Everything is wrong with me
Friday, October 21, 2005
sizemore/paris, karaoke gibby, id1g1t, music, nfl (not) picks, b-day
Erin in the Philly was the first to send me this.

My fascination/love with/for Tom Sizemore has been well documented on this site, and this latest piece of news makes me very happy, because it just keeps getting better. Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.

The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched. Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”

Survey says? No way. That’s too, too…porno-like. That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities. I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that. If Sizemore had said,

“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found Paris passed out in my bathroom with a bottle of champagne. She attacked my penis like a piece of kielbasa, passed out, and I made her sleep in my pool house. It was pretty uneventful.”
I would have believed him. But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment? No way. Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3”, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone. So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore.

But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure. If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist. At least I hope it involves one of those two. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.


Thanks for the all the kudos on the karaoke post. A lot of y’all wrote in, offering additional karaoke types, but David from Venice (California, not Italy) gave the best example:

In your list you need to include what we can call the 'Kirk Gibson' or 'Gibby'. For whatever reason, he doesn't sing at karaoke bars...ever. Perhaps you've had one or two or ten drinks in yer belly and you try to cajole, harang, or intimidate him into singing (by the way, is there no better word in the English language to get another guy to do something than by calling him a "skirt"?). For whatever reason, he refuses to get on stage. Maybe he "isn't drunk enough". Maybe "all the songs the karaoke dude has sucks." Maybe he just doesn't "want to make an ass out" of himself. Maybe he's "got really intense diarrhea and cannot be away from the toilet for more than two minutes". Whatever. Over the years you have never seen him do anything at a karaoke bar but drink and make snarky remarks about everyone who gets on stage except for that drunk-ass Pancho who sings "Strokin'" before he passes out on the bar because that guy fucking rocks. Anyways, one night you are at a karaoke bar, and you don't expect 'Gibby' to sing, because it's just not in the cards.

Until one night, you notice that he has hobbled his way onto the stage. He looks in rough shape. You almost sense how much pain he is in being up there. You hope for the best, a miracle, but you feel that the deck is stacked against him. But somehow it all comes together, and he knocks it out of the park. Whether it is your version of Joe Cocker's "I Am So Beautiful to You" or Random Asian Guy with Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" or some guy doing David Lee Roth's "Just A Gigolo" or Guns-n-Roses "Paradise City" (all eighty minutes of it), the song and performance just bring the house down...and then he never sings again. All of this is like Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series: wasn't supposed to play, suddenly appears in the dugout, hobbles out to the plate, belts out a memorable, emotional game-winning home run, and never appears in the World Series again. Hence, the Karaoke Gibby.
Dynamite. This is a classic karaoke guy who I overlooked: the guy who gets up and out of nowhere bangs one out, shocking the whole room, and rides off into the sunset.

Also, I love any example that reminds of my childhood so vividly. The Gibson home run off Eck was one of the first “I remember where I was and what I was doing when that happened” sports moments of my childhood, right up there with the Tyson-Douglas fight, the A’s-Giants Earthquake game, and when the Ultimate Warrior fairly beat Hulk Hogan in WrestleMania VI. God I miss those days.

(Maybe I should write a book about my childhood?)


If you don’t know, now you know: ID1G1T is the coolest site on the web. It allows you to listen to songs right on your PC, or you can right-click and save the song to your desktop.

And they have a ton of stuff on there, including most, if not all, of our Six Songs selections. I was hoping from now on to hyperlink each Six Song to ID1G1T so that you can just click and listen, but for technical reasons that I’d rather not get into, I can’t do that. So you’ll have to search for them yourself using the link above, but at least you’ll be able to listen to each Six Song from now on (most of them, at least).


Six Songs:

“Ain’t That Enough” Teenage Fanclub
I referenced it in a post about a week ago, but it deserves it own “Six Song” designation. Airy harmonies, fun guitars, and happiness, happiness, happiness. Download it and listen to it while driving in a convertible.

“Midnight In Her Eyes” The Black Keys
This is dirty, dirty rock. So filthy I want to take a shower after listening to this song. Distorted guitars and a singer who sounds like he could easily drink you under the table, not that he would ever make such a claim, because shit like that is for losers and drinking is for getting drunk and getting drunk only. On a side note, if I ever went to a strip club and saw a stripper dancing to this song, I would do everything in my power to make her my wife. And I’ve been working out lately, so I have a lot of power.

“Lady Stardust” David Bowie
Some of David Bowie’s songs are so beautiful they make me want to cry. If were talented and ambitious, I think I could write a whole movie or novel just by listening to this song over and over again. So, so pretty, except for the last line, where David mumbles (I think), “Get some pussy now.” Otherwise, pretty song.

“Fight Test” The Flaming Lips
I love sad songs the best, but I love original sad songs even more. By this I mean that there are thousands of songs that say, “I’m sad since you left.” This song says, “I’m sad because I let another man take you from me and I didn’t put up a fight for you.” Elegiac is the word I’m looking for, I think, but I only got a 470 on the verbal portion of my SAT.

“I’m A Cuckoo” Belle and Sebastian
If you want to walk around with a smile on your face, blast this number from your iPod. You’ll be skipping down the street by the second verse.

“Thundercrack” Bruce Springsteen
An epic on par with The Who’s “A Quick One While He’s Away.” I’m not particularly a fan of the Boss, but this one gets me all riled up (and not in that way).


You may have noticed that last week I didn’t write about my and my mom’s NFL picks. This feature has been permanently discontinued. Not because I was losing; indeed, if you’re read even a little bit of this website you know that losing is something that I am used to. Rather, no more NFL picks for two reasons:

1) You all didn’t like it. In keeping with the whole “We’re going to complain about something we get for free”, the email/hate mail was enough to turn me off. So I get it – you didn’t like it. No more.

2) My mom got WAY too competitive about it. Before, she and I never spoke about sports. By week two, she was calling me on Sundays, asking me how she was doing and who I picked for certain games. I was afraid that by week nine we’d no longer be speaking to each other.

So no more picks. Gambling is a bad habit anyway (and I have my fair share of vices already, thank you very much).


Finally, happy birthday to my asshole roommate Brian. We will be celebrating on Saturday night, so that means at about 4:14am on Saturday night/Sunday morning Brian will be incarcerated and I will be at the sixth precinct screaming, “Do you know who the fuck I am? I am my own man! I am a grown-ass man!” at the top of my lungs as some of New York’s Finest mace and/or club me (probably both). So if you want to meet me, come on down. And bring some oatmeal raisin cookies, because I’m thinking I’ll need some comfort food.

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