Light had guys at an opera smuggling beers in that were shattered by the high pitched singing of the female lead.
"These commercials are signaling the end of Western Civilization," a voice next to us said. It was Tommy Lee Jones! "Yep, when archaeologists ten thousand years from now go over the rubble left from our time on the planet, they'll look at the ridiculous beer ads and wonder what on Earth we were thinking. It's like they're insisting the world's flat or something."
"It's not all bad," Mads said. "Look, I got a PBR Pounder. When's the last time you ever saw a bad commercial by them? They have enough class to not inundate us with advertisements that strip away IQ points."
"Yeah, but PBR sucks," Tommy Lee Jones said.
"No, you suck."
This nearly led to fisticuffs, and I had to rein them in.
"Come on guys, we're on the same team. I mean, look at it." I pointed to the All-American Jackasses sitting in a fake opera with their Bud Lights on the TV screen. "This is what we're fighting against. Us intelligent males who know that no way in hell would women who look and dress like that would ever want to go to the opera, because we've tried to invite them, and their just bored out of their gourds, because, God forbid, they do something other than put on a halter top and tight jeans and go to a club with their friends and try to get a VIP booth or whatever--"
"Jesus, man, stop," Mads said. "You've lost it. Gone over the deep end. I don't even know what you're talking about. I'd never invite chicks to see the opera, anyway."
"Yeah," Tommy Lee Jones said. "What kind of pussy are you?"
"But... but..."
But it was too late. Mads and Tommy Lee Jones went off and drank some PBRs and left me watching the game by myself.
The Miller Lite and Bud Light ones hurt my soul the most. The former had a preening schmo of a John McGinley advocating a "More Taste League", which is a euphemism for "Really Dumb Ad Campaign"; while Bud Light had guys at an opera smuggling beers in that were shattered by the high pitched singing of the female lead.
"These commercials are signaling the end of Western Civilization," a voice next to us said. It was Tommy Lee Jones! "Yep, when archaeologists ten thousand years from now go over the rubble left from our time on the planet, they'll look at the ridiculous beer ads and wonder what on Earth we were thinking. It's like they're insisting the world's flat or something."
"It's not all bad," Mads said. "Look, I got a PBR Pounder. When's the last time you ever saw a bad commercial by them? They have enough class to not inundate us with advertisements that strip away IQ points."
"Yeah, but PBR sucks," Tommy Lee Jones said.
"No, you suck."
This nearly led to fisticuffs, and I had to rein them in.
"Come on guys, we're on the same team. I mean, look at it." I pointed to the All-American Jackasses sitting in a fake opera with their Bud Lights on the TV screen. "This is what we're fighting against. Us intelligent males who know that no way in hell would women who look and dress like that would ever want to go to the opera, because we've tried to invite them, and their just bored out of their gourds, because, God forbid, they do something other than put on a halter top and tight jeans and go to a club with their friends and try to get a VIP booth or whatever--"
"Jesus, man, stop," Mads said. "You've lost it. Gone over the deep end. I don't even know what you're talking about. I'd never invite chicks to see the opera, anyway."
"Yeah," Tommy Lee Jones said. "What kind of pussy are you?"
"But... but..."
But it was too late. Mads and Tommy Lee Jones went off and drank some PBRs and left me watching the game by myself.
The Banana Splits
It's never a good idea. It was never a good idea when I was a teenager or in college; but it's an even poorer idea now in my mid-thirties. Why I still do it is beyond me.
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home the other night with a bunch of tabs of acid.
"I got a great deal," he said.
I was watching TV with our good buddy Ben, discussing the possibility of him starring in a Daredevil 2. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.
"What the hell. You only live once, right?"
As acid trips go, it wasn't bad. I was feeling pretty solid, until I was coming down, and I saw all these scary things on the television. There were people in weird animal costumes running around doing silly shit. Their voices were dubbed in a mixing booth somewhere else. The bad laugh track I was hearing made it even harder to deal with.
That's when the racism started. There was a cartoon that made fun of Arabs. Then the people in animal suits went to a Confederate soldiers parade. I cringed as the animals walked around waving Rebel Flags. Finally, there was some serial called Danger Island. It had a character named Chango or something. I was waiting for Al Jolson to dance in in black face, it was so bad.
I was about to lose it entirely, when the next thing I knew, Bob Ross was on the screen painting fluffy white clouds. I couldn't believe it. It must've all been a crazy acid induced dream. I told Mads about it.
"You're a fucking moron. The acid wore off long ago. We were watching The Banana Splits. I saw the whole thing with you."
He must've been fucking with me. Yet, when quizzed, he knew the same minute details of the show I did. I waved my hand in front of me. It looked all right. I shook my head. No trails. I paused.
"Mads, you mean that show was real?"
"That was The Banana Splits. Don't you remember it?"
"No, my mom wouldn't let me watch it growing up."
I thought for a second, and looked around the room. Something was off.
"Hey, have you seen Ben?"
Mads, my Norwegian companion, came home the other night with a bunch of tabs of acid.
"I got a great deal," he said.
I was watching TV with our good buddy Ben, discussing the possibility of him starring in a Daredevil 2. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.
"What the hell. You only live once, right?"
As acid trips go, it wasn't bad. I was feeling pretty solid, until I was coming down, and I saw all these scary things on the television. There were people in weird animal costumes running around doing silly shit. Their voices were dubbed in a mixing booth somewhere else. The bad laugh track I was hearing made it even harder to deal with.
That's when the racism started. There was a cartoon that made fun of Arabs. Then the people in animal suits went to a Confederate soldiers parade. I cringed as the animals walked around waving Rebel Flags. Finally, there was some serial called Danger Island. It had a character named Chango or something. I was waiting for Al Jolson to dance in in black face, it was so bad.
I was about to lose it entirely, when the next thing I knew, Bob Ross was on the screen painting fluffy white clouds. I couldn't believe it. It must've all been a crazy acid induced dream. I told Mads about it.
"You're a fucking moron. The acid wore off long ago. We were watching The Banana Splits. I saw the whole thing with you."
He must've been fucking with me. Yet, when quizzed, he knew the same minute details of the show I did. I waved my hand in front of me. It looked all right. I shook my head. No trails. I paused.
"Mads, you mean that show was real?"
"That was The Banana Splits. Don't you remember it?"
"No, my mom wouldn't let me watch it growing up."
I thought for a second, and looked around the room. Something was off.
"Hey, have you seen Ben?"
