Most of you probably don't know that Christian is actually my middle name. My first name? That's right, you guessed it: Aqualung.

New Chatroom Shorthand!

We all know "LOL" (Laughing Out Loud) and "ROFL" (Rolling On Floor Laughing), but did you know that new acronyms have been created to further enhance your online social life? Check out these babies:


BFE! (Bleeding From Ears!)

ROFLWAPOSF! (Rolling On Floor Laughing While Also Putting Out Small Fire!)

JGY!!!! (Just Googled You!!!!)

DIH! (Dick In Hand!)

CSYVSBLE!!! (Considering Stalking You Via Subtle 'Buddy List' Espionage!!!)

LAAWOACTGWTRMOFP!! (Laughing As A Way Of Avoiding Coming To Grips With The Recent Murder Of My Parents!!)

ATCTOTIMCBTSOSASHYR!! (About To Change Tone Of This Instant Message Conversation By Typing Something Overtly Sexual And Seeing How You Respond!!)

PSIK! (Punching Self In Kidneys!)

IEYYWHYWMBNIKYGTEBICAISYRILNA9:03pmLDFDMAAITTDIBYFBYNIKIK WJFIKBFREOERIMIALCTMTAIMISAIBWAISMISCOWCTATSJTMYAICBTITM!!! (I Emailed You Yesterday...Why Haven't You Written Me Back? No, I Know You Got The Email Because I Checked And It Says You Read It Last Night At 9:03pm. Look, Don't Fucking Dick Me Around! All I'm Trying To Do Is Be Your Friend, But You're...No, I Know...I Know...We're Just Friends, I Know. But Friends Return Each Other's Emails, Right? I Mean Is A Little Consideration Too Much To Ask? I Mean...I'm Sorry. I'm Sorry. Am I Being Weird Again? I'm Sorry. Maybe I Should Come Over. We Can Talk About This. Seriously, Just Tell Me Your Address. I Can Be There In Twenty Minutes!!!)

TL!!!!! (Terribly Lonely!!!!!)

A communiqu� from the National Department of Music Circulation, Enjoyment Division:

Pursuant to the Dennis DeYoung Act of 1997 (sponsored by Sen. Paul Simon, D--Illinois), the NDMC commissioned a blue ribbon fact-finding panel in the Fall of 1999 to look into the ever-growing problem of PMS (Pop Music Saturation). After collecting over 3000 pages of data and conducting extensive interviews with average Americans, the panel issued its official report to the NDMC earlier this month. After reading said report, the NDMC has determined that the Musithalumus Gland, the area of the human brain devoted to processing popular music nostalgia, is becoming dangerously overcrowded. Something must be done to make room for enjoyment of future pop artistry, most notably upcoming releases by Luther Vandross, Sugar Ray and the Dixie Chicks. Therefore, the NDMC will begin removing certain songs from the public arena, songs that may well have been popular in their time, but that have long since outlived their entertainment value. It is the opinion of the NDMC that these songs will be missed by absolutely no one and that their absence will create valuable brain space for future musical nostalgia.

As of Thursday, August 1st, 2002 at 12:01am, the following songs will be wiped clean from the AMS (American Mental Slate):

_______________________

"China Grove" by The Doobie Brothers

"The Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera"

"Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult

"I Adore Mi Amor" by Color Me Badd

"Up Where We Belong" by Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes

"Lady" by Kenny Rogers

"My Dingaling" by Chuck Berry

"The Rum Tum Tugger" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice

"Mercedes Boy" by Pebbles

"The Notre Dame Fight Song" (trad.)

"Mambo #5" by Lou Bega

"Light My Fire" by The Doors

"Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon" by Urge Overkill*

"Parents Just Don't Understand" by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince

Pachobel's "Canon"

"Joyride" by Roxette

"The Harlem Shuffle" by The Rolling Stones

"We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel

That piece of shit Michael Jackson song from a couple of months ago

_________________________


These songs will be removed from radio playlists, record stores, yard sales and personal music collections. Any attempt to play these songs in your own home will result in serious damage to your stereo system and possible federal prosecution.

Thank you for your cooperation.

* Only the Urge Overkill version popularized in the film Pulp Fiction and overplayed by every girl who went to college in the Nineties is marked for banishment. The Neil Diamond original will remain in circulation.

Here's yet another installment of Celebrity Morning Pages. For those of you who don't know what this entails, scroll down and read the beginning of July 23rd's entry.


