Friday, April 22, 2005
no EOTW, crazy monkeys, bad crap, hospital bills, music
This week, I got a wonderfully thought-provoking email from Sarah in DC and I knew immediately it would be the perfect "Email of the Week."
However, because the question is both extremely broad and extremely important, I am not able to give a satisfactory response at this time. I'm up to about 1500 words and there's no end in sight. And I'm not slacking either; realizing how important it was, I actually (gasp!) wrote some last night. But still I couldn't finish it. Fuck.
So therefore, I'll be posting it next week. I'm sorry, but I'll make it worth your while, if you catch my drift (wink wink).
This is so awesome I don't even know what to say.
All I ask is that before I die, something like this happens in New York City. This way I'd have something cool to tell my mom when she calls to see how my day is going: "Well, I got off the subway, and it was crazy - apparently, a bunch of monkeys, like hundreds of them, drank this alcohol made from pot and were fucking wasted and running all around Wall Street. A couple attacked me and one tried to suffocate me with a trash bag, but the good news is that since they were so fucked up, they fought real sloppy and I killed like fifty of those bastards with the shiv I bring to work every day. Also, one lady got her shirt ripped off by the monkeys and I saw her boob. So it was actually pretty cool in the end. How are things with you?"
And another chimp article.
My question: I understand the zoo visitors are throwing the chimp cigarettes, but how the fuck is the chimp lighting the cigarettes? Do the visitors throw him a lighter or does he have a zippo of his own? Or does he pick up matches on his occasional visits to the convenience store? I just want to go on record and say that I don't think we should be giving chimps any sort of flammable device. Could you imagine if the monkeys in the above article had the power of fire at their disposal? Half of India would be burned and we'd have to send in troops. So please, keeps all matches and lighters away from monkeys. Thank you.
(And thanks to my buddy John for both links. I don't know if he has a monkey fetish or what, but I'm definitely creeped out.)
Speaking of emails, my buddy Dave emailed me today (the subject of the email was “THE TRUTH”):
Correct me if I am wrong - but you are the WORST prognosticator EVER. Looking over your blog you state that the entire league should call it quits for the '04 MLB season because the Yanks got A-Rod. Boston went on to win the series that year. You also pointed out that Curtis Martin was old and washed up - what did he do? He won the NFL rushing title that year. You lobbied for John Kerry and the Philadelphia Eagles - result - 2 losses. You raved that Randy Johnson will be great with the Yanks and even picked him as the number 1 overall fantasy pick - HE STINKS THIS YEAR!I called Dave after receiving this email, and he pointed out some additional things: my birthday party was a disaster, having been held in the middle of July at a bar with a broken air conditioning system; I made a terrible decision by moving from the Lower East Side to the Upper East Side which I’ve complaining about weekly since last June; and I got maced by some Asian kids last time I was in Boston last month. This is all true. Sad and true.
Please no matter what you do - never write anything about me or my family on the blog. Please refrain of thinking of me or my family. You are a jinx and I hope that you do not ruin anyone else's career who you constantly plug on your blog.
So maybe you guys asking for links should reconsider. OR maybe Dave should just shut the fuck up, because I’d like to point out that I’m currently in four fantasy baseball leagues and I’m in first place in all of them (yes ladies, all this can be yours). Additionally, I participated in three NCAA tournament brackets this past March, and won one (no prize money), came in second in another (won $12), and didn’t place in the third (entry fee: $50).
So suck it. My luck is fine.
For the most part (I mean, there is a reason why this site is called "Everything is wrong with me" - assholes).
I received a wonderful piece of (regular) mail this week: a $427 bill from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Chelsea for emergency room services rendered.
Without going into too much detail because my parents are probably reading this (Mom, at least you know by now that I’m not gay), a slight narcotics-induced incident brought me to the emergency room last February, a week or two before I started this blog.
[Actually, this incident caused me to start this here blog. Because I thought I was dying, I said, “Damn, I’d better do something meaningful. Hey, how ‘bout an internet diary? That sounds cool and totally original.” And here we are.]
[Actually, I just made that up - that’s a total lie. My hospital visit didn’t inspire to start this blog. The visit to the hospital had a reverse effect: I had done a lot of bad things to my body, specifically my liver, heart, and nervous system, and I thought the doctors would say, “Damn, you gotta stop with that shit because you’re in bad shape.” Instead, they said, “Damn, you’re really fucking healthy, and there’s absolutely no way that should be possible.” Jason Mulgrew: Indestructible.]