Mads' iPod
I never bought an iPod. Why would I need one? I don't need cool credibility. I just got a plain old MP3 player which was much cheaper. It does the job. Mads, my Norwegian companion, seemed to be on the same page as me. That was until I saw him at the apartment when I came home the other day bobbing his head to some music coming from a pair of little white headphones.
"You got an iPod?"
He pulled the earpieces out.
"Dude, you got an iPod?"
"I heard you when you said it the first time. Yeah, I kinda had to."
Oh shit, I thought, here it comes.
"Have you ever heard Jason Mraz's cover of Seals and Crofts' 'Summer Breeze'?"
"No. Matty's told me about it."
"Yeah, I was there for that conversation too. He was right!"
This couldn't be. About a month ago Matty the Mainer, my personal biographer, mentioned that Jason Mraz covered "Summer Breeze". He said it sounded ridiculous, with Mraz over-jazzing it up and whatnot. But after the first listen to, he said he craved it. He needed to hear it over and over again, despite how ridiculous it sounded. I was nonplussed.
"Why did you buy an iPod, though? You could've played the song on a loop on anything."
"It just seemed to be more symbolic, you know?"
"I don't know. Give me the damn headphones."
"Okay, but I've warned you."
...summah breeze, a-really make-a me feel fine, blowin' true de jasmine in my miiiind... aaaah summah breeze, a-really make me fiiiine... blowing tru my... makes me feel, riiight... makin' me feel makin' me feel fiiiiiine...
That was pretty damn ridiculous. I had no intention hearing anymore, and went into the kitchen to start some chicken tetrazzini with our left over roast, when it hit me. The song was coursing through my very existence. Like a person running to the bathroom after he's just felt his stomach drop and he knows what's coming next, I bolted back into the living room and took Mads' iPod from him.
"You got an iPod?"
He pulled the earpieces out.
"Dude, you got an iPod?"
"I heard you when you said it the first time. Yeah, I kinda had to."
Oh shit, I thought, here it comes.
"Have you ever heard Jason Mraz's cover of Seals and Crofts' 'Summer Breeze'?"
"No. Matty's told me about it."
"Yeah, I was there for that conversation too. He was right!"
This couldn't be. About a month ago Matty the Mainer, my personal biographer, mentioned that Jason Mraz covered "Summer Breeze". He said it sounded ridiculous, with Mraz over-jazzing it up and whatnot. But after the first listen to, he said he craved it. He needed to hear it over and over again, despite how ridiculous it sounded. I was nonplussed.
"Why did you buy an iPod, though? You could've played the song on a loop on anything."
"It just seemed to be more symbolic, you know?"
"I don't know. Give me the damn headphones."
"Okay, but I've warned you."
...summah breeze, a-really make-a me feel fine, blowin' true de jasmine in my miiiind... aaaah summah breeze, a-really make me fiiiine... blowing tru my... makes me feel, riiight... makin' me feel makin' me feel fiiiiiine...
That was pretty damn ridiculous. I had no intention hearing anymore, and went into the kitchen to start some chicken tetrazzini with our left over roast, when it hit me. The song was coursing through my very existence. Like a person running to the bathroom after he's just felt his stomach drop and he knows what's coming next, I bolted back into the living room and took Mads' iPod from him.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Shake Drippage
It's a common problem among all guys. Whenever they take a leak, there's excess urine hanging around at the head of the penis. If not dealt with properly, it will slide all the way down their leg after they put their dank back in the pants and zip up.
I have come up with my own solution to this issue: I dry it on those little decorative monogrammed towels that people often have in their bathrooms. Works like a charm.
Last week, Mads, my Norwegian companion, was called down to Savannah, Georgia for a brunch held in his honor by a bird watching society. Naturally, he had me join him.
After a few mimosas, my back teeth were floating, and I made a trip upstairs. The house was very old, probably the former residence of slave owners back in the mid-19th century. As such, the doors acted funny, and I thought I had it locked; but it turns out I didn't, and an old lady caught me as I was dealing with my shake drippage on their nice towels. It was not a good look.
When I got back down, there was an awkward tension, and the old lady intimated something surreptitiously to the comrade sitting next to her. I was waiting for the bomb to drop, when the door bell rang. I looked at Mads, and knew he had something up his sleeve. I thought maybe he hired a hooker like Borat, but it was worse: The Dog Whisperer. What an asshole.
"Birss? I cahno wheesper to birss. I haim the Dog Wheeperer!"
I have come up with my own solution to this issue: I dry it on those little decorative monogrammed towels that people often have in their bathrooms. Works like a charm.
Last week, Mads, my Norwegian companion, was called down to Savannah, Georgia for a brunch held in his honor by a bird watching society. Naturally, he had me join him.
After a few mimosas, my back teeth were floating, and I made a trip upstairs. The house was very old, probably the former residence of slave owners back in the mid-19th century. As such, the doors acted funny, and I thought I had it locked; but it turns out I didn't, and an old lady caught me as I was dealing with my shake drippage on their nice towels. It was not a good look.
When I got back down, there was an awkward tension, and the old lady intimated something surreptitiously to the comrade sitting next to her. I was waiting for the bomb to drop, when the door bell rang. I looked at Mads, and knew he had something up his sleeve. I thought maybe he hired a hooker like Borat, but it was worse: The Dog Whisperer. What an asshole.
"Birss? I cahno wheesper to birss. I haim the Dog Wheeperer!"
Matty's Branch Office
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I, went to England last weekend to take in some soccer games. We'd had enough of Boston, and just needed some time off. Walking around Sunderland after catching a game at The Stadium of Light, we heard a familiar sound from a long time past. Maybe not even from a long time past, but rather a time we never knew, but only heard about.
"Machine gunner." This was followed by a long fart noise. It was Butt-head from Beavis and Butt-head, and it was playing on a TV in a first floor office near by. We checked it out.
"Hello, my name is Mads."
"What a coincidence," my Mads said. "Mine is too."
The clerk seemed none too impressed. We looked around. There was a Bad Taste poster, a wax model of a dog being shot in the air by a renegade mattress spring, and Pulp Fiction quotes written with a label maker littered everywhere. I picked up a movie. It was titled Deep Cheeks 6. The clerk noticed that.
"We just got that in the other day. Pretty funny. Didn't take long for all my friends to start saying Deep Cheeks about everything."
I looked at Mads, and I think he understood. I cleaned off a seat in front of the desk that was covered in Hunter S. Thompson novels.