Today's morning pages have been submitteed by NHL superstar Eric Lindros. Throughout his illustrious nine year career with the Philadephia Flyers and New York Rangers, Lindros has been one of the NHL�s most durable players on the ice and its most charismatic figure off it. Despite having suffered a collapsed lung and six severe concussions over the course of two years, Lindros�s scintillating wit is still intact, which is more than evident in these ultra-personal writings.



�Team docter said I should try this. Said it would help with my concushinns. Is that how its spelled? I think its only got one N. At the end, I mean. Theres another N in the middle of the word, but Im not counting that one. Unless it isnt actually an N in the middle. Maybe there�s a diffrent way to spell the N sound, like when you write elephent. Youd think it was an F right? But its not. Its PH. Thats one of them crazy spelling things I always used to mess up before I baut myself a dickshinarry. I figure I have money for it right? It�s one of those cool red ones with the flecks on the side. My head hurts. Team docter says it should only be another six weeks before I am cleared to play. Hope my short term memery comes back by then. I think Id mess up the hockey somthing awful without it. What if coach told me to hit the puck far but I hit it short on accident? Or if I was suposed to skate realy fast but I forgot and skated slow? Id probobly lose the game. Id rather do the right play and win. Writing without stopping is hard. I hope this helps my concushin. Yep, thats definitly the way its spelled. I had solid food last night. I love solid food! Its really great!!! Solid food is my favorite of all foods except hamburgers which I love. I hope I can stop writing soon. My thumb and middle finger are still dislocaded so this hurts. Mabye I should out some ice on it. Maybe I should put a whole rink on it!!! Man I can�t believe I just thouht of that because I�m not even at practice. Maybe this morning pages thing will help me make jokes so I can be funny like Barry Melrose. I�m going to stop writing now thouh because theres blood coming out of my ear. Love Eric.�

I truly hope Al Sharpton is humiliated by that 1983 FBI video that recently came to light. He must be mortified. Not so much because he was caught on tape discussing a drug deal, but because he was wearing a cowboy hat. Hot look, Reverand Al.

Yeah, I know this ain't much of an entry. Sorry, busy day.

Look, I realize that I'm probably only speaking to a few of you out there, but I just want to remind anyone who's listening: you do not like The White Stripes.

Seriously.

No, I'm not kidding. You think you like The White Stripes, but you don't. What you like is the idea of liking The White Stripes. You're not a music fan--you're a fan of indie rock culture. "They don't have a bass player!" How cool. "They're like brother and sister! Or a couple, or something!" Very cool, indeed. "They wear matching outfits and suck on purpose!" Of course. That's as cool as it gets. Cool cool cool fucking cool.

But just for a minute, in the privacy of this website, let's just be honest: they suck. It's difficult for a band to be utterly tuneless and yet also sound completely derivative, but The White Stripes achieve just that. No, don't argue--you know I'm right.

No.

No.

You're wrong.

Come on, you can admit it. No one's watching. I won't tell on you.

Let's not argue. Just remember: you're not fooling anyone. You do not like The White Stripes.

Introducing another installment of Celebrity Morning Pages. For those of you who don't remember, the first installment of this "series" was way back on April 10th and can be accessed very easily via the "Archives" link to the left of these very words.

For those of you unfamiliar with The Artist's Way, 'Morning Pages' are daily stream-of-consciousness journal entries designed to tap into the creative energy within each and every one of us. The Artist's Way has sold millions of copies worldwide and counts celebrities and opinion makers among its most ardent supporters.

As you know, I'm friends with some pretty important people. In an effort to make this site a rousing success, some of my celebrity pals have agreed to publish their innermost thoughts on Tower of Hubris, for your edification and enjoyment.

Today's 'Morning Pages' have been submitted by overweight celebrity feline and American icon, Garfield. Since 1978, no other house pet has dominated the cultural landscape like Garfield has. With his outrageous hijinks and hilarious one-liners, Garfield is the very definition of a National Treasure. I think you'll find this little peek into his world both informative and inspiring.

