Friday, October 15, 2004
thoughts on a Friday
I don't know what theatrical pairing I'm more excited about: Queen Latifah joining forces with Jimmy Fallon, or George Costanza finally (finally!) pairing up with Theo Huxtable to create the greatest television the world will ever see until, at the earliest, the 23rd century.
First, The Queen and Fallon. I know you've seen the previews: a buddy comedy featuring Fallon as a bumbling cop and the saucy Queen ("We gotta start playin' to your strengths, and thinking ain't one of 'em") as a cabbie who helps him track down a gang of bandits led by (are you ready for this? I don't think you are!) the model Gisele Bundchen! Como se dice, "Oscar"? Also, como se dice, "I would rather eat my brother's shit using as chopsticks two hypodermic needles filled with retard than pay $10 to sit through two hours of this crap"?
But I think I'm even more pumped that the television gods have smiled upon us and have delivered unto us a savior, a reason for me to make myself throw up the dozen or so barbiturates I just took. Costanza and Theo: Gold. My first question: "What took so long?" My second question: "You're fucking joking, right?" In this show, Costanza and Theo are hosts of a sports talk show, and George has a crazy family! Also, the Ghost of Enis Cosby plays the role of the Theo's crazy and shot up roommate! Hilarity is guaranteed to ensue!
Friends, studios are putting up millions of dollars to produce movies and shows like these. Millions and millions of dollars. Meanwhile, I sit alone in the bedroom of my 21st floor apartment throwing flaming garbage out my window at people below, eating my fingernails and stale bread and washing my clothes in my sink with soap taken from public restrooms because I'm broke, and driving myself to the point of arson because of my unbearable depression and rage.
I know who reads this site. I know how many of you read it. A lot of you do (well, I guess all of you do, if you're reading this right now, but that's not the point). You're telling me not one of you has a uncle in entertainment, a cousin in publishing, an illegitimate child that works as a strip club bouncer and can get me a lapper at half price? Nothing? Not one person in entertainment? Anyone? Bueller?
In the words of Maggie O'Hooligan, "T'anks for nuthin'!" Damn it.
[Two '80's movie references in two sentences? Sweet.]
Speaking of movies, has anyone seen the commercial for the new Sarah Michelle Gellar movie, "The Grudge" (who am I talking to)? It's probably the scariest commercial I've ever seen. What the fuck is up with the little boy with the cat face who meows, and that girl crawling on her hands and knees down the stairs? Holy shitballs! How is it that Janet Jackson can get crucified for showing a little nip for a half second while something that will give me nightmares for the next three or four years is shown repeatedly on prime time television? There's no governing body to determine what is too scary for a commercial? Shouldn't there be one?
Or am I just a total pussy?
My friend Justin completely stole my idea for a make-out mix. Though they don't have the same exact songs, the basic premise is the same, with one minor difference: he listens to his when he's actually kissing a woman, whereas I listen to mine when I have a bellyache from eating too much ice cream too quickly and I want a good cry.
I am vengeful, angry, and shallow person, so I became determined to get back at him, hopefully by stealing his car. When I realized he didn't have a car, I decided to sabotage his make-out mix.
About two weeks ago, my friends and I were over his apartment, when I snuck onto his computer and dropped the Natalie Imbruglia classic "Torn" into his "Mood" mix.
On Sunday of this week, Justin called over to our apartment because the weirdest thing happened: he brought a lady home, put on his mix, and as they progressed and were navigating together through the musty realm of love-making, "Torn" started blaring from his computer and totally ruined the moment. My response, "Wow, that's weird dude. And hilarious."
Well, Justin, I know you're reading this, and I did it. I sabotaged your mixed and stopped you from getting ass. You better check yourself before you wreck yourself. That'll teach you to ever steal my steez, bitch.
And if this doesn't make me the awesomest person of all-time, I don't know what does.
Recently, in my terrible building in my terrible neighborhood, they were redesigning the interior of one of the elevators. The management informed us that this would take ten days.
My building has 34 floors, and each floor has apartments A-M. There are about 1000 people that live in my building. We have three elevators.
What happens when one of the three elevators is out of commission? I have a miserable fucking week.
The comic Norton has a joke that there is no greater rage than the rage one feels when another person is keeping them awake with their loud snoring. I agree, but waiting for an elevator can be pretty bad. Especially when you wait five minutes, then one comes, but it's full and you can't take it. Then four minutes later, another one comes, but it's also full and you can't take it. Finally, after three more minutes, a third comes, and though it's full you push your way on, in the process elbowing a toddler in the head.
Do you know how long 12 minutes is? Especially 12 minutes at 8:30 in the morning when you haven't slept the night before because when you close your eyes you become a psychopath and you don't want to go to work because you're convinced your secretary is trying to poison you? Seriously, look at the clock right now, stop reading, and come back in 12 minutes. I'll wait.
That's a long fucking time, isn't it?
I just don't know why it takes TEN DAYS to redo the interior of an elevator car. They couldn't find anyone to work around the clock and bang this out in a day or two? I mean, ten days? I think I could build a fucking time machine in ten days.
[A joke I made on numerous occasions to others in the elevator in the hopes of meeting some people in my building. However, they would glance over, give an obligatory "Just leave me alone, jerkoff" smile, and look away. It's like as soon as I moved in, terrible rumors started swirling about me. "Did you hear about that new guy on 21? Mulgrew? I heard he strangled like eight babies in the '70's, when he wasn't fixing college basketball and burning the American flag." I mean, I'm just trying to make friends here. Assholes.]
I am dying to see a picture of Kobe Bryant's accuser. I thought I could easily do this on the internet, but googling "picture kobe bryant's accuser", brings up so much crap, and any link I click on doesn't actually have the photos, but four hundred pop-ups instead. Can someone send me her picture? Please?