"Do you know a man from Maine named Matty?"
"Sure, he's the head office."
"Head office?"
"Yeah. I'm just his Western European branch. I get things when they've outlived their usefulness. Who are you?"
"Um... well, Matty's my personal biographer."
"No shit? Well, it'll only be a matter of time before you show up here too."
"Machine gunner." This was followed by a long fart noise. It was Butt-head from Beavis and Butt-head, and it was playing on a TV in a first floor office near by. We checked it out.
"Hello, my name is Mads."
"What a coincidence," my Mads said. "Mine is too."
The clerk seemed none too impressed. We looked around. There was a Bad Taste poster, a wax model of a dog being shot in the air by a renegade mattress spring, and Pulp Fiction quotes written with a label maker littered everywhere. I picked up a movie. It was titled Deep Cheeks 6. The clerk noticed that.
"We just got that in the other day. Pretty funny. Didn't take long for all my friends to start saying Deep Cheeks about everything."
I looked at Mads, and I think he understood. I cleaned off a seat in front of the desk that was covered in Hunter S. Thompson novels.
"Do you know a man from Maine named Matty?"
"Sure, he's the head office."
"Head office?"
"Yeah. I'm just his Western European branch. I get things when they've outlived their usefulness. Who are you?"
"Um... well, Matty's my personal biographer."
"No shit? Well, it'll only be a matter of time before you show up here too."
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Kobe
A while back, Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were snoring our way through an extremely boring episode of The Hills a few nights ago, when he noticed in the Boston Herald that Kobe Bryant wanted to be traded again.
"Hey, I got an idea."
"Hit me Norwegian Sweet Cheeks."
"You and me are worth like a combined $750 million. What if we offered him money to play for us?"
"Our rec league team?"
"Yeah. We could pay him like $50 mill."
"That's a lot, even for us. I'm worth less than you."
"I'll pitch in more."
His agent wouldn't hear our phone calls. But that got our gears working. Why hadn't we thought of this sooner? Sure, we couldn't get a Kobe, but we could get some cusp talent that's playing for peanuts overseas. We went on the Internet and looked up some names. We were getting excited.
Then our Chinese showed up. We took a break to eat, only to succumb to the dreaded food coma. I woke up drooling with my head on Mads' chest. It was kind of embarrassing.
"Hey, I got an idea."
"Hit me Norwegian Sweet Cheeks."
"You and me are worth like a combined $750 million. What if we offered him money to play for us?"
"Our rec league team?"
"Yeah. We could pay him like $50 mill."
"That's a lot, even for us. I'm worth less than you."
"I'll pitch in more."
His agent wouldn't hear our phone calls. But that got our gears working. Why hadn't we thought of this sooner? Sure, we couldn't get a Kobe, but we could get some cusp talent that's playing for peanuts overseas. We went on the Internet and looked up some names. We were getting excited.
Then our Chinese showed up. We took a break to eat, only to succumb to the dreaded food coma. I woke up drooling with my head on Mads' chest. It was kind of embarrassing.
Driven
Sir Ian McKellen came over to the apartment the other night to watch The Hills with us. The moment he entered the living room, a foul odor permeated throughout.
"God damn it man!" Mads, my Norwegian companion, said.
"Dude, what's that smell?"
"What're you talking about?"
"You, man. What the hell are you wearing?"
"Oh... that's Driven... a sales lady at the perfume counter convinced me to try some on..."
"The Derek Jeter cologne?"
He nodded meekly. Mads and I lost it so bad, we had to pause The Hills until we regained our composure.
"You guys suck. Scoot over, I wanna see if Lauren and Brody hook up."
"God damn it man!" Mads, my Norwegian companion, said.
"Dude, what's that smell?"
"What're you talking about?"
"You, man. What the hell are you wearing?"
"Oh... that's Driven... a sales lady at the perfume counter convinced me to try some on..."
"The Derek Jeter cologne?"
He nodded meekly. Mads and I lost it so bad, we had to pause The Hills until we regained our composure.
"You guys suck. Scoot over, I wanna see if Lauren and Brody hook up."
Those Damn Sox
As a young boy some of my first memories of life on the planet were of the Red Sox in 1975 losing the World Series to the Reds. Three years later, the Sox would break my heart even more by losing the division after a huge 14 game lead to Bucky Dent and the Yankees. If it hadn't been for the Celtics, Boston as a sports city would've sucked.
Well now it's the Celtics who suck (though suddenly not anymore-- thanks Kevin McHale), and the Red Sox do weird shit like not losing divisions to the Yankees after 14 game leads and actually beat teams like the Indians after I'd written them off when they were down 3-1. Of course, this wasn't any of the Sox's doing. They would've lost against the Indians if Matty, my personal biographer, hadn't stopped watching and written them off for dead. Once he did that, their fortunes changed.
While Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were watching The Hills that night, we reflected on the game.
"Until the Sox beat the Rockies, there's nothing yet to differentiate this season from '86."
He made a great point. They still had some work to do. I got on the horn to Matty.
"So, you know how when you stopped watching the Sox they started winning."
"I keep telling you they actually lost game four and I'd stopped after game three. Your superstition doesn't hold. Not only that, but I watched game seven."
I felt betrayed. His little stunt could've cost the Sox an 11th trip to the Big Show.
"I better not find out you've watched game one on Wednesday if they end up losing."
"Beckett's pitching... even I can't jinx that."
"Whatever, just don't watch it."
"I'll get right on that."
So they won number seven, and now they start this season with a good look at number eight. Maybe Matty will help us out down the stretch.
Well now it's the Celtics who suck (though suddenly not anymore-- thanks Kevin McHale), and the Red Sox do weird shit like not losing divisions to the Yankees after 14 game leads and actually beat teams like the Indians after I'd written them off when they were down 3-1. Of course, this wasn't any of the Sox's doing. They would've lost against the Indians if Matty, my personal biographer, hadn't stopped watching and written them off for dead. Once he did that, their fortunes changed.
While Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were watching The Hills that night, we reflected on the game.
"Until the Sox beat the Rockies, there's nothing yet to differentiate this season from '86."
He made a great point. They still had some work to do. I got on the horn to Matty.
"So, you know how when you stopped watching the Sox they started winning."
"I keep telling you they actually lost game four and I'd stopped after game three. Your superstition doesn't hold. Not only that, but I watched game seven."
I felt betrayed. His little stunt could've cost the Sox an 11th trip to the Big Show.
"I better not find out you've watched game one on Wednesday if they end up losing."