Herewith:



�So I�m going to try this morning page thing, even though I don�t think it�s going to work. I�m supposed to just keep writing no matter what, right? This is stupid. I can barely hold the goddamn pen in my paw. Blah blah blah. I�m exhausted. If I�ve said it once, I�ve said it a thousand times: I hate Mondays. Last week, some prick asked me how I could even tell a Monday from any other day, being that I�m a simple house pet. I was like �Look jackoff, I just know. It�s a feline intuition thing. That okay with you, assface?� Man am I irritable today. This diet thing just isn�t working. I�m fucking starving. It makes me wonder�who am I starving myself for? Seriously. It�s been three weeks and I�m fatter than ever. Sure, I snuck into the kitchen last night and ate that plate of lasagna, but he left it sitting right there on the counter! What, I�m NOT going to devour it? Please. So now he�s got me on this diet thing as some sort of punishment, I guess. Why bother? It�s not like I need to be in shape for anything�I pretty much just sit around the house all day. Who am I trying to impress? Like I give two poops what Nermal thinks? �World�s Cutest Kitten�, eh? Yeah, keep talking. Cuteness fades, you little twat. We�ll see how YOU look when you�re pushing eight. I don�t know why Jon keeps letting him visit�I�m not enough cat for him, or something? That reminds me, Jon has another date with the veterinarian chick tonight. I�m sure he�ll find some way to screw it up. And then who will get blamed? That�s right, yours truly. Some nonsense about me knocking over their candlelight dinner or some crap. A guy in his late thirties is going to blame his CAT for the fact that he�s never had a steady girlfriend? Gee Jon, it couldn�t possibly have anything to do with you being a total closet case, could it? Why does everyone just pussyfoot around the subject? Jon�s a cake boy!!! I mean, he sits around the house every night, watching Sex and the City re-runs and doting on his cat! I mean, I�m a cat and even I think that�s gay! Sure, Odie doesn�t pick up on it, but he�s a goddamn moron. I know I joke around a lot about Odie being stupid, but I still get the feeling that people don't appreciate just how stupid Odie is. Last night, I caught him attacking a leaf. A LEAF!! I mean, hellloooooooooo! What are you, fucking retarded? Show some pride, fer chrissake. By the way, if that dog doesn�t stop barking at my teddy bear Pooky, I�m going to put thumbtacks in his kibble. Alright, I�m going to go now and try to make time with that gap-toothed skank, Arlene.�

Stay tuned for upcoming Celebrity Morning Pages! Future submitters include:

Eric Lindros
Juice Newton
Tony Shaloub
Apache Chief
The girl who played Tapenga on Boy Meets World
and
Gerardo!

With everything that's going on in the world (our volatile economy, the war on terrorism, etc), I worry that a phenomenon of epic proportions may be falling through the cultural cracks. I'm speaking, of course, about the MTV show Sorority Life. This hard hitting piece of telejournalism asks the always-relevant question: "What happens when you put six vacuous, socially privileged, politically indifferent twits in the same house and make them try to gain admittance into a larger group of vacuous, socially privileged, politically indifferent twits?"

Well, in honor of the marathon that MTV seems to be airing this afternoon, I'm starting a grass roots campaign to give Sorority Life the attention it deserves. The neglect has gone on too damn long long--I will not rest until this magnificent documentary series occupies the same lofty place in the annals of television history as Ken Burns' The Civil War, Scared Straight and the Styx episode of Behind the Music.

To get the ball rolling, I have composed haikus about each of the intriguing personalities vying for Sigma membership. Hopefully, this will whet your appetites to learn more about these unspeakably complex women: Candace, Amanda, Jordan, Jessica, Mara and Dede. Enjoy.





Cheerleader girly
Ever drunk, flirts with Sapphos
Candace equals ass

Bland Dave Matthews fan
Amanda you are a dork
Sorry, muppet-face

Husky-voiced honey
Dance floor tramp, flouting house rules
Jordan, the bad girl

Pudgy Jessica
Definite narc tendencies
Fudge-eating buzzkill

Fancy yourself smart
The way all stupid girls do
Think again, Mara

Faced caked with Oxy
Dede, who are you fooling
We know you have zits

Earlier today, I hacked into the employee files of TransiCorp, a small shipping and distribution firm based in Nashua, NH. I stumbled upon this incredibly vital piece of corporate correspondence and I feel like it is my responsibility to share it with you, the American public.

Without further ado�



Okay, guys, here it is... THE FIRST ANNUAL TRANSICORP AWARDS!!! Janet and I (Barbara, in case that wasn't obvious) were totally bored one day so we put this together, with help from Gary Ennis. Hope ya love it!

AND THE ENVELOPES PLEASE... (hee hee)

Most likely to jam up the 4th floor copier: Bernard Singer (way to go Bernie! LOL!)