Anyway, so I just got this bill for $427. I know that my insurance would cover this, as I accidentally picked the most expensive insurance last year to the tune of $3000 out of my checks, so I’m sure there’s some insurance mix-up. But now an epic battle is being waged in my head, and no, I’m not talking about the “C’mon, let’s just give one handjob to see how we like it” one. It’s laziness vs. cheapness.
Like I said, I’m sure my insurance would cover this bill. However, I can’t express how daunting calling an insurance company is (though I have absolutely no evidence to back this up). Instead of trying to get through all the red tape, speaking to ten different insurance reps over two weeks, and being on hold for a combined fifty-odd hours, I could easily write the check to the hospital and forget the whole thing.
However, I am broke. Not broke like those people who talk about how broke they are but then eat out every night and buy all sorts of goodies, but broke like I went to the dry cleaner yesterday and my debit card was declined so I had to take my clothes back to my apartment and get them cleaned the next day after I borrowed some cash from my roommates. And I don't get paid for seven days. That's broke.
So we're at a crossroads. On the one hand, there is unconscionable laziness. On the other, there's destitution. More to come as this drama unfolds...
The moral: stay away from drugs. Or do all the drugs you want, but don't go to the hospital, because it's as expensive as a mother fucker.
Yeah, I like that second one better.
“Saint Dominic’s Preview” Van Morrison
Van Morrison is so much better than you realize. His greatest hits, which are often poppy and/or saccharine, do not best represent his music. If you want to listen to the real Van Morrison, buy three albums: 1) “The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison”; 2) “Moondance”; and 3) “Saint Dominic’s Preview”. Now here’s the tricky part – skip the songs you’ve already heard. Van fucking rocks, especially on this smooth and funky number, which will have you pounding your fist in the air, singing along. I am very serious about this. Just trust me.
And while we're at it...
"Madame George" Van Morrison
Simply put: the best song about a drug-dispensing transvestite brothel owner ever (in English - there are some beautiful Russian ballads on this subject). I love this song because it sounds like it was recorded in the same brothel that it talks about: lots of background noises, Van starts the song by yelling at someone, people yell throughout the song, etc. Fucking cool.
"Question" Moody Blues
My roommate Brian and I have a term for music like this: Asshole Rock. You know what I'm talking about: poetic lyrics that are terrible and awkward, big sweeping string accompaniments, some asshole with a thick British accent crooning, etc. The Moody Blues are the quintessential Asshole Rock band (another that comes immediately to mind is Procul Harem). I actually hate this song, but I think it's so ridiculous I figured I'd mention it.
"Why Can't This Be Love" Van Halen
I realized something recently that I never thought possible: I am a Sammy Hagar guy. For years, I thought I preferred David Lee Roth, but maybe because I'm getting older, I'm leaning more toward the Sammy songs. Also, the longer I go without sex or even heavy petting, the more sentimental I get. Songs like "Why Can't This Be Love", "When It's Love", "Don't Tell Me What Love Can Do", and "I Can't Stop Loving You" appeal to me more than "Hot For Teacher", "Panama", "You Really Got Me" and "Jump". But since I can't do anything about it, I have but one choice: revel in it. So bring on the Hagar tunes.
Possibly the worst song ever written. As a matter of fact, I don't think it's even close - this is the worst song ever written. And yet when I was ten it was the greatest thing to have happened to me up to that point in my life. And I still kinda like it, especially when Prince moans, "Oh yeah, oh yeah/I wanna bust that body" over the Vicky Vale part. God he is a sexy bitch.
"You're Only King Once" Beulah
This songs makes me want to walk around in a leather jacket on a gray day, thinking about my black girlfriend, who just broke up with me because I spent all the money I earned on my last acting job, a commercial for Dove, on expensive vodka, fine linens, and this fucking leather jacket. We'd only been dating for six weeks, but it was intense, passionate. We didn't care what people thought about our relationship - her, a Nubian princess who sang jazz and cooked Creole food, and me, a fat Irish Catholic who took bit parts in commercials because he needed fame to make up for his tiny, baby-sized bird - because when we made love the universe shook. And now she's gone, all because my concupiscence for the flesh and fine clothing knows no satiety. Sad. Sad indeed.
That's not at all what the song is about, but that's how I interpret it. That's the beauty of music.
[Have a good weekend.]