"Beckett's pitching... even I can't jinx that."
"Whatever, just don't watch it."
"I'll get right on that."
So they won number seven, and now they start this season with a good look at number eight. Maybe Matty will help us out down the stretch.
You're So Vain
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were out at some clubs the other night, trying to hook up with some women. We were going through a whole host of crazy pick-up lines.
"So," I said to one girl, "you know that 'You're So Vain' song was actually written about me?"
"What?"
"I used to date Carly Simon."
"Who's that?"
"The one who wrote the song."
"What song?"
"'You're So Vain'."
"I've never heard it before."
I left that girl and joined Mads.
"You know that 'You're So Vain' song?" He said.
"Yeah."
"That's about me."
"What? You said you were born in 1970. She wrote 'You're So Vain' about her then three-year old son?"
Saying he's Carly Simon's son...? Damn! Why didn't I think of that?
"So," I said to one girl, "you know that 'You're So Vain' song was actually written about me?"
"What?"
"I used to date Carly Simon."
"Who's that?"
"The one who wrote the song."
"What song?"
"'You're So Vain'."
"I've never heard it before."
I left that girl and joined Mads.
"You know that 'You're So Vain' song?" He said.
"Yeah."
"That's about me."
"What? You said you were born in 1970. She wrote 'You're So Vain' about her then three-year old son?"
Saying he's Carly Simon's son...? Damn! Why didn't I think of that?
My Jewish Princess
I was walking with Mads, my Norwegian companion, the other day around Newbury Street, just killing a little time while buying things. An attractive woman caught my eye, and I felt my heart sink: I knew her.
Mads recognized my sudden distress and asked if I was all right. I nodded in the affirmative, then directed him to follow me to the Starbucks nearby.
"Did you see that woman with the leopard print bag?"
"The chick with the two kids on her arms? What of it? She was a tad on the overweight side."
I sighed.
That slightly overweight mom with the leopard print bag was once a stunning girl who I had my eye on when we went to high school together. She was a fine Jewish girl with big tits and this cute little smile that made me melt in my 17-year old Air Jordans. I finally managed to get her attention, and we dated some. She would talk about sex incessantly, and one night, when her parents weren't home, I hoped to seal the deal.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday. She had on this tight dress and her hair was sufficiently teased as was the style back then. I had on some form-fitting acid wash jeans that made it difficult to get comfortable on her parents couch. Anyway, after some fooling around, she burst into tears when I made an attempt to go further. She was a virgin. She was afraid to go all the way.
I stuck it out with her for a few more months, but we didn't have much in common: me being a poor Brockton hockey player, and her being the daughter of an upper-middle class accountant. But seeing her again brought back memories and what-might-have-beens. I felt the same ache I did on that night twenty years ago.
"Well," Mads said. "Unless she went the Branjelina route, she ain't no virgin anymore."
Mads recognized my sudden distress and asked if I was all right. I nodded in the affirmative, then directed him to follow me to the Starbucks nearby.
"Did you see that woman with the leopard print bag?"
"The chick with the two kids on her arms? What of it? She was a tad on the overweight side."
I sighed.
That slightly overweight mom with the leopard print bag was once a stunning girl who I had my eye on when we went to high school together. She was a fine Jewish girl with big tits and this cute little smile that made me melt in my 17-year old Air Jordans. I finally managed to get her attention, and we dated some. She would talk about sex incessantly, and one night, when her parents weren't home, I hoped to seal the deal.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday. She had on this tight dress and her hair was sufficiently teased as was the style back then. I had on some form-fitting acid wash jeans that made it difficult to get comfortable on her parents couch. Anyway, after some fooling around, she burst into tears when I made an attempt to go further. She was a virgin. She was afraid to go all the way.
I stuck it out with her for a few more months, but we didn't have much in common: me being a poor Brockton hockey player, and her being the daughter of an upper-middle class accountant. But seeing her again brought back memories and what-might-have-beens. I felt the same ache I did on that night twenty years ago.
"Well," Mads said. "Unless she went the Branjelina route, she ain't no virgin anymore."
250-- No Clue
Matty, my personal biographer, stopped by the other day to see what was up.
"You know," he said, "this next blog will be the 250th."
"Wow, that many? Do a lot of people read them?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know. MySpace says I get like 30-35 views per blog, you know what I mean?"
"Wow. And how many posts do you make a week?"
"Like three. So that's like 115 total views, which is cool. The main issue is I don't know who's actually viewing it."
"What about your friends?"
"Will they stand their ground?
"Not the TLC song, are your friends viewing the blog?"
"Oh yeah, but not to the tune of 115 times a week."
"Weird. And these other people don't leave comments?"
"Only when they're bots trying to get me to sign up for surveys for $500 a week. But I don't see them much anymore either."
"So you don't know who's out there reading this thing?"
"No clue."
"You know," he said, "this next blog will be the 250th."
"Wow, that many? Do a lot of people read them?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know. MySpace says I get like 30-35 views per blog, you know what I mean?"
"Wow. And how many posts do you make a week?"
"Like three. So that's like 115 total views, which is cool. The main issue is I don't know who's actually viewing it."
"What about your friends?"
"Will they stand their ground?
"Not the TLC song, are your friends viewing the blog?"
"Oh yeah, but not to the tune of 115 times a week."
"Weird. And these other people don't leave comments?"
"Only when they're bots trying to get me to sign up for surveys for $500 a week. But I don't see them much anymore either."
"So you don't know who's out there reading this thing?"
"No clue."
Where Were you Mads?
I was watching the new Tim Gunn show (boring) the other night, when Mads, my Norwegian companion, came through the door. I hadn't seen him in a while. From inside his coat, I could see what looked to be a Foot Locker employee's shirt.
"All right, Mads, I bite, what gives."
He stopped at his door, turned, and opened his coat all the way. He really looked like a Foot Locker employee now.
"Dude," I said, "if you needed money that bad, you should've told me. There's no need to get a job at Foot Locker."
"Very funny. I'm working as a ref for the WWE."
I went to say something, but was too nonplussed for words. With my pause, he went back to going into his room. He came out later in his normal attire of white button-up dress shirt and designer jeans.
"So how is this Tim Gunn show?"
"Boring."
"All right, Mads, I bite, what gives."
He stopped at his door, turned, and opened his coat all the way. He really looked like a Foot Locker employee now.
"Dude," I said, "if you needed money that bad, you should've told me. There's no need to get a job at Foot Locker."