Best Beenie Baby collection: Stacy Pelson (LOVE that one that looks like Garfield!!)

Biggest techie: Terrence Chen (Terrence, Excel's not running again... j/k!)

Most likely to fill out his time sheet correctly: Larry Gandry (yeah RIGHT)

Best accent: Marco Castillo (Luv ya, sexy!!!!!)

Most likely to hit on that bartender at Applebee's: Sarah Tempe (Want an extra cherry with that!?!? LOL!!;))

Biggest Pain in the @#&!!: Everyone in the mail room (j/k!! ROFL!!!)

Most likely to send Fran to an early grave: Sam Donnelly (you guys should have seen Fran after last quarter's budgetary timetable had to be extended! Can you say CORONARY!!)

Best �Kramer�: Pete Johnson

Most in need of a shower: Manny (the third floor custodian. The one with the moustache. If you don't know which one I'm talking about, TRUST ME!! This guy REALLY SMELLS!!! But he's TOTALLY nice though).

Best butt: Danny the Fed Ex guy!! (Sorry fellas!!!)

Hardest worker: No one!!! Come on, this is TransiCorp!! LOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!

P.S. Nicest guy in the world: Gary! Kisses, babe! Luv ya!!!!!! See you guys in the Caf!!

The first step to sobriety is taking a hard look at your life and admitting that you have a problem--the problem being you have no more money. My feeling is, if you can't stay out of trouble by being moral, being cheap is the next best thing.

Whenever I'm feeling a little glum about the way life is going, I think back to one particular night about a year and a half ago.

It�s truly staggering what I used to put up with in order to live in Manhattan. In February 2001, I was living in a disgusting 2 bedroom hovel on 108th street with Thomas, my 38 year-old aspiring deejay roommate, and his four dogs. Yes that�s right, four dogs: one Labrador, one pit bull, and two Rottweilers, one of whom was named Caeser. Upon moving into the apartment, I was warned by Thomas to never, ever make physical contact with Caeser, due to him being �a little fucked in the head�. But I wasn�t to worry--his erratic emotions were kept in check by the large amounts of ground Lithium there were sprinkled onto his daily kibble. This is not a joke. Caesar was on mood-altering drugs.

There were two problems with Caeser, other than the constant threat of him murdering someone (for example, me). First of all, the Lithium made him incontinent, meaning that this psychotic pooch was given to taking thrice-daily shits in the middle of the living room floor. And secondly, Caesar slept in the bathtub. That was his bed. So, in order to get ready for work every morning, I would walk out my bedroom with a towel around my waist, step over the beefy turds blocking my path to the bathroom, and then contend with a Rottweiler in drug induced hibernation. This was the technique as taught to me by my roommate: I was to lean over the bathtub, about two feet from the dog�s head, and in a loud, authoritative voice begin shouting �Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!�

�You've got to act like you're really pissed, or else he won't pay any attention,� Thomas advised.

Now, I don�t know if you�ve ever spent any serious amount of time shouting in a manic depressive Rottweiller�s face, but it certainly makes you re-think the whole personal hygiene issue. Do I really need to shower today? After all, it�s only been four days. And then there would be that crucial moment when Caesar�s body would start twitching, as he began to pull himself out of his Lithium coma. Is there a more frightening sound than a slow-building �grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" coming from the mouth of a 200lb animal? I think not. At this point, I'd usually respond with something soothing, like "You know what Caesar, I�ll just come back when it�s more convenient for you. Please, don�t bite me in the face.�

But the dogs were nothing. The real problem with this particular apartment was the host of other tenants: the vermin. And I�m not speaking in metaphor, here�I�m talking about the dirty, foot long, straight-out-of-central-casting rats (not mice, rats) that would scurry around the kitchen and living room as soon as the lights went out.

Now, I know what you�re thinking: why the hell would rats be a problem in an apartment with four dogs? After all, these dogs are killers, right? But apparently, dogs and rats signed some non-aggression treaty that I was not formerly aware of. I imagine the rats put it to them like this: �Why the heck are we fighting? Look, you hate cats, right? Well, so do we! Can�t stand �em! So let�s just chill, okay? You know, that whole �enemy of my enemy� thing? We on the same page? Good. Now where do these guys keep the Cheese Doodles?�

For a number of months, I never actually saw a rat, I'd simply hear them knocking shit over in the living room or crawling around behind the walls. Oh, I just realized that there is a more frightening sound than a slow-building 'grrrrrrrrrrr' from the mouth of a 200lb animal: the sound of screeching vermin trying to chew their way through the wall behind your futon. That definitely takes the cake, especially when it wakes you up at 4:30 in the morning. For a while, I tried to pretend that the chewing sound was �impending stardom�, but I eventually met my uninvited roommates face to face (or faces, to be specific).