Before I started having sex (bear with me here), I never understood cheating on a beautiful woman. It's safe to say that I would burn down on orphanage full of Kosovar refugee children to get a handjob from Kobe Bryant's wife, but yet he cheated on her. It's also safe to say that I would that I would murder a puppy a day with my bare hands for the rest of my life to catch a blow job from Halle Berry, and yet her husband cheated as well. Why would anyone ever want to cheat on such a beautiful woman?
1) No matter how attractive a woman is, it just gets old. I'm not saying after a week, or a month, or even a year, but after a while of hitting the same shit every day (or in my case, twice a month and on federal holidays), it just gets old. Most men are able to deal with this, and I guess some people are actually "in love" (pussies), but guys like Kobe and Halle's husband are not like mortal men. You see, they cheat...
2) Because they can. Chris Rock has a great bit in which he says, "Man is only as faithful as his options." I can't imagine what's it like to be able to sleep with any woman you want. Good god almighty. I don't even have a joke here, because when I think about that prospect I can't even think straight. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I could sleep with any woman I wanted without any effort, since I spend at least 80% of my energy thinking of sleeping with women, thinking of which women I'd like to sleep with (pretty much all), thinking of when I'm going to sleep with them (anytime is good for me really), and most importantly, thinking of how I'm going to get them fucked up enough to sleep with me (GHB, or as I like to call it "grievous bodily harm", which is much less potent than Rohypnol but still effective).
Good god...I have to start talking about something else before I have a conniption.
My buddy Fred is always sending inappropriate emails to me at work. Nothing overly terrible, usually containing a lame sexual innuendo, but just enough to make you wince and delete it right away. This doesn't happen every day, but with enough frequency to warrant a "Dude, you can't send that stuff to my work email" email once in a while.
Recently, a group of us were emailing back and forth to each other, all using our work addresses to bust balls about, well, me actually. Eventually they left me alone and my buddy John wrote something about how he recently returned from Vegas with 35 of his friends from Brooklyn. My friend Brendan responded with something like, "35 guys from Brooklyn? That's a lot of hair gel." Then Fred wrote, "You heard about the Brooklynites in WWII, right? For every fifty Jews Hitler threw in the over, he threw in one guy from Brooklyn to grease up the pan."
I feel terrible even repeating this joke here, but I think it's ok, since I almost exclusively date Jewish girls (actually, I think every girl I ever even kissed has either been Jewish, gone to BC, Northwestern, or Georgetown, was from New Jersey, or loved cats, but that's another story), and I've always been down with The Tribe.
But my goodness. I couldn't reach for the delete button fast enough, and in the process knocked my water into my phone and spilled it everywhere. Then I deleted it from my deleted items, and restarted my computer just to be safe.
Everyone responded to Fred saying things like, "Dude, are you crazy? This is my work email!" or "Great, I think I just got fired" or (as I wrote) "First, that's really not appropriate, because you know I love Jewish girls as they are excellent at 'blowing the shofar' if you catch my drift. Secondly, I don't know if you know this, but a lot of NYC lawyers are Jewish, so I don't think it's wise to send such emails to me when the guy who signs my check and more than half of our managing committee celebrates Rosh Hashanah." His response? "Lighten up." This from a guy who gets mad if you send him an email with the word "shit" in it.
So Fred, I'm calling you out. Actually, I'm not calling you out, I'm just begging you not to send me any more emails that have ANY sort of inappropriateness to my work address (and yes, I realize the hypocrisy here, as I'm at work right now writing about "needles filled with retard" but still).
That is all.
Some music to close (see, I put this last, so if you don't give a shit, you can just stop reading).
- "Slaveship" Josh Rouse
The fact that this song is called "Slaveship" irks me to no end. It's equivalent to the Beatles calling it "Let's Assbang" instead of "All You Need Is Love", since this song is a hand-clapping, piano- and bass-driven sing-along that at one points says, "I love you/Would you marry me?" But it does so without being corny, and is possibly the catchiest rock song since Marah's "My Heart Is The Bums On The Street", which I pimped way back here. Get both of them.
- "Loving You Tonight" Squeeze
Whenever I hear this song, I can't help but sing it. Also, I can help from rocking my hips to and fro when the song goes, "Loving you tonight/Feels good". Did you know that the guy singing this, Paul Carrack, was in Squeeze only briefly and had limited singing duties, but he also sang their biggest hit, "Tempted"? He then went on to perform in Mike + The Mechanics, who gave us such glorious and fantabulous hits as "In The Living Years" and "All I Need Is A Miracle" (which coincidentally is one of the greatest music videos of the 1980's, and perhaps the entire millennium).
- "Stay Monkey" Julie Ruin
I don't know if I'm supposed to be terrified or turned on when I listen to this song. How about both? So trippy and sexual and scary...I'm getting weirded out and excited just writing about it.
- "Combat Baby" Metric
A Canadian (gasp!) band, but pretty cool. I don't know anything about this band, but I know the lead singer is a woman, so if liking this makes me gay, well, that's something that I'll have to deal with. The song is about three of my favorite things: fighting, relationships, and forgery. Well, it's not about forgery, but I do love me some forgery.
- "My Lonely Sad Eyes" Them
If you like Van Morrison, you have to listen to Them. This is early Van, before he got all "Browned Eyed Girl", and it's basically just a bunch of dudes from Belfast rocking the fuck out on rock and roll and R&B covers. Really, really good shit.
- "Playground Love" Air
Sure, they're French, but this is quite simply the greatest song to make-out to ever. Ever. Not that I really have a lot of experience in this department, and maybe the reason I don't have a lot of experience in this department is because I say things like, "This is the greatest songs to make-out to ever", but really, let's not judge. It's Friday.
[Have a good weekend.]