"Very funny. I'm working as a ref for the WWE."
I went to say something, but was too nonplussed for words. With my pause, he went back to going into his room. He came out later in his normal attire of white button-up dress shirt and designer jeans.
"So how is this Tim Gunn show?"
"Boring."
Mads: Mandy
I went out to some clubs with my Boston Friend the other night. We met a bunch of girls and invited them to our VIP booth. One was named Mandy.
"I'm going to BU to study psychology," she said.
"Yeah, and you also came and you gave without taking," I said.
"And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking," my Boston friend said.
"What're you guys talking about?"
Obviously not a Fannilow. The entire rest of the night, anything she brought up was followed by a "and you came and you gave without taking, and we sent you away". At first she was slightly nonplussed and obdurately avoided humoring us with laughter; but later she actually would beat us to the punch and give the line herself.
She was also great in the sack. Oh Mandy.
"I'm going to BU to study psychology," she said.
"Yeah, and you also came and you gave without taking," I said.
"And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking," my Boston friend said.
"What're you guys talking about?"
Obviously not a Fannilow. The entire rest of the night, anything she brought up was followed by a "and you came and you gave without taking, and we sent you away". At first she was slightly nonplussed and obdurately avoided humoring us with laughter; but later she actually would beat us to the punch and give the line herself.
She was also great in the sack. Oh Mandy.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Music
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I love music. The only thing we love more than music is talking about music.
"I know I'm Norwegian, so my opinion might not be as high as another's, but Michael McDonald's 'What a Fool Believes' has to be the best song ever."
"Man, it's hard to argue with it, no doubt. There's nothing like dropping a few tabs of acid and listening to that for hours on a loop. On the other hand, you can't front on 'Rich Girl'. I mean, come on, You're a rich girl, and it's gone too far... you can rely on the old man's money."
"Um, yeah, but that hits below the belt a tad, because I do rely on the old man's money."
"Do you call your father your old man in Norway?"
"Nope."
"I didn't think so."
"I know I'm Norwegian, so my opinion might not be as high as another's, but Michael McDonald's 'What a Fool Believes' has to be the best song ever."
"Man, it's hard to argue with it, no doubt. There's nothing like dropping a few tabs of acid and listening to that for hours on a loop. On the other hand, you can't front on 'Rich Girl'. I mean, come on, You're a rich girl, and it's gone too far... you can rely on the old man's money."
"Um, yeah, but that hits below the belt a tad, because I do rely on the old man's money."
"Do you call your father your old man in Norway?"
"Nope."
"I didn't think so."
The Chick Part
After the whole King of Slide Shows debacle, Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I decided we needed a night out together, so we went to our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, Addis Red Sea.
"Yeah," I said. "So I had this dream last night where I was hanging out with some people and I was singing Pet Shop Boys' 'What Have I Done to Deserve This', and Parker Posey was there, and she hit me with her shoe to get me to stop. It was done in jest, but it still hurt."
"Were you singing the chick part?"
"What other part is there? Since you went away...."
"Yeah, I know it." He took a bite of food from his pancake. "But you could've been singing the What've I, What've I, What've I done to deserve this part. That would make sense too."
"But would it illicit an even-in-jest shoe toss?"
"I guess you're right."
I can't even try... to act like I don't like your vibe...
"Whoa," I said. "Is that Mike Phillips?"
"I think so, featuring that other guy."
"Yeah, the other guy... why would they playing that here?"
We called over the waitress. Apparently she's a huge Philly soul fan. Who knew?
"Yeah," I said. "So I had this dream last night where I was hanging out with some people and I was singing Pet Shop Boys' 'What Have I Done to Deserve This', and Parker Posey was there, and she hit me with her shoe to get me to stop. It was done in jest, but it still hurt."
"Were you singing the chick part?"
"What other part is there? Since you went away...."
"Yeah, I know it." He took a bite of food from his pancake. "But you could've been singing the What've I, What've I, What've I done to deserve this part. That would make sense too."
"But would it illicit an even-in-jest shoe toss?"
"I guess you're right."
I can't even try... to act like I don't like your vibe...
"Whoa," I said. "Is that Mike Phillips?"
"I think so, featuring that other guy."
"Yeah, the other guy... why would they playing that here?"
We called over the waitress. Apparently she's a huge Philly soul fan. Who knew?
Mads: Kenji Jojima
I was riding the Red Line for a while, just getting my head together. There was a Japanese guy sitting next to me who looked a lot like Mariners catcher Kenji Jojima.
Jo-Ji-Ma... just kind of rolls off the tongue: Jo-Ji-Ma...
"Excuse me sir, I couldn't help noticing... um, are you Mariners catcher Kenji Jojima?"
"No," he said. "But I get that all the time. It's a great name, though, huh?... Jo-Ji-Ma."
We said it together: Jo-Ji-Ma.
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Corey Feldman?"
Jo-Ji-Ma... just kind of rolls off the tongue: Jo-Ji-Ma...
"Excuse me sir, I couldn't help noticing... um, are you Mariners catcher Kenji Jojima?"
"No," he said. "But I get that all the time. It's a great name, though, huh?... Jo-Ji-Ma."
We said it together: Jo-Ji-Ma.
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Corey Feldman?"
The King of Slide Shows
I came home a few days ago and just wanted to relax. It was a tough week, and all I could think about was stretching out on the couch and watching the C's game. But Mads, my Norwegian companion, had other ideas.
Upon entering my living room, I noticed the place was black with the only light coming from a slide projector on the other side, where the TV would be. All the furniture had been pushed to the edges and was replaced by folding chairs set in rows and filled with myriad people that I'd never met before. One of them, a cowboy sitting at the back and right in front of me, turned, looked me in the eyes, and shrugged his shoulders. There was a man at the screen singing: I am The King... The King of Slide Shows...
"Mads, can I have a word?"
We went out into the hallway.
"What's up, boss? How you like the show?"
"What the hell is all this?"
"He's The King of Slide Shows. Isn't he grand?"
"No, I want him and everyone else out in two and two."
"No can do, boss."
"What? Why?"
"He's The King of Slide Shows. You don't just kick him out."
"I do."
Upon entering my living room, I noticed the place was black with the only light coming from a slide projector on the other side, where the TV would be. All the furniture had been pushed to the edges and was replaced by folding chairs set in rows and filled with myriad people that I'd never met before. One of them, a cowboy sitting at the back and right in front of me, turned, looked me in the eyes, and shrugged his shoulders. There was a man at the screen singing: I am The King... The King of Slide Shows...