It was late at night and I needed to make pee-pee and brush my toofies before tucking myself in. It was as I flipped on the living room light that I saw a rat peeking out at me from behind a tattered old sleeper-sofa that Thomas had brought in from the street four months previous and left leaning on it�s end in the corner of the room. The little plague-bearer then darted across the kitchen and ducked into a hole behind the refrigerator. A little piece of me died. And then a few more pieces of me died as, over the next minute or so, a total of six rats followed the same path from the upturned sofa to behind the fridge, effectively creating a �line of death� between the bathroom and me.

Five minutes later, I was back in the relative safety of my bedroom and feeling an heretofore uncharted level of shame and embarrassment. While listening to the rats playing hacky-sack in the kitchen, I stood motionless in front of the mirror and addressed myself audibly.

�Ok, Finnegan,� I said to myself. �You�ve just taken a piss into a plastic bag and thrown it out the window�because you�re too afraid to walk fifteen feet to the bathroom.� And then, a declaration: �This is a low point in your life.�

Whenever I think about that fateful moment, my current straits seem suddenly not-so-dire. Who cares if I�m out of work and struggling to find a way to pay next month�s rent? No problemo! At least I now live in an apartment where I can shower anytime I like! And I can enter a darkened room without having to alert vermin to my presence by banging pots together! Life is fucking beautiful, man! I�m gonna go get me a Slush Puppee!

A short message from Phillip McDonough, your new General Manager:


Hi, how are you. As many of you know, Tower of Hubris was recently sold to The Beese Restuarant Corporation. As of today, this site will be known as Pally O�Doohickey�s Party Time Eatery. My name is Phillip McDonough and I will be your Food and Beverage Service Supervisor, assuming you make it through your 14 week 'trainee' period. Now the fact that you�ve made it this far means that I think you have what it takes to be part of the Pally O�Doohickey�s team. I�m not hear to be your mother or your father. I�m only hear to help put cold, hard cash in your pocket. And do you know how we do that here? Anyone�? It�s very simple, folks. E.C.E.: Exceeding Customer Expectations.

Oh, you�d like to order dinner? Well, might I suggest an appetizer�maybe some potato skins? Oh, you�re not sure you want potato skins? Well, did I mention they�re topped with real cheddar? One order of potato skins coming up! Simple as that.

You�d like to order a Budweiser? Well, might I suggest our own homemade Pally O�Doohickey�s Wisenheimer Ale? No, well howzabout a half-yard of Captain Finny's Cornbread Stout? It's all about upping your sales, people.

This is not rocket science, kids. People come to this site wanting to spend money--it's your job to help them do it. As a member of the Pally O'Doohickey's team, it's your responsibility to remind the customer of things on the menu that he forgot to order. Whether it's the delicious Southern Comfort Tator-Tot Souffle or our crowd pleasing Calamarios (that's fried calamari in the shape of the alphabet, in case you've yet to read your new employee handbooks), we have provided you with the tools to provide our customers with the ultimate in fun dining entertainment--or, as we call it here at Pally O'Doohickey's, "Funderdinement".

Now let's get out there and sell some Terriyaki Floats!

I've been web surfing for the past couple of hours and, to the best of my knowledge, the following people do not have homepages or fanclubs:

Steve Perry
William Devane
Reginald Denny
Sally Struthers
Josef Stalin
Kurt Rambis
Linda Hunt
Anyone involved with "Up With People"
The Iron Sheik
Alfonso Ribeiro
Bert
Ernie
Ashleigh Banfield
My Dad
Yo Mama

I think we all know what needs to be done, people. Pick one and get to work.

A couple of days ago I heard myself complaining aloud that the humidity was "wreaking havoc on my hairdo". I immediately knew that I had to punish myself for saying something so incredibly gay--this is what they call a 'Moment of Clarity'. So I went right out and got my head shaved. I figure this will come in handy if I happen to get an audition for that new stage production of American History X they're doing this fall on Broadway.*

An added bonus to shaving my head is that I'll no longer have to worry about any pesky women finding me even remotely attractive. It's my little way of saying "GAME OFF! to the female population of the planet Earth--like knocking all of the chess pieces off the board when you know you've already lost.