"Mads, can I have a word?"
We went out into the hallway.
"What's up, boss? How you like the show?"
"What the hell is all this?"
"He's The King of Slide Shows. Isn't he grand?"
"No, I want him and everyone else out in two and two."
"No can do, boss."
"What? Why?"
"He's The King of Slide Shows. You don't just kick him out."
"I do."
Rondo!
Gwen, the Cappie, met up with me and Mads, my Norwegian companion, at Starbucks the other day. She had two friends with her.
"This is Rondo, and this is--"
She didn't get to the second one.
"Rondo!"
"So what're you guys up to--"
"Rondooooooooo!
I just yelled that continually for the rest of the day, even after we left them. Mads went with a different approach.
"Hey Rondo, what's shaking? Can a brother get some skin? Where's my double dime? Oh, it's like that?"
I don't think I've had so much fun in a long time. Rondooooooo! Some random person asked if we were talking about the Celtics point guard.
"Um, no, duh, his name's Rajon. We're talkin' 'bout Rondooooo!"
"Rondooooo!"
"This is Rondo, and this is--"
She didn't get to the second one.
"Rondo!"
"So what're you guys up to--"
"Rondooooooooo!
I just yelled that continually for the rest of the day, even after we left them. Mads went with a different approach.
"Hey Rondo, what's shaking? Can a brother get some skin? Where's my double dime? Oh, it's like that?"
I don't think I've had so much fun in a long time. Rondooooooo! Some random person asked if we were talking about the Celtics point guard.
"Um, no, duh, his name's Rajon. We're talkin' 'bout Rondooooo!"
"Rondooooo!"
He was so Hung
With a new Top Chef starting recently, I'm reminded of how the last one ended the only way it could: with Hung winning. With a name like that, there was really no other choice the judges could make.
Of course, this created a whole new set of problems. Mads, my Norwegian companion, had had, as the Northern Europeans would say, a nose full of my Hung jokes, and he had to know with Hung taking the final, all bets would be off.
"I must say, you did well... Hung."
"Stop it."
"But he's just so... I don't know... Hung."
"I'm serious."
"If I meet him, I'll be like 'Wow, you're Hung!'"
"That's it, it's go time!"
He flipped the table over and acted like he wanted a fight.
"I didn't know you were so massive... ly Hung."
"All right, that was a huge stretch. You can't be massively. It's an adverb. It's either 'massive, Hung', or 'massively hung'."
"Well it's my name game, and I want it to be both."
Of course, this created a whole new set of problems. Mads, my Norwegian companion, had had, as the Northern Europeans would say, a nose full of my Hung jokes, and he had to know with Hung taking the final, all bets would be off.
"I must say, you did well... Hung."
"Stop it."
"But he's just so... I don't know... Hung."
"I'm serious."
"If I meet him, I'll be like 'Wow, you're Hung!'"
"That's it, it's go time!"
He flipped the table over and acted like he wanted a fight.
"I didn't know you were so massive... ly Hung."
"All right, that was a huge stretch. You can't be massively. It's an adverb. It's either 'massive, Hung', or 'massively hung'."
"Well it's my name game, and I want it to be both."
Mayor McCheese: So There
What was I doing dating a stripper? Sure, they're all kinds of hot, but a little nutty too, if you know what I mean?
So anyway, I'm dating this chick named Neveah, heaven spelled backwards. At least that was her stripper name, which isn't bad for a stripper name. Her real name was Betty, I think, but it doesn't matter.
I had Ronald over the other day, because I needed to sign some papers. This was like noonish, and Neveah comes thundering in, telling me she needs me to get her an 8-ball toot sweet. Of course the whole thing was kind of embarrassing, because Ronald was there, and I hate it when he judges me.
I tried shooing her off, but she was too strung out to get the hint, and started screaming at me to not patronize her. I needed to do something quick. I threw a Rubik's Cube at her, hitting her above the eye, which caused her to fall back and hit her head on the corner of a table. Upon examination, I realized I'd killed her. I'd acted again without thinking. Ronald sighed.
"Another mess you need me to clean up for you, I guess."
I snapped my fingers, and Big Mac aficionado Ron Gorske and the Hamburglar wrapped the body up in plastic and set to work sanitizing the area.
"I should have this one under control," I said. So there.
So anyway, I'm dating this chick named Neveah, heaven spelled backwards. At least that was her stripper name, which isn't bad for a stripper name. Her real name was Betty, I think, but it doesn't matter.
I had Ronald over the other day, because I needed to sign some papers. This was like noonish, and Neveah comes thundering in, telling me she needs me to get her an 8-ball toot sweet. Of course the whole thing was kind of embarrassing, because Ronald was there, and I hate it when he judges me.
I tried shooing her off, but she was too strung out to get the hint, and started screaming at me to not patronize her. I needed to do something quick. I threw a Rubik's Cube at her, hitting her above the eye, which caused her to fall back and hit her head on the corner of a table. Upon examination, I realized I'd killed her. I'd acted again without thinking. Ronald sighed.
"Another mess you need me to clean up for you, I guess."
I snapped my fingers, and Big Mac aficionado Ron Gorske and the Hamburglar wrapped the body up in plastic and set to work sanitizing the area.
"I should have this one under control," I said. So there.
Oktoberfest
According to AOL, Oktoberfest at Harvard Square was supposed to be on Saturday, September 29th. I called Matty, my personal biographer, to see if he was still going.
"Nope, it's next weekend."
Christ, he was right, and AOL was wrong: it is next weekend. I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought we should do instead.
"I have tickets to Masturbatory Overtones at the Avalon."
"Who's opening?"
"Um... let me see... oh... Ass Hymen and Gentleman's Cinema."
"Let's do it. I love Ass Hymen. I hope they do "Give Me Back My Futon, Ralph."
"Yeah, that's a classic."
"Nope, it's next weekend."
Christ, he was right, and AOL was wrong: it is next weekend. I asked Mads, my Norwegian companion, what he thought we should do instead.
"I have tickets to Masturbatory Overtones at the Avalon."
"Who's opening?"
"Um... let me see... oh... Ass Hymen and Gentleman's Cinema."
"Let's do it. I love Ass Hymen. I hope they do "Give Me Back My Futon, Ralph."
"Yeah, that's a classic."