Enjoy your Sunday evening, kiddos.


* No, this is not really happening. Come on, be sensible.

A RANDOM THOUGHT

Anyone who says "You're either gonna love me or hate me" is universally hated.

Overrated: Happiness
Underrated: Bemusement

Overrated: Intellectual Rigor
Underrated: Slapfights

Overrated: Tom Hanks
Underrated: Peter Scolari

Overrated: Empowerment
Underrated: Vassalage

Overrated: Dracula
Underrated: Gelflings

Overrated: Honor
Underrated: Pragmatism

Overrated: Hall
Underrated: Oates

Overrated: Masturbation
Underrated: Nervous Energy

Overrated: Children
Underrated: Bastards

Overrated: Diamonds
Underrated: Hospital ID Bracelets

Overrated: Unity
Underrated: Cheese Doodles

Overrated: Life After Death
Underrated: Death

IT'S COME TO THIS: Dirty limiricks


(I apologize for these in advance. Seriously.)



There once was a girl at The Strand*
Who�d only fuck a guy in a band
She�d dole out a hummer
For any bassist or drummer
But a guitar player was even more grand

__________


There once was a dude from Hell�s Kitchen
Whose sex life was what you�d call bitchin�
One night at Brownies**
He brought home two townies
Now his privates are constantly itchin�

__________


There once was a fat girl from Queens
Who was quite fond of wearing tight jeans
Sitting across from me on the train
I tried to look away in vain
But I now know what Camel Toe means

__________


There once was a man from Manhattan
Who enjoyed lots of internet chattin�
Sweet-talking a floozy
He rubbed out a doozy
Rendering his keyboard au gratin

__________

(Yep. I know. Sorry.)


* A hipster bookstore in NYC for people who don't want to be seen in line at Barnes & Noble

** A dingy NYC rock club. Often full of young skanks from surrounding areas.

Worst Wedding Songs:


"You Fucked Up" by Ween

"The End" by The Doors

"Full On Kevin's Mom" by Soundgarden

"Tom Sawyer" by Rush

"Just a Gigolo" by Louie Prima

"War" by Edwin Starr

"Angelfuck" by The Misfits

"Darling Nikki" by Prince

"What Do You Do for Money Honey" by AC/DC

"Idioteque" by Radiohead

"Run Like Hell" by Pink Floyd

"My Pal Foot Foot" by The Shaggs

"In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" by Iron Butterfly

"Bitch Betta Have My Money" by AMG

"Love the One You're With" by CSN&Y

Turn on your speakers and enjoy this.

Warning: Rated PG13 (for adult themes and a scene of sensuality)

Being something of a music obsessive, I always have a song stuck in my head. Always. Unfortunately, I have very little control over what that song is on any particular day, despite my attempts to the contrary. For the most part, songs simply drift into my brain around lunchtime (mornings are usually spent in an exhausted haze) and stay put until sleepytime. The song is always different from day to day, but I have noticed that my brain has certain 'go to' ditties, tunes that revisit my subconscious once every couple of months or so. Among these are:

"Too Much Heaven" by The Bee Gees
"Pop Song '89" by REM
"Gonna Get Close to You" by Queensryche
"The Clampdown" by The Clash

and, the grandaddy of all songs to get suck in my cranium,

"Miss Me Blind" by Culture Club

Now, let me state for the record: I fucking hate the song "Miss Me Blind" by Culture Club. Loathe it. Destest it. And yet, at least once a month I'll find myself quietly singing " I know you miss me, I know you miss me-ee, I know you miss me bull-eye-hi-ind". It's a fucking curse, I tell you. If my brain was a late night talk show, "Miss Me Blind" would be Al Roker. If my head was TRL, "Miss Me Blind" would be Mandy Moore.

(Note to self: Do you really want everyone to know that you've seen TRL often enough to know that Mandy Moore is a frequent guest? After already referencing both Culture Club and the Bee Gees? You're embarassing yourself, dude. Well, don't go back and try to fix things--it's too late to backtrack. Just move on and pretend like you never mentioned this sordid TRL nonsense. Just play it cool, Finnegan. Cool as a cucumber...)

Um...so anyway, just like every other day, I've had a song stuck in my head for the last eight hours or so. But it's not one of the regulars. In fact, it's barely even a song. Don't ask me why, but I can't stop humming the old jingle for "Nestle's $100,000 Bar". For those of you too young to remember (I don't think the commercial has aired in the last fifteen or so years), the tune went:

"Nestle's hundred thousand dollar ba-a-ar,
what a crunchy chewy bar you are"

What the holy fuck is my psyche trying to tell me? I'm not even sure "$100,00 Bars" are still on the market (I'm a "Reese's Peanut Butter Cup" man, myself). I hate feeling like I'm beholden to advertisers--it's even worse than being beholden to Boy George.

But there's something so gentle and soothing about this little chanson, I can't help but let it nestle (pun intended) in my soul. Whereas most jingles merely describe the products they're peddling (i.e. "Malboro tastes good...like a cigarette should"), the Nestle's tune is a love ballad sung to the product itself--not "what a crunchy chewy bar it is, but "what a cruncy chewy bar you are. Fer chrissake, it's an affirmation!

Maybe this is why the song has been stuck in my head all day--to assure me that, although times are tough (I had to re-establish ties with my old temp agency today, a humiliating experience if ever there was one), I am still a "crunchy chewy bar", whatever that means. I'm not sure I like the implications, but I'll take my praise where I can get it. So I'll galdly hold onto this little 1980s advertising relic until tomorrow, at which time I'll probably have Dylan's "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue"* stuck in my head.

* Hopefully, it will be Van Morrisson's version, which is much prettier.

Here's that fireworks rant I posted a couple of days ago. If you've already read it, feel free to ignore. It had been temporarily lost due to my idiocy, but some kind soul was able to retrieve it for me--thanks, whoever you are.


Can we all just admit that fireworks suck? Every 4th of July, it amazes me how many of my cynical (read: sensible) friends pretend to be impressed by some cheesedick fireworks display. Honestly, when's the last time you found yourself saying "I've never seen that before"? Let's see: there are the ones that explode into a circle, the ones that that look like a pin cushion, and the ones that cascade down like a spider plant. In the words of former New Jersey Net Derrick Coleman, whoop de damn do. Still, everyone stands around with their necks craned skyward, occasionally ooooooo-ing like halfwits. Eventually, the reverent moaning dies out (save a moron or two) and the bitter smell of disappointment begins to waft through the crowd--people start looking at their watches and trying to remember where they parked. Then comes the most annoying part, the four minute period where everyone debates as to whether the show is or isn't over. "Is that the end? Yeah, I think that big one was the last--no, wait. Ok, now it's over...I think...coming up...this looks like it. No. Wait. Was that it? I think that's...nope, still going." Afterwards, everyone claims to have been awed by the fireworks, but that last year's were a little better.

Here's the ugly truth, people: last year's fireworks sucked. And next year's? Totally going to suck.


Please, don't be upset--you'll thank me later.

Tower of Hubris, the online resource for insane street people everywhere!

Last night, I saw a wacko homeless guy sitting in front of a laundramat, shouting "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT" to no one in particular. Here's what's so bizarre about this: a couple of years, in a completely different part of the city, I saw another guy shouting the exact same thing. It makes me wonder if maybe New York's clinically insane have begun to run out of catchphrases. As much as I'm for recycling, I find this dearth of suitable rants a damned shame, so I've taken it upon myself to come up with a few of my own. I'd like to invite my mentally ill readers to adopt any of the following slogans--feel free to tweek them as much as you like, in order to make them feel more 'you'. Once you've found one you like, head on down to your local Town Hall, Kmart, or anywhere else you enjoy 'getting your crazy on' and let that puppy fly!

Choose from these future favorites:

"TAKE TWO AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING!"

"HAPPY SOLSTICE, PRESIDENT KENNEDY!"

"WRAP IT UP, I'LL TAKE IT!"

"WHAT THE HELL DOES A GUY HAVE TO DO TO GET A BOBBLE-HEAD DOLL?!"

"HEY, I CAN'T STOP CONJUGATING!"

"I AIN'T HEARING THAT, BITCHFACE McGEE!"

"TRUTH IN ADVERTISING! TRUTH IN ADVERTISING!"

"WHAT ABOUT VALHALLA?!"

"PITCHFORK EUGENICS MAKE MY KELPIE REPENT ON SOUR APPLE DOOMSDAY!"

"LET'S GO METS!"