Goodtimes on VH-1
As you may know, two Thanksgivings ago, Matty, my personal biographer, in an attempt to track down scammers from Cote D'Ivoire, accidentally adopted a toddler, his two-year old son Goodtimes, because his French was bad. Anyway, Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were watching one of those stupid celebrity gossip shows on VH-1, because we'd misplaced the remote, and didn't feel like getting up to change the channel after The Pick-up Artist.
This particular show focused on celebrities adopting babies from exotic locations. We were totally nonplussed when they mentioned Matty's mishap. We had to call him immediately.
"Hey, guess what? You're famous. You were on VH-1."
"No shit. I could've told you that."
"No you couldn't have. What're you famous for?"
"What am I not famous for?"
"Wha--?"
"Hey, I can't be bothered to talk to you now, Michael McDonald's 'What a Fool Believes' is on the radio. It's the best song ever."
"Are you kid--"
"Shhh! After the song."
This particular show focused on celebrities adopting babies from exotic locations. We were totally nonplussed when they mentioned Matty's mishap. We had to call him immediately.
"Hey, guess what? You're famous. You were on VH-1."
"No shit. I could've told you that."
"No you couldn't have. What're you famous for?"
"What am I not famous for?"
"Wha--?"
"Hey, I can't be bothered to talk to you now, Michael McDonald's 'What a Fool Believes' is on the radio. It's the best song ever."
"Are you kid--"
"Shhh! After the song."
Mads: My Von Dutch Trucker Hat
Capriciousness is nothing new to me. I spend money on and do whatever I feel like usually. But just the same, I'd say my one regret, of all the crazy stuff I've done, was my buying a lot of Von Dutch trucker hats.
At $45 a pop, it doesn't sound like much of an investment, but considering I bought hundreds of them in all kinds of colors and styles, things get hairy. Of course, it was only a matter of time, and the market dropped: the Von Dutch trucker hat was hopelessly out of fashion. I'd wasted more money on more frivolous things before, but I think nothing hurt like this. I mean I had a closet full of these things, but I didn't want to wear them for fear of looking like a tool.
No one wants to look like a tool. Just ask Rocco Despireto (sp?).
At $45 a pop, it doesn't sound like much of an investment, but considering I bought hundreds of them in all kinds of colors and styles, things get hairy. Of course, it was only a matter of time, and the market dropped: the Von Dutch trucker hat was hopelessly out of fashion. I'd wasted more money on more frivolous things before, but I think nothing hurt like this. I mean I had a closet full of these things, but I didn't want to wear them for fear of looking like a tool.
No one wants to look like a tool. Just ask Rocco Despireto (sp?).
Click-Clack
Mads, my Norwegian companion, Matty, my personal biographer, Gwen, the Cappie, and I were all discussing the finale of The Pick-up Artist at my apartment, when the phone went off.
"Hello?"
"'Ello."
"Who is this?"
"This head ball coach*."
"What? Who the hell are you?"
"Well yeah, I told you he could really go, din I?"
"What in God's hell are you talking about?"
"All right now, click-clack."
And the line went dead.
"Who was that?" Mads said.
"I have no idea. Maybe a wrong number, or a drug deal gone bad. Anyway, where were we?"
"Saying that Dylan guy looked like a lesbian after Brady gave him his make-over."
*There is really no punctuation mark in the English language suitable to denote the omission of the word "is" between the "this" and "head ball coach" in that sentence due to a thick Southern accent. But it should read like that.
"Hello?"
"'Ello."
"Who is this?"
"This head ball coach*."
"What? Who the hell are you?"
"Well yeah, I told you he could really go, din I?"
"What in God's hell are you talking about?"
"All right now, click-clack."
And the line went dead.
"Who was that?" Mads said.
"I have no idea. Maybe a wrong number, or a drug deal gone bad. Anyway, where were we?"
"Saying that Dylan guy looked like a lesbian after Brady gave him his make-over."
*There is really no punctuation mark in the English language suitable to denote the omission of the word "is" between the "this" and "head ball coach" in that sentence due to a thick Southern accent. But it should read like that.
The Juice
With OJ Simpson back in the news after he allegedly robbed some memorabilia salesman at gun point of memorabilia they stole from him, I thought it would be interesting to discuss my one meeting with the man.
It was back in 1987. OJ was filming another Hertz commercial where he runs through the airport, well before he became the OJ we've all grown to know and love. I was an extra in the ad. After shooting, I was allowed five minutes with him. None of us had any idea that a short seven years later OJ would be OJ.
The most vivid memory I have of meeting Mr. Simpson was his eyes when he looked at me after autographing a picture of him. It was like he was okay with meeting me for a few seconds, but if I pushed it, there would be repercussions. Listening to the audio of the robbery (only sports memorabilia salesmen would record their own armed robbery), one tidbit stood out. After he yelled "You think you can steal my shit?" the other guy replies "Mike took it." Thinking back to myself as a 17-year old boy and witnessing those OJ eyes, all I can say too is "Mike took it". Mike took it.
It was back in 1987. OJ was filming another Hertz commercial where he runs through the airport, well before he became the OJ we've all grown to know and love. I was an extra in the ad. After shooting, I was allowed five minutes with him. None of us had any idea that a short seven years later OJ would be OJ.
The most vivid memory I have of meeting Mr. Simpson was his eyes when he looked at me after autographing a picture of him. It was like he was okay with meeting me for a few seconds, but if I pushed it, there would be repercussions. Listening to the audio of the robbery (only sports memorabilia salesmen would record their own armed robbery), one tidbit stood out. After he yelled "You think you can steal my shit?" the other guy replies "Mike took it." Thinking back to myself as a 17-year old boy and witnessing those OJ eyes, all I can say too is "Mike took it". Mike took it.
An Open Letter to Justin Bobby
I took some time off a while back, in order to rediscover who I am. I was confused, to say the least.
I had been watching a lot of The Hills, and I found my self totally befuddled by the concept of Audrina's not-so-erstwhile boyfriend, Justin Bobby. In my mind, there was just no way possible for this guy to exist outside the bounds of the show. I asked my personal biographer Matty if he thought MTV invented him.
"I can't imagine. As a writer myself, I could see inventing a Spencer, or even an Audrina; but a Justin Bobby... that would take an immense talent, one whose special skills would be wasted in developing a persona for a reality show."
I wasn't as easily convinced, or at the very least, I needed to see this thing myself, outside the filter of the TV camera. I flew out to LA, in hopes of seeing a Justin Bobby in the wild.