A day in the life of Christian Finnegan, a man without air conditioning:

4:45 - 10:09am: Toss, turn

10:10am: Peel self from sheets

10:11am: Mop brow with nearby t-shirt

10:15am: Grumble angrily

10:20am: Shower

11:05am: Get out of shower, dry off

11:10am Check email

11:25am: Get back into shower, stand open-mouthed beneath stream of water

12:10pm: Dry off

12:12pm: Wash face, which is already covered with sweat

12:15 - 12:50pm: Lay in bed, hate life

1:00pm: Leave house wearing flip-flops, shorts and unflattering wifebeater t-shirt

1:10pm: Pound 64oz bottle of "Arctic Cooler" Gatorade

1:30pm: Go to pizza place, order two slices

1:36pm: Wonder why the fuck you're eating pizza in ninety-fucking-eight degree weather

1:50pm: Consider suicide

1:54pm: Consider homocide

2:14 - 3:10pm: Stand motionless in D'Agostino frozen food section

3:30pm: Go back to apartment, sit down in chair

3:31pm: Get back into shower, sob quietly to self

4:05pm: Dry off, put on 2nd unflattering wifebeater t-shirt

4:20pm: Wander listlessly to movie theatre

4:40 - 6:35pm: See whatever movie happens to be starting when you get there (Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood)

6:40pm: Stumble home, think of all the ways you could have spent that $10

7:10pm: Sit down at desk and 'get to work'

7:11 - 10:04pm: Stare blankly at computer screen, drip

10:05 - 11:53pm: Flip channels, hallucinate while watching Toni Braxton video, question meaning of life

11:57pm: Get back into shower

Look, teacher's hungover today. So just sit quietly and study this.

I expect 75 words on my desk by Friday, kids.

Small Victories:


* Discovering that the new bodega on your block has a Slush Puppee machine.

* Finding enough quarters in your apartment to do your laundry without cashing in any dollars--it's almost like it's free!

* Watching a bike messenger wipe out. (Viva schadenfreude!)

* Getting a boner at work.

* Having someone incorrectly correct your grammar, and then re-correcting him.

* Seeing a close friend succeed.

* Seeing a casual acquaintance fail.

* Drawing nipples on a subway movie poster.

* Leaning over to the couple making out at the table next to you and whispering "Three weeks, tops".

* Getting to 3rd base without leaving Bennigan's.

* Bringing peace to the Middle East

* Punching a child.

I don't know why, but I'm genuinely excited to see Reign of Fire, that movie about dragons flying around and eating people in the war-ravaged future. It's nice to know that, even at 29 years old and with a college degree, the thought of watching people get eaten by monsters can still give me a boner. Of course, the movie will probably suck ass. It seems like the kind of thing that was wholly created in some Hollywood board room. "Well, research tells us that our target demographic loves movies about the post-apocalyptic future," says Marketing Executive Douchebag #412. "And you know what they also love? DRAGONS!"

And while I'm on the topic, Ronnie James Dio's new album is called Killing the Dragon. I think it's great that there's still one completely out-of-touch dude out there making what I'd call "Wizard Rock". It's been twenty years since the heyday of Iron Maiden and other heavy metal medievalists (Manowar, Savatage, Saxon, etc.) and I'll admit, I'm a teensy bit nostalgiac. It all seems so quaint--the idea that these guys would sit down to write a song and say "Ok, so should we write another tune about a powerful warlock laying waste to a village, or should we make it about getting impregnated by a demon? Hmmm... Heads: vengeful warlock, tails: demonspawn."

Hell, it's preferable to the bullshit hard rock that's popular these days. Now, every metal singer claims to be some sort of emotionally damaged 'outsider' on the verge of suicide--think Linkin Park, Puddle of Mudd and every other blight on the current musical landscape. Here's a typical bit of contemporary lyrical horseshit, taken from the song "Self-Destruct" by Staind:

My light has slowly faded
Broken and degredated
Suffocate in my sorrow
Maybe I'll die tomorrow

Oh, go fuck yourself. Have you seen these guys? They look like the meatheads who used to play for my high school football team, just with mood lighting and eyebrow piercings. If only they would die tomorrow. The sad truth is, today's angst-rockers are about as close to actually being suicidal as Ronnie James Dio is to actually being a wizard. In other words, not at all. But it's 2002--if you're going to write a hard rock song, you'd better manufacture some existential pain. Tell me, Staind, did the 'slow fading' of your 'light' happen before or after last night's tour bus gangbang? And does 'suffocating in your sorrow' get in the way of all those inter-band Playstation tournaments?

Personally, I'll take songs about dragons.