A local source familiar with the situation (Sir Ian McKellen) told me where Mr. Justin Bobby hangs out. I found out that Justin Bobby not only exists, but the MTV portrayal of him was spot on, or perhaps they went a little easy on him. He had the same voice, hair, and attitude. I was flabbergasted.
I took some time and sat on Venice Beach, watching the waves. If an individual like a Justin Bobby actually existed, the next logical question had to be: do I? Everything that I thought was true and right had been tossed out the window. I felt like going back to him. I had more questions now: how did you become so ridiculous? do you know you're that ridiculous? are there more like you? what do your parents think?
It was like a bad acid trip. In my 37 years on the planet I had never experienced anything like it. I had no proof anymore that I was real. I felt it was time to end the madness, and I drank a fifth of Don Julio and walked towards the surf, ready to let it take me into that long goodnight.
I woke up the next day with a face full of sand. Some kids had been covering me on the beach, and their mom found me, thinking I was dead. I spit some of the sand out, and thanked them for their generosity. Without showering, I packed my things and boarded a plane back to Boston.
I had been watching a lot of The Hills, and I found my self totally befuddled by the concept of Audrina's not-so-erstwhile boyfriend, Justin Bobby. In my mind, there was just no way possible for this guy to exist outside the bounds of the show. I asked my personal biographer Matty if he thought MTV invented him.
"I can't imagine. As a writer myself, I could see inventing a Spencer, or even an Audrina; but a Justin Bobby... that would take an immense talent, one whose special skills would be wasted in developing a persona for a reality show."
I wasn't as easily convinced, or at the very least, I needed to see this thing myself, outside the filter of the TV camera. I flew out to LA, in hopes of seeing a Justin Bobby in the wild.
A local source familiar with the situation (Sir Ian McKellen) told me where Mr. Justin Bobby hangs out. I found out that Justin Bobby not only exists, but the MTV portrayal of him was spot on, or perhaps they went a little easy on him. He had the same voice, hair, and attitude. I was flabbergasted.
I took some time and sat on Venice Beach, watching the waves. If an individual like a Justin Bobby actually existed, the next logical question had to be: do I? Everything that I thought was true and right had been tossed out the window. I felt like going back to him. I had more questions now: how did you become so ridiculous? do you know you're that ridiculous? are there more like you? what do your parents think?
It was like a bad acid trip. In my 37 years on the planet I had never experienced anything like it. I had no proof anymore that I was real. I felt it was time to end the madness, and I drank a fifth of Don Julio and walked towards the surf, ready to let it take me into that long goodnight.
I woke up the next day with a face full of sand. Some kids had been covering me on the beach, and their mom found me, thinking I was dead. I spit some of the sand out, and thanked them for their generosity. Without showering, I packed my things and boarded a plane back to Boston.
Whaddaya Think?
I was sitting on a bench at the Harvard Square T station the other day, when a man who looked an awful lot like Brian Dennehy sat down next to me. I tried to ignore him while I read my book, Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky, which I started reading because Matty called out Mads the other day, saying a traveling tale of his was a fabrication lifted from the post World War II novel.
"So," he said, "waddaya think?"
I looked up. He nodded his head in the direction of an old Asian woman bending down to get something out of one of her myriad bags.
"Not bad, huh?" I shook my head incredulously. "Believe me, at my age, you gotta take what you can get, and nothing's better than an old Asian woman. They're minxes in the sack."
"Dude, you're Brian Dennehy. You can get tons of chicks."
"Who told you I was Brian Dennehy?"
"So," he said, "waddaya think?"
I looked up. He nodded his head in the direction of an old Asian woman bending down to get something out of one of her myriad bags.
"Not bad, huh?" I shook my head incredulously. "Believe me, at my age, you gotta take what you can get, and nothing's better than an old Asian woman. They're minxes in the sack."
"Dude, you're Brian Dennehy. You can get tons of chicks."
"Who told you I was Brian Dennehy?"
Mads: A Night in Tunisia
I was hanging out with my Boston friend, as I usually do, and we found ourselves trading traveling stories, and all the shit we've gotten into.
"What about that time," he said, "when you almost got killed by those Arabs in Tunisia?"
Wow, what about that night?
I had taken a walk, leaving my friend behind at the hotel. I got a little lost, and crouched down on the curb to smoke a cigarette. Then a swarthy looking fellow approached me. I tried getting rid of him, but he followed me around, as I became even more confused on what part of the city I was in. He took me into a cafe, filled with more swarthy Arab types, and mentioned a woman I should get with, his whore, who wouldn't cost too much money.
Matty the Mainer, who was with my Boston friend and I as we were re-telling these tales, interrupted me.
"This never happened to you."
"Are you calling me a liar?" I said.
"Sure. Let me guess the rest of the story. You're left alone in a tent in some remote area with the woman, and you find her trying to expropriate your wallet. Am I right so far?"
I nodded, a tad incredulous.
"So you secure your wallet, push her away, and she screams, alerting the Arab guys in the tent next door. Now you're in it; you run as fast as you can, barely escaping with your life."
"So you've heard the story, what're you getting at?"
"It's not your story."
"The hell it ain't."
"The hell it is. It's from Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky. You're a moron."
I was nonplussed.
"So next you're going to tell me I don't exist," I said.
"Well, if the shoe fits..."
"What about that time," he said, "when you almost got killed by those Arabs in Tunisia?"
Wow, what about that night?
I had taken a walk, leaving my friend behind at the hotel. I got a little lost, and crouched down on the curb to smoke a cigarette. Then a swarthy looking fellow approached me. I tried getting rid of him, but he followed me around, as I became even more confused on what part of the city I was in. He took me into a cafe, filled with more swarthy Arab types, and mentioned a woman I should get with, his whore, who wouldn't cost too much money.
Matty the Mainer, who was with my Boston friend and I as we were re-telling these tales, interrupted me.
"This never happened to you."
"Are you calling me a liar?" I said.
"Sure. Let me guess the rest of the story. You're left alone in a tent in some remote area with the woman, and you find her trying to expropriate your wallet. Am I right so far?"
I nodded, a tad incredulous.
"So you secure your wallet, push her away, and she screams, alerting the Arab guys in the tent next door. Now you're in it; you run as fast as you can, barely escaping with your life."
"So you've heard the story, what're you getting at?"
"It's not your story."
"The hell it ain't."
"The hell it is. It's from Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky. You're a moron."
I was nonplussed.
"So next you're going to tell me I don't exist," I said.
"Well, if the shoe fits..."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
